A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal. -Oscar Wilde

Friday, December 18, 2009

So let it be known for what we believe in, I can see no reason for it to fail

Finals are over. Of course, I look a fright, I have not had an actual "meal" in two weeks, I have minimal fingernails left, the apartment is a disaster zone of Christmas presents for the family, hundreds upon hundreds of pages of readings, notes, and homework, empty diet pepsi bottles, and dirty laundry piling sky high. The litter box and the garbage can are on the verge of sentience. Coming off the dread flu right into finals will do that. Remind me why I'm doing this "school" thing again? Because this is pleasurable?

Today is my last day "working" of the year. I use the term loosely, as I'm plain out too fried to be of much use to anyone. I suppose my finals went.. okay. I don't know. But it's okay, I don't like to feel overly confident. When I feel too confident, I do worse because I have the habit of whipping through an exam too quickly and making stupid mistakes. Like last night-- I couldn't see the clock very well from my seat, so I panicked thinking time was nearly up (a non-trivial number had finished the exam by then-- about 20% of the moderately large class). I raced through the last question, and the extra credit.. and once I was outside I saw that there was a whole extra hour. Oops. The professor I need to talk to about my masters essay apparently isn't in today, which means that I suppose it will have to wait until after the new year. Irritating, but these things happen.

I've been on a soothing trip hop/ electronica kick. Moby, Portishead, and related have been in heavy circulation, because as much as I enjoy Chirstmas music (yes, I sing along when I'm alone in the apartment or in JeepZilla) I find it too distracting when trying to concentrate.

But last night, after randomly deciding to drive out to my parents' with a poppyseed cake I had intended to take out today (to make up for missing my dad's birthday last week-- my dad's tastes are such that his favorites make me feel like I'm whipping up something from the 1955 Betty Crocker cookbook), I heard what I consider the DEFINING carol. Because it's bizarre and hilarious and uncomfortable and... oddly sweet-- just the way that Christmas usually is. So it can be Christmas now.

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