I’ve been thinking about a lot, but have little to say. Actually, it’s more that I’m not quite sure how to put it into words, or where to begin. After all, it has been several months since I’ve last written anything and that’s just a little counter-productive, considering this journal’s meant to help keep track of the events of my life, which would theoretically lead to self-understanding.
But I’ve been experiencing the life equivalent of writer’s block; it’s weird to explain. With the loss of my computer came my inability to write as I would like to. Sure, I maintain several penned journals, but there’s more to it than that. I felt out of it. I was just sitting idle—a spectator—as life passed me by. There was nothing to write about.
The academic me suffered as well. And it was unfortunate, because so many papers were due all at once: external assessments, plans of investigations, candidate statements, CAS proposals, and that’s not to mention finals. It got to the point where I thought I had reached failure. I thought I had flunked out of IB. I entertained the idea, because for the longest I’ve been wanting out. It’s not quite the route I would have liked to take, but hey, whatever works.
That Monday after our last final, I managed to get to Metro around 4. Gloria let me in. I was actually surprised to see that no one was there. C’mon, it’s Metro—people are guaranteed to be there, especially when they don’t have to be. I went to Mayham’s office for my grades, and took a seat as I waited to hear my death sentence. Instead of the patronizing lecture I was expecting, I heard the usual “You did well, young man.” I recoiled, now anxiously awaiting my grades. Had there been a mistake?
2 As, 2 Bs, and 3 Cs. Not exactly my 3.5, but I’m still in. Fuck. How did I manage that? In the weeks prior, I had conditioned myself for the worst. I was ready to get out, of Metro even. The Fates, however, didn’t fail me. As I was getting ready to leave—calling for my ride and all—MacKenzie approached me. Because I didn’t turn in my external assessment, he recommended to Georgia that I not continue with the program next year. Hearing this knocked the wind out of me. On one hand, I was ecstatic; on the other, appalled. Who the fuck does he think he is?
I hate to sucker out like this. I came this far, and for what? Still, it’s not like I’m committing to a life of crime, just one without IB. I hate to be such a disappointment, but I do have to maintain the small shred of sanity that remains.
I had actually started to write this entry 2 days ago while working the cart at the Boathouse. Since, thoughts have come and gone. I’m done.
