hi

Do you know what's fun and funky fresh and delightful in the extreme? I'll tell you what's fun and funky fresh and delightful in the extreme. 

I feel absolutely sick to my stomach with anxiety, and it's pretty bad, I must say. I can hardly breathe, and I'm all hot (not in a good way), and my chest hurts, and I want to die (although that's nothing new). I keep having to go back and fix typos, because my fingers won't behave and type steadily. But I'm surrounded by my family here, so I can't show any symptoms, and I have to act all normal. All I can do is listen to loud music and try to calm down without anyone noticing there was anything wrong in the first place. If I keep busy, or look like I am, hopefully no one will talk to me, and I can work on fixing this. Why does this have to happen all the time? It seems like I'm getting worse and worse at managing these attacks, or maybe they're getting worse, or both. And I never know what will set them off either, or when they will occur, and I hate it. Well, I hate everything. But this is more hateful than most things are.

Oh yeah, okay, so I have some news about me, and it's very interesting. About a week ago, I went to see a psychiatrist, and she diagnosed me with actual depression and anxiety, as well as a social phobia, so apparently I really do have real problems after all. Isn't that interesting? I wasn't making all this up after all, it seems. Now I'm going to therapy, although the psychiatrist wasn't entirely pleased with that, because she wanted to put me on medications, and I refused (I mean my dad was angry enough that I was going to seek mental help at all; I wouldn't want him to disown me or anything). Failing that, she wanted me to go to a mental hospital and do intensive therapy, but I'm not really thrilled with that idea, because it would be six hours a day, and it would be with a bunch of other people, all of whom would probably beat me up for not having real enough issues. Plus, I'm not really sure I need it (although my mom seems to be intrigued). But I think I need something, because right now, I'm barely functioning. However, that might be normal, and everyone is dealing with the same thing I am, and I'm just weak. That could be. Or maybe not. I thought that everyone regularly considers suicide, and thinks out plans and stuff, but apparently that's not a thing, so maybe none of the other stuff is typical either. I don't know. But I'm really ashamed of myself anyway. And it's not like I can talk about this stuff with anyone either, like come on. 

"Why can't you hang out?" "Oh, you know, the very thought of seeing people makes me feel physically ill, no offense!" "Want to come shopping today?" "Well, I would love to, but I struggled for an hour to get out of bed this morning, and even greeting my family was almost more than I could manage, so I'll have to take a rain check this time, so sorry!" 

Yeah, no. That wouldn't go over. Am I being dishonest by pretending to be okay when I'm really not? Maybe. But it's the lesser of two evils in this case, I think. And it's not like people aren't used to me never doing things. I've never been good at accepting invitations for things, whether because of anxiety (which I realize now I've always had, albeit much more mildly), or genuine busy-ness, so it shouldn't seem weird now if I disappear off the face of the earth for awhile. I wish it didn't have to be this way. I really do like most people, and my inability to interact with them has absolutely nothing to do with them and their complete loveliness. I want to talk to them or hang out with them, I really do, but I just can't, and I feel guilty about it, since I hope they don't think I don't like them or anything. And I'm really lonely, I think, but I'm too sick to do anything about it. Now that I write about it, I realize how totally pathetic I am. I'm pretty contemptible, aren't I? Yeah, I'm the worst.

Oh dear, I'm really dreading tomorrow. I hate Sundays, because I have to teach, and teaching makes me want to kill myself (even more than usual). It's the only way I can make money, so I have to do it, but it causes me such misery that sometimes I wonder if it's worth it. I'm being whiny I know; it's a rare thing to be gainfully employed at my age, and it's one day of work per week in exchange for a year's supply of money for books and food, so I really do have it pretty good. But that knowledge doesn't make me like it. Anyway, that's not the only reason I'm dreading tomorrow. Allie's mom is having a party, and she very kindly invited me and Sonia, and Mom heard about it, and now she's making me go. It's not that I don't appreciate the invitation, but I would be perfectly fine with declining it and waiting for another day. But the last time I went out anywhere for fun (or "fun") was like two or three weeks ago, and I guess that's not healthy, so now I have to go party. #sundayfunday #turnup #notreallytho

Ugh.

I should probably go to bed soon, but I don't want to. I'm just going to lie awake having an existential crisis anyway. Sometimes I wish I were a robot so I could just turn my brain off when I needed to rest. Would it be bad to watch some TV shows now? Yeah, probably. I guess I'll try to sleep. Who knows, maybe I'll succeed. Okay, goodnight!

Obligatory May text post

I'm back home now, and you'd think I would feel better, but really, I don't at all. I don't even know what's wrong with me, I mean sure I'm in the throes of romantic despair, that's de rigeur, but besides that, I think something's wrong with me, I really do. I've been feeling it for awhile now, and yeah, it was pretty bad when I was at school too, but now I feel literally mentally ill. It's like being sick– I mean, it is being sick– but it's not physical. Although I guess it manifests itself physically too, or I think it does. But I don't know. I've can't remember ever feeling so bad before. On a good day, I don't feel anything at all, and it's like I'm sort of vaguely making my way through a fog, but on a bad day, it's all I can do to speak to my family, or a least listen when they speak to me. I'm trying to make it through one day at a time, but that's difficult, because I don't even want to do that. And I know I should be trying to make myself better, and I am trying, or at least I think I am, but nothing's working, and I want to feel okay again, or even just feel again, but I can't, I really can't, and I don't know what to do. But it's not like I have any real problems. I don't have the right to complain, really. I'm just that gross. Of course I realize that illnesses like depression and anxiety are just that, illnesses, and can affect absolutely anyone, regardless of problems real or imagined, and can't be fixed just by "trying harder," but here's the thing, I don't think I have either of those disorders. I'm convinced that this is all just a made-up phenomenon in my head, and if I could only get over my whiny pathetic self, I would be just fine. But why? Why do I want to be sick? I hate living in fear, and I hate living in general, and neither of those seem like things that would be in the least appealing. I don't understand in the least. All I know is that it just comes down to me not being good enough again. Just like everything else. If you look at my life right now, and don't look at it too hard, it looks pretty good. I'm about to transfer to UCLA (I've dreamt of going there since like seventh grade), I got a 3.8 for my final GPA (which I still hate myself for, but it's not terrible, especially since all I could think about this semester was dying), I have an internship this summer specializing in things I have experience with, I'm making money from my violin students, I have the world's longest summer vacation and plenty of free time to do whatever I want, my friends miraculously still seem to like me, and doesn't everything seem peachy? But I can't be happy about any of it no matter how hard I try. Then I feel guilty, but that doesn't help anything, so I feel worse, and then we're off to the races again. I feel guilty for existing, basically. I'm sure my family doesn't really want me here. I mean, I try to help as much as I can, whether by cleaning people's messes or just being as pleasant as possible all the time, but in the end, I know I'm just a giant burden, and no matter how much I try to make everyone's lives pleasant, it will never make up for the strain of my existence upon the world. Is this me not seeing things clearly as a symptom of whatever's wrong with me, or is it real? I don't know. But it feels real enough to me that I can't get over it. However, even though I think it would be the best option if I died, I can't, because of the embarrassment it would cause my poor family trying to explain it. It's just not socially acceptable to be an upstanding member of society and have a relative who killed herself, you know? And besides, I'm afraid. Isn't that stupid? I'm not even afraid of what comes after death, no, come what may, I'll face it, because I'm sure after I die, my irrational fears of everything will disappear, but I'm so afraid of the pain. Yeah, I'm afraid of pain, me with my tapestry of self-inflicted scars that are only now just beginning to heal. Isn't it ridiculous? And what if whatever I did didn't work, and I was left damaged the rest of my life? And what if I lost my dignity? There are so many things I'm afraid of, and they all seem so stupid. It convinces me more than anything that my so-called "illness" must be fake. Just like me! I really don't know what to do anymore. This can't be any way to live.

I can't deal with this

We break up: "It's not permanent!" he said. "It's only until you come back!" he said. "I don't want to make you suffer through my depression!" he said. "I'm going to love you forever!" he said.


Two weeks later, he's got a new girl lined up.


Forever, he said.

A waiting game, truly

Okay so this post was from two weeks ago, but I forgot about it, and as I'm here in the airport with nothing to do, I might as well while away a few errant seconds and publish it.
My new roommate is moving in today, apparently, and I have no idea when she's going to do so. I cleaned up the room, and then I high tailed it to Barnes and Noble so I could hide. Then it started getting dark, so I left, because I don't like being out on High street by myself after dark, especially on a weekend. So now I'm at the Union, which is kitty-corner to my dorm, and I'm ready to spend all night here if I have to. Or as long as I can anyway, because I didn't bring my laptop charger, and my battery is only at 62% now. I wish I'd brought my lip balm, though, because I can't live comfortable without it. There's some kind of event going on tonight, so I'm seeing all these fancy sophisticates walking around in evening gowns and suits (though not both at once), and I have the uncomfortable feeling that I'm an unwelcome interloper into a life that is much more important than mine. Of course, that feeling is nothing new to me at this juncture in life.

When should I get food? The place in here closes at 8:00 on weekends (which is incredibly inconvenient), and it's 6:30 now, so maybe I can hold off for a little bit until it's close to closing, and then I can buy something that's not too embarrassing to eat, and then I can come back up here where it's pretty isolated (except for the dignitaries, whom I hope will take no notice of me) and eat it. Is this going to be my life now? Will I have to live here in the Union for the rest of the semester, watched by the friendly eyes of the Ohio elite? I don't know what to do, upon my word of honor I don't. I feel like Heathcliff, and that's not at all a nice feeling to have. Never will I get to live in the main house (or residence hall, in this case), or be accepted as a decent member of society, or even be a decent member of society, because my Byronic brooding precludes me from the joys of normal life. Oh, woe is me! Life is truly a vale of tears, and that's all there is to it.

Oh wonderful, two gentlemen have come over, and are now sitting within two feet of me. They're clad in identical tasteless black hoodies, ugly black shoes, and hideous red-and-white Ohio ski caps, and they're talking in identical dialects, which rest somewhere between "inebriated frat boy" and "flunking stoner" (both of which they probably are). Maybe they're part of a cult. I hope they don't try to initiate me; I really wouldn't want to be caught dead in those hideous excuses for footwear. Oh no, one of them talked to me. Disgusting. He wanted to know where the computers were in here. I didn't even know there were computers in here. "There's gotta be," drawls my new compatriot, "I mean, it's so big!" I'm tempted to inquire about the efficacy of navigating such a complex structure whilst floating on the effects of the good herb, but instead, I smile politely and go back to my computer, cold-hearted and completely unhelpful. My harsh vibes must have alarmed the suave souls, because after awhile, they swagged off together, talking enthusiastically, albeit very slowly, about Chipotle. Now I'm alone again, which is how things should be, but I really have to go to the bathroom, and I don't know what to do with my laptop. Should I get someone to watch it for me? I don't trust these people. Someone will probably sell it on the black market while I'm gone and use the profit to buy alcohol. And I don't want to contribute to the already-rampant alcoholism on this campus, so I think it's best for me to hold off on that. I should get food soon too. Do you think it would look goofy for me to leave and then come back? Probably not, right? I mean, everyone needs to eat. And it's not like anyone's really paying attention to me. Okay, let's do this! Maybe I can find some trustworthy soul downstairs as well.
I have some very good news, incidentally. I'm going home for spring break! I'm extremely excited, like y'all don't even know. How could anyone have such good fortune as this? Life is quite beautiful at the moment, and none can tell me otherwise.
I really should go meet up with my new roommate, though.
Ew.

Now is the winter of my discontent

Because it's winter, and I'm discontented, wow, how totally clever am I?
I know I said no more grossness, but I'm going to be gross, and I don't really care. But you might, so I would advise you to keep your caution about you at this point.
Yesterday, the housing office, in their infinite wisdom, decided that I'd been getting a free pass for long enough, and assigned me a new roommate to take Melissa's place. Her name is Georgia, and she's moving in sometime this week. I know it shouldn't be such a big deal, and I'm totally over-reacting, but I honestly thought of jumping in front of a bus just so I wouldn't have to deal with this. It's bad enough to have to share a space in general, but on those days when human contact feels like acid (which, sadly, are becoming more and more common), it's next door to unbearable. Even Melissa, who shares my introversion, was sometimes almost more than I could take, so how am I going to manage with a complete (and seemingly chatty) stranger? I wish I could be normal. Why can't I be normal? It seems to me that every other person on this earth is better with people than I am. Sure, you can cite the awkward rejects of society who congregate on tumblr, but they all have internet friends, don't they (and probably several very close friends in their general vicinity, because every awkward person I've ever met had a rather sizable awkward IRL clique), and they think nothing of contacting random people all across the internet and befriending them. I can't even do that. It's gotten so that I do a mental double take every time I hear myself having a conversation with someone, because it's that infrequent. Really, I'm starting to think that I wasn't built for real life. I should be locked in a library somewhere, alone with my literature and syntax, not bothering anyone, and not trying to fake my way through a life for which I wasn't made. Wouldn't that be better? But it's anachronistic to be a recluse now. Everyone is meant to interact with other people, perfectly, without any anxiety or trouble, and since I can't seem to do that, perhaps I shouldn't be alive. Aristotle said that without friends, no one would choose to live, even if he had everything else (I paraphrase), and if we can't trust one of the greatest thinkers in the world, I don't know to whom we're going to turn. I don't have anyone who cares about me, not really, so why am I here? Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit. But let's be real here– who would even notice if I spontaneously combusted one day? My family would, after awhile, and yes, they'd be sad, but in the end, I think they'd be better off without me. I'm the requisite failure; I've always been so, and I'm really damn expensive too. So even if they don't see it, I know it would advantage them to be rid of me. Austin would notice, I suppose, though how he'd get wind of my death, I have no idea. But I think he'd be better off without me too. And my friends? I never see any of them in real life (unless you want to count Opera Boy and Orchestra Boy and Melissa) (though I don't really see any of them either), so I'm sure it would just be easy-come-easy-go on that front. There's no one who would be impacted by my death, no one at all, and if that's not a disheartening thought, I don't know what is. I was thinking about buying a little potted plant, so I could have an excuse to stay alive for someone's (something's?) sake, but I don't think the dorm allows them, and besides, I would have no way of taking it home, so it would die during the summer, and I would have done more harm than good in the world. Honestly, how pathetic is that? You can talk all you want about ripple effects, but while everyone else is out splashing about in the pond, I'm lying on the bank in the fetal position trying to get up the energy to eat. I don't even know if one could count what I'm doing as living. Actually, no, I don't think one can. I'm just watching life go past, and I don't even know why. I'm supposed to be smart; why can't I figure out how to function like a normal individual? I don't think I'm ever going to amount to anything, ever. I have my ambitions, of course, those haven't changed, but let's be real here, I'll never achieve them. Tell me, what kind of sophisticate starves herself because she's too afraid to go get food in public, and what kind of lawyer wastes hours curled up in a ball, shaking and crying and wishing for death, and what kind of Supreme Court justice accepts lower grades than she should because she feels physically incapable of speaking up? It's so unrealistic of me to dream of these things. It will be a miracle if I get any job at all, ever. What's the matter with me, anyway? My life is fine, albeit lonely, and I haven't any of the severe troubles that so many other people do. All things being equal, I don't deserve to feel this way. But I do, sad and pathetic creature that I am, which makes me ashamed of myself, which makes me feel even worse, and then the cycle just perpetuates in a never-ending spiral of misery and guilt. Oh, what wouldn't I give to be normal! It must be so wonderful to walk around carefree all the time, without any trace of fear. Ordering food? No problem! Meeting new people? Delightful! Shouting out the answer in class, even though you're not completely sure it's the right one? No question about it! Life must be so beautifully simple and clean. There are no abstract mental rules to follow, no complicated patterns to remember, and no insurmountable obstacles anywhere. I can't imagine living without constantly feeling ashamed or afraid (or both), but some people do, and I think they must be the luckiest people in the world. The closest I ever get to that is during my classes, and that's pretty sad, I know. I'm pretty sad. I will never be anything, not to me, not to anyone, and not to the world. Which makes me wonder why I'm here. Isn't it sophomoric to have an existential crisis? But I really do wonder about my purpose in life often. Could it be that I don't have one? I believe everyone does– or at least I think I do– but it would be more than believable for me to be the only one who doesn't. It's always been that way, after all. So, that leads us back to the old familiar query: Shouldn't I just die? No, don't answer that. I think I know. But I'm selfish and disgusting, and I never did anything right, and I think I know that I'm not going to go gentle into that good night. Isn't that pathetic, just talking and never doing? I'm as fake as they come. Contemn me all you want, though, and it will be to no avail; no one's opinion of me could ever be worse than my own. However, that's the last I'm going to show that opinion for awhile. I'm no exhibitionist, and I'm still hoping that if I pretend everything's fine, it will be. And it will be. You'll see.

Interim

I'm sitting in the political science department, waiting for my 3:00 class (the phonology-statistics-computer programming mashup), since it's in the basement, for whatever reason, and I have about an hour to spend contemplating the mysteries of life here. I usually don't bring Daisy Bell to class with me, but we had to analyze an article in English, and I was too lazy and poor to print out all twelve pages, so here I am. The article in question was a singularly annoying one, to be honest. It was filled with the most irritating social-democrat rhetoric, and tarred neoconservatives, libertarians, and Rush Limbaugh with the same defamatory brush. Now, I don't deny that there are many problematic aspects to Richard Matheson's writing, but none of them are the fault of today's right-wing politicians, no matter what social justice English majors might say. But no matter how incensed this shortsighted invective made me, there was nothing I could do to protest its promulgation, because I still can't make myself talk in class. I could have a Hermann Melville-style essay written up in my head, the thesis of which is right on the tip of my tongue, but it wouldn't matter. It's such a frustrating phenomenon, because I've lost count of the times that I've been the only one who knows what's going on, but I haven't said anything, and our poor professor has to spell it all out. How can I get over this? I don't even know what's wrong with me; I haven't had any traumatic experiences or anything (that I know of), so I should be able to shout out the answers with confidence and a complete lack of shame. But I can't! This is why my participation is always the lowest part of my grade.
It's gotten warmer recently (oh dear, that was quite an abrupt subject change, I do apologize), so much so that I'm not even wearing a coat today. It's 46.8 ºF, according to Wunderground, which I would have considered to be glacial in California, but now seems friendly and paradisiacal. What has become of me? I could move to Antarctica with impunity now, and make a home with all the penguins. Maybe I should do that. I would probably like them much better than people.
You know, I think my life has gotten progressively duller as the months have passed by. I've never been a very exciting individual, but now I've practically become the human equivalent of Longfellow's rhyme scheme. I wake up; I go to class; I go back to my dorm; I watch Netflix; I sleep. I never go out, and unless someone talks to me first, I won't talk to anyone. Also, I don't even keep myself busy anymore; I spend a significant amount of time each day just sitting on top of Melissa's abandoned filing cabinet, staring out the window, and ruminating. That would all be very well if I were a philosopher or a postmodern artist, but I am neither, and no amount of change in lifestyle will change me so. I really hope I'm not turning into some kind of Tennessee Williams character. That would be so terribly inconvenient. Well, I'll just have to watch out, and if I start collecting little glass animals, I'll know I have a real problem.
Spring break is coming up in three weeks, and I should be excited, but I'm not, because I'm facing a bit of an issue here. You see, the university, erroneously assuming that we all have rich friends who will fly us out to exotic locations for vacation, makes it a policy to close down most of the residence halls on campus, without so much as a by-your-leave. They do keep a few open, and apparently once the time rolls closer, they'll allow us to apply for asylum, but I don't see how three or four buildings, no matter how large, will be able to accommodate the extremely sizable population of international and out-of-state students who will undoubtedly be searching for a place to rest them so from trouble sore. Now, if I had a few extra hundred dollars lying around, I would buy a plane ticket back home with excessive alacrity, but as it is, I have the sneaking suspicion that I'll be trying desperately to eke out a living on the cruel streets of Columbus while my more fortunate classmates enjoy all the comforts that money (and a close hometown) can bring. Or maybe I'll have to live in a broom closet with sixteen other people and no wifi for a week. One never knows. If only it was socially acceptable to hit up one's rich boyfriend for money. Or rich anybody, for that matter. I'm sure there are plenty of wealthy alumni living around here; maybe I could convince one (or two or three) of them to help me financially in the name of education and patriotism. I could even repay them for their services by performing at their social functions, or editing the pieces of rhetoric they send around to all the members of the upper echelon in the state. This is such a good plan! I'll just dig up my shabbiest clothes, put a little dirt on my face, and a few sticks in my hair, and I'll be ready to play my part in saving my future. Goodness me, I am truly an inspiration.

A brief catalogue of complaints

Hello, and happy February! Last year, I failed to represent every month in my posting, but this year, I'm determined to make up for that failure with unmitigated success. So far, I seem to be doing so, but as it's only the second month of the year, I suppose we'll just have to see where life takes us.
I really have to stop writing in the first person plural. It sounds so terribly much like the explanation of a lab report.
So, here I am on this lovely Sunday afternoon, avoiding all my responsibilities, as a good college student always likes to do. I have to do a reading guide for stats, but more importantly, I have to perform a literary analysis on some work of dystopian fiction, yet undecided, and have it ready and printed out by 12:40 tomorrow. That means that I have to go to the library, and it's cold and dreary outside, and more importantly, I haven't showered today, and my hair looks like a relic of the Napoleonic wars. "Why don't you just bite the bullet and shower now?" I hear you saying. Well, that's an excellent academic question, and I admire your cleverness in asking it. But you see, then I would have to change my clothes afterwards, and I would be using up two outfits in one day, and that's such a waste, especially when it's hard enough to avoid repetition as it is (I have fewer clothes here than the typical white male gamer). So all in all, I think it's best to wait until the day has run its course. Maybe I can go to the library early tomorrow, before class, and print my paper out then. That's a good idea! I'll just get it all nicely written and formatted here, and then I won't have to worry. It's only two pages; how hard can it be? I've been doing literary analysis since birth (or at least eighth grade), and I can identify symbolism in my sleep. This should be a walk in the park. The only thing I'm worried about is the topic, since this class isn't really about "literature" per se, and we shun novels in favor of Youtube videos and video games. Actually, I like that part, because video games are really just unwritten literature, and I might not be able to differentiate between X and Y on an xbox controller with any degree of regularity, but I'm a hardcore fan, and I will be until the day I become a pregnant and barefoot conservative housewife. But where was I? Oh yes. So, books are very easy for me, but I think our teacher would rather we do movies or something, and I'm not really feeling it. For one thing, I don't watch movies much, and when I do, they usually have more to do with elves and hobbits than with nuclear apocalypses. I wonder if we could consider Middle Earth under Sauron to be a dystopia? I think it's pretty dystopian, don't you? But for some reason, I don't think my teacher would go for the idea. Okay, well, do you think I could use a TV show then? I just watched an episode of Star Trek where this planet was wiped out by an apocalypse, and it was very tragic, only the crew of the Enterprise went back in time and saved them. That wouldn't count, would it. Man. Okay, so I started watching this show called Revolution, and it's as dystopian as it comes. It's a really good show, incidentally, I love it. But could I write about it? I'm really not sure. How would I do it? Would I take an episode? Or maybe part of an episode? But which part? Oh man, this is really difficult. You know what, I'm just going to use The Day After Tomorrow. I saw it on an airplane when I was about nine, so even though the only part I remember is the burly leading man getting stuck in a flooded telephone booth with his beautiful, fainting, costar, I'm sure I could google some climactic scenes and make up something about them. Ugh, this means I have to write about the environment, doesn't it. I hate writing about the environment. Sure, it's important, and pollution is terrible, and global warming and polar ice caps and death to the masses, but it's not an issue in which I'm really invested, unless it has to do with international relations, and even then, I'm iffy. Oh well, I can do it anyway. I could probably write an opinionated essay on shale oil extraction if I had to (it wouldn't be as hard as you think, though, because I was studying it on Wikipedia for fun the other day). I mean, I wrote a pseudo-communist political propaganda speech the other day just to see if I could (I could). So this shouldn't be too bad. I can do this. Yeah, let's go!
I really need to redo my nails first though. I painted them last Sunday, and they looked as lovely as Dorian Gray, but now they're starting to resemble his portrait more, so I need to do a little touch-up. For whatever reason, I really dislike having sloppy-looking nails, like even if they're an uneven length, it'll bother me. So when I paint them, it takes a lot of upkeep, which means that I rarely do it. But I love how they look manicured, and I love nail polish in general, so it's quite the struggle. When I'm a rich lawyer one day, I'll be able to have them perfect all the time, and if that's not motivation to do well in school, I don't know what is.
Speaking of doing well in school, I'm really worried about physics. I got an 85 on the first quiz, for goodness' sake. That's just not acceptable to me. Last semester, I got a 4.0 without even trying, but now I'm afraid that it's going to drop into oblivion despite my hardest efforts. Physics is five credits, so it's weighted more than anything else, and no amount of humanities classes could assuage the deleterious effects of a poor grade. And the kicker? It's not even my fault! I'm not bad at physics, if I do say so myself, but when the only bit of teaching we're getting is the TA dropping by to give us explicitly wrong information, there's only so much I can do. (Seriously though, he told us that particles move faster in higher temperatures, which is true, and that this makes the resistance lower, which is false, and everyone just accepted it) I have my old notes and worksheets and tests and whatnot, and I have google, but this class is more of a blight than an arbitrarily high price floor. Do you think it would be too expensive to sign up for some kind of internet crash course? Now, if I were Austin, I could look at a textbook for five seconds and be able to apply all the concepts as if I'd been born knowing them, do the labs in an hour, get out early, and play Pokemon, but sadly, I have not his particular brand of overarching intelligence. To him, science is nothing but common sense, and AP Chem was a fun and easy class. Now that I think of it, he's pretty excellent at math too. We're just academic opposites, aren't we. That's okay! It means that together, we're an inexorable force of scholar-hood, and nothing can stand in our way. How lovely! It still doesn't solve my physics dilemma, though.
I should probably get down to business now. Okay, let's make a plan. So. I'll go up to the fourth floor and find a deserted study room and paint my nails, and then I'll get some food early, since apparently it's the Superbowl or something, and there will probably be a lot of drunk people out, and then I'll shower, and then I'll sit me down to a good long night of Netflix analysis and studying. I got this, man. Let's go!