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I've never really written any good stories. Had never really plunged myself in what I believe and truly want to be. Its much more complicated than just saying "I'm going for it". Its way difficult than that I'm afraid. My submission to this vague year, its destined. Never the path I'd choose. But its given. Frankly, the way I see it, it is a killing machine to some, a cough syrup to most and a form of child if depression to me. I was up for it at the beginning. Don't really know where the spirit had gone. I guess it gave up as well.

Well I'm stuck here in this minimum abuse. The only thing helping me feel better is a constant reminder that all those above me had gone through the same thing at this age and so I look at is as a tradition. A very sad, boring, annoying, highly constipated, dragging tradition. It is sad; The irony. 1 month to go plus 2 months (giver or take) to go