Senioritis and Existentialism

I never did expect the incredible level of sheer willpower needed for the second semester of senior year. I feel so mentally exhausted by menial schoolwork and I just wish that the next two months could simply disappear. AP exams are in a week, and I haven't even decided to start studying for all six of them. It's just so typically stupid of me to blindly trust in my own abilities and go beyond what I could handle. I mean, six APs? Nobody does that. It's ridiculously illogical. I can't even self-congratulate anymore, which is what I did for the past three quarters to keep myself going academically.

I've also discovered that at a time like this, when the near future is basically settled, my priority gets a fairly rough shuffle. I've about 1500 words due in a few hours, and I have around three hundred down. I can't even bother to care. It's like The Stranger all over again.

Jenny: The whole point about him is that he doesn't feel.

Tina: We still don't have to like him.

Jenny: Camus doesn't want you to like him. What he's trying to say is that feeling is bourgeois. Being engagée is bourgeois. His mother dies and he doesn't feel anything. He kills this Arab and he doesn't feel anything.

Tina: I wouldn't feel anything if my mother died. Does that make me an existentialist?

Jenny: No, that just makes you a cow.

Hattie: Une vache.

Camus usually makes me want to weep of stress. I first attempted to read The Stranger last summer and found it depressing and altogether unexciting (though one hardly reads his words for excitement in the first place). Then, recently, I picked up a copy of The Plague in its original language from my French teacher and attempted to school myself into advancing forty pages per day in preparation for the AP exam. As per usual, I'm atrociously behind schedule. 

Maybe I should give myself a few more months before attempting any such literature again. Right now, in the midst of all this academic fuss, it's hardly appropriate to read something that might plunge me deeper into neurosis. Just saying this makes me feel terribly "bourgeois", but then I don't give much of a damn for being disengagée anyways. Not for Camus' sake.