Here's what they tell me.
|There's a 33% Chance That You Need Therapy|
I have a thirty three percent chance of needing therapy, eh? Hmmm..is that the same as saying that a good third of me is screwed up? Or are you to interpret that as saying that a have a thirty three percent chance of screwing up? They are not the same thing, mind.
If it is the former: well whaddaya know, two thirds of me is still normal. Or what is popularly perceived to be normal. Normal is kinda subjective, but for the sake of convenience(yes, I am a lazy bum), and brevity(correction, I am the poster girl of lazy bum), we will go with normal.
If it is the latter: This is slightly more worrying. Can we snowball this phrase into a future-telling corollary? As in, I am well on my way to screwing up in the near future? Taking into account the facts that that I am about to move two thousand one hundred and seventy eight kilometres away from home, and that even right here at home, I haven't had any problems, really, in screwing up either health or head, and last, that I am royally pessimistic when it comes to myself, I really wonder if it is all worth it.
Or maybe they're referring to the academics. Doesn't worry me; been there, done that.
But the options...hm.
When you are a walking(try falling, skidding, slipping) example of the things legendary klutzes are made of, you really begin to wonder if you shouldn't give up on college altogether and do the correspondence course thing. They even have that nifty video thing, where you get to sit at hawt Formica tables, elbow to elbow, wear these big clunky black headphones, and watch people giving you staticky lectures.
I wish I could grow out of this clumsiness, though. I want some grace, some smoothness, some polish(the next idiot who pops up with a Brasso joke at this point will regret it. I promise.).Inside a month, hopefully. I mean, a bedroom-to-kitchen journey usually involves two stubbed toes (one each on the doorpost and bed), and this, when the bedroom and the kitchen are ADJOINING ROOMS.
Save the applause.
So I have successfully begun a discussion(okay, okay, a dead boring monologue) on whether I need therapy, and converted it to a whine about my clumsiness.
With just a soupcon of college thrown in.
Darn, I must be bored.