I invented a very intellectual joke just now.
What do you get when you cross asphalt roads, massive mediums of transportation (like..uh..200okg, probably?), and Physics?
A blank paper caused by blanked minds, of course.
I'm very much assuming that this is what most of my batchmates can describe for that sixth page of that Physics exam from hell. It was really that bad and hard, actually. While tinkering my brain for the right formula I can use to find that stupid acceleration, I was also thinking of the right thing to blame as the culprit that is very much inducing the sudden blackout of my mind. Blame it on the fact that I crammed our investigatory project. Blame it on my lack of sleep for the past few days. Blame it on my country's political and economical crisis. Blame it on my obesity. Blame it on my pubic hairs. Blame it on the fact that I did not study painstakingly for my favorite subject.
Akon's right. BLAME IT ON ME.
Right after the exam, people started whining, shouting, asking questions to this and that. Me? I just laughed heartily. You know, that laugh Santa Claus makes when he's high with this special drug he created, which is a combination of Tylenol, valium, coke, vicodin, and a bit of Rudolph's red nose. For some unknown reason, everything seemed to be so funny. It's as if I sniffed some of Santa's drug myself.
I was reading through different blog entries concerning the deadly Physics exam last night and most of them had the same reaction that I had. Funny. And weird. Some were asking how the hell do you get the frictional force when there's no applied force nor a frictional coefficient given. Some were even asking if we can sue our Physics teacher for making a word problem that none of us can even solve. How..absurd.
I'll fail Physics. For sure. And to think that I told my dad that I deserve a DSLR for Christmas because of my grades this year. I will day on Christmas Day.
I shall do my daily monologue here. So please. Skip this part.
The final velocity of the car should be 0, because it stopped after 5 seconds. To find the acceleration, you then have to subtract 15 from 0, then dividing the by-product by 5. Doing this will result to an acceleration/deceleration of -3m/s/s. Find the weight of the car by multiplying its mass by the gravitational constant 9.8. Find the normal force by multiplying mass by the acceleration we got earlier, then add it to the weight. Since the car slided after stopping, it is evident from there that there is no friction between the car's wheels and the stupid asphalt road. And with this, you automatically have no frictional force. Therefore, no frictional coefficient.
I suck harder than ever.
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I was surprised when I saw my name on that little box below the editorial article in the recent issue of Pauliworld. It was more of surreal, really. If you've been reading my life for the past couple of months, you'll then know why.
As far as I can remember, I never attended any meetings called by the school paper EVER, except for that first meeting that very much resembled the school's first day of classes; people greeting each other, congratulating, and garbling out questions. Luckily, the school paper is nowhere near the school jungle. You can quit if you think you can't handle the pressures being offered right in your face.
Apparently, that's what I exactly did. Since then, every freakin' time someone would mention Pauliworld, my heart would skip a beat. It's like I killed the editor-in-chief, or smashed those machines that are used to publish the school paper. Knowing myself well enough, that's the feeling that I would usually get for doing something inappropriate and uncanny. Like cheating for the Physics exam, or deflowering myself using a used candle.
So yeah. You can just imagine my ghastly reaction when I saw my typographically-errored last name encoded in that green box. Taragas, huh? That's probably kismet's way of letting my remorse out for deciding to quit this unparalleled chance of writing for the school paper. How mature. I typically get insults like that from 3rd graders, and even those kids think that playing with my last name is the least thing they'll do.
Well, all of it probably comes with the package anyway. With a very mundane and inexplicable name, I cannot think of any good reason why someone would pronounce or even spell it right. I'll just blame my dad for his futile attempt to give her first child the most princess-y name ever this time.
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Love(and that guy who broke my heart) is like my addiction to Coke. No matter how I try to avoid it, it will all just end up on it again. The more you think about it, the more your mind and body hungers for it. Maybe there's still cocaine left in Coke. But for love? I don't know. Maybe it's all in the infatuation dopamine and norepinerephine and fucking endorphin gives.
You don't really have to get the surrealism. Nor the idea.
Forgive me. I don't really know where the hell this mawkishness is coming from. My current lethargy is not much of a help for me to forget stuffs. Stuffs that are....stupid.
You get the abstract.
What you can do is pop my blackheads and invent a new dish out of the pasta-like substance that comes out and defeat the culinary master out of Wolfgang Puck.
Oh well.
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