TSP (The Sarah Project) 47: Back to the Basics

Okay, so this blog used to be about interesting things and discussions, and I've strayed quite a bit from that in the past few months, favoring rants at life to aleviate stress. So here's to going back to the basics:

Did you eat you blueberries? Seriously, it must have been 20 posts ago when I championed the antioxidant properties of blueberries. Here's your personal check up from Sarah! Go eat them. (They are amazing in cereal.)

A word of wisedom on knowing your limits:

I dropped a class today. I was only taking 17 credit hours this semester but I overestimated my own abilities to function under a very demanding courseload - OChem 2, Ecology and Evolution, and Ordinary Differential Equations were the hardest, so in order to keep my sanity, I withdrew passing from the math course.
Anyone else have difficulties understanding their limits? What is working TOO hard? And how do you know that you are?

So for a healthy lifestyle an adult human needs between 6-10 hours of sleep depending on the individual and their age. Suprisingly adolescents and young adults need more sleep than children and the 50 plus-ers.
So sign one that you are overworking - lack of an appropriate amount of sleep and stable sleep schedule.
Sign two - you compromise time usually devoted to family or loved ones in order to accomplise work or school tasks.
Sign three - house-cleaning, car maintenence, and day-to-day tasks are being neglected.
Sign four - you feel like crap.

With any of these its time to reconsider your workload.

More to come, I hope,
Sincerely,
Sarah

Old Prose that I Dug Up

She woke up with a start.

"Where the hell am I?"

The comforter around her was black and warm. The room was messy and dim-lit, from the window on the left. It must have been very early in the morning.

"Shit."

She thought, as she felt the dryness in the back of her throat, as her head pounded hard and loud on the inside of her head.

I did it again.

The realization hit her, as she noted the unfamiliar man behind her.

She steadied her breathing, quietly, as was the practice when she found herself in these situations. Early on, she may have flipped out, woke him up, not recognized herself. Now, the new her was quite apt at handling these types of situations.

"First things, first."

She whispered, as she scanned the room for clues as to where she was and who she was with. It was a small room, laundry scattered about the floor, a guitar ominously propped up against one wall. "The band…," she realized, as a glimpse of the night before slid back into her memory.

A man with wild curly dark brown hair, in a button-up up shirt and washed out jeans, met her glance as she seductively swayed her hips to the thundering beat. As she followed his motion, he sauntered up to the empty set, and joined the band that was beginning to play. They smiled at each other as he began to strum his guitar and sing. Quite a bit buzzed, she bit her lower lip, maintaining his gaze and stepped forward into the crowd...

She knew that she didn't believe in true love. But she could not remember when that loss of faith had turned her into a slut. The drinking helped, she thought.

She eyed the room for her clothes, and noticed them strewn across the floor. Silently she slid out of the bed, and pulled on her pants. She didn't know why she always left her underwear. It just always seemed not hers, this early in the morning, so tainted, so shameful. They belonged to someone else. As she pulled on her bra and shirt, he stirred. She froze. Then his snoring became prevalent again, and she sighed.

She just felt numb. Grabbing her keys and phone, she made sure that she didn't leave anything behind. Thank God. He had a bathroom attached to his room. She entered it, not noticing how filthy it was. The condom in the trash can was a good sign though.

She always preferred to leave this way. Sliding open the bathroom window, she managed to squeeze her small hips through the opening and pull herself out into the foggy residential street. She thanked God a second time - she was on the first floor.

Waiting until she was down the street and around the corner, out of sight of the house, she pulled out her phone. 12 missed calls, which were all from Lily. She dialed the number.

"God, pick up."

She never noticed the irony of this plea, but Lily always answered her phone. She began to cuss and scold violently, all the while the girl held her breath. "I know, I know, I'm sorry." She seemed to be saying this a lot lately. "Could you come pick me up? I'm at the intersection of Culture and Renaissance – by the McDonald’s."

Invariably, Lily always did, meeting her half-sister and best-friend wherever she was, to bring her back home.