Monday, November 01, 2004

Stressy Stressiness

Tomorrow, as you all know, is election day. And it makes me want to puke.

I'm a terribly high strung person and prone to being jittery and panicky about the slightest of things. When something is so major and I can't do anything about it, it makes me feel impotent and out of control, which I really hate. So you can imagine how pleasant I've been lately.

I've been trying not to think about it too much, because it will only cause my carefully maintained sanity (which, let's face it, is pretty tenuous at best) to shatter, but really, I can't help it. Like, it's just so close and it's making me really, really anxious and I'm well on my way to having a total nervy breakdown and just, like, spazzing out. Even more than usual, I mean.

And, seriously, if this is another long, drawn out thing a la 2000, I will lose my mind. I just won't be able to handle it. I'm not strong enough for that.

In a related story: Hush yo' mouth, Curt Schilling. They might have sewed you up well enough to pitch, but they didn't give you any sense.

And then? On top of all of the election drama? We got our course registration booklets and I was all excited because, yay, my last registration ever, and I was flipping through it and saw that nothing was offered. Seriously. All of the fun classes that they claim to be offering? So not being taught next semester. Which means that for my writing requirement, I am stuck taking The Writing of Poetry.

Um, no.

I don't write poetry. I only read poetry when forced to. The very thought of reading poems about trees and leaves makes me twitchy. I'm not very fond of nature, see (and I'm well aware of how awful that statement is, but it's the truth, the whole plant and animal thing is just vastly overrated), and reading about it in cute little couplets or, worse, bizarre free verse is enough to make me want to scream, as I informed a class last semester and my professor said it was refreshing, but in most cases, I sort of get that look, like, "Dear lord, she's a heathen!" and it's not good at all.

And writing poetry? My experiences are even worse. I just can't do it. I like to think I'm bright enough, but my mind just doesn't work that way. And my inspiration comes from bizarre things like, I don't know, rubies or, uh, Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck. And when you need to workshop these poems with a bunch of emo type people with thick black glasses and Che Guevara shirts? It just doesn't turn out well. Trust me, I know from experience, it just doesnt.

Poutpoutpout.

I will, of course, be doing the best Cher Horowitz impression I can and doing whatever needs to be done to get out of taking this class, whether it's setting two professors up or spearheading a donation thingy of some sort. As God is my witness, I will never write poetry again.

Aaaand, I need to take Early World Literature. Now, I'm a bit of a nerd really, maybe even more than a bit. But anything with the word "early" in the course title makes me all, "Danger, danger, Will Robinson". Early British Lit? Shudder. Early American Lit? Ugh. And Early World Lit, where it's all about the Greeks and the Bible? Le sigh. I just have a bad feeling about it. I've never been one for the Greeks and their fucking epicosity, so a whole semester of that is just, like, blargh.

So, yeah, like, no.

See how eloquent stress makes me? I certainly do have a way with words.

Mallory at 11/01/2004 08:55:00 PM

3comments

3 Comments

at 5:43 PM Blogger Rayanne Graff said...

Don't stress darling, the election is going to be as it should be in a perfect world (where Benjamin McKenzie is a power bottom dating P.D.Noosh, apparently), Kerry will triumph, and Bush will rip off his Scooby Doo-style mask and reveal himself to be Satan, whence he will either say "Haw haw! Foiled!", Jack Chick stylee, or shout "if it wasn't for you pesky kids!" then dissolve into a pile of goo a la the witch in the Wizard of Oz.

Poetry: no reason why great poetry shouldn't be about Diet Coke, jewelry, fashion, fashion magazines, television, shoes, Bennifer, the Beckhams, and how great we are.

If you're stuck, and hate crappy nature poems (as I do -- Wordsworth makes me want to never see a friggin' daffodil again), try Michael Ondaatje (his poetry is fantastic, and I hate poetry), Simon Armitage, Tim Burton (he has a great online collection I think), Shelley if you have to, Ted Hughes, Philip Larkin (Love Songs in Age), or my dad (yup. It's crazy pretentious.)

Wow, I'm both patronising and intefering, aren't I?!

 
at 11:15 AM Blogger Rayanne Graff said...

Humph, Mean Dean, I give you nothing but love, and get nothing but cheek in return.

I shall go and write a poem about this heartbreak, and let Miss B use it for her class.

 
at 1:02 PM Blogger Mallory said...

Ah, brilliant, b. Any poetry you have, please do send my way, I need it.

 

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