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Oh, so much woe. I hate fifth week. I hate it, I really do. I hate sleeping for fourteen hours and still feeling tired, I hate seeing the world through a haze of grey. It's funny, how you can write two essays a week for four weeks consecutively, no trouble, and it's essay no. 9 that's the killer. It's safe to say, I think, that I will never write this essay about Soviet relations with Eastern Europe. I have been trying all day to read, and failing. And I guess I should be grateful I live here now, where there is maybe twenty minutes more light than there is in the north, but it's still so dark.
(I had an odd moment this afternoon, thinking: this has been, and will be, my life, this swing from manic, crazy term-time to long holidays of recovery, back to can't-breathe crazy and ruthless optimism, then back to my family by the sea, but it won't last forever. An Oxford degree is three years. It won't always be like this. As always, I'm not sure how I feel about that.)
I think I may be nurturing some sort of viral population, which I do NOT NEED right now, I have too much to do as it is. I can't write this essay, or even read for it; I can't be bothered writing this personal statement, I am British, I self-deprecate, fitting yourself into the norms of another culture is too tiring so the papers just stay on my desk and get more and more covered in dust and coffee rings, and I'm supposed to be doing some artwork for Tiptop, and I'm sort of angry about it - I do their design for nothing, save comps; I do it because I can help them out, and now they're pissed off because I won't do this design before next week when I DON'T HAVE PHOTOSHOP and am nurturing viral life forms, oh, everything is rubbish and awful - but mostly just filled with woe. It's going around. My flatmates are eating cupcakes and watching Al Pacino movies, Maria and I spent an hour dismembering a crab. Piece by piece, with chopsticks and a nutcracker, and I probably shredded my hands with it, but I hate fifth week and it was fun.
Urgh. This sort of woe is so dull. Even for me, I assure you.
(I had an odd moment this afternoon, thinking: this has been, and will be, my life, this swing from manic, crazy term-time to long holidays of recovery, back to can't-breathe crazy and ruthless optimism, then back to my family by the sea, but it won't last forever. An Oxford degree is three years. It won't always be like this. As always, I'm not sure how I feel about that.)
I think I may be nurturing some sort of viral population, which I do NOT NEED right now, I have too much to do as it is. I can't write this essay, or even read for it; I can't be bothered writing this personal statement, I am British, I self-deprecate, fitting yourself into the norms of another culture is too tiring so the papers just stay on my desk and get more and more covered in dust and coffee rings, and I'm supposed to be doing some artwork for Tiptop, and I'm sort of angry about it - I do their design for nothing, save comps; I do it because I can help them out, and now they're pissed off because I won't do this design before next week when I DON'T HAVE PHOTOSHOP and am nurturing viral life forms, oh, everything is rubbish and awful - but mostly just filled with woe. It's going around. My flatmates are eating cupcakes and watching Al Pacino movies, Maria and I spent an hour dismembering a crab. Piece by piece, with chopsticks and a nutcracker, and I probably shredded my hands with it, but I hate fifth week and it was fun.
Urgh. This sort of woe is so dull. Even for me, I assure you.