I herd sheep for a living.

Decompression is a word. It’s just like any other word you may or may not have made up in your free time. It’s got a prefix and stuff. This idea of decompression has laid siege on my soul. On Saturday, I slept until 12:30. Upon waking I watched the rest of a movie I started the night before (Die Hard), and then proceeded to watch another (Die Hard 2). This morning, I ate a mountain of Colombian food with a mountain of good friends. I drank some of the best life-blood coffee ever. Tonight, I’ll be dining on wine, cheer, and lasagna. Tomorrow we all get a bunch of cool shit. If an alien were to look at my life right now, they would most certainly judge me for my life of unending excess. Shame isn’t the word. Perhaps you could describe it as sheepishness. Or just full.

I think there is a mandatory grace period. I was unsure about its existence earlier, but I am fairly certain now. You can’t call it relaxation, because people do that all the time. I relax every single day. Decompression is an altered and very intensified version of relaxation. You know? Drink two beers, eat six cookies, watch two and a half movies, sleep until noon, turn off your phone. Overindulgence to the point of euphoria and nausea (same thing, right?). This time it is especially necessary, too. Everyone is freaking out about life, or Christmas, or their puppy, or their professor who assigned an essay due right after christmas. But nothing is going to bother me for the one (two) single day(s) after I arrive home, because I won’t let it. 

I’ve left my house once in the past three and a half days, and I have yet to change my pants.

Welcome to my life during the holidays.

Riley.