Hello blog, I am tired.
So damn tired. But it's okay; I've been tired before, and as tradition dictates, I will be again some day. The adjustment from going from my king-size divan in a room the size of a tennis court to a double futon in a home, that albeit lovely, is pretty tough. Having worked late shifts these past couple of days only to be woken up at 6am by the drum-kit-being-thrown-down-stairs routine of those guys getting ready for school, arguing with each other and generally rolling marble-filled barrels around outside my room door has had me weeping salty, salty tears of desperation.
This, you might say, is self-inflicted; to that I reply: screw off, chump, I can complain if I want to. I think what has been strangest of all is that when all this goes on around me, to my half sleeping mind I am once again in year 7, being harassed by my mother (who shouted) or my father (who just threw water over me) to get out of bed. It's been more than once the icy cold hand of dread gripped my heart at the thought of forgotten homework, that God-forsaken she-devil Spanish teacher Mrs. Lopez, and the crazy yo-yo-ing of my adolescent hormones and lusting after my school crush Kate, poor girl. Thankfully for me, pepper spray wasn't so easily sourced back then and my sight and general face area remains unaffected.
They say it's the best years of your life, and people are actually foolish enough to believe this flagrant lie. You exist in a state of constant fear of social reprisal, punishment and embarrassment with no legal access to alcohol, sex, nice restaurants, violent movies with real naked boobies in them, and cars that go really fast and make 'squeeee' noises on corners. So no. Just no. Never again.
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