Gopher Topher
86: Stick a fork in me...
I'm done.
At least, I'm ready to be done. I moved a lot of my stuff out of the dorm in the last day. There's actually an echo in my room now. I'm just very ready to move on. I've been disheartened by the way certain aspects of this year went in the hall, and it's all catching up to me at the end. My floor rocked my socks off, but outside of that it got ugly sometimes.
Lately, I've been really stressed. Part of it is the paper due in 48 hours that I haven't started. Another part of it is this whole graduating and taking the next step in life thing. Regardless, I've been noticing myself falling into classic trends that I follow when stressed.
For years upon years I've dealt with nervous tics. They are a wide variety of physical actions and sounds that I can't control making when I'm feeling on edge. Generally this problem has been pacified in the last few years. However, the last few weeks have caused a total relapse, and it's really pissing me off.
Bottom line: I'm very tired of life as it has been recently. I want nothing more than to start writing the next chapter and wipe my hands clean of all this.
PS: I apologize for the high emo content of this shot.
Song for the day: Fred Jones Part 2 by Ben Folds (the video edits it a little, but I like what they did)
Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark
There's an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall
He's cleared all his things and he's put them in boxes
Things that remind him: 'Life has been good'
Twenty-five years
He's worked at the paper
A man's here to take him downstairs
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones
It's time
There was no party, there were no songs
'Cause today's just a day like the day that he started
No one is left here that knows his first name
And life barrels on like a runaway train
Where the passengers change
They don't change anything
You get off; someone else can get on
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones
It's time
Streetlight shines through the shades
Casting lines on the floor, and lines on his face
He reflects on the day
Fred gets his paints out and goes to the basement
Projecting some slides onto a plain white
Canvas and traces it
Fills in the spaces
He turns off the slides, and it doesn't look right
Yeah, and all of these bastards
Have taken his place
He's forgotten but not yet gone
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones
It's time
86: Stick a fork in me...
I'm done.
At least, I'm ready to be done. I moved a lot of my stuff out of the dorm in the last day. There's actually an echo in my room now. I'm just very ready to move on. I've been disheartened by the way certain aspects of this year went in the hall, and it's all catching up to me at the end. My floor rocked my socks off, but outside of that it got ugly sometimes.
Lately, I've been really stressed. Part of it is the paper due in 48 hours that I haven't started. Another part of it is this whole graduating and taking the next step in life thing. Regardless, I've been noticing myself falling into classic trends that I follow when stressed.
For years upon years I've dealt with nervous tics. They are a wide variety of physical actions and sounds that I can't control making when I'm feeling on edge. Generally this problem has been pacified in the last few years. However, the last few weeks have caused a total relapse, and it's really pissing me off.
Bottom line: I'm very tired of life as it has been recently. I want nothing more than to start writing the next chapter and wipe my hands clean of all this.
PS: I apologize for the high emo content of this shot.
Song for the day: Fred Jones Part 2 by Ben Folds (the video edits it a little, but I like what they did)
Fred sits alone at his desk in the dark
There's an awkward young shadow that waits in the hall
He's cleared all his things and he's put them in boxes
Things that remind him: 'Life has been good'
Twenty-five years
He's worked at the paper
A man's here to take him downstairs
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones
It's time
There was no party, there were no songs
'Cause today's just a day like the day that he started
No one is left here that knows his first name
And life barrels on like a runaway train
Where the passengers change
They don't change anything
You get off; someone else can get on
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones
It's time
Streetlight shines through the shades
Casting lines on the floor, and lines on his face
He reflects on the day
Fred gets his paints out and goes to the basement
Projecting some slides onto a plain white
Canvas and traces it
Fills in the spaces
He turns off the slides, and it doesn't look right
Yeah, and all of these bastards
Have taken his place
He's forgotten but not yet gone
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones
And I'm sorry, Mr. Jones
It's time