DON'T CARE.

It really is disgusting how much I don't care about...well, everything that constitutes my life these days.

Let's start with school. Last Friday I had a paper due. That Thursday, I ran into a friend at the library who happens to have the same class. This was (roughly) our exchange:

L: "Ohmygod, how are you doing on that paper for Judy? I've been working on it since this weekend! Did you meet with her about your thesis?! Because I did on Monday and she totally shot me down I'll be up all night revising, and it says on the syllabus she wants two literary journals and my sources are books do you think that's okay? And I think she's going to rape this paper because sherapedmylastoneandtheexamwasreallyreallyhardandohmygodIdon'tknow WHAT I'M GOING TO DOOOOO!!" (veins popping out of neck; Tiffany necklace shaking)
MLA: ....ummm, I'll start it...soon. Yeah. See ya later.

Proceeded to write paper. It was six pages long with a works cited. I went to the library mid-writing, found two random photograph books from the Vietnam war and tied them into my paper. Was done by 10 PM. Completely disjointed, existential bullshit; however, it was original so I'm hoping that'll earn me some brownie points.

That same Friday, I had a completely pointless presentation to give in my completely pointless sophomore-level writing class that I inexplicably need to graduate. I am an English major in 400-level literature classes. Something tells me that I already know how to write an argument and don't need to give a presentation to prove that. I really hate this course. My apathy is palpable.

Class meets/project due at 10:10 AM. I roll out of bed into a t-shirt and the same sweatpants I've been sporting for three days straight and meander to class, making sure to slide my pride-and-joy Vietnam paper under the prof's door on the way up. Upon walking in the room, I notice that everyone except for one of my group-mates is dressed up. And I'm not talking khakis - like, "I'm going to an interview for my big-kid job pencil-skirts-stilettos-and-cufflinks dressed up." I flop into my seat, exchange amused glances with the other sweatpants student and "prepare" for my presentation. Everyone else has notecards and laser pointers. I have zero shame.

Holy mackerel. People who work that hard at school make me very anxious. I try not to spend too much time around them. I can't even fathom the effort that must go into worrying at that scale. School is really not that difficult, and at this point I feel like you should understand what professors do and do not care about. For example, they generally are not going to factor personal style into your GPA, nor are they going to simply count the pages of the paper you turned in and give you a 12/12. No. That is not how things work.

It's hard for me not to physically stop and admire the displays of effort put on by my fellow co-eds. Their pants are ironed, their bags coordinate and their furrowed, worried faces are perfectly made-up. They come to class ten minutes early to discuss their impecably-formatted papers with EXACTLY five textual examples, just like it says on the rubric. They ask every question imaginable. They study in groups for seven hours at the library. I wear the same nine t-shirts and pair of jeans and sneakers over and over and over, listen in class, write what I think and turn it in. I do what I want, and it somehow still continues to work for me. Maybe I should market my "DON'T CARE" study plan and become a millionare. Thoughts?