In Which I Fail. And Also Win. But Mostly Fail.
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Every now and then, my left arm will begin to ache something fierce. My doctor says that it's the leads from Skynet still growing into my muscles, and that yeah, it's going to kill for a few more months. This morning, though, it was so bad I could barely move my shoulder. And so I took three Vicodin before school, thinking that that should get rid of those pains for good. And they did. They just got rid of my brain cells, too. See, I took them on an empty stomach. Yeah. I was dizzy and faint and nauseous and completely out of it for hours, falling asleep sitting up, all that good stuff. It was awful, and kind of scary, but I had to gut it through the day, because I had a Latin test. The same Latin test I've been panicking about all week.
I bombed said Latin test. Entirely. I stared at that paper, high as a kite, and felt every bit of the studying I'd done dribble out of my ears. I wanted to cry when I was finished. Crushing intellectual failure doesn't sit well with me anyway; it sits even worse when I'm so dazed that I can barely walk in a straight line, and it's my own stupid fault.
It is nearly midnight, and I'd very much like to be asleep. Instead, I am up working on a paper about class bias in Wuthering Heights. It is due on Monday, and I'm going to be swamped all weekend and maybe get screwed out of writes with Pyrrhic and I'm only two pages in. Why so few? Because I spent the past three days studying for Latin. How pathetic is that?
Though it's not all bad. Well, okay, it's mostly bad. But I was also informed today that my paper on Otto III, the visionary Evangelists, and God as a monster has been accepted to the Discipuli Juncti undergrad conference that I was gunning for. Meaning I shall be presenting. And if I don't completely fuck it up, my paper will be in the running for submission to the ACMRS International conference. Which is pretty cool, all things considered.
So, yes. This was a fucking awful day, and I feel wrung out and stupid and sad. But I'm going to a conference. And I made myself an icon with poetic truth and Beowulf in.
It could be worse.
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Every now and then, my left arm will begin to ache something fierce. My doctor says that it's the leads from Skynet still growing into my muscles, and that yeah, it's going to kill for a few more months. This morning, though, it was so bad I could barely move my shoulder. And so I took three Vicodin before school, thinking that that should get rid of those pains for good. And they did. They just got rid of my brain cells, too. See, I took them on an empty stomach. Yeah. I was dizzy and faint and nauseous and completely out of it for hours, falling asleep sitting up, all that good stuff. It was awful, and kind of scary, but I had to gut it through the day, because I had a Latin test. The same Latin test I've been panicking about all week.
I bombed said Latin test. Entirely. I stared at that paper, high as a kite, and felt every bit of the studying I'd done dribble out of my ears. I wanted to cry when I was finished. Crushing intellectual failure doesn't sit well with me anyway; it sits even worse when I'm so dazed that I can barely walk in a straight line, and it's my own stupid fault.
It is nearly midnight, and I'd very much like to be asleep. Instead, I am up working on a paper about class bias in Wuthering Heights. It is due on Monday, and I'm going to be swamped all weekend and maybe get screwed out of writes with Pyrrhic and I'm only two pages in. Why so few? Because I spent the past three days studying for Latin. How pathetic is that?
Though it's not all bad. Well, okay, it's mostly bad. But I was also informed today that my paper on Otto III, the visionary Evangelists, and God as a monster has been accepted to the Discipuli Juncti undergrad conference that I was gunning for. Meaning I shall be presenting. And if I don't completely fuck it up, my paper will be in the running for submission to the ACMRS International conference. Which is pretty cool, all things considered.
So, yes. This was a fucking awful day, and I feel wrung out and stupid and sad. But I'm going to a conference. And I made myself an icon with poetic truth and Beowulf in.
It could be worse.
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