ode to post-teenage angst
written: 6:40 p.m. on Wednesday, Jul. 07, 2004

School is a bitch. Exams are the biggest bastards ever. But we all know that, this is old news, this is not news at all, so why bother repeating?

I am still convinced that if Literature were to be personified, it would be in the form of someone like the megalomaniacal Sir Jack Pitman of Julian Barnes's England, England: loud, obnoxious, pretentious, full of hot air, absolutely lack of substance or anything worthy of attention.

For once in my life I'm thinking maybe I should go talk to someone. An adult. Someone wise, someone whom I feel comfortable with, because the very fact that I typed the paragraph above and yesterday's entry shows that I am not dealing, I am not handling things right, and so, if things are not rectified, I would definitely commit academic suicide come November and succeed.

It's July. I still don't know what I'm doing.

But my problem is that I... simply... do not... talk. Simple as that. I could write paragraphs after paragraphs of why I'm fucked but I cannot, for the life of me, articulate any of those things. And I know that if I attempted to, I may very well end up crying (not because I'm sad or melancholic or anything stupid along those lines) and I hardly ever cry, so to cry in school would be a grave slap on the face for me, a major blow to my pride and dignity.

There is someone I have in mind whom I think I could probably talk to. But I don't know. This talking thing is so new and so bloody alien, foreign, strange, and I don't want to be stark naked in front of the whole school, or just anyone, for that matter, to be judged.

Then again, that's pretty silly, considering I'm in the act of adding another entry to my very public online journal.

But it's different when you have some semblance to anonymity, or simply when you are putting pen to paper, fingertips to keyboard. It's not as hard, not as awkward, and the clarity is there.

Right, I have completely lost any sense of coherence I might have had, I'm muddled and oozy, I apparently have to do some source-based essay for History and it's based on Singapore history which I know absolutely shit-all about, I am purposeless, directionless, truly angst-ridden for the first time and I don't know what to do.

Lovely. Oh, and how can I forget that I still have to deal with the Bulldog until she finally thinks it appropriate to fuck off and quietly retreat from our sadly-doomed lives, once and for all? Don't you blinking realise that you're ruining our lives? Still think you're oh-so-saintly for sticking around? Well, don't fucking bother. You're slinging my A through mud and you don't even realise it. In my opinion, you're right next to the demented paper one ex-history teacher (KCT lah who else) on my list of 'teachers who do not deserve to teach because it is a serious insult to the honoured profession'.

(Too lazy to capitalise all the bloody words in the inverted commas, okay?)

Okay. I like Utopian Lit. I kind of like Shakespeare/Dickens/Eliot... no, I don't like Eliot, but nevermind about that. I like Dickens. I like Othello. I love England, England. The Handmaid's Tale is good. (Almost forgot my last set-text, wahoo) Brave New World is all right. I like Tubby and I like my ang moh Paper One teacher.

Despite all of that, I still can't help but feel like dying whenever I think of the subject.

That, my dear friends, is a very far cry from the enthusiasm that I felt towards it just a few months back, the way I wrote about how it makes me feel alive, how Lit is the air that I breathe.

I think, for me, money is the new Literature. Fuck idealism. The world has no place for idealistic, optimistic, hopeful people, because you're not going to get anywhere with a Lit degree. Face it. You're doomed to a teaching career, and nope, I'm never going to teach; I kind of believe in karma.

Besides, how the fuck much can you earn as a teacher anyway? No offence to any teachers who may be reading this; good teachers rock damn hard, the world would cease to exist without teachers, and I like and respect some of my teachers. The thing is, if one were aiming for a completely luxurious lifestyle whereby one could saunter into any high-end shopping centre, snatch a few pieces of clothing off the rack and instantly pay for them without considering the impact it might have on one's level of disposable income, one would not choose to teach.

In my opinion, the only people who can lead the lifestyle I described above are people like Donald Trump, Paris Hilton (the spoilt brat does not deserve any of it), and my darling Jielun.

Of course, my problem would be solved if I chose to be with some rich guy, but which intelligent, self-respecting person would want to depend on another person to sustain her own ideal lifestyle? Not me. I can do it myself.

Hmm. This entry is unfocused, lacks direction and is all over the place. I don't know where I'm going with this at all. And anyway, it's finally time for dinner.

I shall attempt to do the source-based thingy tonight. Let's hope I complete it.

And I shall not skip Maths lectures anymore.

Although I really don't feel like going for tomorrow's.

before sunrise // before sunset

Previously:
- - Tuesday, Aug. 29, 2017
I'm moving. - Sunday, Jul. 11, 2010
In all honesty - Tuesday, Jul. 06, 2010
What I want for my birthday... - Sunday, Jul. 04, 2010
On Roger's behalf. - Friday, Jul. 02, 2010