12 page paper, due tomorrow.

It's the last thing we need to do to get our masters degree.

Many of my classmates finished it during the first week of summer, and had the satisfaction of wiping their hands clean of it all.

Most people had some sort of panic attack earlier this week and got started and finished sometime this weekend.

Then there's me.

I haven't even written a page yet. It's due tomorrow. I don't know if "tomorrow" means 11:59 pm, but at the rate I'm going, that's when I'll be getting it turned in.

Whatever. I don't care.

(Ok fine, I do)

If I get an A on this paper, I will continue with this self-destructive procrastination behavior. (I'll also be a badass). In the interest of learning my lesson, I hope I get a big, fat B. Perhaps I won't make the deadline and get knocked down a grade. Ooooh. Exciting, no?

Not in the least bit.

Aaaaaaaaaand I'm still writing. Why? Because I don't want to write this paper. It's 9:30 pm. There's a big pot of coffee waiting for me in the kitchen.

It's my last Sunday in DC. I suppose it's fitting that this Sunday was spent in isolation, frustration, and cracked-outedness from energy drinks, since that's how I spent lots of Sundays this year. Monday exams suck.

In between phone calls, AIM conversations, and research, I found out some very yummy news: There are two Chipotles in Gainesville, and both are pretty close to UF. Ohhhhhh yeahhhhhh!

OK. Time to face reality. I am going to finish this paper, even if it means no sleep. You don't want to know me tomorrow, though.