21* Blood on my hands

Today was, in a word, soul-crushing. And screw you, because hyphens count as one word. Anyway, I'd have to make it two words: utterly soul-crushing.

I don't have the emotional strength to deal with Mitrovica early in the morning. I just can't stomach him any longer. I want to smash his face. First day back and I walked out of that class feeling like shit. I wonder if he has a vendetta against me. Like if he reads this blog and resents how much energy I spend ragging on him. Wouldn't that be embarassing! I don't know how I'd feel about that. If that's the case I'd much rather not know he's out there. It's always the worst for me to find out suddenly that someone has access to this blog. Then again, what's so important here: people just look for the references to themselves. Nobody honestly cares what I was doing on June 3rd 2005.

Anyway, my insane little head went and blew everything out of proportion after learning y marks on the midterm assignments. I can't escape this swamp of mediocrity he's got me in. His lessons, apparently, are doing nothing for me despite my constant attempts to be good and follow his ridiculous little "rules." I tried, with the metaphors and the short sentences and the setting the scene, but it wasn't good enough for him. He didn't even seem to pick any real problems out. It was just not noteworthy. He says, "make sure to read the notes," and I ask exactly what I am supposed to derive from the occasional "good phrase!" or "wrong word!" Ridiculous. Yet it amounts to a 70.

I feel like I can give him what he wants. In fact, I was pretty sure I had, and he did little to disprove that. It's just not enough for him, and it never will be. It goes beyond being a typical "hard marker." Guthrie was a hard marker. Mitrovica is a... well, I'd better stop there, in case he actually does read this. Like I need more grief from him.

The point is, I inevitably took this much too harshly. I started thinking about the futility of trying to please a man who is never going to give me a good mark, yet has never said a substantially negative thing about my work. That got me to thinking how hard it is to wrok as a writer. I inevitably reached the conclusion that I have no future. That's my line of thinking. It always reaches some ridiculous conclusion. There were a few hours today when I just couldn't understand what I was trying to do anymore. I still don't, but I'm better now. But it's going to be just as bad tomorrow. And probably every day until the end of the year.

I'm writing on the newspaper right now. Somehow, I foolishly volunteered to be news. And as such, I ended up with a story that isn't really a story, since both the potential angles for the story were stripmined and auctioned off to other writers, I got the basic concept but absolutely no leads. I have nothing. I'm expected to deliver by friday, and I don't even know where to begin and where I'm supposed to go with it. I'll just have to do my best.

By the way, the title of today's post is quite literal, as I got home after Mitrovica's class and found that I literally had blood all over my hands. It didn't make any sense, because I didn't feel anything and there weren't any wounds of any kinds. There was a slit on my right index muscle, indicating the source, but I have no idea what happened, if anything. My theory is that I blanked out, punched Mitrovica into unconsciousness in a blind rage, and then resumed sight while on my way home, not remembering the incident. It just doesn't hold much water. There was a smear of blood on my laptop as well.

Instead of work in Electronic Publishing, I played Family Feud on Uproar. Kinda fun, but occasionally frustrating when you don't get a good question.

So that's my sad song for today. I've rebounded from an immense fit of self-doubt today and the fact that I don't feel like the saddest little boy in the world as of this post should count for something. I actually feel all right for now, but the spectre looms large.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto