I am a horrible writer. I didn't realize this until about an hour ago, so I'm feeling particularly dismal.
My precious "personal edification" of writing skills that I teethed on throughout sophomore year must have leaked on to the linoleum hallways one day while I was wrapped up in high-school emotions and a janitor must have mopped it up while my back was turned.
My grand ineptitude is officially not limited to the subjects of history or french, making it actually a GRAND INEPTITUDE. I ought to tattoo the phrase "disadvantage: unable to funcation" on my forearm just to alert whoever is within a yard of me.
Being an International Baccalaureate student means that not only do you have to metaphorically kiss-ass by not sleeping in class and wearing cardigans everyday, it also means you have to do real work. Essays nd shit. There probably hasn't been a succinct definition of the word "wastiod" since 90's MTV, but I fit the link.
My life hasn't been manic-depression sucking lately. I haven't been sleeping more than eight hours a day, and I saw three people who make me uncomfortable and my stomach did only a half-flip.