boats.

drabbles.

For "that which we call a rose" drabble challenges. Daresay I did more than I had to. Oh well. These were fun - no, that's not the word, I can't verbally grasp the feeling of it... or rather, not fun but soothing - to write. There's no explaining, but I feel like I'm in my element. I can do short. Short stories, drabbles, epigrams. My stuff probably should never exceed two thousand words in length, or I lose incentive and the narrative begins lagging, and then it just becomes painful for everyone.


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boats.

of march break crammings and mounting pressure.

Consistency is all I ask.

(I love Guildenstern. He seriously damages me sometimes.)

I have just killed two weeks of holidays, STUDYING. AMERICAN HISTORY. I don't know what possessed me to take the course, but there it is. Suppose I needed more humanities or what-the-fuck-ever. Exam is in one month, happiness and joy abound. Just how the hell am I supposed to pass this thing? Seriously. How the hell am I supposed to learn the two hundred plus years of recorded history of a nation - a continent, even - in as much detail as those who have lived in the country themselves for years, gone through this (rehashed it) once every year, until it becomes ingrated in their brains? I suppose I can do it, certainly, if I keep going at it. I might even pull a decent mark out of my nonexistent and therefore very much metaphoric hat, but I'm not going to ace the bloody course, even if I stop right now. But I won't, because I know I can do better.

Capability's a fucking burden sometimes.

Maybe I'm too easily affected by my surroundings. A few half-attentive math classes with people playing poker in my peripheral vision has me waxing philosophical over the purpose of life and inertia. Whatever; at least this supposedly reminded someone of Beckett and Waiting for Godot. I'll take it as a compliment at face value. I take what I can get.



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boats.

of gmail trouble and random gesticulation.

There must've been a point, but no, we somehow missed it.

Biology is making my head hurt. I hate biology. Upon retrospect this would seem quite alarming considering I want to go to medical school, but I daresay it's a temporary sentiment brought on by HOURS of Envirothon notes making, portfolio-age, and whatnot. I also hate careers and stupid trends presentations, but that is a completely different and entirely justifiable whole other story.

Right, which brings me to the point that I'm better off working on that load of homework right now than complaining here, but totally not the point.

What in the world is a 502 error? I keep getting it every time I try to open my gmail account. So confused.

I'm just going to keep randomly quoting R&G are Dead while my brain tries to work again. Right now? Relying purely on past experience with the English language to pull me through a weekend where proper functioning is obviously no more than a dream. Or whatever. Right. Let's give me one picture, 50 minutes, and carte blanche. See what happens? References to Casablanca pulled RIGHT out of thin air.


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