It seems that on some occasions we can’t help but bask in the eternal glory of pain. When I say pain, I don’t mean ‘stab-myself-in-the-eye’ pain, I mean more, worry. Sometimes it seems we enjoy being worried. We feed off of the glowing puss-ball since, subconsciously, we know that it will result in much happier times once the cruel, tiresome charade is over. This was recently brought to my attention due to the fact I have mock exams coming up, the only thing really worse than the final exams, as you can put in all the effort you like, just to be greeted with either failure, or nothing at all. Worry is factored into this little affair as I always seem to find myself talking about them. The mocks that is, not my testicles or the group of hazardously attractive Nuns that have just decided to take shelter in your armpit. Almost every conversation (primarily between family) the subject seems to snake its way in like a stealthy fart or an anaconda and I find myself babbling away at my fears and tiredness of the pen-scribbling nightmares which lay ahead of me. I have no desire to talk about such annoyances, but I almost feel like it’s my obligation, like, again subconsciously, I maybe want to moan and groan. Like it creates some form of sympathy. Truthfully, I hope I’m not true, for then I fear I will be turning into my father. Don’t get me wrong he’s a nice man, very trustworthy and sincere, but he’s almost the complete opposite of me personality wise, I hope. He seems to carry out tasks, not out of desire but like each and everything he does is some form of chore. Like by gobbling down a bowl of porridge in the morning he’s appeasing the man on the ‘Oatfarm’ box, or by driving to work he’s pleasuring the sick jester of traffic control. I’ve never really fully understood any of it, so by me showing early signs of such madness, I guess have good reason to be worried. Like diving into a pool of murky water which has a sign next to it saying ‘This pond may/may not contain used syringes’. It’s leaping into an unknown abyss of worry. Which in itself, almost proves my point. I’m now worrying about being worried. I would pray to the Lord and Savior to rescue my soul but who are we kidding, the only thing in that sky is precipitation and the odd bird or two. So instead I guess I’ll tittle off and complain so more. Did I mention that I have exams coming up? I hate exams...
