Hey-Oh!

I was about to wonder aloud whether it had really only been two weeks since I posted last, and then I realized that I completely forgot about the month of April. Ah, the joys of working until my brain turns to mush...

And yes, another redesign was in order, thankyouverymuch. I was getting a little tired of my...whatever I had before...and decided to change my background to SPAAAACE. The final frontier. Blogtier? Doesn't matter.

I missed so many things while I was away: Bunsen Burner Day (March 31st), Draw a Picture of a Bird Day (April 8th), National High Five Day (April 21st), AND Save the Rhino Day (May 1st). So many bizarre and wonderful holidays, so little time.

This post was really just intended as a brief blog-and-run, but I guess I do have one thing to discuss: the concept of "overtime guilt."

I think it's a term that I just made up. And a quick Google search confirms its originality. Suck it, Merriam Webster.

Overtime guilt is a thing that I had never really experienced until I started working 80-hour weeks. Basically, it rears its ugly head whenever I don't work 80-hour weeks. It hits whenever I take a weekend off or whenever I work an 8-hour day. I can't help but feel like I'm slacking off. Which is a) ridiculous, b) totally insane, and c) some other closely related word that I can't think of right now.

Bonkers?

No, too adorable.

Whatever this is, it's definitely not healthy. That's the problem with taking your work home with you, I guess. Even when you're at home, it still feels like you're at work.

The one thing I can't figure out is why I never had this problem in school. I did all my work at home, and yet...never really felt compelled to check email hundred of times a day or go to class on a Saturday. Ever.

Maybe it's because I'm getting paid now. Yeah. That's probably it. Now that I'm making the big bucks, it's messing with my mind.

On a completely unrelated note, I'm thinking of starting a new blog about the trials and tribulations of my hockey class. I know you guys wouldn't be super intrigued, but someone might be. I can call it "Get the Puck Outta Here." No, maybe not. "The Puck Stops Here"? Ugh. I think the part of my brain that comes up with horrible puns is officially broken. Good riddance, I say.