Of Senioritis.

Disclaimer: If you’re a fan of good ole consistency and/or not given to rants, this post is not for you. Mind you, the comment box isn’t, either.

Readers should be noted that I’m writing this post sleepless and inebriated, because waking up three hours into a good night’s sleep after staying awake for 23 hours only to get doped off of the wrong allergy medication, conveniently after you’ve ingested a generous portion of coffee, is an epileptic combination I should patent to being a Rory. And mind you, by rules of equilibrium ruling the universe randomly, justly, and having considerably small odds of perishing, there can only be one Rory.

Also, I can’t feel my head. And I like it. It’s growing on me.

It’s the end of the week, at last. As usual though, it will only go out kicking and screaming. What’s with getting academically raped, random incompetent freaks taking the consensual bit out of hiring and, well, overall weirdass people. The whole goddamn country is having trouble getting a job and I wake up to find myself employed. Don’t get me wrong, I actually wanted the job, I was just under the impression that I have to apply first. Oh well. I guess I’m just that awesome.

A friend once said that she liked marketing because it was evil; convincing people and probing at their subconscious to put their money in all the right places, which happen to be all the wrong places, making her feel like a charismatic villain, only a tobacco roll away from another Clint Eastwood. Well, I can now honestly say that I know what she means; and I’m hooked.

Not quite the opportune timing.

Along the lines of volcanoes shooting chocolate fountains and garden gnomes who gave up on your backyard before you were enough of a failure to know they could actually do that, I flunk two exams; the only two I sat anyway. I get through puberty as a straight A-student, without having flunk once in my life, and I manage to do it two months before the biggest finals I may ever have to sit. I don’t even know what to say to that. Except, well, fuck.

They call it senioritis.

I call it White tea.

Coffee stands in a corner, with its grin setting the smoke swirling into its own pseudo halo and your conscience seizing back into its iron clad enamoration, takes you back into its loving bosom and says bitch, get sipping, I don’t have all day.

And you take it, like the vampire you are; cold, stale or plain crappy, with gratitude.

On an unrelated note, I love my father, with a passion. The kind of father who takes two months off, promising to sleep when you do and wake up in time to your schedules, just to sit there with his newspaper and coffee and support you through the last 80 days that could make or break your future, is nothing I had the luxury of seeing walk this earth any other place on this godforsaken planet.

Dad, you get a shout out.