No, I'm not abusing solvents.

I'm the kind of college student who, in theory, takes the day off for the sole purpose of finishing assignments and ridiculous poetry projects but, in actual practice, ends up spending the whole day in bed watching Desperate Housewives or googling pictures of mountain lions.

But that's not really a big deal. It's the done thing quite a lot of the time, (well, maybe not the mountain lions) - at least it is where I'm from. I have a friend studying in Boston who told me that for every class she misses it amounts to her squandering about $500. Say, what?! That's insane. $500 would cover almost half of my tuition fees for an entire year.

I've broken it down, you know, roughly. For every class I miss (read: skipped/intended to go to but didn't/left halfway through/forgot was on) it means I'm wasting about €5. You see the difference, right? It's kind of big and hard to miss.

It would not be inaccurate to describe me as a lazy, free-loading, procrastinating bum. In fact, if I had to sum myself up, those are the words I would use. And I guess, just did use. I float through university, much like I floated through school. I do as little work as possible and get good grades, then I rinse and repeat. I'm quite happy with this system, I have it fine tuned down to an art form. But the process is getting more and more difficult. I think it has something to do with this whole 'final year' business. It's like, all of a sudden, I should at least consider working towards my goals. I should actually consider having goals to work towards.

Something has definitely changed in me this year. I'm wasting less and less of those €5s and even, dare I say it, occasionally taking notes in class. Besides all the regular college stuff this year, I also have a gigantic creative writing project that needs doing. Poems don't write themselves and this particular assignment represents about half of my final results for the year. It translates as a lot of work, constant writes and rewrites plus, the need to keep a 'process journal' (some wishy washy notations of my thoughts throughout the project, my initial drafts, etc etc) and constantly find/reference other poets in an 'inspiration diary' (seriously, who comes up with this nonsense?). But I don't even mind the extra work load. It's almost as if I enjoy it! Something has gotta give.

Now I'm not saying that overnight I've turned into a functioning member of society who vastly contributes towards the process of higher education – on the contrary. I still leave everything to the last possible minute – I just don't mind doing it half as much. Which makes a big change and is really quite good for Academic Me though bad for Delinquent Me (or at least the small part of me that still likes to think of myself as a hooligan. Though real hooligans don't use the word hooligan - and I think that's the kind of thing that's always stopped from becoming a crime lord). It's important to note, I'm not entirely comfortable with this turn of events. It has never been in my nature to be a doer or an over-achiever.

That all said, I have a history essay due in the morning and should start writing it/researching it/finding out what the title of it is. Though I guess just one more episode of Desperate Housewives wouldn't hurt.

PS. My father just popped his head in the door and asked me if I was abusing solvents. After I told him that, no, I wasn't abusing solvents, he complimented my good judgment and offered me €20. As I am never one to kick a gift horse in the mouth (the knees, sure, but never the mouth), I guess that's four more classes I can skip, guilt free.

You Suck And I Hate You

Oh, the wittiness of drunk Amy. I sure know how to use my words. In fact, I think that no matter my state of intoxication, I remain both dignified and articulate. And if I occasionally wake up, check the sent items box of my phone and feel a twinge of regret, that's okay. It's expected. But most importantly, it's still dignified and articulate.

Let me take this from the start... Recently, my brother of roughly 28 years of age (could be 27) moved in with my papa bear, my step-mama bear and little old me bear. He may very well be the single worst person to live with. Ever. (Bold font and a grammatically incorrect sentence just so you know I'm not messing around. Nuh uh. Not this time). I would rather live with a mouse, a giraffe, two triceratops, every member of The Wiggles and Batman. (Batman, I've heard, is a highly untidy roommate). How do I get the gravity of exactly how awful he is across? He wakes me up at 5am. Constantly. He slams doors, breaks showers, steals food/clothes/bed sheets/spare change. He moves the toilet paper away from the toilet paper holder as if it's suddenly a fun game for no one but him to avail of the benefits of double pleated sheets of loo roll. He leaves a trail of filth everywhere he goes. Picture a snail with spiky hair. That's my brother.

By far, his worst crime to date has been putting used cotton buds (which he uses to clean his ears, by the way) on my piano. You read that correctly. Go back, read over it again. See? You did read it correctly - told you so. For someone easily freaked out by germs and general ickiness (aka, me) these kinds of stunts are just acts of pure cruelty. The list does go on. His latest misdemeanor, however, set me into a rage I did not think I had in me. I staggered out of a taxi at roughly 3 am. Once I had managed to separate my house keys from the ball of wool that had somehow ended up in my bag (I have absolutely no recollection of where this wool comes from, nor do I have any idea where the box of staples or the single furry slipper came from either) and let myself into the house, I decided that a snack would be just the ticket. And that's when I realised it. That I was sharing my house with a monster. I walked (read: stumbled) into the kitchen only to find that I had no Kellog's Crunchy Nut left.

That's when the fury hit. I decided to teach my good for nothing, food stealing, heart breaking, pain in the ass brother a lesson. So I set myself up to send him a text message. The angriest text message he would ever receive, I thought to myself. A message that would not only make him realise that he was selfish, inconsiderate and horrible but would also make him atone for sins and acknowledge the fact that I was letting him stay in my house and rent free at that (because in my head at this moment, I owned the house) and he was repaying my magnanimity by ruining my life. Yes, ruining my life! There was no exaggeration here. Bit by bit, he was ruining my life. The absolute audacity of him! So sure I was in my convictions, so indignant, so righteous, and therefore, - and if I'm honest, feeling a little bit like a vigilante - I sent the text.

"You suck and I hate you. End of."

Boy, I sure showed him.