As my weary fingers teeter atop the array of symbols called a "keyboard", I write this word concoction with hesitance and dread. Red nailpolish peeling, face mask overwhelming my face and getting onto my shirt. As I pull these bizarre memories out of my chemistry-burdened brain, I think: Wow this is really it. My last AEP blog before the fateful transfer to filipino. Cool.
March 19 – To the Worse Me
There comes a time when you must confront your past self. Unfortunately, my time was today.
For our midterm, we had to write letters to our younger selves. This concept was actually something I had thought about before, so I knew exactly what to tell that stupid, annoying, embarrassing, loud, irritating, insufferable - I should probably stop. I chose to talk to 11 year old me. The time period before the pandemic ended and I could start making actual mistakes.
I have made a collection of intricate plunders that only I would've been able to pull off since 2021. I gave her a heads up for the incoming 4 years, and ways to avoid situations that I still bang my face on a wall due and curse at the stars to.
Advise about make up, what to buy? where to buy? And clothes, what styles suited you and brands that I liked. Hijab tips too. I have learned a lot during my experimental phase. Socializing and academic advise was a necessity.
Lastly, I warned her to be more ballsy on February 22. And to think before you text on February 24. What happened on those days? That is information you could not waterboard it out of me.
I’ve always known I was a strange child, but this letter made me realize how much I’ve changed in 4 years. The chaos, the delusion, the emotional instability—okay maybe not all of that has changed—but still, the reflection was eye-opening. Touching. Kind of uncomfortable. Deeply necessary.
March 26 – Blacked Out
The musical has taken everything from us—time, energy, will to live. So today, we walked into class with the lifeless shuffle of people who have not known rest since February.
It was silent. The kind of silence that hums. Heads drooped. Eyes blinked in slow motion. And yet, somehow, we still managed to copy down the correct essay answer Miss recited from the board. A miracle. Or muscle memory. Either way, the contrast between her organized essay and the wandering mess I submitted was humbling. Painful, even.
Then she said it: "Take a short break." And it was as if a spell had been cast. Every single student collapsed like a puppet cut from strings. Desks became soft, cushioning pillows. Screens went black. A collective shutdown. I think I died briefly.
Once we re-entered the realm of the conscious, we were told to write 5 passive voice sentences. Just five. Not ten. Because Miss knew. Sentence seven would have killed us.
April 2 – Grandma’s Grocery
Memory game, round three: Grandma’s got groceries and a bottomless shopping list.
This time, I actually remembered everyone’s items. The secret? Stupidly specific mental associations. For once, my overactive imagination was useful. Truffle, parsnip seeds, and a live chicken? This class was absurd.
After that, we were gifted another worksheet - past tense this time. My personal nemesis. It took me an embarrassingly long time. Honestly, I feel like a 6-year-old learning English for the first time. But I gave it my all, and that has to count for something. Right?
And with that—this is the end.
The end of this blog. The end of three years of writing about AEP. The end of sitting down, fingers aching, memories swirling, trying to put this bizarre little experience into words. I don't know how I feel about it ending. But it has to. Things always do.
Like the musical. Like March. Like childhood letters and blacked-out classrooms.
But there’s still a little time left. A few more classes. A few more jokes. A few more pages in this strange, comforting story. And I’ll make sure to cherish every single one of them.
Good bye, wretched publish button. My mixed feelings for these late but funny nights, will end with this final click.
You'll miss me...
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