Okay. Crappy start to a crappy day. I found out today through Early Evaluation from Wellesley College that "unlikely" will I be join their 2015 class. LAME. That's okay, Wellesley wasn't my first choice. My first choice is Barnard, but now I'm incredibly worried because Barnard is more selective than Wellesley and I can't even get into Wellesley. So, I'm wishing, hoping, praying that the reason Wellesley rejects me is because I am not the right fit, which I am for Barnard! Please, please, please let me get in.
I was worrying all evening; I couldn't do homework; I just surfed College Confidential, looking for someone to say, "Oh, Barnard? What's that? An all-girl school? Eww. Even living in New York is not worth going to a girl school. That school is so easy to get in because nobody applies there." Nobody did say that, unfortunately. Somebody did say, however, to stop stressing because I did all that I could and now it is out of my hand.
Good things come to those who waits. Well, I'm waiting. I'm waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting, and I'm sick of waiting. I want to go and get it myself, but I don't have the means to do it. To acquire the means to do it, I have to wait for a bit longer. Well, I hate waiting. I am terrible at waiting.
M. Brucker from English class got kicked out because he didn't show up to class; Mlle. Johnston's crush turns her off because she realizes how much of an asshole he is.
My God, please excuse my French. I don't know why, but I currently find the word "ass" very attractive and fun to say. Like, "that's a huge-ass bird" and "that's a French-ass name, Yvonne." I need to stop cussing so much. It is not at all lady-like. To do that, I have to stop hanging out with Mlle. Hatfield and Johnston. They both use terms like "whore" and "slut" as endearment. Well, more Mlle. Hatfield than Mlle. Johnston, but Mlle. Hatfield uses "hon" and "sweetie", soshit stuff cancels out.
I called Mme. McElroy today to reschedule our weekly piano lessons to have her daughter pick up the phone and informing me that her mother had taken a turn for the worse and probably would not be teaching anymore; she couldn't even talk. It's really sad. I won't say I hope she gets better because I've been saying it every since her body hinted at being cancerous, so it obviously doesn't work. God, I feel so horrible because my brother and I would get really happy whenever she called and canceled our lessons because of her bad back or funky health.
I was worrying all evening; I couldn't do homework; I just surfed College Confidential, looking for someone to say, "Oh, Barnard? What's that? An all-girl school? Eww. Even living in New York is not worth going to a girl school. That school is so easy to get in because nobody applies there." Nobody did say that, unfortunately. Somebody did say, however, to stop stressing because I did all that I could and now it is out of my hand.
Good things come to those who waits. Well, I'm waiting. I'm waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting, and I'm sick of waiting. I want to go and get it myself, but I don't have the means to do it. To acquire the means to do it, I have to wait for a bit longer. Well, I hate waiting. I am terrible at waiting.
M. Brucker from English class got kicked out because he didn't show up to class; Mlle. Johnston's crush turns her off because she realizes how much of an asshole he is.
My God, please excuse my French. I don't know why, but I currently find the word "ass" very attractive and fun to say. Like, "that's a huge-ass bird" and "that's a French-ass name, Yvonne." I need to stop cussing so much. It is not at all lady-like. To do that, I have to stop hanging out with Mlle. Hatfield and Johnston. They both use terms like "whore" and "slut" as endearment. Well, more Mlle. Hatfield than Mlle. Johnston, but Mlle. Hatfield uses "hon" and "sweetie", so
I called Mme. McElroy today to reschedule our weekly piano lessons to have her daughter pick up the phone and informing me that her mother had taken a turn for the worse and probably would not be teaching anymore; she couldn't even talk. It's really sad. I won't say I hope she gets better because I've been saying it every since her body hinted at being cancerous, so it obviously doesn't work. God, I feel so horrible because my brother and I would get really happy whenever she called and canceled our lessons because of her bad back or funky health.
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