tavie.com

Erica is having similar school troubles to me. She should call me. Hint, hint. No, I'm serious, Aggie, call me.

Only she actually goes to school right next to Ground Zero, and I go to school seventy blocks away. So, what's my justification? Why can't I make myself go to school? I am seriously fucking up. And there's no real justifiable reason for it. Usually I just go home straight from work because I'm tired. So? People work and go to school all the time. Okay, but when I do go, in all except the feminism class, I find that I have to leave right away. I just can't sit there. It's because in my other three classes-- math, psych, children't lit-- the professors are just bloody awful. They just are. I know it's hard to be a teacher, I have great sympathy for the difficulties of teaching, some of my best friends are teachers, and generally I give way more than the benefit of the doubt. But I just cannot sit and listen to people making no sense, or talking in accents I can barely understand, or talking for 75 minutes-- lecturing, not conversing-- about Harold and the Purple Crayon. Nothing in depth. Just a page-by-page description of the action.

Harold has a crayon. Notice how he uses it to draw things. Notice how the page is cream-coloured and the crayon is purple. Notice how the moon appears on every page.

And between every sentence that intolerable sucking-hissing intake of break. I can't deal with it.
Of course I'm fucking myself up in feminism, too. And I LIKE that class. I emailed my professor and asked her to help me catch up so I might be able to salvage that one 'cause she's really cool. But I can't even think about writing papers, I just can't. I never did write that "paper" (read: third-grade book report) for Children's Lit. I have to drop Children's Lit.

It all feels pointless this semester. Nothing I'm learning--or not learning-- seems important. I'm fucking myself up badly. I should withdraw while I still can. But then what? Another ten years as un undergraduate in this school that I hate more and more?

Asti says I have post-traumatic stress disorder. My mom says so too. But the bad dreams are rare now, and I can look out the window here and everything, and I don't really cry much at the news anymore. My feet are all healed. Everyone I know is fine-- as fine as can be considering the state of affairs we find ourselves in-- and my well of excuses has run dry. I'm fucking myself up, period.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 10:46 AM | shower me with attention