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a joyous day.
When you have a test this Friday and when you're a normal person in partciular a normal product of the Singaporean education system the only thing you'd be doing two days prior to the said test is Study.
So today is officially Wednesday and I have a Contract Law test this Friday at LT15 9 a.m. to 11 a.m. and Contract happens to be the module that has the dubious titles of the Weakest Link and also the Module That Makes Me Want To Drop Out Of Law School And Write In Ungrammatical English Every Single Time bestowed upon it and if I were a normal person I would be studying my ass off right now.
Here's the part where I can't make up my mind with regard to which is more accurate: Am I not studying because I'm not normal, or am I not normal because I'm not studying?
Cause and effect. Cause and effect, and the residue of the said effect, the aftermath of the residue, the lingering presence of the aftermath.
I don't know what to say that'd make any of this better. I don't know what to do to break myself out of my stupor.
I keep trying to convince myself that I am in a stupor, that this slate of emptiness and blankness isn't going to last, that I can make it as long as I put my heart into it and please do me the kind favour of inserting other similar Chicken-Soup-for-the-Soul Inspirational! cliches along those lines; the more I try to fool myself though, the more ridiculous and preposterously fake my life becomes.
Because you went into it due to a lack of variety in your chosen stream; because you went into your chosen stream due to an abhorrence for all things scientific and mathematical; because you signed up for your chosen stream due to your poor O Level performance that barred you from going the scientific route; and because you're that and I am nothing like you. You don't relish it the way I do, you don't breathe it the way I do, you wanted it and not needed it the way I did, you can drop it and move on to something more lucrative unlike the way I keep hanging on in futility hoping to someday let go, you had teachers to think for you but I formulated my own thoughts, and because someone in Scotland told me I deserve a wider audience, and that single sentence alone made me cry.
I have to stop crying over spilt milk.
Worst-case scenario, Friday December 2:
Yelen does not show up for Contract test. She sleeps the day away and wakes up at 3 in the afternoon and thinks, "Shit, I missed my test." A second later she gets up from bed and thinks, "Oh, how bright the sun is shining today!"
Best-case scenario, Friday December 2:
Yelen shows up for Contract test, looks at the question paper, takes out her pen, scribbles her name and other necessary details on top of answer script, writes down question number, writes a few sentences for all three questions, leaves half an hour after commencement of test.
If they try to stop me I will sue for false imprisonment.
And because I'm already flunking out of LS, I will go ahead with that cause of action even though I know I don't have a valid one; why the heck not? I might as well cut off my throbbing thumb before I become numbed to the pain.
Either way though, worst- or best-case, I won't be getting off the self-destruction path anytime soon.
With or without you it makes no difference to me. You read my words and maybe you think, "Oh no my friend is feeling down! Whatever should I do?" or more likely you don't think anything and close your Internet Explorer/Mozilla Firefox browser and go on with your life, and I go on with mine, and we meet a few weeks later and we are all, "OH MY GOD I HAVEN'T SEEN YOU IN LIKE THE LONGEST TIME LIKE EEEEK!" and I play the part where nothing has ever happened and magically, everything is fine again.
Now, if I were a painter I wouldn't use paintbrushes and water colour and pastel sticks to create my masterpiece; instead, I would use words to describe my utter repulsion for such superficiality, my hatred towards myself for rejecting genuinely concerned helping hands, and finally, my laughable belief that I have the prerogative to whine like a child whose parents refuse to buy her McDonalds' coke just because I think I am so different, and it all adds up to paint the perfect picture of Self Denial.
I want to cut you off for good. This desire in me burns insidiously like molten lava because you are an extinct volcano waiting a hundred years for your next eruption. I play well to your indifference, too. You stand idly by (quoting Veronica Mars) and I smile and nod and say, "Well, that's perfectly fine with me."
NEWSFLASH: It's ceased to be perfectly fine ten seconds ago. I'm seeing familiarity in the words I'm typing and I hate myself for being a retarded angsty post-teenager, pre-adult, and you're supposed to stop being stupid if you're turning fucking twenty next year, so is this evidence that I'm not normal or just a very apt case to illustrate the degree of my retardedness?
The point to teenage angst is that you leave it behind once you've got past teenagehood.
At least, that's the way it is for normal people.
To be perfectly honest (and I mean perfectly honest), I wouldn't mind too much if I slept tonight and never woke up ever again. I used to fear this thought, but the intriguing thing is, somehow, over the past few months, I've grown purely indifferent towards its implications.
So if I died today I guess I won't be attending my funeral.
That made me laugh. Fuck, I'm twisted.
The answer to all my problems is quitting law school and taking up creative writing/Literature/English/all of the above in an American Ivy League college.
If it were as easy as that, I wouldn't have needed to continually bludgeon the same thread of thought to death, over and over, for the past few months.
I realise, too, that just studying Literature probably isn't enough; I have to write, I need someone to guide me, tell me where I'm going wrong, what my strengths are. The only good thing about secondary school is that it was where I discovered a vague sort-of talent and found the shaky beginnings of a direction in my life, one that I really needed. I was convinced that writing was what I was meant to do, what I had to do, and I was idealistic (read: fucking foolish, and look, it even alliterates) and I was full of confidence and I believed that I could do it; what was the phrase I used? "Box out of this scene."
Striking story! How it makes me laugh and cry.
Of course, the irony of it all doesn't escape my attention. I stake pretentious claims on the Love For Writing and yet I haven't written anything in as long as I can remember. The last piece of fiction I wrote is still stuck in its first draft, still painfully raw, and still severely lacking a plot, let alone a climax and a resolution.
If I were magnanimous and selfless enough I would sacrifice everything for the championing of a myriad of human rights issues in Singapore; unfortunately, I'm selfish, I care only about myself, and all I want to do is to do what I've always wanted.
Well, to give myself some credit, I think there was a point in time when I was younger when I wanted to campaign for human rights. I remember this one time in Secondary 2 during Civics and Moral Education class which was taught (using that word loosely for want of a replacement) by the residential priest (is this the right word?) of the school, Father B. He came into class with copies of the United Nations' Declaration of Human Rights and gave us a copy each. He told us to keep it properly, and that was five years ago and I still have the copy. And I was 14 and awed that I had a copy of such an important international agreement in my hands, while my classmates complained that he was too "cheem", and that the things that went on in CME were useless and irrelevant, and I'm willing to bet that 99% of them have already thrown that document away.
That was basically the crux of my very own personalised brand of Alienation which spilled over to teenage angst.
Hmm, funny. Five years later I'm in LS where people are supposed to be passionate about things, LS which is supposed to be a hotbed for intellectual wrestling matches, and I'm experiencing flashbacks to the way things were five years ago and nothing seems to have changed too materially.
I will always be that elitist snob who thumbs her nose at the people she deems unworthy of her time and attention, that elitist snob whom you shun because she's unapproachable and cold and unfriendly, the elitist snob who can't pinpoint the exact moment during which she became this person, and the elitist snob who wears her badge of honour with more pride than you'd care to imagine and simultaneously wishes it weren't such a formidable barrier between her and the rest of the human population.
In other less depressing news, my Veronica Mars DVD set is an absolute beauty. I can't wait to watch it after this Friday.