Losing Time

I feel that University has began to crush me. There are so many things that I WANT to learn, this I feel are of such great importance for me, but for which I do not have the time. The essay my English teacher wants me to write is, frankly and in my view, sterile. Drop the name of the literary device, slop on the page number, "This means this now please give me a 4.0 or at least a 3.7". It's barbaric how readily the study of English encourages us to rape the intent of the author to fuel our own forced and contrived false convictions for the sake of appeasement. We need room to breathe! I never want to study English, I want to read and contribute. Read and Write. Do something or bask in another's life, deconstruction is action for no end BUT satisfaction. I begin a phrase with "This story made me feel very- " and my professor's eyebrows droop and sag in the anticipation of reason-less drivel. I tell myself to explore the world in the way he does, to write with a narrow mechanical field of drag-and-drop vision but my empathy for Joyce wins out in the end. I can't help but feel him rolling over in his grave, his motions more violent than those caused by the astronomical price of a pint on Stephen Avenue. If I were to ever accomplish something with my writing (and I don't have the strong desire to, the way I've been lead to the English language so far in my life), I would cry if a man told me he made his students study it. I think I would cry because unless he himself was a great man, my love would be lost. I am going to have a meeting with some English and Film studies higher ups and see if I can transfer my second semester English class to a writing class (and talk with some Drama higher-ups to see if they will accept writing as a BFA requirement). That'll give me some control, I hope.

Health wise I haven't been doing so well. I get these episodes where I can feel a putrid, horrible poison rotting in my gut and I begin to dry wretch so hard my ribs crack and my eyes tear. My vision blurs and I slump to the side. Walking is a struggle. And then it's gone. And then it's back. And then it's gone. Each cluster of episodes is flanked by extreme fatigue and an aching pain in my stomach - the whole process takes about three hours, with the worst condensed to a twenty minute period in the middle. I had a conversation with a girl in my class with Celiac Disease and my struggles seem to be similar to those she experienced before she was diagnosed. I've cut gluten out of my diet and it's fucking expensive but I've been fine.

I went to see a doctor and she said I had the flu, which made no sense because I was fine an hour and a half later. Her recommendation was no food for the rest of the day. I had spicy chicken (for the first time in weeks) and potatoes and I felt on top of the world. She blames the constant pains on me breaking my vegetarianism - that's not true. Had chicken again today and I feel comparatively stellar. She also thinks my stomach produces too much acid. Not true. I struggled with chronic heartburn in grades eight and nine. This, my friend, is no heart burn. I am not going to pay seventy dollars a month for your crazy anti-acid that isn't covered by my insurance. I can eat spicy vermicelli with clams and I'm fine. I can have crazy salad with banana peppers, olives, pickles, pickled onions and egg and I'll be 100% alright.

Hopefully I start to feel better on a gluten-free diet. I really don't want to be gluten-intolerant but if it gives me a way to avoid incapacitating sickness I have no complaints. I've already lost enough time to sleep and solitary miserable torpors.

Time to go over all the French I missed. I have an accent that native French-speakers can understand with no difficulty but my grammar and vocabulary are falling behind.