I think I failed. 

I tallied it up. Maybe I didn't fail. I can only fail if I get less than a 30% on the exam. I'm pretty sure I got a 30. I went around adding up all the questions giving myself only half points when I was really sure, and no points when I was completely unsure. There were a lot of blanks on that exam. 

I hope it turns out. I hate that stupid Calculus course. How can I get a 80% on the midterm and quiz, and 100% on all the assignments then bomb the final? I studied my ass off, I redid every assignment. At least I can say I tried. 

All I think about right now is Banff. It keeps me going through all this exam crap. 

One more today. Accounting. Which I feel better about. But hell last night I felt better about this morning's exam and that definitely didn't feel good or confident writing it. 

Ugh

“Don’t tell me you think you’re immortal. When you were shaking on the floor, when you just couldn’t get enough air, when your heart didn’t feel like beating, I was there. I was there holding you steady, breathing for you, beating for you.”

I finished How I Live Now. It was beautiful, quick, and a little frivolous.

I love stealing the neighbors unsecured wireless.

I had this little idea of writing a story about the end of the world. Well an end of the world type story. I thought of a character, female, who is my age, a student. Then there's social chaos. But really, it's a huge topic to grasp and attempt. At first the idea seemed perfect. I always find books about the apocalypse or the destruction of society interesting. So much for light reading though. After I finished How I Live Now I didn't feel so much like writing. Work drained me, and school had left me completely uninspired.

There was one line I had, about how it's funny that if you tried to imagine how a war would look you'd probably use metaphors involving the piles of rubble backhoes can leave, or the way that a hurricane can run through everything. That's not the right kind of mess. Really, the remnants of conflict are obscure and obscenely normal. Like the way that snowbanks in parking lots are pushed and pushed to mountainous limits and when they finally melt they leave behind thousands of tiny rocks, silt, and lots of things you would never think were there. Crushed canisters of film covered in muck, missing pieces to a lego set, mangled carts, wire hangers, fruit clenched in with rot. Those are the types of things that you would find. And the way it would look would be just like the snow that receded. It's all just left settling. This is not a landscape familiarity adheres to.

There's too much sadness in the idea. Not the regular kind of sadness, but the heavy sadness of having to realize everything is gone. Belongings, photographs, clothing, toys, books, possibly memories. Maybe I don't want to attach myself to such extreme discomfort by writing such desperation and feral survival. But then again, maybe I don't have a choice. This is the only stupid idea I've had in forever.

As a child I had an unnatural attachment to objects. I believed, moreover, felt, that everything was alive. That there was a soul in all things. I'm surprised I didn't become a first class hoarder. There's this home video of my when I was four while I sat in the tub. I looked at my mother and asked "Why do they throw dollies in the dump?". It's one of my earliest memories (other than when I was 3 and my father packed his things to leave for good). I can pinpoint the moment that I was affected. It was on sesame street. They were showing things like trucks and the inner workings of a city, when they did a small part on the garbage dump. I saw a doll in a mound of garbage. And that's when I knew I had to care for things, about them. Believe in them. That's when real life began, the realization that toys are thrown out.