Mood: Very annoyed. Laptop locked up twice and I lost posts.
Music: None. Laptop can't handle onboard sound, I think.
Mind: Rested, but I don't want to study for Spanish exam.

I had my second bridal shower yesterday. Wow. I was overwhelmed.

Several people bought more than one gift. And several people went in together on something. So when Mom wrote down 53 lines of gifts, my future mom-in-law Mrs. Joan said it was really about 70 gifts. And probably at least as many people.

I received eight place settings of my everyday silver, plus the serving spoons and the hostess set. I also received three of my stoneware plates. But the funny thing was, besides four sets of towels, almost everything I received was kitchen-related. Why is that amusing? Because I can cook a mean lasagna and a great salad dressing, but I am no gourmet. For every recipe I can handle, there are at least five my mother can do better. Mrs. Joan says nobody cooks as good as their moms, which means by the year 2320, people are going to be eating some pretty crappy food.

Anyway -- here's a partial list of my gifts (as much as I can remember): A full-sized microwave, nine glass mixing bowls, four Pyrex mixing bowls with lids, a glass pie pan, a trash can, three steel mixing bowls with lids, a Farberware pot-and-pan set, eight steak knives, a knife block with 14 knives/cleavers/etc., a Pyrex baking dish with wicker carrier, a Pyrex baking dish with a zip-up carrier and handle, a super-big George Foreman grill, a medium-sized George Foreman grill, a punch bowl with service for eight, a pie server in my sterling, a porcelein pie plate and server, a baking set (pizza pan, cookie sheet, loaf pan, pie dish, etc.), two crystal vases, a "Just Married" picture frame, a crystal cream-and-sugar set, a sugar bowl to match my stoneware, glasses to match my everyday china, eight stemware goblets, a vegetable brush, kitchen scissors, a spice rack, four canisters, an entire Pyrex baking set, three Pyrex measuring bowls, a Good Grips slicing knife, a Good Grips paring knife, a B&D extra tall can opener, a B&D iron, two Mikasa serving dishes, two stoneware dinner plates, one stoneware salad plate, eight sets of everyday silver, a four-slice toaster, a toaster oven, a Betty Crocker cookbook, a handmade cookbook from Mom, a crockpot, four sets of towels, and a hand mixer. And that's just the stuff I can remember.

Earlier this week at a shower with my coworkers, I was given a set of everyday silver, a hand mixer, a sandwich maker, a chip-and-dip set, a candle and stand, four margarita glasses with glass markers, a calendar, two sets of towels, a quart Pyrex measuring cup, and a wine goblet.

Like I said, I'm overwhelmed. And so, so, so very blessed.

Hope my cooking lives up to all this kitchen stuff. ... :)

OMG HI
OMG BYE!

Mood: Two exams are out of the way and juries are over. Ecstactic.
Music: Wheatus, Teenage Dirtbag
Mind: Blech. Went to bed waaaay too late.

Just wanted to post a pic of my L33T Chemistry Big Brown Bear:



Teehee. Check out Paul's site for more: Snotty Paws

Mood: Great. Spent time with Paul, drank daiquiris with Matthew.
Music: Carly Simon's version of I Am Woman.
Mind: Fuzzy. Blame Matthew. He made the daiquiris.

Ms. Kate's method for treating cramps:
1. Drink lots of daiquiris. Get quite drunk.
2. Hug stinky Big Brown Bear.
3. Get back to your "Chick Roots" with Tori Amos, Ani D., Sarah McLachlan, Alanis, Shakespear Sister, Cher, etc.
4. Post about it.

However, things are looking up. Paul finished his homework, and now he's working on my computer. Tomorrow we are going to take Matthew to see a movie, then we are going downtown. I'm going to call Matt and tell him we're stopping by to see him.

Man, speaking of Matthew, Matt and Paul ... I had this really messed up dream today. I hadn't intended to post about it, but what the heck. My dreams seem to go in cycles, but they are almost always vivid and either bad or weird. Funny how much my sleep habits have changed since I entered college. I almost always got enough sleep then, and I rarely had bad dreams. I am a product of the 15 pills I take every day. :-\

And now ... (drum roll, please) ...

Kate's Really Messed Up Dream:

Setting: The King's Inn in Toronto, Ontario, Canada.


Characters: Kate. Mom. Paul. Matthew. Matt. Ghetto B. Jonathan Chu. Elton John. (Told you this was messed up.)
What I remember: I remember a room with a bad paisley rug. It felt like Astroturf. The room was empty. There was supposed to be a concert in there, which I assume why Matt and Chu and Elton John were wandering around in the dream. There was a tour bus downstairs and outside, in the front of the hotel, at the bottom of the winding stairs with the gold rails. The bus was actually between the travel agent's office and where the ATM was supposed to be. (In the dream, a cleaner's from farther down King Street had replaced the ATM and bank.)

Mom was wandering around the hotel looking for me. Paul and I were wandering around the hotel looking for Matt, who was apparently wandering around the hotel looking for his guitar, which he had entrusted to Elton John. I think Elton had stolen it. It didn't matter anyway, because Matt had messed up his thumb somehow and had stitches in it. Jonathan was looking for the concert, but there never was REALLY a concert, because by the time I got back to the concert hall with Jonathan in tow, the concert hall had turned into an arcade. Matthew was inside playing Jedi Knight 2 on one of those big NeoGeo machines. Jedi Knight 2 looked a lot like Centipede, but with lightsabers.

I never got on the bus. Elton John did instead, but that apparently was satisfactory to Mom, because she didn't bug me anymore.

Why it's important: It's not. But it does point up a few things.

Things pointed up by Kate's Really Messed Up Dream:
1. Buildings in my dreams are constantly changing. I dream in a perpetual Winchester Mansion.
2. I often dream about my parents, my coworkers (and Matt), and Paul.
3. Music is always present. Lots of music. Proof that I eat, sleep, breathe for melody and harmony. Passion returns.
4. Ambient lighting is important. The scarier the better. Rooms get darker as I move about them. Especially annoying here, as I was /looking/ for somebody.

/end Kate's Really Messed Up Dream mode

Oh -- one little addendum: Paul barely touched my foot right at the end of the dream as I was waking up, and I yelled at him. I think I was pissed that I couldn't get Paul and Matthew to stop playing Jedi Knight 2 and Matt had messed up his hand. It didn't help that Elton John was a big poopyhead.

Wow. I've said a lot. This is strong rum. Feels warm.

Good name: Etienne Margeaux. I like it. At various other times in my life I've liked these names: McKenzie, Alexandria, Teresa, Madeleine, Briana. It's easy to come up with artful, pretty girl names. It's a lot hardet to come up with artful, pretty boy names. Example: Two of Paul's male coworkers are named Rivers and Angel. Angel should be a Centerfold, not a man. I protest vehemently, which is a word that I had to try to spell four times because my fingers apparently like rum too.

Since I'm thinking of Etienne, and I'm on a Chick Rock binge, I will now throw on Etienne Trilogy from vintage out-of-print Y Kant Tori Read.

I'll post again tomorrow, or when the mood strikes.

Mood: Nostalgic. Feel like pining for the old days.
Music: None, but it could be Barry Manilow's Old Songs :)
Mind: Lost it. Go bye-bye.

I lost my last post. It made me so mad that I decided to take a couple of days away from Blogger.

In the interim, my computer crashed completely. Paul brought me the laptop, but ... in a story way too long to be bothered with right now ... I left it at his house and now have nothing at all to ... compute ... with.

Oh well.

You know, I'm really starting to get down about leaving work. Usually when a big change like this comes around, I fight it by writing poetry and diving into work even further. But now I don't have any work to dive into. This is incredibly depressing to me.

See, I am firmly convinced that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Since January of 1999, I have been a reporter, a copy editor, a managing editor and an editor in chief. Not to mention that I've also been tech support, moral support and back support. I've seen the athletic fund funneled into the academic fund, and I've seen the two funds separated again.

In three years, I've seen people come and go -- from presidents of the university to athletes and coaches.

I saw a slice of life through this newspaper, and it was quite a wake up call. When Tic Price was forced to resign his position as head basketball coach because of an affair with a student, I realized that even good men could make really bad mistakes. When Hillary Johnson didn't show up to teach one day and was later found dead by a serial killer, I realized sometimes death strikes in the total prime of life. And when terrorists took down the World Trade Center in New York, I realized that real people -- even news people -- could be overwhelmed by feelings of helplessness and pain.

I'd like to say with some certainty that I'm walking away from this a stronger woman. And I have no doubt that I'm better for the experience, but I can't say that I've been imbued with strength because of the pain I've felt while hiding behind headlines and flats. See, I never expected to need antidepressants and antianxiety agents to get through this day. I never thought I'd cry because the pain in my heart hurt far worse than any physical affliction ever could. I never thought the day would come when I'd say that no news -- no sound, no hurt -- was good news.

I'm going to miss the people that have passed through my life because of this job. I'm going to miss Candy's everpresent influence and advice. I'm going to miss Matt hanging up the phone when a caller gets out of line. I'm going to miss Marcus's pseudo-chauvinist column and Jeff Lee's pseudo-chauvinist dating techniques. I'm going to miss the laughs with Johanna and Christy, the arguments between Shana and Lynne and even the friction between Chuck and the other editors.

And I'm going to miss my cartoonists -- from old-school Louis Varnell to the new generation of Khara and Mike's LabRats team. I'm going to miss Jason Warner's photos of credit cards, Gene Allmendinger's photos of pretty girls, Scottie Hartsfield's photos of sports (but not news), and Bryan's photos to fill in all those gaps.

And I'm going to miss Rick Russell's bar tabs.

I can't believe that I was blessed to have such a fun, deep, day-by-day and spontaneous job. I can't believe that this is it -- Goodbye -- and in less than a week I will clean out my office for good.

I'm not ready.

On my wall, I have two very special documents. One is a card signed by all of my coworkers at the Commercial Appeal last summer. The other is a sheet of paper signed by a lot of my Helmsman coworkers at a staff event last year.

I asked the Helmsman staff not to sign their names under their comments, so I don't know who actually wrote, "You do a great job. I want to be just like you."

But who said it isn't important. It's impact on me is what really matters.

Mood: At work (Good, i makes teh monies this way); Bored(thats bad)
Music: Some song on V101.1 "Take a Message of My Love" (i think)
Mind: Sleepy

So im at work with about 30 minutes left before i get to boogie on outta here. So i thought i would take the opportunity to h4x0r kate's site. Im sure she will appreciate it. :D you know i love you baby :) hee hee. Well, im sure kate will expand more on this later, that or she already has, either way, i'll tell you anyway.
Im like mui mucho excitedo about the apartment, in fact, i cant wait till i get to move in.

Doh, gotta finish up work real quick :)

Mood: Skipping class (Good); Stuck in language lab (Bad)
Music: Stuck in my head -- "We're In This Together Now, Nine Inch Nails
Mind: I finish up my stupid 15-hour lab requirement today! Yay me!

I've got to waste two hours in the language lab today. Two. Then my 13 hours will be 15, and "Adios, Kate."

See, the problem is that time around here goes Extremely Slowly. In fact, there is a working clock on the wall in here -- all the hands turn, etc. -- that stays stuck on 6:20 indefinitely. That's how time seems to pass in here.

I'll survive. ... I'd actually hoped to play with the HTML of the Blogger today. It seems that the site is progressing more slowly than I had intended, so to compensate, I am trying to make the Blogger look as nice as humanly possible. This seems to be a futile effort. I'm checking the way the page looks on the Dell at work, the Macs at work, and my computer at home. What looks good on one looks hideous on the other two. This is universal.

I could work at scripting the page myself -- coming up with something really clever and all -- but that takes time. Frankly, if I wanted to spend time on the page right now, i'd just go ahead and write the damn HTML and have it done and over with. The point is to attempt a quick fix until that moment in time when I feel ready to create the other parts of my site.

I'm tired. Well, I mean, when I woke up this morning, I felt awake, but now I'm all groggy and stuff. I wonder how people sleep with their eyes open. I'd like to learn that technique. It'd serve me well.

Now ... off to bide my time until my two hours are up. :)

Mood: Electric and fiery. Oh wait, that's my room.
Music: /me cringes Glycerine acoustic version
Mind: Nausea +12, Work -3, Bitterness unaffected.

My room is on fire. And apparently everybody believes me except for the firemen.

I came home and sat down in my chair, sure my suitemates had turned on the heat in here. Man, that made me mad. The air cut on, and a blast of hot crap shot out at me. I looked up in spite at the vent, and smoke was pouring out. White smoke. It smelled like burning batteries.

I opened the door -- my suitemate was going to the bathroom (Oops!) -- and asked if she smelled that. She said yes, and that, as a matter of fact, it was getting rather smoky in her room. We ran to get the resident adviser, Ashly, who smelled it and promptly freaked out.

Unable to find her boss(es), Ashly called Campus Police, and they told her to pull the alarm. We filed out. I went to watch my room burn down.

Well, I was outside for the next half-hour, but I've been filled in on what happened next. I watched fire trucks pull in one after another -- five in all. Two cop cars came too. Boy, I was freaking out at this point.

I finally got the go-ahead to re-enter the building, so my suitemate and I tracked down Ashly. Apparently, the campus police could also smell the burning electric stuff, but the firemen couldn't. They thought we all were crazy. My suitemate and I have determined we won't sleep well tonight. I checked my fire alarm, and it's working fine. Still, I'm a little nervous.

Ooh ... changed songs. Amendment:
Music: The Smiffenpoofs' cover of Linda Ronstadt, Long, Long Time. Cried the first time I heard it. Great song.

Well, the Evil Apartment Nazis® called today, and said we wouldn't be able to get the apartment we wanted. To compensate, we get new carpet and new wallpaper. You know, law mandates we get new carpet anyway, so this isn't really a good deal. We lose our back yard.

Still ... we get a funny street name, and that makes up for it. New address is 8046 Windbreak Dr. #1, Cordova, TN 38018. Windbreak. Heh. Heh. :-D

Oh! Great news! My period is slowing down, even though it hasn't stopped yet. Still, I'm so nauseated! This idea of three pills a day is, well, hell. Thank you, Ms. Ramune Daisy Filipcic, for all your help. Still, I wish I didn't feel like I was riding a roller coaster all the time.

More great news: Income tax refund of $186. Half goes to the apartment/groceries/etc. The other half goes to Tracks. It's more fun that way.

I'm feeling good, even if my whole world burns up. Just let me save my purse, my teddy bears, and my poetry. Then burn away.

Mood: In a hurry. Gotta go to Spanish.
Music: Still Glycerine. "Couldn't change though I wanted to..."
Mind: Lost in nausea and apathy.

Okay -- this is going to be short and sweet, because I've got to run to Spanish. Gotta do Speaky-Speaky today for Puentes.

We got the apartment for sure. I was wrong about the address though. It will be: 8035 Trinity Mills Dr. #7, Cordova, TN 38018. How lucky am I?!

I think taking the three estrogen pills has stopped my bleeding (although last time I said that, it came back with a vengeance, so I'll give this one a little time). However, I'm uber-nauseated.

Also, because I'm in a hurry, I'm fielding a ton of phone calls this morning. That's so ... typical. Why don't you add to the fray? 901-678-3673. It's okay, I don't mind. I'M USED TO IT. I CAN'T GET ANY WORK DONE. Also, I'm bitter and caustic. And I hate you.

And I hate Spanish. Time to go kick butt.

Mood: Better. I'm unloading on Matt. :)
Music: The Perfect Unrequited Love Song: Glycerine, Bush
Mind: "You are stupid. You are stupid. And don't forget, you are stupid." -- Dexter

I'm listening to Glycerine. I'm dancing in my head. I'd actually be up dancing, but I'm tied to my headphones. See, my suitemates apparently have supersonic hearing, which makes it almost impossible to get away with listening to anything.

Work is sucking, but I'm trying not to let it get to me too bad. I mean, things are going my way. Matt says he's coming to see me soon, which is a good thing, because it's reassurance. And on top of that, Paul and I got into a rather academic discussion about the proper way to stalk a source for a story. Amos & Co. (I guess that includes me) are trying to break a story. I think we've got something, but I've got to stake out some guy's house in Harbor Town this weekend. I think I'll be out of place in the cushiest part of Mud Island. ;-)

Okay. Now that I've attempted to sound happy, I'm going to talk about what is really going on. I'm bleeding. Profusely. This isn't a menstrual cycle; it's a bloodbath. I'm now wearing two pads at a time so I don't soak through them every hour.

The doctor changed the birth control pill I'm on. And when that didn't stop the bleeding, she's told me to take three pills a day. I'll go through a pack of birth control pills in one week. She's warned me that this is a temporary fix. Next Wednesday, when it's time to start the sugar pills, I'm apparently going to bleed worse than I am now. She expects me to go to an OB-GYN to figure out what's wrong with my body. It makes me feel old; it makes me feel bad. I shouldn't have tried to fix something that wasn't killing me.

This is now my daily dose of medicine:

1. 1 Zoloft (50 mg)
2. 2 BuSpar (15 mg each)
3. 2 Celebrex (200 mg each -- max dose allowed)
4. 3 Xenical (120 mg each)
5. 3 Ortho-Novum (1:35 ratio dose)
6. 1 Claritin-D 24-hour
7. Duradrin every time I get a migraine
8. Ventolin every time I can't breathe

You know, I'm feeling sorry for myself. But I'm not too down. That's what the Zoloft is doing to me. I don't feel much anymore. God, I think back to this summer. Things were so ... ARGH ... with Justin. I felt like I was under a rock all the time. I'd get to work at the Commercial Appeal, and I'd unload on Andy. I felt like shit all the time. Justin (and Kent at work, to an almost equal degree) had this way of making me feel guilty for things that I should have never been guilty of.

I just don't know that I like the alternative. Paul and I down these pills. No more depression, no more compulsiveness. Everything is by the book. Nothing is spontaneous and nothing is special. No more nights of driving down to Mississippi just to take the edge off a night. No more sexual desire. Nothing feels good. I don't want to be touched. This is not how things were supposed to turn out. Especially now that we're getting married.

I remember one night -- I still have the log here with me -- when Justin was so down he was going on about killing himself. It was a Sunday morning, a holiday. And I had to get up to go to church with my parents. I told Justin I'd do anything to make him stop. I'd breathe so he didn't have to. I said that.

Last night, I ran a story from Michigan about a guy who killed himself over EverQuest. He'd talked about it in his blogger. He'd told his friends online. Nobody did anything. I couldn't have done anything for Justin either -- especially not now that he's all fixed and we're like oil and water. But that night, I stormed IRC. I tracked down w00zy and BondGirl. I asked -- no, begged -- that somebody call him. Somebody get Nevin or Veran ... or Dominique, even, miles away ... to fix it. I wasn't the answer. I just wanted the answers to bounce off of me.

I'm getting to that point with Matt. The point where I slap myself around a bit because I prove to myself that all my friends are gay or depressed. (N.B.: Matt is depressed, not gay.) I want to just, for God's sake, make him see that it's going to be okay. I haven't found a friend more distant, and yet more compelling, than Matt.

I'm blathering on. I think I need to be cheered up. I know I need iron, and I'd like to stop bleeding. I just wish I had a friend -- a friend other than Paul, because Paul's unending, undying support is a given -- that supported me the way I attempt to support my friends. It would help, for sure.

/Me sighs.

Mood: Growlie, dammit.
Music: The beginning of Puentes Spanish lab CD (see below)
Mind: Finger go boom.

I hate you. I hate everything.

I especially hate anything related to the Spanish language. It was a rotten mistake to take college-level Spanish when I could have fought my way through one more year of Latin. I stll kind of remember which is the subjunctive and the genitive and the ablative, or whatever the heck it was. I do remember singing a song in there about the firs declension, but I don't remember how the song goes. In general, my ability to learn a foreign language is roughly equitable to Don King's chances of solving the Unified Theory. Even if, by sheer luck, he were able to do it, the end result would be so back-ass-wards that Albert friggin' Einstein couldn't make sense of it.

But, see, I screwed up. I decided to attempt el Espanol. Not once. Not twice, but FOUR damn classes in order to graduate. And I waited until the last minute to do it. The result is that, walking into my last semester at The University, I was three classes behind on Spanish. In an act of self-imposed torture, I opted to fight through two of the classes this semester, save one for the summer, and graduate three months late in August.

I can thank Dr. Peter Cash for forcing nose to grindstone here. See, I decided that my second act of self-betrayal would be to track down one professor teaching both classes I wanted to take this semester. That professor was one Dr. Peter Cash, who is an all-around asshole who saves his reputation by actually Teaching. It's a shame that he was ousted from the university at the end of this semester, because I wanted to put Paul through the same torture I'd been through.

Anyway, back on track here ... Dr. Cash decided to amend the syllabi for both classes to disclude one test and up the value of everything else we do in there. That's fine and dandy. But he also decided to schedule tests for both classes on the same day. Yea. Evil death. Burn in hell. Spanish is the language of the Devil, err, El Diablo. And El Diablo spake with a forked tongue and said: "Screw you, Kate. You will pass by the skin on the skin of your teeth."

So now I cram. I forget everything I knew last week. I attempt to absorb knowledge by osmosis. I must learn five chapters, quickly. I must sort through direct and indirect objects and pronouns, and past progressive and present subjunctive and a kajillion and one irregular verbs.

I must learn everything about: Food (Puentes 4), Student Life (Puentes 5), Vacation and Fun (Puentes 7), Childhood Memories (Dos Mundos 9), Travel, Transportation and Climate (Dos Mundos 10), and Shopping (Dos Mundos 13, which isn't really a chapter at all).

And in the process of cramming, I sliced my fingertip while trying to cut index cards to make vocabulary flashcards. I'm not talking like a little cut, either. I sliced through my fingernail, and through the pad on the other side. It's pretty much what happens when you sharply close a pair of sharp scissors squarely onto your finger.

I seriously thought I was going to have to go get stitches. But I threw on a couple of Bandaid-brand Bandaids, and I am waiting to see what it looks like tomorrow.

It's throbbing like hell. It hurts to type, and well, I can't even hold the scissors anymore. But for one moment of blinding pain, I actually thought I'd cut off the tip of the nose of El Diablo.

And that, my friends, is all the vengeance I need. Adios!

Mood: Better, now that I've vented.
Music: Nothing. Unplugged Paul's headphones.
Mind: I'd like to outsource some of this studying to my vendors and contractors.

Figured while I was posting, I'd dedicate a whole new post to the Great Apartment Hunt.®

Soon after my last post a week ago, Paul and I found a place we could live with. It's in a complex called Woodchase, and it comes with a washer, dryer, refrigerator, microwave, garbage disposal, stove and oven, dishwasher, and the kitchen sink. In other words, all the amenities at a price we can afford in a location that we like.

Yes, it's an impossibility!

So Paul and I agree to go sign a holding form, which essentially allows the Evil Apartment Nazis® to charge us $45 so there's an apartment when we need one in the next two months. But that's not all. Apparently, for the grand total of $115, they will (1) check our credit and tell us we don't make enough money to sign for this apartment alone, (2) force us to undersign our parents in case we renege on our rent, (3) call our respective employers (and a personal reference!) to make sure we are Even More Evil Apartment Dwellers®, and essentially suck the soul out of our poor, overworked, underpaid, full-time student bodies.

Oh, and we chose a wallpaper scheme too.

So, all legal hoodoo aside, we are the potential owners of 8305 Trinity Mills Drive, #7. We will receive two pool passes and one covered parking space. The apartment is downstairs, but on the back side of the complex, so we'll have a porch AND a back yard.

Am I excited? Of course!

I just want everything to be okay. I want them to give us the apartment with no big problems, you know?

We have until May 25 to get all that worked out. That's the day we sign the big lease and start moving stuff in. I'll update how things are going between now and then.

Mood: ARRRGH!
Music: Never Thought, Roger Clyne
Mind: How am I ever gonna get all this done?!

This has been a terrible week. A terrible awful week punctuated by dashes of blech and madness.

For one thing, I'll gladly go back to NOT having my menstrual cycle any day. That's just how it goes. I've spent the majority of the week holed up with Midol. I've also tried at various times: yoga, tea to relieve cramps, a heating pad, potassium pills, crying a lot and taking it out on Paul. The last two were inadvertant, and had the bonus effect of making me feel even worse.

Tomorrow -- Monday, a mere 20 hours from now -- I go back on The Pill. And then three more weeks of normalcy before all this starts again.

I dare say this has been the longest week of my life.

To cap it off, I've got mucho studying to do. I have a big test in Racial and Ethnic Minorities on Monday. I also have the parts of two Spanish tests on Monday. The majority of the two Spanish tests are Tuesday. ... So while the pain is over early in the week, I have to digest 2.5 chapters of Dos Mundos en Breve beginning Spanish book, 3 chapters of Puentes intermediate Spanish book, 2 chapters of Steinberg's The Ethnic Myth, and a whole damn book by Amott and Matthaei called Race, Gender and Work.

Today, in an act of cruel irony, I'm supposed to go to the Racquet Club with my parents to be inducted into Phi Kappa Phi honor society.

So here I sit, a scholar to be, with places to go, people to see, much studying to do ... and I don't feel like leaving the bed and the heating pad. Damn shame.

Well, I've at least got to hop in the shower and start getting ready. Then I'll study a bit, go to my house to bum a ride to the induction ceremony, come home, track down Paul, study some more.

And I need to do laundry.

God, I want to scream.

Mood: Zombie-ish.
Music: Live365's "Alternative Classics." It's teh win.
Mind: Is it sleepy time or wakey time?

I just started my period. Yea, Kate.

Why is this so important? Because it's the first in about four years. Hormones from Mars; Body from Venus.

According to my brand spankin-new birth control pills, which are supposed to get me back to normal, I should have actually started my period Thursday. That was five days ago. But I'd forgotten the cardinal rule of Kate's Body: Sabotage Thyself.

Five days behind schedule had me a little paranoid. But on top of that, I'd worked a 17-hour work day on four hours of sleep. I have a chance of sleeping about two hours before having to get up and tutor English students, followed by a quiz in Spanish, followed by a particularly evil dentist appointment, then work, then another Spanish class, then more work.

And I have a migraine, one of those nasty headaches that shoot the pretty stars all around the room before knocking you off your feet. It's just hell, basically.

So this was no time to start my period. Welcome back, after four years. Couldn't you have waited one ... more ... day?

Okay -- off to study Spanish. Blech.