Monday, December 12, 2011

Finals are a bitch.

Here's the thing, readers: I curse, real bad. It's not particularly ladylike and I try to keep it out of things on the internet, because you never know who is reading it. My mom, my old pastor, my girls, my future children, maybe they all creep on this blog. Or, maybe it's just my best friend and my aunt. But the cursing gets worse when I'm stressed out. And readers, I'm real stressed, although I'm trying to adopt more of a "Fuckit" attitude. That's right, one word. I've tried to adopt this attitude before, with little to no success. I just care too damn much. Yes, it's a giant problem. It results in anxiety and breakouts, even though I'm way too old to still be getting zits, and not being able to sleep until 3 in the morning and migraines, but I like that I care too much. My passion is one of my favorite things about myself. It pushes me. And I absolutely cannot stand people who don't give a damn. Frigging care about something. Please.

Anyway, I digress. The point of this post is to talk about how I am learning to let go. A little. I figured out last night that it is mathematically impossible for me to get an A in Stats. No dice, unless he curves the crap out of the class, which I don't think he will, because people like my freaking study partner and the Boy screw up the curve. (As an aside, dating someone who is smarter than I am continually shocks me. Granted, the ex was as smart, and probably smarter than I am, but he was smart in a different way. The Boy being smarter than I am, in the area that I am smart in, is really throwing me for a loop.) So I put down my calculator and said, "Fuckit." I can put in a ton of effort and anxiety and get a 100% on the final and still get a B, or I can chill the eff out and get my C- on the final and still finish with a B. I'm choosing to chill the eff out. I think the Boy is helping me with this. He does this thing where he takes the thing I'm flipping out about and says it in this totally serious voice and makes it sound ridiculous. And it's not like he's the first one that's done that. Bestie, my parents, probably previous boyfriends, they've all done it, but this is the first time that I'm actually getting it (even if it does drive me crazy). Perhaps it's just because this is the first time that I really have been working the absolute hardest that I ever have, and it's just not getting me where I want to be, and what more can I do than my best? Nothing, that's what. Point is, I can't infer causality. But there is a definite correlation (even if it is a meaningless one).

Anyway, I will be back home in 158 hours, and I can't freaking wait. Merry Christmas, y'all.