Counting Down
Tomorrow is the anniversary of the Resurr... Scratch that. It's after midnight. Today is the anniversary of the Resurrection. It's the last day before I begin my last term of university. During the last term:
My grandfather was killed in an automobile accident
My longest relationship ever ended
I got no work done, save for this term's school work
I've had rough terms before. This one drove me to the brink. This term made me wish that I was a drunk; it probably bodes well for me that I seem to have no desire to drink when I'm feeling lousy. At any rate, I'm ready for this term to be over. In less than twenty-four hours, it will be. Spring Break's almost over, and it's time for a change.
Come midnight, Winter Term is gone. I've found peace over my grandfather's death. The Mirror appears to have contracted PGS*, and if sending roses from seven thousand miles away can't immediately convince her that we should give things another chance, then there's no use worrying about it: it's unequivocally and totally over, and it's time for me to move on.
Perhaps it's appropriate timing. Today we celebrate our God rising from the dead after we screamed for His death. Now I'm forcing myself to wrench the remnants of my life away from the torment of the last three months. These are the last eleven weeks of what I've been told is the best part of my life. I have seventy pages of research to write, and I have to conclude my legacy at school.
I have eleven weeks until I get dropped head first, kicking and screaming, into the real world that I've been told about for twenty-two years. I no longer have the luxury of mourning; it's time for me to tow the line between savage and civilized.
"Is this rock and roll!?"
I've had rough terms before. This one drove me to the brink. This term made me wish that I was a drunk; it probably bodes well for me that I seem to have no desire to drink when I'm feeling lousy. At any rate, I'm ready for this term to be over. In less than twenty-four hours, it will be. Spring Break's almost over, and it's time for a change.
Come midnight, Winter Term is gone. I've found peace over my grandfather's death. The Mirror appears to have contracted PGS*, and if sending roses from seven thousand miles away can't immediately convince her that we should give things another chance, then there's no use worrying about it: it's unequivocally and totally over, and it's time for me to move on.
Perhaps it's appropriate timing. Today we celebrate our God rising from the dead after we screamed for His death. Now I'm forcing myself to wrench the remnants of my life away from the torment of the last three months. These are the last eleven weeks of what I've been told is the best part of my life. I have seventy pages of research to write, and I have to conclude my legacy at school.
I have eleven weeks until I get dropped head first, kicking and screaming, into the real world that I've been told about for twenty-two years. I no longer have the luxury of mourning; it's time for me to tow the line between savage and civilized.
"Is this rock and roll!?"
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