I have to stop worrying about how my French oral went... it's driving me insane. What's horribly ironic is that before the oral I was Monsieur Cool, unphased by all manner of complicated questions on social problems and economic crises, and now that's it's over and I can't do anything about it or even find out how I did I'm a nervous, eyebrow-twitching wreck, forever starting at the thought of imagined grammatical blunders and staring regretfully into the distance thinking about all the sexpot phrases I could've thrown in as filler but didn't.
And it's a pretty inconvenient time for all this worrying, as my music practical, which is significantly more important than the oral (50 fucking percent of Leaving to be exact), is tomorrow morning. So I need to relax, and I need to relax NOW. I'm considering having a drink or two before bed, that's how twisted my logic is while I'm in this fretful state.
Que Sera Sera......... Fuck you Leaving Cert, fuck you in your fuck ugly face.
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1 comment:
décontractez, mon petit pamplemousee, tu serai absolument musicalement magnifique.
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