I can see myself slipping. Falling behind. I know it happens to the best of us, and it’d be ludicrous of me to expect myself to always be caught up with everything on my plate (school, work, personal life). But now, in the relative calm before the storm that is late February to mid-March, I can already feel the many deadlines I face eroding my resolve. That said, this isn’t my first rodeo, I know to keep on top of my readings and assignments and that this will invariably save me horrible bouts of anxiety down the road.
It’s a balancing act, I know it. But juggling some lab science course the institution insists on cramming down my throat despite the four years I spent avoiding it, as well as the fact that, for the first time since my first semester, I have no literature courses (I’d kill to audit modernism but I don’t have the time), has made me realize I’d much rather write 4,000 words over two weeks than try to come up with enough enthusiasm to study the weather systems.
