Jet-lag sucks.

The logical half of my brain says it’s noon.

The feeling half of my brain says it’s only 9am, because I can’t see the sun. Never mind that my office has no windows—no sun obviously means it’s still morning.

My body says it’s 8pm, closing on midnight. *yawn*

My appetite says time is irrelevant and I should eat NOW, at 10pm. Seriously, stomach? I wasn’t eating 3am snacks in London. What’s up with you?

I’m sure my roommate appreciated me being wide-awake at 5:30am. And I’m kinda bummed to have missed decorating and tree-picking yesterday because I was asleep. I’ve never had that much trouble pulling out of a REM cycle at 5pm.

(dear co-workers: No, I am not normally in a REM cycle at 5pm anyway…)

So here I sit, trying to convince the time in my head that it wants to match the time on the clock, playing the game show that has plagued travelers since the invention of the jet:

“What Time Is It Anyway?”