So, let us all take a trip down memory lane. In true, gloomy fashion.
It is January. I return from a wondrous winter break only to get bombarded with the most boring book known to man: the Odyssey. Actually, excuse me Homer, it is an “epic poem.” Poem, schmoem. It was downright terrible. I repeatedly daydreamed in that lit class about things like sweatshirts, televised tennis matches, and wood coasters. Because it was just. That. Boring.
It is February. On top of totally getting the shaft from Varsity tennis, I later discover that JV tennis is really, really hard when you play first singles. Frequent biology tests begin. At 9 o’clock on the 22nd I sit down for the final time to watch a new episode of my beloved. Sixty minutes later I am bawling. Like a baby. “It’s over! It’s over!” This continues for several minutes. I am crying so hard I can hardly breathe. I return to the basement to wallow in my tears and… finish my biology project? Are you kidding me? In this time of distress? On a happier note, I discover Patrick Park’s “Life is a Song,” which I will later decide will be played at my funeral. (Listen to it, please.) At the end of the month, I still have not won a darn tennis match. In fact, I have not won a tennis match in a very long time.
It is March. Biology gets increasingly worse (read: suckier). More of this crap continues.
It is April. I have a wonderful time in Chi-town, only to return home to several hours of (you guessed it!) biology homework. I am beginning to wonder just what the heck is wrong with this biology teacher? As biology tests begin to occur every Monday (not even kidding), I wear down the nerves in my fingers. I experience one night in which I study for at least 12 hours, in the same chair. I do not move. By the end of the night (morning now) I have a strange sensation in one of my left fingers due to heavy-duty pencil wear.
It is May. Even after taking the biology final early in May, I discover that this crap still does not end. I have to dissect a rat? Are you really serious? Of course, I do not touch it, but I still feel disgusting at the end of the day. Major yuck! In happier news, school does finally end, but I can hardly enjoy it, as I am suffering from a bad cold, which (fortunately) does enable me to discover the wonder of House. Gilmore Girls ends, and, although I am not an avid viewer, I appreciate it through the digital disc, and I am terribly sad. What do I watch now?
It is June. The best month of the year. I depart for three weeks. You will really love how I turn this story around, though. At the end of the three weeks, I am so sad. I have had a wonderful time, but I wish that I would have taken up the offer of going for six weeks. I feel deep, deep regret.
It is July. Sleeping hurts (yes, sleeping) on account of my new exercise routine that has left me sore in every part of the body. Worse, I have to begin my ridiculously boring summer reading books. How to Read Literature Like a Professor comes first. That’s boring—I don’t care what I previously said. Next is King Leopold’s Ghost, which is also boring, but the most interesting of all three.
It is August. After returning home from a sunny week in Florida, I have to start dumb Jane Eyre. Aside from being the most boring, pointless, ridiculously dull novels I have ever read (and I read every stupid page), it is also the longest. Needlessly longest at that. I only get one day to myself, no worries at all, before school starts. Except that I am worrying about school, so really, I have no carefree day.
It is September. I wonder what the heck is up with sophomore year. This stuff is easy. Except that I forget how to do math. Nevertheless, I am praising myself for signing up for regular chemistry. Gossip Girl, Chuck, and America’s Next Top Model begin. Unfortunately, I am not able to keep up with their weekly episodes. (See how I twist good things into bad things?)
It is October. I am really getting buried under a huge pile of depressing books. The Bell Jar to The Lord of the Flies to The Catcher in the Rye. What the heck is up, man? I do however rediscover the wonder of House in all of its multi-season glory.
It is November. I celebrate my birthday, but the reading continues. Now it is Brave New World, although it is the best book of the semester. Thanksgiving comes around. Everything rocks hard (foodwise).
It is December. I begin to watch The OC daily, and I fall in love all over again (although I have never really fallen out of love). I dig into Voltaire with Candide. Saleisha wins America’s Next Top Model? Are you seriously kidding me? Come on, Tyra! I have mostly rediscovered my inner math geek, but the gloom of finals and my failing iPod still worries me. Finals roll around. Not surprisingly (but at the time, very much unsettling), the lit final is the worst. Because who really remembers stuff from that long ago? Christmas break rolls around, as does Christmas and New Year’s Eve. All is well, and I have also rediscovered the pure genius that is Gilmore Girls. I also see quite possibly my favorite movie, Juno. However, all of the festiveness of the holiday season is mercilessly sucked out when I discover that Mischa Barton, my fave, despite her sometimes wooden acting, has been arrested for DUI, drug possession, and some other stuff. Why? Why?!
And so this is why 2007 was a bad, bad year. Don’t worry, I’m not crazy or incredibly depressed—I told you that I would not sugarcoat (although I may have charred or burned or whatever is the opposite of sugarcoat). But that is where all of this changes. I can now turn it around (like I so sneakily did previously) and say that it can only get better. 2008 has to rock in some way or another, although it’s not getting off to too great of a start. Eight hours of drivers ed for four straight days?! Are you kidding me?! Oh, here I go again.
Happy 2008, everyone. Here’s hoping that it rocks hard for you, and also that 2007 didn’t totally mess up your life story.