Deadlines are my friend. I would say it doesn't matter rather or not I make them, but the truth is - I grew up Catholic. I make the deadlines. There are some things you can't shake. I wonder about all the self-sufficient entrepreneur types I know. I wonder how many of them are Catholic. I should take a poll.
What better impetus, after all, than having the image of my professors and administrators and all otherwise ominiscient figureheads to whom I answer - dressed in vestment at the altar - swinging various genres of crosses above my bowed head to get me to confess...i mean turn in my papers.
Deadline is tomorrow for the Hopwoods. In case anyone forgot. Not that anyone can forget the day we bed damned. For those who don't go here, this is the annual manuscript contest in our program.
I make things when I'm nervous. So I'm making beef soup. I hacked up a beef shank this morning, ripping through various arteries and tubes that used to connect various gurgling and concentrically girating parts. It was disturbing, to say the least. Nothing worse than forcing a butcher knife through parts of an organism that it really doesn't want to go through.
I suppose it will prepare me for this last leg of the editing process.
And maybe season my shot nerves.