anotherlongshot (anotherlongshot) wrote,

what can i say?

In a strange funk.

Everything looks bleak.

I'm not excited about anything, not even the fact that my exams end next Thursday, not even the thought of seeing Jielun live next Saturday, not even the trip to Taiwan on the 30th, not even graduation, nothing.

I guess it didn't help that I talked about GP to Mrs. Razal and my civics tutor today and that I also fully realised what screwing up Maths means which is something I was afraid might come true but now it seems like I have to finally face up to it and quit evading the truth.

No, I can't stop it, and I wish that I'd stop yelling at myself to do so in my head. The whole point of coming into this four A's thing and thinking that I could do it? Oh wait, not even four A's; more like six, including Chinese and GP.

It's just...gone. I don't think there was a real point to begin with. Somebody ruthlessly pulled the veil over my eyes and conned me into thinking that it could happen...and of course, that person was me.

Well, what can I say? Now I'm wholly convinced that I'm doomed to lead a life stuffed with disappointments. It's in my nature. I don't know how to explain it right now, so I won't, but past experiences have proven it over and over so I don't see why the A Levels should be any different.

And that's not the only reason for this strange funk either. I genuinely have no idea what the hell I'm gonna do with my life, let alone what I want to do with it. The idealism that ran through most of my 2002 entries have become alien concepts that I cannot reconcile with anymore.

Okay, so this is the real question: Why was I even born? I think I would be much happier if my parents didn't give birth to me. What the hell's the point? I mean, honestly, the only thing that is a constant in everyone's lives is this glaring truth: We eat, we shit, we fuck, we kill, and we die. That's all there is to it. I used to find Abbe de Coulmier's rebuttal of "But we also compose symphonies!" etc etc really inspiring and uplifting, but not anymore. I'm in favour with Geoffrey Rush's de Sade now and I've fallen out with Joaquin's Abbe.

And things are just made worse, aggravated ten million times over, when you fail to get what you want. And it's not just one time either; it's over and over and over again.

Julian Barnes hit the nail right on the head when he wrote about "the thinness of life". It's so trivial and meaningless. Quel est le point? And trust me, I completely understand why Tubby is so riveted by Martha Cochrane; I feel the same way too. I'm not in love with anyone else; I'm just bored of your company and of you. Why am I so cynical? Because all the words have been used up and nothing sounds meaningful anymore; they're just rehashed, recycled Hallmark greetings that scarcely mean a thing and nothing moves me.

And of course, the disappointments. A lifetime's worth of those lovely, marvellous things. Makes you feel damn good about yourself.

And then there's this other thing that is also bugging me but once again I'm thinking too much into things where thoughts should not belong and once again I'm doing things that are pointless and I know that they're pointless but I'm surging on anyway because I'm so damn stupid which should not come as a surprise to anyone as I'm sure that this journal is ample proof of that.

Then again, what else is new? I'm a dunce. That's it.

Well, anyway, to deviate from the un-uplifting tone of this entry thus far, I shall talk emotionlessly about today.

Went to school. Had Paper 8 consultation with Mrs. Razal. She's cool. Had lunch at McDonalds' with Mr. Girl and Angela. They're cool. Two of the few people whom I'd miss when I graduate. (And Angela, you're not going to fail Lit so shut up!) And uh, yeah, that's it.

I forgot to mention this yesterday so I'll do it now. The Econs paper. So I was actually quite relaxed the night before and in the morning and I just wanted to get it done and over with, and I was even cursing the people who scheduled it for putting it at 2 instead of 1 and my attempts at revision were VERY half-hearted and like I said I was falling asleep but at approximately 12.30 p.m., I started to feel some anxiety. But of course, being stupid ol' me, I decided to shove it aside. And it just so happened that when I reached school at 1.40, twenty minutes before the paper, I started to severely freak out. And when I got the questions and flipped the paper over and scanned through the list, I was in full-fledged freak out mode. It was like, "What the hell?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!" Didn't know what to do at first glance.

Thankfully Question Six got me into the thrust of things and my stuff started to come back in this huge tidal wave and hence my arse was saved.

Having that said, I think Question Four was badly done so I'm hoping that my other two would save my arse even more, like cover it with a large vanguard sheet or something so that I can get a nice, pretty grade for it and not an Ugly C.

The bad thing about an easy paper is that everyone seems to have got it right and hence you need to be really outstanding to get the ultimate grade. I've forgotten what I wrote for 4 and 5 except a few snatches here and there but I don't think they're all that special.

Oh well. Whatever.

Anyway, I was doing the 2003 A Level Lit Paper 8 last night and I have to say that Judith Wright is my new idol. I think she was absolutely brilliant. Even though the Bulldog killed "Portrait" with her rigid analysis, it was still a fantastic poem and I had such amazing fun dissecting "Smalltown Dance" that it made me remember why I have this love affair thing going on with Literature and why I like it so much. It really got me thinking, something that I've been doing very little of for Lit recently. Only really good (contemporary) writers can make me do that.

So, yeah, I'm gonna get her book(s) after the exams. Gonna be fun.

Poetry should not be read aloud.

I agree with Arthur Rimbaud.

If only he weren't French. I don't like reading translated stuff. Always feel as if I'm not getting the whole picture, that too much are lost in translation.

Even more preposterous when I read translated Chinese works.

Well, I hardly do, but I almost did.

Okay, I'm going to go eat now. Yeah.

Tags: a levels, ak, angst, julian barnes, junior college, poetry

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