Workaholics Day
2005-07-05 @ 8:10 p.m.

Chun Long has decided that one of my witticisms is worthy of being looked at in History 'S', though it is a highly pejorative statement. Quite proud of it actually, because I think it sounds really clever, like the sort of thing you might find in Julian Barnes's novels. Won't put it down here just yet, at least not until the History 'S' paper is over, so Chun Long has the quote all to himself for now. Unless some other History 'S' person in my class actually remembers what I said, in which case I am most flattered. Really. Feeling grumpy and happy at the moment. Paradoxical, I know, but it can't be helped. My ulcer refuses to go away despite my daily application of Bongela, so I might just have to stop eating solid food for a while, as the ulcer is very difficult to avoid when chewing. On the flip side, my bookshelf has arrived, so I've got all these books stacked up nicely beside my bed. It would look nicer if I didn't have these strange Chinese and Southeast Asian collections on the middle shelves, as well as the sad remnants of my English collection that couldn't be placed in any logical grouping elsewhere. I sorted everything out alphabetically by publisher, and then by author within each group. The top two shelves look formidably imposing, I think.

Experienced a bout of acute pseudo-existential despair today, brought on by the realisation that being in school during the term is just as dreary as being at home during the holidays. Picture this: You look forward to the holidays, because you think you'll do loads of fun stuff then, which the confines of school hours prevent you from enjoying. Then you convicne yourself that the tedium of quotidian life can only be driven away, ironically, by the routine of school. Suddenly, it dawns on you that both situations suck equally, and you just wish you could move on to some other phase of life. Don't worry about me though, I'm fine now. The despair more or less wore itself out by the time Mr Purvis's lesson came around, during which I was actually in the midst of writing a new poem. Writing can be remarkably cathartic. Ben assures me that the new poem is not unduely depressing, but merely tinged with the sort of melancholy that one experiences standing in a cemetary - surrounded by death, but no one's dying. Quite pleased with that, because it's precisely what I was aiming for.