It's the little things

So we have no heat today. The entire campus has not even a shred of warmth.
The steam plant is undergoing emergency repairs, which is great. But I feel like shit and I really really want a hot shower for like an hour and a half. And with the way my luck is going this term, it will probably take them like a week to fix the damn thing.
I pushed myself way to hard this week, I was so sick of being sick I tried to take everything like normal. Like last term normal when I could handle everything. And so I almost passed out today having zero energy after only one class. I'm so dehydrated, and I am drinking as much as I can but it's not really getting better. I think I need to rest this weekend, but there's our winter FTX. I'd like to go for all the fun aspects of it, but I'll admit that I really don't want to march with a huge ruck at a pace with everyone else, and get quarter sized blisters and pass out because I think I wouldn't be able to keep/get enough food down to stay together. And I would be miserable, and i would make other people miserable having to deal with me.
And we have no heat.
It's the things like that that make me want to curl up and die.
I think that this term isn't any good at all. I have to just accept that this portion of my life is sucky. To which the small portion of my brain that has enough fuel to actually think, says "What is the point of just 'getting through' life? Doesn't that defy the point of LIVING?"
So I cry and pout. But I think I can just decide that this term is a lesson in survival, and being better at pre-empting bad stuff, and learning from my mistakes so that no other time in my life will I have to be this low.
I think everyone should read hamlet's to be or not to be speech, and really look it over.
What is he really talking about?
He sums it up pretty perfectly, the reason not to commit suicide, or perhaps the reason TO commit suicide.


To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die, to sleep-
No more - and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep-
To sleep - perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.



Thus a coward, I will live.