This is my three hundred and thirtieth entry.
Big whoopdee-doo.
I'm bored. Today is boring. Yesterday was boring. Tomorrow will likely be boring. I have only a three-day work week until camping, and then only a four-day work week after camping, but it's hellish nonetheless. Especially as I'll be meeting with my financial adviser and my academic supervisors next week and then the week after that I will be officially telling the Wayner that I'm quitting August 31.
I just can't wait for camping at Lake St. Peter. This weekend will be a nice buffer to convince me why it is that I'm leaving my job. And when the Pie and I go to Samuel de Champlain in August it will confirm for me that I did the right thing.
I mean, when else do you have no schedule whatsoever and you can spend the day worrying about only a handful of things, like,
Will it rain?
Should we start dinner before or after our game of water frisbee?
How early is too early to have a beer?
I plan to bring a million trashy romance novels with me. I have long since learned that it is impossible for me to read intelligent literature while camping, because I get interrupted every thirty seconds or so. Trash works best. And I can share it around, because it's only 50 cents a book, and we can use it for fuel when we're done. Tada.
Better get back to worky now.