:| God's gift to academia |:

It's obscenely early. And I'm awake. Because this damn headache from last night has made me the most irritable thing on the face of the earth, even after taking whatever Endymion made for me (which mercifully took the edge off, or else I might've murdered someone in their sleep just for the fun of it), and woe be it to anyone who crosses me today, because I swear, the first one to annoy me is going to wish they were never born. I have no idea what on earth happened last night. I kept wanting to go somewhere. Not out with the drills, oh, no, because that would've made sense and my life is, apparently, categorically prevented from making any kind of rational sense, and the more I kept trying to focus on what was happening around me, the worse my head was.

Of all the times to develop a migraine problem, this is not it. Or a case of complete insanity. If I keep having weird urges (as opposed to normal, every day urges, even I can tell the difference), I'm going to have to do some research. Right now, I'm chalking it up to stress.

And in other news, I am not getting involved in this newest Leffoy issue, even if she is sweet on my cousin and Dani seems to think she's one of ours by extension. Not until he shows up and there's a sense of what's going on. I can't wait to see how the family reacts if he's actually smitten with her or something. It'll be my fault. Naturally. Because obviously, everything is my fault. Including weather, the phase of the moon, troop movements in Europe, the price of a pound of tea, and anything else someone happens to need to blame on me.

I'm not even thinking clearly. I want to go back to bed and stay there all day. Maybe keep Rachel there, too. And people in hell want ice water, so on, so forth.

Eifion got called on the metaphorical carpet when it came to the first years by the Avalon Prefects. And sadly enough? I don't blame them. That crop of boys has to be the least functional group I've ever seen, and Pelby gets her fair share of nutters. We've got to do something, and that something does not include Vicky Wurfel's idiotic idea of quid pro quo. Right, like nitpicking at every tiny thing that Avalon does is going to absolutely make things better for us. Either that nonsense has got to stop, or I'll let her know in no uncertain terms just how helpful it is. (Not that I can pierce her thick skull, but it's worth a shot and if I get to irritate her in the process, well, I'll make myself endure it for the greater good.)

I did my Sunday inspection of my second years tonight and thankfully, things were in good order. Vieira's good for that, he's reliably tidy and I know I have his mother to thank for that. And I think I'm going to end up writing her a note to do just that because as long as we're down in the Snake Pit, the fact that my year is holding its own and not contributing to the ongoing clutter is the only saving grace when it comes to my sanity.

Really, we need to all be doing checks. The underclassmen need to be made to understand that either they clean up, or someone will make them. I've half a mind to drag whomever loses us the most points every day through the Commons and make them pick up the clutter personally. In fact, I think I will. Because really, who the hell else is going to bother? And either we do that, or we end up suffering whatever punishments Avalon decides are fitting, and as much as I do admire Miss Leffoy, I don't think I want to be subject to her Housemates' ideas about justice and fitting punishments. Though if Wurfel was made to suffer, well. I suppose I'd have to control my giddy delight. That might just be worth it. Then again, with the consideration that I might have to suffer as well? Perhaps not. Damn.

I think Mother's screetching has finally ruptured my eardrums because I believe, sincerely believe, that the Zellers expect me to marry Rachel because we went to a party. A party to which it wasn't even my idea to go!

Equally alarmingly, and this I don't believe, they're willing to go through with it. My parents are insane. Clearly insane. My father is going to write to the Zellers. They've lost their minds, everyone.

Other people lose their pocket money over nonsense like this. Me? All of that, and I'm going to end up engaged. To Rachel. And it could be worse, but it's Rachel and she probably doesn't even care for me like that and if everything goes pear-shaped, she's still going to need a get even if we never make it under the chuppah and oy, this mess.

I knew we should've never gone to that party. I knew it would be trouble. I knew it, but did anyone listen to me? I didn't even listen to me! Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

She's started shrieking again. Oy.

I am generally disagreeable lately and given the way my mother's been scowling after me, it's probably a source of irritation. Helena's bouncing with glee to get back to school and that's doing nothing to soothe my nerves--her voice is such a distinctly high pitch that is intended only to summon other small, excitable girls and perhaps beings of the canine persuasion--and the heat's been dreadful. I've resigned myself to sitting under this old oak tree until I've finished my latest book and perhaps until tea. The idea of food in this weather does nothing for me. Mother would say I'm being dramatic again. This is, I believe, her favourite word of the moment. It shall change shortly. It usually does.

The post this morning contained a letter from Magister Mathers for me, which was a surprise. I do enjoy alchemy, it's not my strongest suit but I enjoy it, but I'm not so adept at it that I expect letters from the alchemy master. And after this, I could bloody well do without them. I don't want another charge, never mind a charge who doesn't speak English. I think the Second Years will be enough as it stands! Never mind the fact that I'm continually pressed into service by Dee to maintain order in the Fourth Year dorm whenever he can be bothered to notice that something's gone awry. Again. So now I have some refugee from God-forsaken Poland, which, as my grandfather has pointed out time and time again, that was a place we have distinctly tried to forget and naturally, because I'm Jewish and a Prefect and thereby Responsible, I get him. Bugger all. I hate being a Prefect. Have I mentioned that? I hate it. I'm not good at it, I don't like the duties, patrol makes my teeth sit on edge and really, if I could figure out why Blackwell thought I would be spectacularly capable at it, I would do my earthly best to disabuse him of the notion! Then again, it's not like he was going to give it to Thibault or Mablin or Crockford, so I suspect mine was a lot of last resort.

All the same, and I won't admit this to another soul, so help me God, it is rather flattering that the Magister did think of me off the bat and is treating it like a favour to him rather than something simply expected of me. I suspect this means I am going to have to make a better showing in alchemy. There goes the rest of my free time.

I'll write back this evening, grant him his favour and jot down a note to this Frankel. I wonder if he has much English. With my luck, probably not. At least I had Hebrew before I needed it at school and bothered with research German. I suspect one of the two will do the trick.