August 23, 2012

In high school, I did all of my homework.  If I had a lot to do and I had to stay up late to do it, I stayed up late.

Getting good grades was important to me.  I’m not sorry that I was a good student, and I know that I had to do the work that I did to be able to be one.

I could never feel good without doing my homework and studying for tests, so I did those things.  I was always happy on the few days out of the school year when I didn’t have a lot of homework to do, when I only had to spend a couple of hours on it instead of my average which was 4 or 5 without fail by the time that I was in my 3rd year.

I remember one night when I got home and realized that I had left a book that I needed to do homework for one of my classes in my locker.  The school was closed by the time that I realized that I didn’t have the book.

I wasn’t glad that I couldn’t do my homework for that class, but it was nice to get a break.

I don’t like writing about what I’ve been writing about most of the time for the past going-on-three years.  It’s upsetting material.  It’s worse than doing my homework used to be.  At least doing my homework didn’t involve me constantly reading, looking at, taking pictures of and writing about things that I found horrifying and that made me angry and sad.

Even when I painstakingly plan everything that I’m going to write online, which I didn’t do yesterday, the progress that I make is discouragingly slow, because the other side is bigger than I am and doesn’t want to stop doing what it’s doing.

I never wanted to be writing about any of this.  If they weren’t doing what they’re doing, I wouldn’t have to write about it; that’s how I’ve thought about it from the beginning, which is part of the reason that I get as angry with them as I do.  There are too many other things that I would rather be doing with my time than documenting the conglomerate’s behavior to number them.

Copyright L. Kochman, August 23, 2012 @ 10:18 a.m.