I feel that rising panic inside, the kind that can only come from having entirely too much to do and too little time to accomplish it all in.

And yet, I still procrastinate and write blog posts about it.

I'm leaving tomorrow for 6 days spent in Cleveland, at the end of which I'm sure that I will be desperate to get back to my life in Athens. I still must clean my apartment, which of course was on the agenda last night but instead I baked brownies for the beer tasting I'm going to tonight. Because a girl needs to have priorities and a sink full of dirty dishes and pantaloons thrown onto the floor do not take precedence over beer and deep, velvety brownies.

Lets not even discuss the shopping bit of my week, since Athens is woefully lacking in places to shop besides BigLots or Wal-Mart I've put off shopping until I go to Cleveland. I had planned on going to Columbus this weekend to tackle it but then there was that massive storm they were calling for. The storm that never materialized, which in it's own way was probably a blessing because it allowed me to nurse that tiny hangover I had on Saturday with fountain coke and a nap.

So there is the cleaning, the shopping, the beer party, oh! and the blasted holiday cards. Cards that are so fucking hilarious and awesome I cannot wait to send them out. But one should actually order cards if one expects to send them. So instead I've revised the damn photo 50 times because I'm obsessive-photographer like that and still not sent them to the printer. People will get them late but they will laugh till they cry when they get them.

Of course my one coworker left for vacation and I'm literally left holding the bag of delicious baked goodies I made for him. I don't want these fucking cookies and must find someone else to pawn them off on. I'm sure I could shove them onto the overfilled table in the break room and they would disappear in a flash. Yet, part of me doesn't want to do that? Just chalk it up to my little Grinch-y heart.

And still my mind keeps shooting back to the sink full of dishes, an occurrence so rare in my apartment that it keeps filling me with panic. Is this really what my life has become? Have I fully turned into my mother? The woman who cannot stand a sink full of dirty dishes?

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