Conversations With My Father

My dad came to my door last night when I was half asleep and goes,

"How many credits are you taking?"

"Um...18," (do you not read the blog, father dear?)

"When is your estimated or actual date of graduation?"

"May 2010..."

"Okay. Good night."

It was an insurance thing. Which made way more sense in the morning.

Physiological psychology test? Just as bad as I thought it would be.

And now I'm a little bit sad and even a little bit more scared to check D2L for my grade because I really don't want to see it. Really, really not. It is significantly more difficult to bury one's head in the sand when you have a large red percentage glaring at you from your monitor.

Is that just my crazy?

And 1960s shouldn't go too well tomorrow, either, because I've totally blown off studying for that in favor of being so ridiculously well-prepared for psych that it KICKED MY ASS, so yeah.

I'm back to living in a box.

I am not amused. This is a ridiculous strike over nonexistent issues (Want to be a real writer? Try STARVING and BEING A WAITRESS.), and it pisses me off. Wait. Does this mean no CSI? No Pushing Daisies?

Oh.

My.

God.

No HIMYM.

*is dead*

I know!!! I'll write it!!! I was on the school newspaper for a semester and always get A's on my papers! And I certainly know the characters! Please, Powers that Be, let me write it!!!

ETA: I just thought of something. Maybe this is God's way of giving me more time for studying. In which case, they should have struck (struck? striked?) earlier, because now they're scheduled to run out of new episodes during Christmas break. Grr.