Life sucks. I’m trying not to.

I am aware that I am starting to write this minutes before I am headed off to a wake–we’re not going to get into that–but I think I just have to say this now before the happiness eludes me yet again.

I don’t know why the internet is such a heartwarming place. It just is. Or I may just be totally schizo in a non-creepy internet related way. Either way, I feel like just getting home safely after a day like this is something to celebrate and be happy over.

The new Deathly Hallows trailer came out today. I’m not going to watch it until tomorrow. Obviously, I’m still finding it hard to get over the first one. But still, I’m glad that I’m not alone in the freakout.

My favorite poet is an awesome person. He keeps thanking me even if I tell him there’s no need. I wish him all the best in life.

Like I said before, I don’t want to fill this blog with negativity but as I feel I have sufficiently gotten over it with the help of copious amounts of music, a few hours of walking and the heartwarming internet, I’m going to go ahead. You won’t want to miss this. (Read: I won’t want to forget this shiz when I look back on this blog a few years from now.)

First off, I don’t like to say FML. I feel like I don’t have a right to say it. Sick people have a right to say it, oppressed people have a right to say it. My FML seems inappropriate in comparison, so forgive my shallow use of it in the retelling of today’s events.

So last night, I stayed up late reading the last two Greek plays for my Theater class, Medea and Oedipus Rex. I planned to read until morning since my first class today started at ten because my eight-thirty class was cancelled. I can use the eight-thirty to ten time to sleep. But, because I’m me, my brain died after finishing Medea. I took a break. That break turned into a long deep sleep.

That sleep turned into a sort of cranky morning stupor, so when I had to go out of the car and walk to my aunt’s house–she’s the one that officially drives me to school–I suggested (politely, I swear) we get a tricycle. I remembered that I got a text from my friend just before I feel asleep in the car so I took my phone out on the way to the tricycle, but don’t actually text back. We get to my aunt’s house and get off. In my half-awake lethargy, I remember my phone. I check my pockets. I check my bag. My phone is not there.

I can’t say for sure what happens next because this is the embarrassing part where my aunt searches for the tricycle driver for me while I basically just pass out in her room, thinking ‘hey, maybe I’ll get a new phone.’ Nice one, Shaniqua, real nice. See, this is why teenagers should get enough sleep. They become selfish creatures when they’re sleep-deprived. So yeah, they got my phone back and all became right with the world. Dammit, goodbye, iPhone 4. (Kidding.)

Then came my first class. English 11 was the class that I had been most looking forward to. It’s a pre-requisite for Creative Writing 100, one of my majors if when I get to shift into Creative Writing, so I took a chance and enlisted for an intimidating yet talented professor.

Surprise, surprise. She’s off abroad to study, and we get a nice old lady in her place. The nice old lady is exactly that: a nice old lady. There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. Except she’s not the professor I enlisted in. It’s hard to explain to the world why I am not pleased with getting a nice old lady as a teacher, even though it’s clear that I’m already knee-deep in readings and I don’t need another terror prof. It’s just that. I was looking for a chance to prove that I’m actually competent in this field. Literature, I mean. (With a capital L. Because apparently, the nice old lady says there’s a difference.) This is probably the most important thing in the world to me, and the summer left me feeling like I completely failed at it. I was looking forward to redeeming myself by pwning a class with an awesome prof. (For the sake of this blog, this disappointment rant will be cut short. I’d like to ask that you also cut the ‘give her a chance’ speech short as well.)

So my last class was Theater and I still hadn’t finished reading Oedipus Rex even if I had two hours to read up on it. I got to class and immediately asked my group mates if they finished reading. They all said yes. So I’m freaking out, thinking all my group mates are monsters and I tell them I haven’t finished Oedipus yet. They, in turn, reply: I thought we only had to read one of the plays. You know, the one assigned to our group.

Well, eff my el.

This implies a few things: I wasted so much time reading Medea and panicking over Oedipus Rex when I could’ve gotten a head start on my Kas readings. I could’ve slept early. I would probably have noticed that my phone fell out of my pocket this morning. And probably most importantly: I could’ve saved my group from the tragedy that was the rest of the Theater class. Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

I’m not going to expound on the details of that class, because that part, I haven’t really gotten over yet. Rest assured that there probably wasn’t as much violence as you’re thinking, but there was much failing in storytelling involved.

To be fair, this day probably wouldn’t be as awful if it were just a day and the compilation of the awfulness that had been happening throughout the week. And just because I started writing this yesterday and the drive is gone and with it, the enlightened ending to this post, I leave you with words not mine. I’ve always liked this poem.

I Carry Your Heart — e. e. cummings

i carry your heart with me
(i carry it in my heart)
i am never without it
(anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear no fate
(for you are my fate,my sweet)
i want no world
(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

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About shaniquasparkles
Fangirl writes. Has never written fanfiction. Pretends to write six-word stories.

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