Scrawled Anger : 01.15.03 @ 6:19 pm

Sometimes I wonder what happened to her. What happened to the good little girl that always did her homework and always made the honor rolle? What happened to the girl who dreamed of going to an upscale private college and getting the best college education? Where did she go? Did she just slide away one night, into the darkness, never to look back?
Today I failed a Chemistry test. This isn't just me saying "Oh I failed" when in truth I got an A or B. This is me honestly knowing that I failed. Unless of course by some grace of a higher diety all those guesses were correct. Yes. I guessed on all 50 questions. I sat there for a good half an hour making pretty little dots on my standardized test paper. That looks like a B, hmmm a D, perhaps, oh I think I'll put an E here...
I was planning on studying. I really was. But I had thought the test was Friday for some reason, so I wasn't planning on studying until tonight. To top that off, the journal assignment from a few months ago that I worked very hard on - it was very neat and near perfection and I was thinking it would be an easy A. I get it back. 72. Whydid I get a 72, you might ask? Because some stupid assed rules of the teacher's that I didn't know about until after I turned it in. Me being the new student, you'd think that if they didn't tell me about it that they'd cut me some slack. No such luck.
I'm just so angry at myself. For a few minutes as I sat there, staring at a test whose answers I didn't know, I felt my viens cry with anger. I haven't felt that in awhile, but boy did I feel it then. My viens were crying for release, begging to be set free and in doing so, be punished...
But that was just a minute or five, a fraction of my life, the climax of all anger I've ever felt and probably ever will feel. Will I be an old woman still burning with anger and desire to set it free in the form of pain? I didn't of course, and not just because I didn't have any conventional sharpies. Cutters (even ex cutters, like myself) are like drug addicts, they'll do anything and can be very creative, just to feel the release, the rush of endomorphines as they come to the rescue.
As I came down my self-anger tirade all I wanted to do was scream out my frustration and bang the wall a few times. I did neither, instead I went to the bathroom, calmly went through all the motions - with an outward apperance of calm. The only indication of my anger, my frustration, was a sentence said in a deadpan voice to no one in particular -- "I hate this fucking class".

Of course, all these rushing emotions happened in the course of twenty or so minutes before they were expelled through my hasty scrawl on a piece of notebook paper during the last minutes of Chemistry class.

To the present time I have discovered that I am quite behind in my writing of an essay for English, considering I'm not even sure what it's about yet and we were supposed to have started writing it already. I don't have enough research and I haven't really read the books I was supposed. Bad Amy. I'll catch up eventually, it is a three day weekend coming up, is it not?
I drove for the first time since September, my failed attempt at a driver's license in Maine, I now have my Virginia license (view entry). I got it on the 23rd of December and it took me this long to get up the courage to actually use it. It was easier then expected, except for the whole fact that it was Dad in the passanger's seat, being obnoxious and telling me what to do even though I probably know more about recent driving techniques then he does. Intersections are surprisenly easy here because you don't have to watch out for the other person ahead of you (most of the time), for the lights won't be the same while you both go. Not a perfect system, but nicer then rural Maine's.
Other then that, not much going on. I'm afraid I can't write much more due to various things that need to be done.
Such as brushing my teeth. Broccoli leaves such a bad after taste in your mouth.

/A
mood: currently content.
music: various works of Vivaldi.

<< // >>

index | older | diaryland