Here I am sitting waiting for class to start. I’m sitting in the classroom, all the different parties are present, but the class, unfortunately, was yet to begin.

But wait, if I’m here, and the classroom is theoretically in “class mode”, but there’s no class going on. Why? The teacher’s busy checking homework.

Yes. Checking homework. I’m on my second year of IB, and my standard level biology teacher, believe it or not, gives and checks homework, ungraded homework. Being ungraded, they do not enter our records, they do not count for my internal assessment, the IBO does not know about them, the Vade Mecum does not mention them. In other words, by doing the homework, I’ll be pushing a rock up a mountain for no reason.

Isn’t the whole IB diploma supposed to make me an independant learner? Well, in that case, why am I being guided like an eight grader?

Instead of doing the usual lecture type presentation, with a few slides in the background and me writing notes and possibly asking questions, I’m stuck sitting in a room with a frustrated teacher treating a bunch of kids like they don’t know how to tie their own shoelaces and need guidance. They of course, refuse to be “guided” this way and instead end up not doing the homework. In turn, the teacher becomes frustrated, the students become frustrated with the teacher, and precious time is wasted.

How about that, my own learning should be in my hands. The teacher should provide me with information, which I will review at my own pace.

Oh, look, I’m 30 minutes into the lesson and no lecture, no presentation, only old questions! Great! No sign of it starting any time soon.

I really don’t get it. All I want is just to get this piece of paper, not work my ass off for no reason.

This is a little, bothering. I was trapped inside the house with my grandparents and now school’s starting and I have this strong conviction that I’m just not going to make it. How did I get that idea? I don’t know.

What really worries me is that there’s a play I’ve been trying to write. Or, tried to. Three times. I have it all planned out in my head, or thought I did - three times. I re-wrote it 3 times. Each time I didn’t want to come back to the older copy because I didn’t like it, so I made another one.

But then I came back another time and did the same.

I wrote “a thought on a monday morning” in one sitting. I wrote tons of haikus, again, in one sitting.

I wrote every single blog entry (with the exception of a few) in, yes, one sitting. I had about 7 drafts, but I never got myself to go back to them.

I did Heat in, you guessed it, one sitting. I did Butter + Life in… Hmm… two sittings, though practically it was one, the other was was just photos lying on my harddrive.

I’m very worried about my extended essay. Very worried because I am unable to stick to one topic no matter what I do. That’s exactly why I failed my personal project the first time, and just barely passed the next year.

I often wonder what I’ll do without an IB-anything. Sure, I have that MYP diploma, what’s that good for anyway? But… I’m worried. I’m very worried. I can’t stick to one subject, which makes my long term assignments into disorganized blobs.

I made a plan my extended essay. Revised it 4 times since then. I don’t even know what it’s supposed to mean now, I don’t like it, i don’t want to follow it.

Again. I’m worried.

Why is everything I write so awfully bland?

My mom, a little bit like my ex, has an unconscious mother-daughter complex. Basically, even though they would fail to recognize their mothers’ domination over them. They’re afraid of them.

Just the day before my grandma and her husband (which is technically not my grandpa), came over - mom of course, started cleaning up like I haven’t seen her before. She even told me to try to keep the house clean. When my dad did me a great favor by asking the question that I’ve been dying to make my mother face - whether she’s afraid that grandma might judge her.

“Judge me? No, she doesn’t care how the house looks, it’s not her house anyway; and I left home years ago anyway, she can’t give me orders anymore” she replied with absolute certainty.

The house was spotless, you could eat a cookie even if it fell on the toilet seat. You could lick the laundry room (which is more of a storage room) floor and not come down with a terrible disease for a change. It was clean to say the least.

Grandma doesn’t dominate you, I see.

I’ve had my share of this mother-daughter complex back a few months ago with my ex. Again, the same problem, “mom has no control over me whatsoever”, but when mom says “foreigner bad, foreigner problem” - mom must be right, no? It took her about a month, but she did it, she got rid of this terrible foreigner. But really, don’t parents just love nerds? We still talk, but when she came to town this weekend she refused to see me. It all fell into place when I realized she was with her mother. Her sick dominating mother.

So if you ever wonder why I’m not that full of regrets about that whole thing I had with her - yeah, it’s also because she reminds me of my mom.

Brings back when mother’s unwillingness to leave to move to a new house back a few years ago in Israel. It was because we were living only one block away from no other than grandma. Grandma, oh grandma. When my parents are coming back to Israel (I will be tagging along for a short period of time before getting the fuck out of there) they’re coming back to the same house. One block away from grandma.

There was a plan to come back to a different house - on the same street as to not get away from grandma almighty.

And now she’s here. For two weeks, leaving oily marks on various tupperware boxes in the fridge, making the house smell like old people and making everyone’s life miserable by giving orders.

My dad doesn’t get any orders though.

“Fine, you don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to”, “why does this house look like a dump?” and a wide variety of classic Jewish complaints. Since I became German she at least doesn’t express her (now ridiculous and redundant) hate for Germans.

When she’s around everything feels like you’re walking on a wire suspended between two really tall buildings with my brother shaking the wire every now and then. No matter how much you beg, he either won’t get it, or will try harder.

They’re not even getting letters from me once I’m gone.