Dear Diary,
Guess what? No, really—guess.
My mark in the French midterm?
Burnt. Charred. Ashes in the academic wind. If grades were toast, mine got shoved in the toaster, forgotten, caught fire, and set the kitchen on fire with it.
The number? A spine-chilling 12/20. Oh no you did not guess right not the 18/20 in which people say you are an academic mind. This is that cursed middle ground—too high to collapse, too low to be proud of. The grade equivalent of a limp handshake.
But wait—don't unclench your jaw just yet because the worst is yet to come.
Monday: French quiz.
Tuesday: A discourse analysis presentation.
The combo? A delightful cocktail of despair, caffeine, and unfinished powerpoints.
I started prepping, you know. I even tried to be productive. But the results? Laughable. Oh I can’t hear you ! You are asking about my progress? My progress? My progress? If this were a sports game, I’d still be on Level 1, fumbling the ball and getting yelled at by the coach, while everyone else is already in the championship.
And sleep? Well, you know that one friend who says, 'I’ll be there in five minutes,' but you end up waiting for hours and then they never show up.That’s basically sleep for me.
I went to bed like a responsible human. But instead of sleep, my brain decided it was time to host a late-night TED Talk titled, 'What If Everything Goes Wrong Forever? So naturally, I woke up at 2:00 AM, staring at the ceiling like it owed me rent.
Could I go back to sleep? Of course not. Not unless I wait until 4:30 AM, because apparently my body clock operates on some ancient cursed schedule written in Latin and spite.
So here I am, sleep deprived, over caffeinated and hanging between the fine line "I can fix this" and "I should just lie down in traffic."
Talk to you later. Or maybe when the chaos finally burns itself out, if I’m still standing when the smoke clears
-your favorite academic clown