(no subject)

So. Here's me struggling to write my fucking bastard evil narratology essay. Outside my door, in the corridor, is one of my classmates being loudly stoned. He's already told our tutor that he's not going to do any work this week because he's 'ill'.

'You're not writing an essay, are you?' he says to me. 'How boring!'

Now, I'm not usually one to be vindictive. But if the laws of narrative and poetic justice do not cause him to fail his degree and/or fall under a nearby bus at some point in the VERY near future, then I'm going to get annoyed.

Yes, Jessie is still suffering from PMT. Yes, Jessie realises she should get a sense of humour. And a sense of proportion. But GYARGH.

Essay due in seven hours and forty seven minutes. At least six of which really ought to be spent sleeping.

(no subject)

I sometimes think I should be banned from coming anywhere near LJ when I'm in the kind of mood I was yesterday. But hey.

It turned out that I was the only person who managed to write the sodding essay, so my tutor was well impressed. Just gotta write the one for tomorrow, and then I don't have any work due until, umm, Friday. But I'm feeling distinctly smug about having handed in something respectable, when no one else did anything at all. Even if they don't now fail their degrees (or in one case fall under a nearby passing bus).

And I now have some formal pieces of paper with a formal diagnosis of dyspraxia on them and permission from the proctors to type all exams. And the educational psychologist was apparantly very impressed by the fact that I could spell the word 'miscelaneous'... which I'm now not sure I can. But I did. The piece of paper has statistics all over it, most of which I don't understand at all in any way shape or form, but know I was in the 99th percentile when we did verbal tests, but only the 70th or something when made to write them to speed, and only the 32nd on anything that involved coordination, telling left and right, or visual-spacial manipulation, so... yeah.