It’s a Tuesday night and I have finally completed writing a dreaded History paper. Dreaded not because of the subject, but simply because it’s time and energy spent on writing about shit I don’t really find relevant to my soul and psyche at this stage of my life (Tuesday). I guess that’s why its called ‘work’.
Anyway, its done now. I was just beginning to chill out, when all off a sudden a fire alarm went off and hundreds of college students stumbled out into the street, slowly, unmotivated.
“If this was a real fire you’d all be dead!” An important man with a metal badge and solid dark coloured uniform shouted at us. Yeah. Thanks. At least its not a real fire then, right?
Anyway, I am listening to the Slashfilm podcast, about to watch the latest episode of TRS, and am trying to mentally prepare for the next 72 hours. Tomorrow, five classes, up early at 7.30. Thursday, internship, from 9 to 6.30. Friday, five classes, up early at 8.30.
I’m beginning to complain again, so I’ll quickly fuck off and save you all the slobbery slime dribbling out of my pained head and heart. I’m kidding. It’s all good. As my father told me once when I was depressed on a day called Sunday in my early youth, “It’s Sunday every seven days, Marco.”
And he’s right, of course. It’s also Friday every seven days.
