In the ominous minutes before the prof passed out the papers, St. Bride #2 and I got to admitting our nervousness to each other. I happened to mention, not untruthfully, that orals have a propensity to suck any semblance of coherence out of my words and any semblance of intelligence out of my mind.

"But you’re an actress!" she countered, as if that had any effect on my prowess at public speaking.

Point one: I’m not an actress. Point two: even if I was, I doubt it would make English orals any easier.

"That’s entirely different," I told her. "Onstage, I’m someone else and all I have to worry about is characterization. Here, I’m no one... does that make sense?"

She shook her head. "Nope."

"Oh. Well."

"Anyway," she continued, "once you do the writing part, you’ll have your lines in front of you and all you’ll have to do is say them."

Easier said than done, honeypot. A few minutes later, I found myself staring down at a fragment of a Grecian urn. The last two stanzas, to be exact. Easy enough. At least it seemed that way, considering the number of papers I’ve written about the boy. So I scribbled for twenty minutes and forced the words into a fairly distinguishable structure that I thought seemed manageable and concise. Maybe it actually was; I doubt anyone could tell through all the stuttering. Such was my oral, without which I never would have undergone my first-ever panic attack and made an absolute nincompoop of myself.

I know Keats. For a time, I let him pitch a tent in a corner of my mind in order to save myself the trouble of jumping between sources. I can spout tripe about the real, the ideal, and negative capability until the proverbial cows come home. And so on. Point is, I’m not ignorant about him. I just can’t talk about him to save my life, though by rights it shouldn’t be any trouble at all.

If this is senioritis, I’d rather be a lackey. This time of year is never very appealing... how did I deal with it last year? Oh. I started a diary. Right. Hard to believe its been over a year since I set up shop in the old place.

Lovely month, March. Always full of last-second saves, Planning For The Future, and the imminent promise of the real spring workload lurking around the corner (surrounded by daffodils and cheerfully chirping robins, no less). And, por supuesto, plenty of opportunities for feeling Not Good Enough, and therefore angsting. Not that I ever indulge in such things, you understand, but I’ve noticed the trend on occasion.

In other news, I’ve been graced with the presences of all of the above. The paralysis has been dropping in more frequently; on account, not even sleep is looking like a pleasant option at this point. And now I feel vaguely like an emotional wreck, which is beyond irritating. As far as human emotions go in general, I’ve always been able to take them or leave them. And as far as orals go, I’ve always been able to stumble through them without suffering anything more than a flushed face and a faint lightheadedness. Oh yes, and I like stoicism. I cried twice last year, neither time in public; as far as good ol’ 2002 goes, I’ve already filled my quota and humiliated myself more than I care to admit.

I don’t know what’s managed to infiltrate my mind this time, but it isn’t mine and it has to go.

The prof wants me to redo the oral on Monday. Not, she says, because she feels sorry for me, but because she knows I can do better. I’m not sure whether to feel comforted, patronized, or to simply toss the whole matter over my shoulder and go read a book.

I picked up my cap and gown today. They’re white.

The TOK prof had everyone in class mention a talent they possessed that "couldn’t be measured in grades." That was rather interesting, I honestly think he noticed my presence for the first time this year.

And it seems that if one views capital punishment liberally and free trade conservatively, one had best keep one's mouth shut unless one enjoys being lynched. I'm no more fond of debates than I am of orals. Bleh.

Adieu.