three times a year, finals roll around. each time, i am reminded that the sound of birds chirping after you’ve been awake the whole night is the sound of doom.

doom sucks. i hate doom. doom backwards is mood. finals put me in a bad one. i will spare you further doom anagrams since they’ll probably involve references to quasimodo.

and once every year, in the midst of all that doom, shines my birthday. screw my birthday, i’m going to study. we’re getting older all the time anyway…birthdays are just markers. at least this one will mark the beginning of my legal consumption of alcohol, but by now it’s lost its appeal. oh well, i’m sure peer pressure will reign supreme the friday after finals. be gentle!

just wanted to share my dead week depression. revel in it, people, revel!

-
even a feeble prodding touch
will burn
an open wound
is difficult to hide.