I hate studying.

Maybe quitting university and going to work full-time for the rest of my life, without any significant education, wouldn’t be so bad. At least it would save me from having to write an essay on whether “Horrors-among-the-hollyhocks and a sanitized sense of evil” is an agreeable statement about Agatha Christie’s Poirot-novel The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Hollyhocks are, by the way, a kind of flower, brought to Europe from Asia in the 16th century.

How would life as a proletarian work out for me?

I did have to quit one of my previous jobs in a nursing home due to my arms; I have recurring carpal tunnel syndrome in both arms. So working in the health-care-system is basically out of the question. I have recently started working as a waitress at a restaurant, and a bartender at a bar. Both of which I like, but it’s basically only night-time jobs, and that doesn’t work out well with my plans of having a family with 16 kids and a couple of canines. Also: Both of these jobs involve a lot of carrying, pouring and other activities to make my arms hurt.

The biggest problem is this: I know what I want. I want to teach. And that can’t be done without studying. And so I’m stuck writing about the horrors among the hollyhocks, and other terrible tales.

This was brought to you, once again, by the queen of procratination.

(Upon trying to add the tag “University” the bar suggested unicorn. This made me happy, so I kept it.)

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