With a great fat bazooka of learning and a big bad Bertha of knowledge I emerge, limping from the course. For now. There’s another six months to go then I can quit writing for good.
This term has been harder on the following levels:
→ Work: My fiction has screeched to a stop in favour of a creative non-fiction boom. All evidence points to the fact I love writing about me and can squeeze greater narrative liquids from the melon of my past.
→ Humans: I’ve found interacting with other students harder this time, since they’re all extravagantly confident. And they all shoot off zingers at a pace that is frankly unhealthy. I actually found myself craving some good old po-faced seriousness, in all the larks. Nice people, but the scene has been too mirthful for this misanthrope.
→ Cocaine: I love this drug. I’ve installed one of those vending dealers in my home. It’s a shady man who sits inside a plastic box and dispenses crack at increasingly expensive rates until my septum drops off and I go onto harder drugs like heroin or Nesquik.
→ Words: Idleness has taken over these months. I am a modern day Oblomov, the difference being I set fire to all bills and demands. (Kidding: I eat them). And I don’t own a droshky.