tavie.com

Today was a bad day.
I had a nervous breakdown in art class. We were trying to draw Lexington avenue from the seventh-floor overpass and I just couldn't do it. I don't get one-point perspective or two-point perspectives or vanishing points or horizon lines or anything and I was just staring at the paper. I was thinking about my midterm tomorrow and how I'm going to fail it. And then I had to get up real quick and leave so I could cry. Which is weird. I don't know why I had to cry but I did. So I went downstairs to cry. Then I waited until my face felt more normal and went back upstairs and just sat there. Professor Swain came over to me and we talked and he told me I'm a talented artist and then we just shot the breeze. He told me a story about when he was in
college studying for an anthro exam (even though I didn't tell him about the one I'm going to fail tomorrow) that invovled a phone call to Fidel Castro, a giant jar full of pennies, and a beery meal with his professor. Then he showed me how to do perspective again. But I still don't get it. It was pretty amazing that he told me I'm talented, though. I don't even think he knew I'd been crying because I did wait until my face was normal.

Every time I try to study I just can't. I try to write these essays and my brain can't do it. It goes away. There's too much information. I don't know what to do with it. If I can't even write the essays here at home with all the articles in front of me, how am I supposed to be able to write the essays tomorrow in school without the articles?

So what am I going to do, I ask you?
Fail the midterm. After that I'll fail the class, because even if I can do the rest of the work I'll be discouraged from having failed the midterm. Then my average will go way down and I'll be so depressed that I'll drop out of school like I did back in grade 10 and I'll have to be a civil servant working in a mailroom or behind a desk at some hospital for the criminally insane. (Seriously, ever since I took the civil service exam I've gotten position notices in the mail every few months, and most of them seem to be from some hospital for the criminally insane in Brooklyn or something.) The worst part will be having to give up everything I've accomplished up to now, all because I can't get my mind together to write and memorize the important facts of three essays about colonialism.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 10:04 PM | shower me with attention