imbecille perché imbello

Only Practice Makes Perfect, a college au

"I kept for years - it must be in my Ardis nursery - the anthology you once gave me; and the little poem you wanted me to learn by heart is still word-perfect in a safe place in my jumbled mind, with the packers trampling on my things, and upsetting crates, and voices calling: time to go, time to go.”

When Nicky had begun college, in his mind a mission had quickly formed: he was going to put aside his shy nature and begin dating; find a boyfriend, have cute dinners together, wake up in his arms, all the good stuff he had always yearned for.

Instead, he had ended up doing none of it and spent most of his time studying in the library, curating his GPA to the point of madness, and completely forgetting about the importance of socializing.

With only two trimesters left before graduation, Nicky’s friend Andy is done with having to listen to his laments and offers a solution: in the soccer teams she trains there’s Joe, a talented athlete who is having trouble keeping his grades afloat but who has lots of experience with relationships. Nicky would help tutoring him and in exchange Joe would give him dating lessons. No feelings, no attachment, just two boys showing each other the ropes.

Easy peasy, right? Right?

Pairings: Joe x Nicky, Andy x Quynh Graphics and Soudtrack!

I did my maturity exams exactly five years ago, in the year of our lord 2018. The kids who’ll begin them tomorrow began high school the year I finished it.

The MIUR still hasn’t verified if I’ve passed them or not.

I have a degree, but I don’t have my high school diploma.

I have a piece of paper I printed at home that counts as a “diploma self-certification” that I had to compile, without anyone checking if the grade I gave myself is real or not, or if I even attended the exams, or anything.

“AI is bad because its personality changes depending the inputs it receives, meaning that it’s very easy for people to make it say horribly offensive and violent things,” she says.

And then I find out that a Larry Stylinson fanfic that features, and I swear to god I’m not joking, a plotline that can be summed up with “Nazi Harry Styles goes to the Nuremberg Trials” was published as a novel by a professional publishing house and sold an embarrassing amount of copies, and you know what I realize? We deserve it. Just fucking nuke us all, at this point it doesn’t matter.

Turns out that this shit is extremely useful when it comes to discussing work stuff. I’ve become the picture of weaponized incompetence.

On paper, I’m the strongest writer they have, the one who has received the most praise for their work, and the one whose writing has to go through the less editing rounds. But when chores are being assigned? Aw, suddenly I don’t know how to edit and… oof, guys, that’s a really long word, you know?

On weekends I stop speaking English entirely.