(no subject)
How on earth did it get to be the last three weeks of the semester so FAST??
You know... one of the weird effects of medication/self-rearrangement is that I'm not panicking about everything I have left to do, even when all the theoretically psychologically spic-and-span people around me are. (Yes, there are some. Isn't it amazing? We ought to bottle them, I think.)
I mean, ordinarily I'd come back from Thanksgiving break and go right into "OH SHIT I'M GOING TO DIE" mode. Now, it's more along the lines of "... Hey, is that another deadline approaching at light speed from ahead? It is? Oh. Damn. Life sucks. *yawn* ... Wait, was that the same deadline that just went whizzing past? Oh. Damn. Um... well, I'm still alive, so I guess it's okay."
... Guys, if I turn into a slacker, or if my GPA drops below a 3.5, will someone please promise to beat me up? Please? Please? Because my deepest darkest fear about being treated for what I've always conceived of as being more a personality trait than a psychological disfunction was that, if I wasn't beating myself up, I wouldn't get anything done.
And then I'd fail at life. And no one would ever love me.
OH NO.
Haha. See, I can't even describe my fears without poking fun at them anymore.
Guys, I'm going to drop out of the race and become a sunburned pothead lounging out on the promenade at Venice Beach. That's clearly what's coming next.
On another note... I am bored to the point of spontaneous disembowelment by reading file after file of applications for the new music professor positions. I have to have all sixty-bajillion files read by tomorrow at noon, when the committee meets. Guess how far I am. Guess.
Someone tell me a joke, please, before I combust from an overdose of glowing recommendation letters.
You know... one of the weird effects of medication/self-rearrangement is that I'm not panicking about everything I have left to do, even when all the theoretically psychologically spic-and-span people around me are. (Yes, there are some. Isn't it amazing? We ought to bottle them, I think.)
I mean, ordinarily I'd come back from Thanksgiving break and go right into "OH SHIT I'M GOING TO DIE" mode. Now, it's more along the lines of "... Hey, is that another deadline approaching at light speed from ahead? It is? Oh. Damn. Life sucks. *yawn* ... Wait, was that the same deadline that just went whizzing past? Oh. Damn. Um... well, I'm still alive, so I guess it's okay."
... Guys, if I turn into a slacker, or if my GPA drops below a 3.5, will someone please promise to beat me up? Please? Please? Because my deepest darkest fear about being treated for what I've always conceived of as being more a personality trait than a psychological disfunction was that, if I wasn't beating myself up, I wouldn't get anything done.
And then I'd fail at life. And no one would ever love me.
OH NO.
Haha. See, I can't even describe my fears without poking fun at them anymore.
Guys, I'm going to drop out of the race and become a sunburned pothead lounging out on the promenade at Venice Beach. That's clearly what's coming next.
On another note... I am bored to the point of spontaneous disembowelment by reading file after file of applications for the new music professor positions. I have to have all sixty-bajillion files read by tomorrow at noon, when the committee meets. Guess how far I am. Guess.
Someone tell me a joke, please, before I combust from an overdose of glowing recommendation letters.