I realise it’s still morning, but I’m calling it. Today’s already a bust. I’m currently attacking my belongings with a hairdryer. I had my bag sitting on my lap on the bus ride to class, and I wasn’t even five minutes away from home when I started feeling strangely uncomfortable. I lifted my bag, and sure enough, my jeans were wet. My water bottle had leaked because I’d used the wrong lid. Not only were the contents of my bag entirely soaked, I had to take a bus back home looking like I’d wet myself. Fuck this day.
I’ve morphed into a gross, disease-ridden version of myself over the weekend. I hate it, but also, fuck it, you know? When you’re sick, it’s remarkable how little you care about anything that isn’t a warm bed / hot beverages / pharmaceutical drugs. Unshowered hair? Fuck it. Wearing the same shirt out two days in a row? Who cares? Classes you need to go to? Screw learning, it’s time for a day-long nap.
My parents decided not to buy me a car. They were like, ‘We’ll get you a house instead’.
— A kid in my lab complaining about what a gosh darn struggle his life is. Must be hard, man. Must be hard.
Filling out applications is the worst. The deadline is close of business today, and I’m still struggling despite having had almost a fortnight to tackle this. I thought time pressure was meant to result in inspiration, damn it. Please just tell me what it is you want to hear that’ll get me accepted, already. I have enough trouble unearthing my ‘positives’ as it is, let alone inflating my supposed goodness when there’s something significant on the line.