i don’t know how to account for my dramatic digression this year in terms of classroom diffidence. more specifically, in my creative writing class. in my two literary theory classes, i’m one of those people, the students who always have something to say, and who probably tend to say it a bit pretentiously. in french, i’d say i’m pretty average, although admittedly i have a very short tolerance for the struggle to put together a question in french when i’m confused about a concept—i’m extremely lacking in patience, and i prefer receiving clarification sooner rather than after tens of humiliating seconds of tongue-tied french that only mangles the question i’m attempting to ask.
as for math—don’t make me laugh.
creative writing, though…one would think it to be my favorite class, my twice-weekly refuge from the humdrum dullness of my other, more ‘limiting’ courses. in fact, that is exactly how i thought of all my creative writing classes in the past. so why not this one? i’ve been asking myself that since i left the very first session, disgruntled and ill at ease. the feeling has only increased throughout the semester, pushing me back into my cold, hard shell that was my permanent home my first two years of college, rendering me mute and seemingly soulless in class. my participation grade is undoubtedly abysmal. were it not for my steady outside assurances that i am somewhat proficient in prose writing, i would have dropped this class a long time ago for fear of failing altogether, which is unthinkable. i love my professor, but i dread the class. in fact, my interest has dipped so low i completely forgot to list it among my classes for this semester in my interview at a literary agency yesterday afternoon. it wasn’t until the train ride back home that i realized my omission. “oh well,” i thought, and opened my book. color me puzzled.
in more topical news, i have once again subjected my poor bag of bones to the bane of its 21 year long existence, a phenomenon that began around my senior year of high school and unfortunately hasn’t been eradicated since: the all-nighter. beset with a monstrous amount of schoolwork and not nearly enough time in which to finish it all, i was forced to abandon Morpheus’ siren call and surrender myself to my books last night, hunched tiredly on the bed-couch in the living room, as my roommate’s boyfriend needed his precious few hours of unmolested sleep before waking up to man the polls this morning (which reminds me, i need to vote). my housemate found herself in the same predicament, which made the struggle a bit easier, and, as is the way with the all-nighter, by 8 this morning i was singing and dancing around the kitchen and living room with a fervor akin to one recently charged with an unhealthy dose of battery power.
and so, naturally, roughly three hours later, i am crashing so fast i’m not quite sure how i’m still holding my head up, much less mobilizing my fingers. every single bone aches with fatigue. my stomach feels like a barren wasteland (despite the oatmeal and banana i had for breakfast) and my eyes are dangerously devoid of moisture. tough luck: i have a movie to finish watching in french (sans subtitles, for an extra fun time!), a worksheet to fill out on said movie, and workbook exercises to complete before math at 2:50. i will most definitely be making an emergency run to starbucks between then for the biggest cup of coffee they sell, which will not satisfy unless it be the size of my head, but i suppose i must be realistic.
why oh why aren’t there more hours in the day? why do i wait until the very last minute to get everything done? why can’t someone do my mountainous pile of laundry for me? why can’t i keep my room clean for more than two days? why haven’t i gotten the latest issue of NYLON magazine yet? why can’t i run on a steady diet of water, or hummus, or peanut butter, so i don’t have to worry about buying and preparing food for myself every time this demanding body rumbles or grumbles at me? i’ll stop whining now. back to work.