let lemons be angry

The picture in the background is The Kiss by Gustav Klimt. Something tells me i want to take art history in university, if just to continue being amazed by the link between politics and war and art and psychology. I still don't know what i want to do. It's the same question of the Big Unknown Future, except that now i can't run away from the responsibility i have over it.
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When i saw mr tai in class i was afraid he'd discover all my dark little mischiefs: my bad maths, my torn-out textbook, my huge pencil workings, my doodles, my lack of done homework. I'd been so comfortable in these habits under mr ho. I didn't know whether to mention my wanting to drop maths. I'd told mr ho i wanted to drop maths at every single lesson. Maths would have been unbearable if mr tai wasn't born funny. I suspect he can't read, or that he has trouble recognising certain alphabets. He read my name as "judith", and every time "garden" appeared in a particular question he read it as "window". Window? Window? But it made up for things and fed my need for humour.
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I keep bumping into the cat boy. I recognise him by his hair and his spectacles, which are black and half-rimmed. There's an awful scream that knots my stomach when i see him, because i keep remembering the things i'd said. Out-of-body words, they must have been. Arghh. Like "you must promise me you'll go to the shop and get the proper things!" and "can you please just put them back?" and general following him around in thick-skinned nosiness. "You must promise me"? Why did i say that? Note to self: never bump into him again. I can't promise i won't, though, and i can't promise i won't go fighting for the rights of animals again. So, edited note to self: tell cat boy how we continued his story. That'll make things better. And if he becomes the prime minister, as my mother keeps saying with morbid glee, i'll have a better life for it.
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Mr Liew is leaving at the end of march. I will have no art teacher. If only i could perfect a little psychotic laugh that i could use every time i said that. I will have no art teacher. (cue in madwoman's giggle) I'm trying to believe that i will make it without a teacher. I can imagine weekly art history lessons in njc feeling small and unintelligent among the aep students. There's a pattern here. Mr Ho and mr liew were the two un-teachers. They let me have free reign over classes, and i was so lucky. I should have known that wouldn't last forever. I'll have no more un-teachers, and back i will go into the land of guided academia.
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If i looked at my life convinced that this was all there was to my life, i'd cry everyday. But no, i don't believe that. There's a point to the failure and the mounting homework and the uncertainties. And those things are just little parts of my life. There's something greater that i'm living for and learning. That brings me to this: I've learnt a lot from Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being, my latest attachment. If some medfac people (and otherfac people) are set on closing their minds to anything out of the boundaries of the syllabus, for the purpose of only studying what is useful for the stupid exams, even for GP, which they are convinced they will mug for, and will close their minds to av sessions and exposure to world issues they find no point to, why how i pity them.
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I write for the same reason that i talk to myself. We sound like freaks, we said at the end of our nice conversation on friday. But without the writing, without the talking to an invisible camera, without my imaginary friends, i would go crazy.