Fed up

In case the title didn't tip you off - I'm fed up. I was wondering for a moment about adding an exclamation mark at the end there, but it's more of a slouching, half-hearted, sighing, shrugging, can't-be-bothered-with-anything kind of "fed up", so a full-stop will suffice. Actually it won't. I'd prefer something less definite. Something that just trailed off. So, let's try again:

I'm fed up...

There, that worked better. Far more reflective of the particular kind of "fed-up-ness" that's currently making me, erm... fed up. Problem is, it suggests that something has been left unsaid. Which is true, I suppose. I haven't yet said "Meh..." or "Blah..." or "Bleurgh...", all of which would be relevant here. Or explained why I'm fed up. Which would perhaps be even more relevant. So here goes with the why:

I just am.

Well, that's part of it anyway. Another part is this stupid cold I've got, which has now decided that it's a cough. [Sighs] Just typical of modern life - germs with identity crises... mutter, mumble, complain, I remember when germs were germs, goddamit [thumps fist on table], etc. (repeat until am actually old and cantankerous enough to say stuff like that). Then there's the erratic sleeping thing.

And it's the course.

I'm learning stuff and it's worthwhile, but... Well, I just seem to be writing crap half the time. The stuff I'm writing just isn't me. No, those first three essays were me and I enjoyed writing them - the prenups one, the higher education should only be for the rich one, and the one that turned into a rant about Bush (the president, not the Nirvana imitators) - but the "Cannibalism is a good thing" essay... that I didn't enjoy at all. Mainly because I was trying to stick rigidly to Derrek's essay structure (nearly wrote stricture - might have been more accurate), rather than express myself or write jokes. I don't know, I thought I succeeded; unfortunately, he just seemed sceptical and thoroughly unimpressed. Not that he actually said so. Then there's the "creative" stuff I've been doing for Bill's lectures - none of it terrible, I suppose (apart from the one I get back tomorrow - cheers for that, you stupid brain fogging cold), but none of it anything I'm especially proud of either. When it comes to those pieces, I just seem to have... I don't know, lost my "voice". I write to entertain myself, to be surprised, to see where it takes me. Normally. But the playfulness seems to have disappeared. And I'm having my doubts about this blogpost too.

Oh, and now, for another module, I have to write some piece about "my bedroom when I was 8 years old" - I can think of nothing less inspiring. Well, I can, but I'm not going to: I'm fed up enough as it is. Not only am I thoroughly uninspired, I also have very little recollection of my bedroom back then. Or of being 8 years old. So I talked to my parents. It seems I had a macrame owl on one of the walls. And the walls were sort of greeny turquoise. Or they might have been light blue. So that's alright then. Still, that was the year I had my appendix removed, so at least I can write about being doubled up in agony whilst waiting hours and hours for a doctor to turn up, before being rushed to hospital, where I was pricked with loads of needles until they finally found a vein. In the end of my thumb.

Doctor type person (the next day): "Oh, um, we took it out anyway, but actually you just had mesenteric addenitis. A short course of antibiotics would have done the trick."
Me: "Oh. Thanks."

So that should be fun.

Ok, rant over.