• 0 Posts
  • 117 Comments
Joined 2 years ago
Cake day: July 2nd, 2023
  • foggy@lemmy.worldtoGeneral Discussion@lemmy.world•I can't set any routine, am always late for class, have a lot of missing quizzes/assignments, and I just suck.
    63·
    12 days ago

    For me getting ‘kick you out’ grades was enough to wake my ass up.

    What I did to pull myself out: stopped all drugs that weren’t marijuana and alcohol.

    Hard rule: no weed or alcohol until homework is done.

    Hard rule: front row of every class. Pay attention and ask at least one question every class.

    I walked to every class instead of relying I the bus. I’d get there 20 minutes early so I could sit in the front row. My walks were between 30 and 60 minutes depending on which campus I had to hoof it to, especially through winters.

    It’s a lot harder to fuck around on your phone or otherwise not pay attention if you have any normal conscience whatsoever in the front fucking row.

    This was enough to turn things around enough to keep my chin above water. Sometimes a big part of success is just showing up.

    But it sounds like that might not be enough, and if it isn’t (and you’re honest with yourself about not drinking and not smoking pot and actually going to class every day etc), then get a therapist.

    Motivation isn’t real. Discipline is the only reliable path. You got this.

  • foggy@lemmy.worldtopolitics @lemmy.world•Trump’s EV Rollback Could Cost Taxpayers $1 Billion
    6·
    13 days ago

    I put together a little short story about how I would like to see Donald Trump meet his demise. Drowning in eggs:

    The once-proud leader, now stripped of title and dignity, stands in the center of the barren, concrete abyss. The abandoned Olympic swimming pool—thirty feet deep, dry as bone—has become their final stage. Above, the gathered masses stretch in every direction, a writhing sea of anticipation.

    They do not jeer. They do not boo.

    They simply chant.

    “Eggs. Eggs. Eggs.”

    It starts as a murmur, a low thrum of human voices vibrating in unison. Then it grows, swelling into a deafening roar that rattles windows, that shudders in the bones of every person present. A chant as ancient as it is absurd, a single-minded invocation of punishment.

    The first egg arcs high overhead, tracing a lazy curve before splattering against the fallen leader’s shoulder. The yolk bursts, oozing down his baggy, ugly, now-useless suit. A streak of yellow, the first of many.

    Another egg. Then another.

    Then dozens.

    The first impacts make them flinch, stagger—hands raised in a futile shield. But soon there are too many to dodge, too many to deflect. They curl inward as the sky rains viscous judgment. The chant never stops.

    “Eggs. Eggs. Eggs.”

    Shells crack. Yolk drips. The scent of sulfur and shame thickens in the stagnant air. It coats their skin, their hair, their pride, turning them into something less than human. Something… egg-like.

    At the top of the pit, a child—no older than seven—steps forward. They hold their egg with both hands, cradling it like something precious. Reverent. With a deliberate motion, they lob it downward. It strikes the leader square on the forehead, exploding with an almost musical plap. The crowd erupts into a fresh crescendo of cheers, but the chant never falters.

    “Eggs. Eggs. Eggs.”

    No escape. No reprieve. The pit is smooth concrete, slick now with raw egg and humiliation. They can do nothing but stand there, endure, become part of the ritual.

    Somewhere in the throng, a vendor hawks boiled eggs. Another sells cartons to the unprepared. A man in a chicken suit waves encouragingly at the crowd.

    The night wears on, but the spectacle does not end.

    It cannot end.

    Not until the last egg is thrown. Not until the last voice is hoarse.

    Not until the world is rid of this one, failed leader, broken not by swords or exile, but by the inescapable weight of public yolk and scorn.

    “Eggs. Eggs. Eggs.”