![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
x_losWORST FINAL EVER. BAD BEYOND THE TELLING OF IT. SO MAD. WILL BE MAD FOREVER.
So, due to my mom cutting off my monthly allowance in a Fit of Flake, as per usual, and thus not having eaten that much since the beginning of the month (oh child modeling, you did indeed teach me life lessons: mostly about hunger management, Under the Pink-style inappropriate inter-female competitiveness and pervasive, creeping dissatisfaction, but lessons!), the timely Finals Week arrival of an exceptionally unpleasant Woman Time, and not sleeping at all last night in order to plod through the indescribably unapproachable Bose and Jalal's Modern South Asia in preparation (there is nothing more bitter than having prepared and having it mean/do nothing), I am dead. Really. I am a zombie at this moment.
Four clerical errors have popped up to impede my graduation. Which is on SATURDAY. So, in post-final fit of productive RAGE, I emailed Latham re: two English things, Mumford re: the history error, and called (cooing and cajoling shamelessly, dredging up reserves of charm I thought as thoroughly exhausted as my zombified corpse) Kirkwood re: the Spanish Transfer Credits Which Disapparated At Random. So Kwood is faxing the unpaid bill (thanks, mom) to the IC office, whereupon I will fax it to my mother's office, whereupon she will pay if she wants this 'walking' bullshit I so thoroughly despise the very idea of, whereupon they will send the transfer credit to the University, that they might receive it and modify my transcript accordingly.
I will polish the Poe thing, and I will half-assedly ready my Russian table before three p.m. tomorrow.
And then I will be free.
I will have obtained the shittiest of shitty grades of semester due to Das Depression leading inexorably to Das Apathy and Das Poor Performance even as roads to Rome, but I honestly cannot find it in me to care.
If I do not walk my mother will visit such Lovecraftian horrors upon me that the time she physically kicked my out of the house and I had to walk those two miles to my dad's sans shoes on a school night will look like a trip to the amusements.
EVEN MY MOOD ICON IS INEFFECTUALLY FAILING TO LIVE UP TO ITS POTENTIAL! EMO ERIN WILL BE EMO UNTIL SHE IS FINISHED! WHERE IS THE POSTAL SERVICE ALBUM OF GREAT SELF INDULGENCE?!
Update: Oh god, have found mirror. Look like consumption victim. V. romantic novel. Hair is curling wildly (Jew-froing in force), face is chalky, cheeks are bright pink, eyes are INSANE. Must go wander moor and/or summer on continent so as to form tableaux, thus get some use out of this.
Edit: Got Kwood fax, faxed to mother's accountant, called to confirm receipt of fax and proper forwarding. Profs have not emailed me back yet. Worrisome!! Have rest of day and all tomorrow to fix it, though, and am reasonably confident this can be pushed through like baby through canal: painful, time-consuming and with much blood, but ultimately source of certain grim satisfaction.
ALSO: Holy crap, nothing has ever looked worse than American!Life on Mars does in that trailer. Ouch.
So, due to my mom cutting off my monthly allowance in a Fit of Flake, as per usual, and thus not having eaten that much since the beginning of the month (oh child modeling, you did indeed teach me life lessons: mostly about hunger management, Under the Pink-style inappropriate inter-female competitiveness and pervasive, creeping dissatisfaction, but lessons!), the timely Finals Week arrival of an exceptionally unpleasant Woman Time, and not sleeping at all last night in order to plod through the indescribably unapproachable Bose and Jalal's Modern South Asia in preparation (there is nothing more bitter than having prepared and having it mean/do nothing), I am dead. Really. I am a zombie at this moment.
Four clerical errors have popped up to impede my graduation. Which is on SATURDAY. So, in post-final fit of productive RAGE, I emailed Latham re: two English things, Mumford re: the history error, and called (cooing and cajoling shamelessly, dredging up reserves of charm I thought as thoroughly exhausted as my zombified corpse) Kirkwood re: the Spanish Transfer Credits Which Disapparated At Random. So Kwood is faxing the unpaid bill (thanks, mom) to the IC office, whereupon I will fax it to my mother's office, whereupon she will pay if she wants this 'walking' bullshit I so thoroughly despise the very idea of, whereupon they will send the transfer credit to the University, that they might receive it and modify my transcript accordingly.
I will polish the Poe thing, and I will half-assedly ready my Russian table before three p.m. tomorrow.
And then I will be free.
I will have obtained the shittiest of shitty grades of semester due to Das Depression leading inexorably to Das Apathy and Das Poor Performance even as roads to Rome, but I honestly cannot find it in me to care.
If I do not walk my mother will visit such Lovecraftian horrors upon me that the time she physically kicked my out of the house and I had to walk those two miles to my dad's sans shoes on a school night will look like a trip to the amusements.
EVEN MY MOOD ICON IS INEFFECTUALLY FAILING TO LIVE UP TO ITS POTENTIAL! EMO ERIN WILL BE EMO UNTIL SHE IS FINISHED! WHERE IS THE POSTAL SERVICE ALBUM OF GREAT SELF INDULGENCE?!
Update: Oh god, have found mirror. Look like consumption victim. V. romantic novel. Hair is curling wildly (Jew-froing in force), face is chalky, cheeks are bright pink, eyes are INSANE. Must go wander moor and/or summer on continent so as to form tableaux, thus get some use out of this.
Edit: Got Kwood fax, faxed to mother's accountant, called to confirm receipt of fax and proper forwarding. Profs have not emailed me back yet. Worrisome!! Have rest of day and all tomorrow to fix it, though, and am reasonably confident this can be pushed through like baby through canal: painful, time-consuming and with much blood, but ultimately source of certain grim satisfaction.
ALSO: Holy crap, nothing has ever looked worse than American!Life on Mars does in that trailer. Ouch.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-05-15 03:54 pm (UTC)My mother is a little like a fusion of Imelda Marcos, Howard Hughes, the Master and Joseph McCarthy. There is a certain evil majesty to her. She alternates between making me type the eviction letter for the residents of the trailer park she thinks is ugly (no real intention to develop the land, they were just mucking up the property value) because she thinks my Liberal Distress is amusing, getting a boy sent away to an institution for some months for having made fun of me on the bus (oh she found reasons, but I learned not to mention problems to my mother for fear of that sort of overkill), throwing birthday parties for my younger siblings complete with live camel rides (as in, they came to the house), and wandering in yelling at me for not already having packed because we're all going to MEXICO RIGHT NOW. She is not even close to my weirdest family member. They are all like that.
no subject
Date: 2008-05-15 04:23 pm (UTC)If it's any consolation, you're not alone. My roommate has an evil twin sister. When she was a kid, she wrecked their step-mother's life after the woman blew their college savings funds on a new wardrobe. She sabotaged the house's drainage system so that ice piled up over the bedroom till the roof caved in, then spent a month stalking her to compile evidence of fraud against Worker's Comp (which happened to be true, so it ended up particularly ugly). Which, y'know, could be argued as "using your powers for good," except that Evil Twin also used to set Roommate on fire and roll him down the stairs in boxes after telling him they were going to play "Astronaut."
no subject
Date: 2008-05-15 10:28 pm (UTC)Damn. I almost have to bow to that level of terrifying ingenuity! Excepting the womgFIRE bit.Which is undeniably creepy.And seems not to correlate at all to anything about Astronauts.
no subject
Date: 2008-05-16 01:16 pm (UTC)Or y'know, it could be different branches of the family. But that's boring. :D
The fire indeed had nothing to do with Astronauts. They were two separate games: the fire one being "How close can I get this to your nose before you flinch and yell for mom?"
She's in therapy these days, and very irate for having developed a conscience. She doesn't like this "empathy" crap at all, I'm told.