There is an end to everything, they say. I certainly hope so because I realised yesterday that I haven’t written a single sentence in weeks that’s not about this damned paper which I’m supposed to finish this year with. This paper will propel me into next year, and the work-placement, and finally into my last year. But right now, I just want it all to end.

I barely see Mark these days. We nod to each other as we pass through the door in the morning, and then when we come home we collapse on the sofa and watch stupid television in silence. Tests, meetings, tutors, projects… We’re too tired to do anything else after all that. And then, before we know it, the mobile phones’ alarms insist that we get up from bed and do another day.

Weekends, like the one that just ended, seem more about catching a breather between revisions and editing. That said, on Saturday we did go out, and didn’t come home until two in the morning on Sunday. For once, it felt nice to do like students should do – gather in a bunch in some bar and just behave irresponsibly for a few hours.

Of all of us, Stephen is probably the one who handles his drinks best, but for some reason he became very drunk while yours truly and Mark didn’t. Then there was the inevitable crying in the beer about life, love, lust, and liberation from the massed expectations of his parents.

Ben has taken up with a serious girl who never smile but who manage to be both funny and unnerving at the same the time. She has one of those expressions where you never know whether her sarcastic sayings is meant as factual or ironic. It’s disconcerting. But their intensity when they sit together and read poetry together is cutting.

On Thursday I also did a cover, but for once I wasn’t very happy with the result, and copying and pasting and rejigging things during the weekend didn’t improve anything, so I’m keeping my song to myself for now. But it was nice to do something with music again. I have to do more of that, when I have the time.

There’s two weeks more of this, and then we’ll be done. The paper will be handed in, and we’ll be marked, and our fates will be sealed or not. Two weeks. I can handle two weeks, even if I want this to end. Now. But now we have to get back at it again.

Sigh. Don’t mind my whining, by the way. I’m just engaging in an age old student tradition. I have precedents to uphold, and traditions to keep, after all. We’ll be fine, eventually, maybe. Once this damned paper is finished and done and delivered.

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