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Thursday 5th June, 2003 - http://turkeyphant.livejournal.com/ — LiveJournal
standing on the beach with a gun in my hand staring at the sea staring at the sand
Well, nothing's been happening and nothing matters any more.

~

One morning, I woke up incensed because Mr. Dath had summoned me at some ungodly hour to answer to him after missing early-morning house assembly or some other superfluous, time-wasting and life-regimenting form of systematised sleep deprivation. Bam! - the torture continues and there goes another lie in...

Not only did he start cussing my buckets up when I was in such a delicate state for missing his trivial prayers and various other minor misdemeanours, but he accused me of missing two days' worth of compulsory lessons. Despite it being study leave, the prospect of far too much time spent writing out rules loomed ominously over my depleted uranium eyelids. I should have been too exhausted to argue but, when he announced I'd be sent a bill for £40 to replace the fucking iron bar put up in my room, I couldn't help pointing out the numerous errors of his misled ways. He got all stressy, jabbing the air like he was play one of those reaction games, ignored everyone's pleas and my arguments against the psychological torment being hastily wedged in, and told me to shut up and go to lessons. Well, fuck that indeed for a game of soldiers.

There was no-one I could see and no-one to write angrily worded and even more angrily-toned letters too (even that's assumed they would be read). And so, I fell back on the good old last first resort of a spoiled public schoolboy brat. I called my father.

Despite being unavailable for hours and bring utterly unsympathetic when I finally got hold of him, my father agreed to speak to Mr. Dath and, within no time at all, total victory was mine:

  • Mr. Dath came apologetically round again and whimpered something to the effect of a total u-turn. After all his moaning about our slacking and lying, he went back on his adamant insistence that he was unquestionably right and said that, after all, lessons were entirely voluntary. Martin continued to go to all of his.
  • Theo helped me fix up a five minute bodge job of fixing my bar. I had found a slightly shorter one a few days before and stolen it in an attempt to slow down our curtailment of wall-aperture privileges. We spent some time using my hydrochloric acid to try and burn holes in the stone wall and hammered a few two inch holes whilst bending several nails before satisfying hatching the final plan from a baking-hot incubator. I whipped out my 2p tube of super glue and Theo brought in a bag of tiny nails and, with the aid of my tie and a complex pulley system to provide stability and support during the drying process, we stuck a new iron bar to my window. Amazingly enough it stayed up there so now I'll be mightily pissed off if they still try to charge me forty smackeroons.
  • I did something else winning. Probably nailing Charlemagne's files to his desk again, or something.
~

And now I'm annoyed because we've started playing Counter-Strike over the school LAN again. It's awesome because there's a whole corridor of us who play, including all the insanely well practised asian dudes. During study leave we can just wake up, play all day and then go to sleep again without even having to get changed or open the curtains. It is professional vegetation and I love it. One night, after staying up reading until two o'clock to annoy Charlemagne, I even found myself playing a quick round against bots before it was time to sleep.

I realise that the temptation of playing a few hundred rounds of Counter-Strike is always going to come before exam revision. I can't count the number of times I've told myself I'll only go in for a quick quarter-hour n00b-pwning sesh and then noticing it's gone dark outside and cursing when I look at my watch and it tells me four hours have passed... Hell, it's more addictive than crack butties and just doing stupid shit like playing with the gravity when Martin's trying to play or constantly TKing Charlemagne before turning off friendly fire every time he attempts to fight back allows for endless fun. There are about two people in the house who actually have skill, but I'm convinced that's only because they play every day when they're back in China a bit like Daws. Once, we even played three hundred rounds on a map that simply consisted of two small rooms joined directly onto each other. Boy, was that a good day.

Other than that, I've only spent my time waiting for Mr. Dath to get out of hearing range before nailing all of Charles' possessions every time his back is turned. Now, that's another fun game...

~

And then the day before my English examination, I realised I hadn't even read two thirds of the Dickens set-text let alone re-read ol' Shakers and the fucking Chaucer I was meant to understand. At twelve, I went downstairs by myself and locked myself in a room to work for two hours. I knew it wasn't nearly enough, but I couldn't bear to do any more by then. The only thing going for me was the way I had persuaded Charlemagne to make my bed for me so I'd be less likely to wake him upon retiring to the room. But then, as I went upstairs back to sleep, I bumped into George and he tricked me into joining a half-term parteee. And so, that was how, on the eve of my English exam, I found myself drinking beers and watching DVDs with George, Eric, Yoko, Val and a load of Removes who had crashed the fun and instantly become intoxicated on half-pints. It was utterly hilarious and the film, Shaolin Soccer, was the funniest thing I've seen in years (apart from Eric). We also watched a uproarious Titanic spoof which was made with thumbs instead of people. The dialogue to Thumbtanic was too funny to be real and seeing all these thumbs running around and jumping off boats allowed for a particularly powerful headfuck. Everyone collapsed and went to sleep early except Yoko, Alfred and I who finally crawled under our duvets at four thirty. Which wasn't a particularly good thing.

The next morning I overslept and woke at 08:30 for my three hour English exam with a throbbing headache, a sore throat and not much remaining of my memory cells. The exam began at 09:00 and I don't remember any of it other than I wrote lots. It remains to be seen whether I come out of it with a remotely respectable mark or not...

The other exams have been relatively fine. Everything Maths has been a complete piece of piss expect P3 in which I buggered up due to lack of sleep and ended up only answering a third of the paper. This doesn't bode well for my final mark or university applications. But hey. It pissed me off for a whole day but then I realised I aced the statistics paper and I could still manage to scrape an A. Chemistry was pretty shitty for a number of reasons, but thankfully the papers were quite easy so it shouldn't matter too much. By the thursday, I'd had only thirteen hours sleep due to last minute revision that Charlemagne kept interrupting (he'd already been working for a week and so thought it wasn't necessary for either of us to do any more). And also, I had gone with Val, George and Eric to some Ukrainian bakery in town to smoke some fucking good weed the night before. Hey, it's all part of the school experience... The funny thing is, at the moment I don't seem to care much because the last paper I sat, Physics, was impossibly easy and actually managed to be simpler than the fucking GCSE paper. This is certainly no mean feat if you've ever seen a GCSE Physics paper.

~

And after all that, I've been unable to understand a single thought passing through my brain for a few weeks now. I can't begin to comprehend what it's all meaning and what I should do. I feel I can never understand what I believe in. I just really don't know what I want and I'm not even sure whether there's anything I could want.

I found a pound in the gutter when I was stoned. I haven't found money for ages but I still couldn't make myself throw it in the river.

~

And then I realise it all means nothing, forget about everything, and go to sleep.

i'm alive
i'm dead
i'm the stranger


    mood: nothing
    choon: The Cure - Killing an Arab