I have never been this stressed out.
OK, I take that back.
I HAVE been this stressed out before, but I've conveniently blocked all former periods of anxiety from my mind, repressed it deep down inside where it will never bother me again (points if you can recognise the Simpsons episode with that quote).
It's like childbirth. If women remembered the horrendous, terrible pain, we'd all be only children. And if we could properly recall the horrendous, terrible pain of bi-annual exams there'd be nobody enrolled at universities.
Except for that irritating know-it-all who seems to pop up in at least one of my classes (whether it be English or Law) every semester, and who would probably happily camp in the law library cuddling all five editions of Australian Real Property Law to soothe himself to sleep with sugarplums and legislation dancing in his head.
And no, I'm not at all bitter with having to put up with him in my tutorial this semester. Nooooo, not at all.
My exams this year are Spanish (oral and written), Torts, and Property Law.
Property Law has a 30%-40% failure rate.
My tutor explained this in a cruel and matter-of-fact fashion in my first tutorial.
And she wasn't exaggerating.
And I am VERY far behind in everything. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGGGGGH.
Not to mention the Spanish film essay that has to be done with a partner. And we couldn't get the film we wanted today in reserve so we ended up watching this black-and-white 1961 film called Viridiana which one critic called "the ultimate feelbad film" of all time.
So not only was I slightly DEPRESSED at watching the nun get almost-raped for 91 minutes on a small TV with MONO SOUND, I also had a major headache.
Now I have to write 1500 words on it. Relating it to Franco's regime.
And submit a short story with an exegesis of the writing process next week.
And do the cultural test.
And try to not fail my third year first semester of law.
And for once, coffee has failed to calm my nerves.
Oh sweet, sweet caffeine, why hast thoust forsaken me?!
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Bleeding Love
It has come to my attention that along with that dude from One Republic, Jesse McCartney was also responsible for penning Bleeding Love.
I am...not exactly fond of Bleeding Love.
I am possibly the only person on the continent who is not in love with that song, but to me it's just four minutes of a continuous, unchanging percussive beat with Leona Lewis wailing over the top. About her heart. Bleeding. Over and over again. And I get grossed out every time I hear the song because of these particularly graphic lines:
"My heart's crippled by the vein that I keep on closing/you cut me open and I/keep bleeding."
Keep, keep bleeding.
She keeps bleeding love. Or so the girl claims. From watching three seasons of House I'm pretty sure that if you cut a vein open blood comes out. Otherwise we'd just have love transfusions instead of a blood bank and they're be none of this O/A/B blood type stuff. Unless of course, everyone had certain TYPES of love that they could only accept in their veins, so say, you couldn't transfer maternal love to a patient who needed an urgent transfusion of unrequited love.
(Sometimes I think too much.)
Anyway, back to the Song-of-Much-Gruesomeness, I also realised that she makes a pun in the first verse:
Closed off from love
I didn't need the pain
Once or twice was enough
And it was all in vain
In 'vain'. Get it? Hah hah hah. Oh, Ms Lewis, you joker, you.
Still, I was shocked to hear that Jesse McCartney co-wrote it. As if I couldn't find enough reasons to bag out the pre-pubescent, helium-voiced lad.
And for me, the credibility of Bleeding Love sank even lower when I heard that little tidbit of information.
This blog post was also a good way for me to get all that Bleeding Love frustration out of my system, because when I was in New Zealand they were very fond of playing it. And when I got back to Australia it had somehow hijacked every radio station and every single work shift I was forced to listen to it until I wanted to scream. And then I'd turn on the radio when I got in the car and THERE IT WOULD BE.
And that's when I gave up radio and started listening solely to my own mix CDs.
Oh, and just in case you were having a nice evening, I am now going to ruin it for you by linking to Jesse McCartney's very own hideous helium-voiced version of his LET'S-REACH-FOR-THAT-BATHROOM-RAZOR song:
Listen to the horror.
I am...not exactly fond of Bleeding Love.
I am possibly the only person on the continent who is not in love with that song, but to me it's just four minutes of a continuous, unchanging percussive beat with Leona Lewis wailing over the top. About her heart. Bleeding. Over and over again. And I get grossed out every time I hear the song because of these particularly graphic lines:
"My heart's crippled by the vein that I keep on closing/you cut me open and I/keep bleeding."
Keep, keep bleeding.
She keeps bleeding love. Or so the girl claims. From watching three seasons of House I'm pretty sure that if you cut a vein open blood comes out. Otherwise we'd just have love transfusions instead of a blood bank and they're be none of this O/A/B blood type stuff. Unless of course, everyone had certain TYPES of love that they could only accept in their veins, so say, you couldn't transfer maternal love to a patient who needed an urgent transfusion of unrequited love.
(Sometimes I think too much.)
Anyway, back to the Song-of-Much-Gruesomeness, I also realised that she makes a pun in the first verse:
Closed off from love
I didn't need the pain
Once or twice was enough
And it was all in vain
In 'vain'. Get it? Hah hah hah. Oh, Ms Lewis, you joker, you.
Still, I was shocked to hear that Jesse McCartney co-wrote it. As if I couldn't find enough reasons to bag out the pre-pubescent, helium-voiced lad.
And for me, the credibility of Bleeding Love sank even lower when I heard that little tidbit of information.
This blog post was also a good way for me to get all that Bleeding Love frustration out of my system, because when I was in New Zealand they were very fond of playing it. And when I got back to Australia it had somehow hijacked every radio station and every single work shift I was forced to listen to it until I wanted to scream. And then I'd turn on the radio when I got in the car and THERE IT WOULD BE.
And that's when I gave up radio and started listening solely to my own mix CDs.
Oh, and just in case you were having a nice evening, I am now going to ruin it for you by linking to Jesse McCartney's very own hideous helium-voiced version of his LET'S-REACH-FOR-THAT-BATHROOM-RAZOR song:
Listen to the horror.
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