I have a problem. I’m kind of a perfectionist, but only in the small confines of school and my weight. And once I get out of the swing of either, the perfectionist in me subsides. The two together form a force even I can’t understand or reckon with.

In high school, I saw school as a joke. The busy work was agonizing and a waste of my time. The papers could be easily bullshitted and studying, I had no idea how to do it. I graduated the exact middle person in my class of 400. So when I left for UNC-G, the plan was to make a 3.8 my first semester. I did and with great ease, so as I transferred I said “forget the 3.8 plan, we’re going for 4.0.” Semester after semester, I got my 4.0. Sophomore year I set out to be the valedictorian. I dreamed of giving a speech full of cynicism and cleverly hidden innuendos. Junior year smashed those dreams when I was informed my school doesn’t have valedictorians, just Outstanding Seniors. I pushed out the last semester of junior year and summer school and said, “fuck it, I’ll just go for Outstanding Senior and be number one.” Yesterday, I saw my plan deteriorating.

You see, behind all of these straight A semesters is a stressed out perfectionist, who can’t get a B. Not now. Not after all this work. Every fall semester, I have my mental breakdown mid to late October, where I realize I haven’t been giving it my all and if I don’t shape up, I’m getting a B. In the Spring this happens late March. I panic, yelling at myself, screaming, “What the fuck have you been doing all this time?” I go out and dye my hair, eat something fattening, make a mess out of my room, black out and come out of it ready to beast out the last of the semester. It happens every semester like clockwork. I expect it. I rely on it.

This year, mine came early. I’ve never juggled school (fifteen hours worth), twenty hours of work, a strict workout schedule (self-imposed) and homework before. People do it all the time, but it’s new for me and I’m not handling it well. We’re only a month in and I’m stressed out and completely behind.

I left the library last night around midnight after working on a study guide for a upcoming test with a friend of mine. I climbed the steps of my dark, silent house talking to Doorman. I climbed into my computer chair and saw that the professor for my on-line reporting class had graded our more recent stories. I excitedly clicked through Blackboard as Doorman complained about the economy and I nodded along. I opened the grade page and there staring straight at me was another 83 for a story I had written. Two B’s in a row, two low B’s for a class basically based off of five reporting story grades. I cut off Doorman, immediately screaming, “this is bullshit! I don’t get fucking B’s!” This started my fit of rage. He told me it was no big deal, I still had time and that B’s were okay. When I start getting this angry, I kind of blackout in it. I just went off, “I don’t make B’s and B’s aren’t OK. B’s are failing. Fuck this class. I hate reporting. All I ever wanted to do was write about fashion, tell people what looks good on them. I don’t give a shit about the who, what, when, how, where of things. Inverted pyramids–fuck em. I don’t want to write about businesses, finances, old people etc. I’m fucking pissed. Goddammit!” Doorman tried really hard to calm me down and said he had to go eat. I understood and needed to be by myself in my rage anyway.

An hour later, I tried to get on my laptop to do some InDesign work. My internet wasn’t working. Hmm. I restarted it twice. I ripped out the Ethernet cable out of my PC and plugged it in my laptop. Didn’t work. I plugged my PC back in, now that wasn’t working. That’s it. I called Doorman back, frustrated, pissed and totally irrational. I just went off, bitching about the computers, grades and life, saying “Goddammit” over and over again and that’s the one word I actually try not to say. Which I don’t get because I’m not religious, but whatevs. He couldn’t help but laugh, I was crumbling on the other end of the phone. He told me to turn off the computers and go to bed; they would work in the morning. I begrudgingly agreed and said goodnight.

It was 2:30 before I fell asleep, still angry and stressed out. I woke up at eight to my ceiling leaking. Maybe this year, I’ll drop the ball and take the B. If not, you’ll find me in December.

I’m sorry for yelling, Doorman.