I sit here, musing on a weekend that's come and gone as fast as the possibility of an All Blacks victory, half-buried by newspapers, nursing a headache and a sore back and wondering if I will ever see the sun again.
The RSI in my mousing wrist has made a reappearance, and I really need to sleep.
I have a belly full of Budget Brand chicken & corn flavour instant noodles, and I have run out of chocolate.
It is hailing outside.
But even so, I am content.
I have spent most of the weekend forcing myself to work on one of the nastier assignments due in next Friday - an analysis of every story in the Southland Times over the course of a week even slightly related to government or economy.
The Southland Times isn't a bastion of of political writing but after two solid days' slog I'm still only on Wednesday and my eyes are starting to bleed.
I'm also having the terrors about work experience. I haven't told you about that yet.
The tutors told us all ages ago that we should have a little think about where we would like to go for work experience. I had a little think and decided I would like to go to some rural backwater that produces a weekly community paper comprised of 90% adverts, one page of readers' letters and two stories about sheep.
I told the tutors this.
"Ha ha ha," they said, "We're sending you to the Otago Daily Times."
The Otago Daily Times is not only a Proper Newspaper, it is the Proper Newspaper where Tutor Smartypants used to work; he is their golden boy and they have never taken work experience students from my school before.
So no pressure then.
My Fortnight of Terror begins on 22 June.
I will be hopelessly out of my depth, I know it.
But in spite of all this, my room is warm and my belly is full and Flatmate sent me a string of filthy texts this afternoon and I've done enough work for now so I am happy.