This morning, I got up and began studying for my psych final. I was hitting it hard. Hunkered over my books, writing and studying, and writing some more, closing my eyes, reciting, opening my eyes and checking, writing some more. The house was quiet. Tim was already down at the apartment working. He's about finished with it, and is eager to see it to completion. So I sat in the quiet house and I studied my brains out. About 11:00, I heard a sound and froze, listening intently. I heard it again. There was no doubt. Someone was in the house. Shocked, I stood, with my pencil in hand, unsure of what to do. I heard the sound again, and pinpointed it. Cara's room. And finally remembered: Cara got home last night. I'd forgotten how late that girl can sleep.
I went on studying. At that point, I suppose, convinced that I was stupid beyond all belief, I studied even harder. I studied and studied. I wrote and wrote and wrote. I made up a set of note cards with 60 terms on it. I wrote some more. About three o'clock in the afternoon, I closed my books and began to clear the table. I was tired, but I also felt good. I felt as if I was ready for that test. I flexed my fingers, having a big time case of writer's cramp. My hand hurt, my arm hurt. I massaged my arm a bit and then froze yet again. That night's final essay was a 'blue book' essay. It would be written in long hand in a small blue composition book. *moan* Luckily, spending some time with my hands submerged in warm dishwater helped a lot. By the time that I got to class, I was ready to write again.
I will be so glad when tomorrow is done. I have two tests. Then I have one more final Monday night (math) and I'm done. Well. For a week anyway.
Let me get my hinder to bed. 5 AM comes early.