It's just after 1 a.m., and the wind has started howling outside. I'm sitting maybe four feet away from our disused fireplace, and the flue is shaking, howling, and moaning like a creature unleashed. I've been trying to clear my head for the last 10 hours or so. Nagging doubts and worries have been hounding me. I've picked up too much work again, and what's worse is this time, I won't really care if none of it gets done.
At this point, I don't really care who gets screwed, because I think I've been screwed long enough. And yet, I'm still sitting here. Practicum is coming up, I'm a phonecall away from confirmation or damnation, and I'm tempted to hang upside down from a rapidly rotating ceiling fan. The room's already spinning, I don't see how it could possibly get much worse.
On top of that, there's some four school assignments due this week. The effort and time we put into these assignments makes me agog to the fact that my peers and I have paid in excess of $2,500 for this education, when in reality, we should be getting paid that much for the stuff we produce.
Previous, real work experience doesn't count. Everything has to be new and original. Fuck me if it's going to be any better than if I had written something two months ago for Bump-on-a-Log weekly, this shit passed rediculum three months ago, and now they're descending into madness.
Or maybe I am. I've been made cynical by this rift between what my experience has taught me, and what they are pushing on me in class. The fact that I can be failed, for failing to produce what many would consider a failure in journalism, only makes me further lose my grip on why I'm even bothering to get up and attend class anymore.
Maybe I'll get lucky, and my practicum placement will become a full time job. I'd enjoy that.
Now, I just need that bloody phonecall.
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