When something goes so wrong that you can't muster up enough self-deprecating wit to turn it into a joke so that you can laugh it off and pretend it never happened and move on, you know that it is really wrong.
There is something so rank about losing it in front of so many people, coming across as inarticulate, as if you haven't formed an opinion on the issue you've been dealing with for months, that the only thing you want to do when the firing squad has run out of bullets is to curl up in one corner and cry. And then there is also something equally rank about the way you're letting this whole shit affect you so much, steady acid drops on your veneer of self-confidence, until you're almost ready to throw in the towel.
But you stop yourself before the towel leaves your hand. Come Saturday and it's all over; you won't ever have to go through it again; and so it's not worth passing up what is otherwise an okay-to-good degree because it will mean giving this faceless enemy the satisfaction of knowing that it has torn you down.
But fuck it. At this juncture, I can't even be bothered to give a damn. I can't stop my mind from blanking out completely, I can't make myself form clear articulate sentences on command, I can't do it the way other people do it, but I can't not do it either and since I can't make myself reach the sort of fluency I'd have in my own perfect world in two days' time, I just don't give a damn anymore. It's not like I've not already made a complete fool of myself; another nail in my fucking coffin isn't going to hurt anymore than it already does.
I felt fucking ridiculous in the fugly-as-asshat black and white garb, a mere pretender at best. I couldn't wait to get out of it the minute I put it on and of course yesterday just had to end at 6.10 p.m.
Prove yourself. Except there's nothing to prove, just more seas for you to drown in.
You Should Be A Poet
You craft words well, in creative and unexpected ways.
And you have a great talent for evoking beautiful imagery...
Or describing the most intense heartbreak ever.
You're already naturally a poet, even if you've never written a poem.
A brief run-down of what happened yesterday:
I sat in for moots practices from 1 p.m. all the way until 6 p.m.
Mine was at 4.15 p.m.
When 4.15 rolled around I was close to falling asleep.
When my turn rolled around...
On second thought, I don't want to write about it.
Off to read Crim.
Here's my middle finger to LAWR.