Mood: Growlie, dammit.
Music: The beginning of Puentes Spanish lab CD (see below)
Mind: Finger go boom.

I hate you. I hate everything.

I especially hate anything related to the Spanish language. It was a rotten mistake to take college-level Spanish when I could have fought my way through one more year of Latin. I stll kind of remember which is the subjunctive and the genitive and the ablative, or whatever the heck it was. I do remember singing a song in there about the firs declension, but I don't remember how the song goes. In general, my ability to learn a foreign language is roughly equitable to Don King's chances of solving the Unified Theory. Even if, by sheer luck, he were able to do it, the end result would be so back-ass-wards that Albert friggin' Einstein couldn't make sense of it.

But, see, I screwed up. I decided to attempt el Espanol. Not once. Not twice, but FOUR damn classes in order to graduate. And I waited until the last minute to do it. The result is that, walking into my last semester at The University, I was three classes behind on Spanish. In an act of self-imposed torture, I opted to fight through two of the classes this semester, save one for the summer, and graduate three months late in August.

I can thank Dr. Peter Cash for forcing nose to grindstone here. See, I decided that my second act of self-betrayal would be to track down one professor teaching both classes I wanted to take this semester. That professor was one Dr. Peter Cash, who is an all-around asshole who saves his reputation by actually Teaching. It's a shame that he was ousted from the university at the end of this semester, because I wanted to put Paul through the same torture I'd been through.

Anyway, back on track here ... Dr. Cash decided to amend the syllabi for both classes to disclude one test and up the value of everything else we do in there. That's fine and dandy. But he also decided to schedule tests for both classes on the same day. Yea. Evil death. Burn in hell. Spanish is the language of the Devil, err, El Diablo. And El Diablo spake with a forked tongue and said: "Screw you, Kate. You will pass by the skin on the skin of your teeth."

So now I cram. I forget everything I knew last week. I attempt to absorb knowledge by osmosis. I must learn five chapters, quickly. I must sort through direct and indirect objects and pronouns, and past progressive and present subjunctive and a kajillion and one irregular verbs.

I must learn everything about: Food (Puentes 4), Student Life (Puentes 5), Vacation and Fun (Puentes 7), Childhood Memories (Dos Mundos 9), Travel, Transportation and Climate (Dos Mundos 10), and Shopping (Dos Mundos 13, which isn't really a chapter at all).

And in the process of cramming, I sliced my fingertip while trying to cut index cards to make vocabulary flashcards. I'm not talking like a little cut, either. I sliced through my fingernail, and through the pad on the other side. It's pretty much what happens when you sharply close a pair of sharp scissors squarely onto your finger.

I seriously thought I was going to have to go get stitches. But I threw on a couple of Bandaid-brand Bandaids, and I am waiting to see what it looks like tomorrow.

It's throbbing like hell. It hurts to type, and well, I can't even hold the scissors anymore. But for one moment of blinding pain, I actually thought I'd cut off the tip of the nose of El Diablo.

And that, my friends, is all the vengeance I need. Adios!