First day of junior year, including one (1) instance of public humiliation and two (2) moments of panic and/or desperation

I’m cheating here by having my first REAL blog post be retroactive. There might be a few more of these, but I’ll do my best to leave my dorm regularly so I can have new material for you all. I know, such a giver.

After consulting my publicity team (a.k.a. the couple of my friends I begged to read my first blog post), I decided to go with an “open journal” format. So whenever I’m not drowning in schoolwork and/or stress crying, I’ll write about the latest ongoings in my ordinary life.

So, let’s talk about this year’s first day of school.

My first day of junior year happened on Wednesday, August 31. This is the first time I’ve been in the same college for the second year in a row because I transferred to my current university after freshman year. So I guess junior year is sort of like my sophomore year, except the exact opposite. Higher stakes, less free time, more sobbing. You get the gist.

Anyways, my first class of the day was an Intermediate Italian course at 9 a.m. It actually wouldn’t be that bad, but this is the first semester where I’m trying to balance 2 languages at once. And, in the early morning, my cognitive functions are not at their peak. The professoressa asked me a simple yes/no question, and instead of replying with an acceptable “”, I responded with an unacceptable “Ja.”

Ah, German. The language of love. It never fails to roll right off the tongue.

You may be thinking, Gillian, why are you taking two languages at once, when it’s clear that you’re not good enough at either to keep them separate? Because I’m a masochist. Next question.

Gillian, why are you taking German?

Because Italian didn’t fit into my schedule last semester and Russian looked too hard.

German and Italian have completely different origins, and I personally find German grammar easier, since it’s more akin to English. But Italian vocabulary is a lot more intuitive, especially if you’ve ever taken Spanish. However, I still can’t speak a lick of it besides, “Yo quiero un burrito.”

Ah, yes. Four years of high school Español and look how fluent I’ve become. My parents would be proud.

After my public humiliation in Italian, I went to my German class, which had a whopping total of 5 people. This number would drop by 40% the next day, as there aren’t many students who want to take the Intensive Intermediate level, which requires 7 hours of class a week and 2.5 hours of homework a night. I’m not even sure if I want to take the Intensive Intermediate level. But I already bought the textbooks, which have a no-return policy, so I guess my decision has been made.

After German, I showed up to an economics seminar I was interested in. There were too many students, so the class had to be lotteried. I later found out that I was one of the two or three that didn’t make the cut.

Psh. I don’t care that much. It’s not like I sent a cordial (read: desperate) e-mail to the professor. It’s not like I included a gif of the scene from the movie Up where the little kid’s standing outside the airborne house and begging, “Please let me in.”

Just for the record, I didn’t, but maybe if I did, the professor would’ve taken pity on me and I’d be enrolled in the course instead of procrastinating on doing the reading for another one.

Update: I just received an e-mail saying that I got off the waitlist. Disney was right. Dreams do come true.

Also, PSA: I never finished the reading for the other class, which I’m now no longer taking since I switched it out for the seminar. Procrastination can save lives, people.

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Kinda like Gilligan's Island but completely different.

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