somehow, it's always AP lit.
Ten thirty, sitting nearly on top of a pile of unfolded clothing that was meant to be neatly piled into a suitcase by now, staring at a word document containing half of an AP Lit blog post about a poem that rhymes too much and is slightly annoying. Thoughts disjointed, phone ringing off the hook even though I have made an abundance of things abundantly clear, too tired to sleep.
I have to sit through two periods tomorrow. AP Lit (why is it always AP Lit? Hello Snowstorm essay, Crime and Punishment, and three make-up blog posts) and French III, where we are reading about Petit Nicolas.
Since when is my life so distinctly defined by what I have to do? Oh, right. Since always. Why am I still so surprised?
Still, though, thoughts of New York are nice, even if they include anxiously considering that I will be spending time with people who I am growing fairly certain that I don't actually like, and leaving behind certain people that I am growing frighteningly more fond of.
Or, regrowing, rather.
Regulated undergrowth? Marvelous strange oaths.
and now I'm out of things to talk about because I can't talk about sex anymore. How upsetting.