After that sad post displaying my literary skills (or lack thereof), I return to the computer to write about my views on the world, with an annoyingly catchy Iggy Azalea song playing in the background.
It is exam time, that period of the year where you study very seriously (or don't) and you eat and eat and eat because you can't really do anything else that's remotely interesting. Of course, I can't be less bothered about the whole thing, because after all we have more important things to be worried about like whether one is eventually going to procure the machinery to produce artwork digitally, whether one's artwork will improve because of said machinery, and whether one will enjoy this improvement or consider it not entirely as fulfilling as taking a brush in hand and rendering colour to a beautifully off-white piece of paper. Furthermore, one has to ponder the implications of receiving their schooling at one's place of residence as opposed to in an educational institution, what exquisite new haircut will be decided on for the coming year, how important one is in the universe, and how many times a week is it really okay for one to fuck oneself?
My books are shoved aside, as I sit and wait, perspiring, for doomsday, coincidentally also the day of my liberation - liberation from that dastardly thing they force us to do in class fittingly named (don't ask my why) arithmetic. It boggles the mind that so much in life could depend on that one mark in that one examination in that one year of your life, when really, all that matters is how much money you have.
That was a joke, motherfuckers. Pull your socks up and be nice and you have the license to fail exams, because otherwise you'll end up mildly crazy and writing blog posts inspired by Pink Floyd songs.
It is exam time, that period of the year where you study very seriously (or don't) and you eat and eat and eat because you can't really do anything else that's remotely interesting. Of course, I can't be less bothered about the whole thing, because after all we have more important things to be worried about like whether one is eventually going to procure the machinery to produce artwork digitally, whether one's artwork will improve because of said machinery, and whether one will enjoy this improvement or consider it not entirely as fulfilling as taking a brush in hand and rendering colour to a beautifully off-white piece of paper. Furthermore, one has to ponder the implications of receiving their schooling at one's place of residence as opposed to in an educational institution, what exquisite new haircut will be decided on for the coming year, how important one is in the universe, and how many times a week is it really okay for one to fuck oneself?
My books are shoved aside, as I sit and wait, perspiring, for doomsday, coincidentally also the day of my liberation - liberation from that dastardly thing they force us to do in class fittingly named (don't ask my why) arithmetic. It boggles the mind that so much in life could depend on that one mark in that one examination in that one year of your life, when really, all that matters is how much money you have.
That was a joke, motherfuckers. Pull your socks up and be nice and you have the license to fail exams, because otherwise you'll end up mildly crazy and writing blog posts inspired by Pink Floyd songs.
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