And I Realize, that I miss being Human.
Tuesday nothing really happened. I was supposed to have my Drawing final, but Steve had a flat tire and so it was canceled. The class hung our pieces up anyway and made each other feel good about ourselves, since Steve wasn't there to say we sucked.
Alex didn't come over because his mom wanted him to go Christmas shopping with her, so I had time to get work done. Which I still didn't really do. All I did was paint my staff black, fold my laundry, do excessive push ups for no reason, and catch up on Dexter.
WHICH BY THE WAY IS A BASTARD. That was BY FAR the WORST way to end a season EVER. And it came out of fucking nowhere.
I'm only just now realizing that I was in a bad mood today. My CV final was today, and I fully intended to just write a few quick sentences and be done with it. I wrote a few more than I intended, but I still just barely did it before I left.
In Photography she made us clean the darkroom, which wasn't so bad I guess. Then we had the critique.
Apparently I look like I'm on the verge of suicide. I thought my self-portrait looked mildly sad, but mostly contemplative. Yet the most photo-savvy student AND Joan both said I captured being horribly miserable perfectly, and that it made them miserable too. At the time I laughed and rolled with it; yea, I've had a pretty bad year as most of you know.
Steve was there today grading our portfolios, and I got a B- for the year. I wish the fucker had been there to hear us all explain what/why/how we did our self-portraits. He said I need to be more careful with my work and take care of it. It has a lot of fold creases in it. If he was there, he'd fucking know I did that because I tea stained the paper and had to fold it to fit it in my sink to do so. I didn't just fold it and shove it in my portfolio instead of rolling it up, I'm not stupid. I got a B on every. last. thing I did. No matter how much effort I put into anything I did, he didn't like it. Yet several people can turn things in late, or things that clearly show they did them five minutes before class, and they'll get an A, crinkles, smudges and eraser marks and all. Fuck you, Steve. You're a nice guy, but I hate you. So glad I'm not taking painting after all next semester. I'd punch him in the face.
Then Alex and I came home. Everything was fine, I was feeling good and relaxed. Then right in the middle of things my grandmother starts screaming. So we have to jump up, make ourselves look presentable, and I run in there. She's on the fucking floor, and grandpa is just sitting there looking at her. Uncle Art is upstairs and doesn't hear a fucking thing. I pull her into a sitting position and check her head. She's not bleeding, I ask if she's dizzy or seeing double; no and no. I try to pull her up into her chair, but she's too fucking useless to even get her legs under herself to help herself get back up. So I have to go and get Uncle Art to help me, and he fucking gets mad at ME like it's my fucking fault the old bitch is a fucktard. I'm so sick of his shit. Not only this, but he REFUSED to make the struffoli on Saturday, saying they'd be too stale by Christmas. But, he'd be home on Wednesday, so he'd make them then. Fat ass was home yesterday AND today and didn't do A FUCKING THING. Didn't even set up his fucking stupid blow up Christmas decoration. So guess what they're probably going to make me do on my fucking birthday?
I'm so fucking sick of this house and all it's bullshit. Put the old hag in a home and get it over with.
As soon as Alex left, all this rage of my bad mood just splashed forward.
I look fucking suicidal? What kind of shit is that? Miserable? I'm not fucking miserable anymore, dammit. I'm fucking happy, and for once it's not just me trying to convince myself of that. If not for all this bullshit with my sorry excuse of a family, I'd be in heaven.
I have one final left, and it's not even fucking done yet. I have to attach the back of the neck, add the bones and eyelids, and make the damn staff. It's not a lot, but jesus fucking christ I'm freaking the fuck out over it. I don't think I've ever been this stressed in my life. Between all these finals and Stacy fucking dieing on us I just want to blow someone up. All this fucking stress built up but under it all this anger was hiding, I don't know what the fuck to do with it all. I need to get out and kill something. I wish I could go hunting or even just to a gun range. I want to shoot something. Or got to Japan and break shit in those anger hotel room places.
And instead of fucking getting to work, what I'm a doing? Fucking bitching about it, like that's going to help.
Now I'm going to go cry for 5 minutes, then start cleaning my room and doing more excessive push ups for no reason other than to avoid freeing myself of the stress by finishing my project. Why? Because I'm fucking stupid and that's what I do.
Alex didn't come over because his mom wanted him to go Christmas shopping with her, so I had time to get work done. Which I still didn't really do. All I did was paint my staff black, fold my laundry, do excessive push ups for no reason, and catch up on Dexter.
WHICH BY THE WAY IS A BASTARD. That was BY FAR the WORST way to end a season EVER. And it came out of fucking nowhere.
I'm only just now realizing that I was in a bad mood today. My CV final was today, and I fully intended to just write a few quick sentences and be done with it. I wrote a few more than I intended, but I still just barely did it before I left.
In Photography she made us clean the darkroom, which wasn't so bad I guess. Then we had the critique.
Apparently I look like I'm on the verge of suicide. I thought my self-portrait looked mildly sad, but mostly contemplative. Yet the most photo-savvy student AND Joan both said I captured being horribly miserable perfectly, and that it made them miserable too. At the time I laughed and rolled with it; yea, I've had a pretty bad year as most of you know.
Steve was there today grading our portfolios, and I got a B- for the year. I wish the fucker had been there to hear us all explain what/why/how we did our self-portraits. He said I need to be more careful with my work and take care of it. It has a lot of fold creases in it. If he was there, he'd fucking know I did that because I tea stained the paper and had to fold it to fit it in my sink to do so. I didn't just fold it and shove it in my portfolio instead of rolling it up, I'm not stupid. I got a B on every. last. thing I did. No matter how much effort I put into anything I did, he didn't like it. Yet several people can turn things in late, or things that clearly show they did them five minutes before class, and they'll get an A, crinkles, smudges and eraser marks and all. Fuck you, Steve. You're a nice guy, but I hate you. So glad I'm not taking painting after all next semester. I'd punch him in the face.
Then Alex and I came home. Everything was fine, I was feeling good and relaxed. Then right in the middle of things my grandmother starts screaming. So we have to jump up, make ourselves look presentable, and I run in there. She's on the fucking floor, and grandpa is just sitting there looking at her. Uncle Art is upstairs and doesn't hear a fucking thing. I pull her into a sitting position and check her head. She's not bleeding, I ask if she's dizzy or seeing double; no and no. I try to pull her up into her chair, but she's too fucking useless to even get her legs under herself to help herself get back up. So I have to go and get Uncle Art to help me, and he fucking gets mad at ME like it's my fucking fault the old bitch is a fucktard. I'm so sick of his shit. Not only this, but he REFUSED to make the struffoli on Saturday, saying they'd be too stale by Christmas. But, he'd be home on Wednesday, so he'd make them then. Fat ass was home yesterday AND today and didn't do A FUCKING THING. Didn't even set up his fucking stupid blow up Christmas decoration. So guess what they're probably going to make me do on my fucking birthday?
I'm so fucking sick of this house and all it's bullshit. Put the old hag in a home and get it over with.
As soon as Alex left, all this rage of my bad mood just splashed forward.
I look fucking suicidal? What kind of shit is that? Miserable? I'm not fucking miserable anymore, dammit. I'm fucking happy, and for once it's not just me trying to convince myself of that. If not for all this bullshit with my sorry excuse of a family, I'd be in heaven.
I have one final left, and it's not even fucking done yet. I have to attach the back of the neck, add the bones and eyelids, and make the damn staff. It's not a lot, but jesus fucking christ I'm freaking the fuck out over it. I don't think I've ever been this stressed in my life. Between all these finals and Stacy fucking dieing on us I just want to blow someone up. All this fucking stress built up but under it all this anger was hiding, I don't know what the fuck to do with it all. I need to get out and kill something. I wish I could go hunting or even just to a gun range. I want to shoot something. Or got to Japan and break shit in those anger hotel room places.
And instead of fucking getting to work, what I'm a doing? Fucking bitching about it, like that's going to help.
Now I'm going to go cry for 5 minutes, then start cleaning my room and doing more excessive push ups for no reason other than to avoid freeing myself of the stress by finishing my project. Why? Because I'm fucking stupid and that's what I do.