Here Be Profanity

I shouldn't post this. I just want to curse, just - shit, I don't know. If you read this and it offends you, leave me a comment and I'll delete. I probably shouldn't use LJ as a venting site for undirected angst, but hell. I'm too tired to care.

Shit, I'm so tired. Tired enough that my head swims when I try to form the concepts I need to finish this assignment. I've been writing it all day, and what does it say about me that I can't kick out a miserly 400 more words? Well, not and have them make any sense.

Urgh. Gah. I am so fucking screwed. Why did I take an arts moderatorship, anyway, and not go for science? At least science doesn't have way the fucked up reading lists. Want to go back and studying the life sciences. Fuck I'm screwed. Can I just quit and reapply now? Cause I love the ancient-y history bits, but fuck, you can always study the history-type bits on your own. Tell me why the fuck am I cursing? Shit, shit, shit.

Cut me half a fucking break. I never thought I'd miss fucking mathematics. Subject from hell. Just let me turn back the clock to my application form. Or let me reapply and do science. Because fuck I do miss it. And science is at least structured.

Damnit, I probably shouldn't post this. Ignore me, okay? Just venting. Whining. Whingeing. I'm one of the lucky bastards. One of the lucky ones, right. I should be grateful to even have this fucking opportunity, and what am I doing? Wasting it. Being the world's worst fucking idiot, with my head stuck up my own arse. Damnit.

Damn, damn, damn.

Here Be Profanity

I shouldn't post this. I just want to curse, just - shit, I don't know. If you read this and it offends you, leave me a comment and I'll delete. I probably shouldn't use LJ as a venting site for undirected angst, but hell. I'm too tired to care.

Shit, I'm so tired. Tired enough that my head swims when I try to form the concepts I need to finish this assignment. I've been writing it all day, and what does it say about me that I can't kick out a miserly 400 more words? Well, not and have them make any sense.

Urgh. Gah. I am so fucking screwed. Why did I take an arts moderatorship, anyway, and not go for science? At least science doesn't have way the fucked up reading lists. Want to go back and studying the life sciences. Fuck I'm screwed. Can I just quit and reapply now? Cause I love the ancient-y history bits, but fuck, you can always study the history-type bits on your own. Tell me why the fuck am I cursing? Shit, shit, shit.

Cut me half a fucking break. I never thought I'd miss fucking mathematics. Subject from hell. Just let me turn back the clock to my application form. Or let me reapply and do science. Because fuck I do miss it. And science is at least structured.

Damnit, I probably shouldn't post this. Ignore me, okay? Just venting. Whining. Whingeing. I'm one of the lucky bastards. One of the lucky ones, right. I should be grateful to even have this fucking opportunity, and what am I doing? Wasting it. Being the world's worst fucking idiot, with my head stuck up my own arse. Damnit.

Damn, damn, damn.

One down, four to go

Assignment the first of five is done, caput, and handed in. That feels a little better.

Now, to the train. Off home to work on Two of Five, The French.

And then tomorrow, Three of Five, The Archaeology; Wednesday, Four of Five, The French redux; and Thursday, Five of Five, The Architecture. Possibly I will receive notification of Six, Yet More French. Right now I'm hoping not.

::buries head in sand::

One down, four to go

Assignment the first of five is done, caput, and handed in. That feels a little better.

Now, to the train. Off home to work on Two of Five, The French.

And then tomorrow, Three of Five, The Archaeology; Wednesday, Four of Five, The French redux; and Thursday, Five of Five, The Architecture. Possibly I will receive notification of Six, Yet More French. Right now I'm hoping not.

::buries head in sand::

Life-y stuff

Did the gym thing. Damn, but I am so out of training.

Me on treadmill: Pant, pant. Damnit, it's only been a week. One week, and you're wussing out at half a mile. Pant, pant. Come on. If you aren't hurting you aren't trying.

Total time: 23 mins. Total mileage: 2.00.

Me with the weights: Pant, pant. Whimper. Wuss, damnit. You managed four full sets of reps week before last.

With struggle, the weights were overcome. I am bloody embarrassed at the state of my general fitness. Now I'm wrecked, and I need to start that damn French-y assignment. The one I put on the long finger, and thus have due tomorrow. (Not one word of it is written. Not one!)

And must compose e-mail to the student counselling service explaining that no, I am not calling the wrong number because whenever I dial it I get a 'This number is busy' message. Discussing appointments via e-mail is tiresome, especially when all I want to do is call chicken on it.

And want to write shiny stories, instead of scratching them down in a notebook while trying to brace self upright on packed, juddering commuter trains.

And if I reapply for a different course next year, there will be Trouble. But damnit, I've been hating the French since the start of this term, and feel like I'm screwing up like nobody's business.

No more thinking. Thinking is bad. Thinking causes the little mousies that power our brain to squeal and squeak on the wheels in our head. Squeaking means headaches.

Tired. So tired. Neeed sleeeeep.

Life-y stuff

Did the gym thing. Damn, but I am so out of training.

Me on treadmill: Pant, pant. Damnit, it's only been a week. One week, and you're wussing out at half a mile. Pant, pant. Come on. If you aren't hurting you aren't trying.

Total time: 23 mins. Total mileage: 2.00.

Me with the weights: Pant, pant. Whimper. Wuss, damnit. You managed four full sets of reps week before last.

With struggle, the weights were overcome. I am bloody embarrassed at the state of my general fitness. Now I'm wrecked, and I need to start that damn French-y assignment. The one I put on the long finger, and thus have due tomorrow. (Not one word of it is written. Not one!)

And must compose e-mail to the student counselling service explaining that no, I am not calling the wrong number because whenever I dial it I get a 'This number is busy' message. Discussing appointments via e-mail is tiresome, especially when all I want to do is call chicken on it.

And want to write shiny stories, instead of scratching them down in a notebook while trying to brace self upright on packed, juddering commuter trains.

And if I reapply for a different course next year, there will be Trouble. But damnit, I've been hating the French since the start of this term, and feel like I'm screwing up like nobody's business.

No more thinking. Thinking is bad. Thinking causes the little mousies that power our brain to squeal and squeak on the wheels in our head. Squeaking means headaches.

Tired. So tired. Neeed sleeeeep.