The Best writers were Depressed

but they were also in World War 2.

The best writers are dead.

School is a nagging sensation enveloping my whole body. I am seizing and ceasing. I can hardly write, or I don't.
I just don't. That's more true.

A month ago:
"College may not be for me."
Well that's wrong. It's of course for you. You could be more successful elsewhere.
You will be, Heck!

Today:
"College may not be right for me, Joel."
You're damn right. Research papers are horrid enemies of my state of mind. School is a wad of dough, with the flavor of your life, it may become nothing. Sometimes a bad school or a poor program is like a broken oven. You get your degree and your life is a ball of warm flavorless dough.

I want to make bread out of my life.
And you are challenging me New School. You are breaking my dough.
(You are actually stealing my dough at an exorbitant rate).

I don't want to be burnt when I leave.

Details couldn't explain my woe!

In two months, though, I won't remember writing this. I won't remember days when I was unhappy.
Two months sounds arbitrary.
Two months is arbitrary.