Those exams where you get half way through, and and it dawns on you that, actually, you haven't got the faintest idea what's going on. So, of course, you do anything BUT concentrate on the exam. You know, colouring in the middley bits of the letters on the front of the paper, or tracing the lines of veins on your wrist, or quietly laughing to yourself in a slightly demented manner, whilst scribbling wildly on the tracing paper they so kindly shaved at us. Haha, I meant shoved. But shaved is better.
I spent the first half an hour of the exam actually doing some of the work (I know, scary. It even gave me the heebie jeebies), but by the time I'd got to question 10, I'd both run out of steam, and of ink in my pen. Why is it that just when I'm in full flow, the pen chokes and dies? I attempted to resuscitate it, but it's bloody difficult to give the kiss of life to a biro.
So, I decided that it was high time for me to give up the pretence that I was working, and spent the rest of the exam time flicking through the paper, "checking my work". Or, actually, counting the marks I will definitely get. Which was something like 23. Out of 100. Haha. And why does it amuse me so to keep putting my hand up, to ask the incarcerators (sorry, invigilators) for more paper, more tissues, a new pen, more tracing paper, and if they would marry me? They complied to all my requests, with an exception of more tracing paper. Kidding. They did give me the tracing paper. But I had to glare at them menacingly for ten minutes.
I then proceeded to write an essay on why I like tracing paper.
It was a very nice essay.
With five minutes till the end of the exam, I decided to waste some time finishing the paper. Why did I bother? I can no better prove why QR is parallel to OP than I can do thirty back flips and finish with a handstand (on one hand), whilst simultaneously knitting a pair of socks for Lauren's boyfriend's baby and juggling pineapples with my feet. With pink toe socks on. God, I'm a failure.
I don't even have pink toe socks. I haven't got a hope in hell.
9 comments:
WHERES THE BITS ON THE THREE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY FOUR HOURS OF FATI-CASSIE TIME?!?
Offended here.
I CAN'T BLOG ABOUT EVERYTHING, CHIPMUNK, I'D BE HERE FOR YEARS. But, for the record, today, I have been mostly sittin' in a tower room with Fati. And wearin' pastel colours. Please read the above with a Somerset accent for full effect.
i think that trees should have orange leaves.
i got 119/120 on the exam you blog about.
dont you just hate me?
CASSIE IS FIT. I find it VAIRR exiting that you have a blog, my felt tip lovin amiga, and i am going to read it with a fierce and fiendish loyalty. And was that a FAST SHOW reference?! nicely done my child xxxxxx
we hate you anyway
Wait, wait, wait. I'm confused.
Am I supposed to be hating?
Or hated?
And if you are going to pretend to be me, at LEAST use correct grammar, spelling and punctuation. I'd hate for you to be inauthentic.
OK, I will use proper use of the English language.
We do indeed HATE you, "Mr. I got 119/120 on my Maths GCSE a year early".
So fuck off, and stop posting on our blogs.
Hey, hey, hey, leave JoBo alone.
why am i being persecuted?
i agree with the evil version of you Cassie, the anonymous one is a smarmy git, and i hate people like that.
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