Primal scream therapy.
ARGH ARGH ARGH ARGH. I cannot work. *flails* I didn't get up when I intended to, I spent far too much time eating breakfast and procrastinating on the internet, and now that I've settled down to work I can't, simply can't concentrate. I'm fed up of Intermediate Value Theorem, I don't give a damn about Rolle, and calculus in general has hit a bad patch in which I'm not even sure what the point of the notes is, except that they seem to be repeating fairly simple knowledge from GCSE and/or A-level, except with added information and a different slant, just enough that I can't tell what extra and wonderfully useful information I'm supposed to be learning, and I'm just fed up of it; I don't want to know how to prove that a function is increasing, because it's just bloody common sense; and that is a thouroughly non-mathematical way of looking at it, and an attitude like that will surely fail me my degree. ARGH.
I want to get out; I want to revise no the common in the sunshine, but I doubt I'll be able to concentrate there any more than here. I want to do someting active, but I've just realised I can't even go swimming because, like the sodding mindless person that I am, I rinsed my swimming gear and promptly forgot about it, the result being that it is still in the washing machine.
ARGH AND NOW THE BLOODY COMPUTER IS BEING RIDICULOUSLY SLOW AND TRYING TO THWART MY INCANDESCENT STREAM OF INVECTIVE. BUT I SHALL PREVAIL.
I was talking to Sam last night, and she expressed horror when I mentioned I might be about to start work at 11pm. 'Don't,' she said, 'just read or something, it'll be better for you'. And stupidly, stupidly I let myself believe her, and told myself it didn't matter that I was blatantly wasting hours reading on the computer, because Sam thought it was what I should be doing anyway, because working from 11pm until 2am is something only workaholics and mad people do, or silly people like me because they've thourougly messed up their sleeping pattern and thus do not feel the least bit tired until 3am.
But I could have worked last night, and I didn't, so here I am with three hours work that I could have got rid of, and I can't do it, ebcause I dno't feel in the least in the mood for working, and I cannot concentrate at all. I don't know what music to put on; it's all too distracting, but silence just lets me distract myself by retreating into my own mind, until I suddenly realise I'm supposed to be writing, not sitting there thinking about how I have to hoover the house, and try to get inexplicable grease stains out of my t-shirt (my Harry Potter one, too, I bloody like that t-shirt), and tonight I'm going to the pub even though I really don't want to have smoky hair again, because I cannot stand it, and I only washed it yesterday (to be fair, I could say that 50% of the time, and the other 50% it would be 'I washed it today! waah!', but still), and I'm fed up of smoky hair and smoky pillows and smoke in general, and why oh why can't they get a move on and ban smoking in public places? And why is anyone stupid enough to like something that makes you smell so terrible, and grr argh argh argh argh
But I must go to the pub, because we're meeting Lucy, and I haven't seen her for a while, and I said I would go. And tomorrow I'm probably going to the Bullring. Or I was. I should not, really. It's essentially a waste of money, on train fare to somewhere I don't need to go because I don't feel much like shopping and there's nothing I need anyay, and coffee I likewise don't need and which will not make me thinner, and the only reason I'd go is to see Sam and Caroline and whoever else goes, and that's enough of a lure that I might actually go, despite the fact that I just know it's a bad idea. Because, as well, I'll just be tired, and I'll have my usual short attention span and end up feeling like a tired toddler being dragged around shops by a parent, and it will be silly, and if it's like that then I won't be in the mood to enjoy my friends' company.
So all in all, I am in a thouroughly negative mood, and fed up, and I want to take a swing at the entire universe, thank you very much, because it's pants. ARGH. And for no reason, too. ARGH. I'm sorry, I'm just off to find a corner in which to froth and bubble, and woe betide anyone who takes photos of me sticking straws in my hair.