Despertar

chilly with a side of brrrr

Externship, I has one. Better to be early, on the first day, to practice and time the commute, or to run the risk of being late, thereby carving out a bad impression instantly? The latter, as it turns out; I got here at eight-seventeen for a nine o'clock start time, and now I'm sitting outside backspacing every other word with my numb fingers. Already, though, this isn't as bad as I thought it would be, despite a fairly ridiculous panic attack before bed last night. I got one pep talk from the boyfriend ("You're nervous because what? Because your suit jacket is too short? Sounds like you're stressing about entirely the wrong things") and one from the momfriend ("Just try not to whine like this when you get there, Shanny; you have gotten so whiny lately"), then spent the next two hours or so trying to fall asleep, and when I finally did, I dreamed about fucking up. All forms of fucking up; multiple points on the fucking-up spectrum. First overcooking a cake and then completely dropping the ball on a research assignment, and I woke up two hours early. Which, at the very least, eliminated any worry of oversleeping.

Confidence? Shot. Before this summer, or so, I had this inflated sense of my own ability; I figured that most things before me were, by default, more or less doable. Now it's exactly the opposite: I assume every task is impossible absent explicit, step-by-step instruction, and sometimes even with it, because I'm a bad listener, a bad writer, bad at compelling my own initiative, just bad.