when i hit the club all the girls show me love.

This entry is probably #283472 on my list of priorities right now. But I don't know, I somewhat feel obligated to churn out something weekly, even though it's my blog and technically I should be able to do whatever the fuck I want. But as you know, I never fail to procrastinate, so here I am, 2:16 AM, writing something with no direction when I really should be sleeping so I can maximally study tomorrow (or...today, now). Honestly, junior year was not horribly bad, even though the products (aka grades) of my "efforts" didn't turn out so well. Right now though, time is sneaking up on me and everything's just looming. AP tests are in one. fucking. week. And I am completely screwed for every single one. Not to mention SAT IIs...but it's something I don't want to talk about and you probably don't want to hear about, either, so moving on...

I wish I were blessed with critical thinking skills. There are two kinds of "honors kids"; the kind that can honestly keep up in class, participate in discussions and debates, and knows what they're doing. Then there are those people who pretend to follow along and end up cramming whatever they can the night before the test, and pulling off an A miraculously. It would be so nice to just be the former, for once, to be able to think of good arguments on the spot, to be able to apply whatever I just learned, to be something worthy of being called intelligent. Because really, I don't care if you've gotten straight As all your life; it really comes down to: do you have insight? critical thinking? analysis? Or are you just the type for rote memorization, to spit it back out, and then clear out your brain every once in a while?

As I wrote that entire last paragraph, all that ran through my head (besides thinking, "I want to be truly intelligent") was, "Everyone's going to think this is really fucking boring." I think this blog would be so much better off if I thought no one was reading it. Actually, probably no one does, but the illusion is already in my head that someone, somewhere is reading every single one of my entries since people have read them before. And writing for an audience, really, does not make one feel good. It's like I can't be myself, that I have to live up to the reader's expectation of what's "interesting" and try to avoid what's "boring." But who are you to define that? Isn't this shit supposed to be mine, all mine? And yet the reader isn't even saying one word. It's me and my head that's doing crazy clockwork.

Oh, forgive me. I've been listening to Hannah Montana seriously all week long; I've been lazily napping for about half of the day and then freaking out over how I lazily napped when I have so much crap to do for the other half; and when all that isn't happening, I'm making a genuine effort to (finally) study so I can (hopefully) get into college. 16 days until hell is (temporarily) over. 16 days until I have the best week of my life. 16 days...