Growing Pains... Or, How I Learned to Keep Worrying and Go Batspit Crazzzzzzy.

I am done with school.

I didn't even make it til spring break of my junior year.

I just keep thinking... maybe... if I leave school...

I will no longer have to do homework. I can be bohemian. I could get a practical job to support part-time vagrancy because I'm smarter than those full-time bohemians who die of tuberculosis because they didn't get a practical job fast enough. Stop writing five-act plays; start waiting tables before you die.

That is my motto. I learned it from La Boheme, Moulin Rouge, and all those movies where someone dies because the writer didn't wait tables so he could get medicine for the girl who dies of tuberculosis.

I will no longer be plagued by unrequited love. I feel like all love is requited once I no longer have the aging, uglifying stresses of homework.

I will no longer have to wait on the stupid #(*w$&%(w$ printers in the computer lab. I'm about to throw something to my left if the stupid Q(#$(&&#(&@(#$%@ printer doesn't start spitting out naked people for my figure drawings. SPIT NOW SPIT NOW SPIT NOW. It's been processing my job for a good fifteen minutes.

Side note: I don't actually mean curse words when I type gibberish; I just find gibberish jarringly pleasing to my aesthetic. It's so decisive and ambiguous and postmodern. Look at me, having an intellectual geekout over gibberish. How pretentious has college made me? I can fix this; I'm flunking out... see you on the flip side.