I Forget What My Bed Looks Like

My February curse continues. I might as well talk about my week where nothing happened except homework. I have to say that today was largely the same thing. I haven’t been eating or sleeping much. I just take quick breaks here and there too make sure I’m not killing myself quite so quickly. There’s still so much more to do, and the pile keeps getting higher. I hope the rest of my weeks aren't like this.

One class decided to give three tests in five consecutive school days.

In another class, I have a poetry assignment over a poet. The poet I’ll do mine on isn’t a poet who speaks English; or rather, spoke, since he’s long dead now. If you ever want to kill your brain, go to the library and for a few hours, study poetry in a language you don’t understand. You can’t read the words. You can’t understand them. You can’t understand their deeper meaning. You can’t understand the context. You can’t understand the culture. You can’t understand the poet. You can’t read the poem. You can’t hear what it sounds like. All you can do is cry, but you don’t even have the right poem to properly express your sadness.

In another of my classes, we had a small presentation to make where few people go to the front of the room and talk about what they need to, and then sit down. It’s not a huge deal, and there isn’t a lot of preparation. Students marched up, spoke, and marched back. This happened for a few groups. Then, when my group went up to the front of the room, we had a small plan of what we were going to each say. The first girl spoke, and I suppose she did a god enough job. Then it was my turn to speak, and I had a pretty good idea of what to say, but another girl went of turn. This noodle brain decided to divert from the plan and instead talk about what I was going to say. She even used a few of the specific points and examples that I was going to cover. She took what little preparation I had and shot it in the leg until it crawled out of the room leaving only a bloody trail behind it. I silently groaned. The plan had been very clear. We each took a section of the overall topic and were going to go from there. I didn’t matter, though. I was going to have to talk after her, so I had to, in my head, very quickly compose something original to talk about. Meanwhile the professor was staring at us, ready to question anything that he thought was inaccurate or insufficient.

I think I did a fairly good job. I went to the remote corners of my mind and opened up shoeboxes of papers that I haven’t seen in years. I spit out filth for a good few minutes. The eyes of the class stared at me, and I couldn’t tell if it was boredom or shock. I just kept puffing until I ran out of steam. I made some concluding sentences, and that was it. I don’t think the professor agreed with all I had to say, but given the circumstance, I thought I did a pretty good job--especially since I would never have a chance to explain what happened. Maybe I’ll have a chance to get even some day--bwa ha ha ha ha--but probably not.