Spam. Exams. I don't know where my penny... am.

( Lyrics spam, because the Strokes make me feel better. (Even though Julian Casablancas' grammar is appalling.) )

I should like, right now, to fall backwards onto the grass and stare into the sky and go to sleep feeling the sun on my face and listening to very certain musics.
And when I am fifty years old and working as a janitor because I failed my eleventh grade exams, I will know why and I will know that it was entirely worth it. Because what is a future in comparison to that sort of contentment, really?
'Course, I may feel differently next week.
I lost my lucky penny.

Edit: If John Hughes had directed Star Wars. *snerk*

I'm using this icon 'cause I don't have one that says "My soul has been crushed by capitalist pigs."

Me: *gets out of work 45 minutes late*
Mom: *starts to say how worried she was and why didn't I tell her I was going to be late and her heart is racing and-*
Me, staring blankly ahead: Mom. If you don't stop talking I am going to scream and scream and then vomit until I die. Okay?
Mom: *stops talking*

It's been one of those nights. Closing, alone. No breaks. No help. And people who do not understand the concept of the machines being dismantled, so NO, I cannot give you a piece of black forest ham, now please go away so I can FALL DOWN AND NEVER GET UP EVER EVER EVER AGAIN.

( It inspired me to write one of those shitty disjointed blank verse poems that I haven't written since ninth grade. )

I did see a mouse. But it ran away before I could play with it.
WOE. WOE IS ME.

* Please note: although the contents of this poem are entirely true, it was not written as a serious attempt to create Great Literature. Or even Pithy Supermarket Literature. I don't want the Vogons to think I'm trying to steal the second-worst poetry spot, you know.