I don’t learn sh** from typed notes. As a matter of fact, last night, after coming to this abrupt realization, I went out and bought the cutest notebook of life and then copied three-million-and-two pages of typed notes right into it, with multicolored sharpie pens.
I didn’t have the heart to not reward myself, so today, in between the time of after-my-philosophy-class and before-my-shift-at-work, I went to the mall and purchased a bunch of sh** that I won’t even tell you about right now.
After the semi-awkward encounter with the X bags I was carrying, I managed to make it up to the office despite looking like a total fricken’ psychopath whose sole purpose in life is to purchase things.
I’d be lying if I told you that today’s ritual of shopping was pleasurable, because I’ve been up since X a.m. and my appearance resembles that of a zombie, and stuff.
That is why I came home and made myself a decaffeinated tea – because I had intentions to sleep immediately prior to putting four-point-five kilograms of honey straight into my cup. That was right before my mother-goose called me from the living room to ask what time I’m leaving in the morning.
But then it occurred to me that I have to complete an academic integrity quiz by tomorrow’s X p.m. class, so I spent the last hour on this 10-question multiple choice thing that I was supposed to get 100% on, or something. Of course, I was repeatedly scoring a 90 along with the failure to comprehend which question I answered wrong, so I spent about fifty-three minutes clicking this and that, until finally I caught perfection by fluke.
Needless to say type, the zombie-syndrome remains uncured.
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