Dead Week - daily15
Behold! I return!
...I bring you a badly written personal reflection, which is mostly me barfing out things in order to fit with the word and get my image across, but which still sucks. Word of the day was "finals".
More suckitude is in the offing, unless you eat your vegetables and behave.
You're nineteen, broke, and bored; it's the last week before finals, your papers are in, and you're looking with regret at the stack of literary criticism you're not going to finish reading before you have to head home next week. (Some lucky bastards finish their exams by Wednesday or Thursday of exam week; you, of course, have consistently pulled a Friday exam every semester of your brief tenure here.)
You have too much to do, and not enough time to do it in. You haven't done laundry in ages--you keep meaning to buy more Wisk, but when you think about it, it's three o'clock in the morning and you don't feel like putting on a coat and some boots to go over to the VP in the hopes that they might have a bottle left--and you ought to get to it, or at least to packing. Outside, it's cold and clear, crisp and grey, and the weatherman says it's supposed to snow tomorrow.
You're not looking forward to this trip home; on Christmas, you're being packed off to Indianapolis to see your doppelganger, your fetch, your other self, your other soul, your ancient enemy: your father. He is no good to you dead, but you hate him with a passion that will not abate for years to come, and he has never been particularly fond of you.
It's three-thirty on a Wednesday afternoon, and you, all of a sudden, do not give a shit about Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (a manuscript you heartily wish had remained undiscovered), or about the uses of metaphor in late eighteenth-century lyric poetry, or about anything you're supposed to be doing right now. If you'd bothered to do any laundry, you might be presentable enough to go somewhere and get something to eat (good luck with that; you have exactly five dollars and twenty-five cents to your name), or at least go to the library (you think you saw something new in the folklore section that you haven't read yet).
You can't even call your boyfriend; it's Dead Week, you told him, reiterating it several times because he panics if you don't get the phone when he calls. You're busy, you said, but you love him, and you'll talk to him the week after next, when you're home.
Your dorm room is stifling hot; they turn on the heat every year on 1 October, whether the weather warrants it or not, and you've cracked a window (silent, precious act of defiance). You don't feel like going anywhere or doing anything, and you reach listlessly for your CD player; lying back on your bed, legs crossed, you slip on your earphones and plug yourself in, cranking up the volume. AC/DC thunders in your ears; you close your eyes, and for a moment, you don't think about anything at all, least of all about how you're wasting your potential and the ridiculousness of distribution requirements and the ennui of human existence.
(Who made who? Who made you?)
Nobody has told you that, in less than ten years, when everything has changed, you'll remember this as almost good.
...I bring you a badly written personal reflection, which is mostly me barfing out things in order to fit with the word and get my image across, but which still sucks. Word of the day was "finals".
More suckitude is in the offing, unless you eat your vegetables and behave.
You're nineteen, broke, and bored; it's the last week before finals, your papers are in, and you're looking with regret at the stack of literary criticism you're not going to finish reading before you have to head home next week. (Some lucky bastards finish their exams by Wednesday or Thursday of exam week; you, of course, have consistently pulled a Friday exam every semester of your brief tenure here.)
You have too much to do, and not enough time to do it in. You haven't done laundry in ages--you keep meaning to buy more Wisk, but when you think about it, it's three o'clock in the morning and you don't feel like putting on a coat and some boots to go over to the VP in the hopes that they might have a bottle left--and you ought to get to it, or at least to packing. Outside, it's cold and clear, crisp and grey, and the weatherman says it's supposed to snow tomorrow.
You're not looking forward to this trip home; on Christmas, you're being packed off to Indianapolis to see your doppelganger, your fetch, your other self, your other soul, your ancient enemy: your father. He is no good to you dead, but you hate him with a passion that will not abate for years to come, and he has never been particularly fond of you.
It's three-thirty on a Wednesday afternoon, and you, all of a sudden, do not give a shit about Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (a manuscript you heartily wish had remained undiscovered), or about the uses of metaphor in late eighteenth-century lyric poetry, or about anything you're supposed to be doing right now. If you'd bothered to do any laundry, you might be presentable enough to go somewhere and get something to eat (good luck with that; you have exactly five dollars and twenty-five cents to your name), or at least go to the library (you think you saw something new in the folklore section that you haven't read yet).
You can't even call your boyfriend; it's Dead Week, you told him, reiterating it several times because he panics if you don't get the phone when he calls. You're busy, you said, but you love him, and you'll talk to him the week after next, when you're home.
Your dorm room is stifling hot; they turn on the heat every year on 1 October, whether the weather warrants it or not, and you've cracked a window (silent, precious act of defiance). You don't feel like going anywhere or doing anything, and you reach listlessly for your CD player; lying back on your bed, legs crossed, you slip on your earphones and plug yourself in, cranking up the volume. AC/DC thunders in your ears; you close your eyes, and for a moment, you don't think about anything at all, least of all about how you're wasting your potential and the ridiculousness of distribution requirements and the ennui of human existence.
(Who made who? Who made you?)
Nobody has told you that, in less than ten years, when everything has changed, you'll remember this as almost good.