Tuesday, April 25, 2006

I finally understand why you listened to your music so loud.

It was so that you could drown out the self condemnations.

Yea, I do it too.


I seems as though our "re-marked" RS essays came back to college today and, to my genuine shock and surprised, despite the nonplussed demeanour, my grades had not been changed in the least. I still need over 110% on my last two exams to get the A that I need, or I can "retake" the exam I would have otherwise had to sit for this module and then I'd need roughly 70% atleast. Atleast the later is not against the laws of geometry and statistics.

I was telling my dad what had happened on the way home, and, as we were drawing to the close of our journey, he, in all his ineffable and downright outrageously stupid wisdom said, with relaxed confidence, "Well, you obviously didn't give them what they wanted."

I exploded.

I do not think I have been so passionate in all of my life as I was at that point; not entwined with a lover, fighting with my sister, plowing through exam papers, hearing about injustice on the news, experiencing injustice within myself. On the inside I was almost, literally, aflame with rage; my eyes blinded by flickering crimson and sour, piquiant tears; the noise of the radio drowned out by the roaring of blood in my ears and my throat made hoarse, not due to volume, but out of shock and disbelief. I raged for the sake of my whole scholastic career, every waking hour of the past 5 years of my life that culminate in the ink on pieces of lightweight cartridge paper tumbled out of me: I screamed for the fact that I had never deviated from what a school wanted from me all of my life, that I had always performed. I'm not used to failure, and now, at the peak of everything, is not the best time to have to get used to it.

I was out of the car before it had stopped moving, grabbed my bag and walked with determination to stare at the frosted glass of my front door, waiting for my dad to let me in. Entering, he proceeded to make out as though he were the one who came away injured and wished me venomous, sarcasm drenched luck.

"You can stop talking now, if you really want to," I said as I dived for the pantry to console myself with something... something... something that was more refined fat than real food.

"Alright, fine-"


"-but I hope you're happy with all of this."

"Yea, exstatic," I replied, stocato, commanding, and went upstairs to drown myself in the melancholic 80s savvy of The Cure.

And here I am.

1 comment:

Victoria. said...

I love to drown myself in the melancholic 80s savvy of The Cure :]

And I get loads of talks/situations like that with my father.

Kind of relief he doesn't live with me..