75 days.

It sounds like a lot, really, when you put it like that, but I guess that the fact I'm now counting in days, instead of months, does not bode well for stress levels.
I'm having that interesting kind of stress at the moment, where I'm really stressed about the fact that I'm not nearly stressed enough about my thesis.
I got sprung by my sister today, calling her to talk about catering options for Dad's 60th, which is in July, to which she responded "Stop stalling and do your bloody thesis". Busted.
Todays project has involved attempting to write my CV, for the only-govt-job-I-actually-want, go the mighty graduate recruitment. Its really quite difficult to write a CV that says "I really want this fucking job please give it to me even though my grade point average is arse and I was never president of the debating club or toastmasters and I don't have a law degree and I don't speak fluent Farsi but if you want I can learn I really want this job would you like my firstborn", without actually saying that. One wants their CV to imply all this, without being so explicit. Also without sounding like a desperate old cow, searching for that elusive ticket out of Last-Chanceville, via the This Could be Your Last Hope Grandma holiday park.
2 years and 1 month and 2 days. Although apparently 40 is the new thirty, so I'm not quite sure what that makes the old thirty. Maybe the new 20? So, in 2 years, 1 month and two days, do I get to be a skinny clueless 3rd year uni student without a penny to my name, living in the most hideous flat complex in the city, sharing the kitchen with a mouse called John, smoking a packet of Marlboro a day, and drinking vodka before noon?
Shit, I really hope not. I'm kind of glad to see the back of that era, but I'm not sure I'm ready for my thirties.
Oh God, you know what I'm turning into!!! Hell, it can't be all bad, she has a job. And Colin Firth.

In other news, Stephen and Elizabeth are having a baby. Yay!! In Australia. Pants.

Road trip on Sunday. Look out Wanaka, here we come!!!