Today is a supposed "rest" day for the Insanity. Shaun T apparently calls anything that is not cardio, rest. This was most certainly not a rest day. Rest is doing little to nothing, not sweating out two cups on water on a variation of downward dog. Not that I'm complaining--but I'm complaining.

I dealt with my anger by making a carrot cake. My first, deliciously moist (go ahead, cringe all you ladies who hate that word) and vibrant cake. I've been on this weird cooking/baking kick. Last night I made homemade black eyed pea soup at 11pm. Why? Fuck if I know. Apparently I just want to make a shit ton of food I can't eat and force it upon others. "Yes, eat. eeaat. EAAATT!!!"

Tonight is "Poetry in Your Pocket." The poets and a few select and wonderful fiction students are going to take over some local bars in presence and voice...oh, and of course money.  Everyone will bring a poem to read--preferably loudly and fast to keep all the drunks excited. After all, there's nothing more snore-worthy than reading The Prelude in a full bar. God, I wonder how long that would take. Two weeks? I kid, I kid (Byron, you were a creep, but you were onto something) In fact, this might be the one and only acceptable time to slam a poem.

Ok, well. I'm sure I'll have some good stories to tell in the morning. As for now, I'm just going to sit lazily on the couch and stare at the postmodern book I don't want to read.

CARROT CAKE!

 CARROT CAKE AGAIN! With me, of course.