Dec 19, 2008
Dec 15, 2008
Winter is the only time of year when my Santa Clause Lobster ("Santa Claws") pajama pants are in season. The seasonality takes away some of their charm, though, so I almost prefer to wear them in May.
For all that I complain about being so deliriously happy with love-and-stuff that my writing seems be suffering (angst = artistic brilliance), I have failed to take advantage of my pent-up emotions despite several weeks of Life really laying it on me.
My neighbor backed into my car and I hardly batted an eye. Next came the self-made accidental descent into debt (albeit fixable), the ensuing tight-like-my-skinny-jeans budget (at Christmas time, no less), and the crashing of my computer/printer system, but I figured I could deal with all that. I had no choice but to accept the thirty (plus) hours of unpaid work time during the week before finals and I cranked out a 30-page project, 12-page research paper and 5-page assignment with minimal fuss. I had a few breakdowns, one night spent screaming maniacally in the car, and many blubbers upon my ever-loving boyfriend's shoulder and I came out of it all in tact; yet here I am, feeling undone by my college algebra final.
Side note: I tried to think up a really nasty and pungent curse word to apply to this final, but there isn't one strong enough.
Yes, the college algebra class of which I speak is the one that most people knock out when they are freshman, not when they are super-seniors. And to say that I am "undone" isn't to say that I'm crying about it - shockingly, I have only sort of choked up, with no real outbursts (still to come? we can only hope). The whole mess isn't the fault of the quirky Turkish math teacher, and I hardly want to point the finger at myself - I did, after all, do admirably on all other components of the class, sparing this final. My fault it must be, however, and so I am angsty.
This has happened before - I come out of finals thinking I've really done it this time and bracing myself to re-enroll in the class only to receive a magical 'A' on my final grade. You never know when your teacher will grant a handsome curve or just say ah, well, she seems like a good kid and add a little something extra to your grade. Then again, the teacher could just be decent and fair and assign grades the way the syllabus says they'll be assigned, and that's when you're in for it.
So stay tuned; I'll be sure to update you on whether I squeak on by or have to get excited for another shot at the basics of mathematics.
I feel better just writing smarmily (that's the action very for smarmy, right?) about this. Now I can finally position it acceptably in my mind. Abe Lincoln failed at stuff, too, right? He probably sucked at math. I'll be just like him!
Luckily, the pain of defeat is numbed by the frigid air of my apartment, which turns out to be little more than a red brick igloo come the winter time. My many layers do not seem to warming me, but my cat might do the trick if I am able to lure him into my lap.
When all of this (finals) is over, all I want to do is to lay on my back in my warm bed and have somebody rub my belly while I listen to the NPR radio show of my choice. I will be like a happy, happy lap dog, and all will be well with the world.