the unluckiest fucked up day ever.

Fuck poetry. Fuck books. Fuck art. Fuck life.
Fuck Norfolk. Fuck his job and fuck his wife.
Fuck teenagers who think they know it all.
Fuck that girl walking past him in the hall.
Was there corollary in love and fuck?
Was there corollary in gave and took?
Was there a point in any written book?
Was there a point in anything at all?
Was there a push that ever came to shove?
Was there a rhyme that ever came to love?
Was there a way to discipline a sigh?
Was there a place where pop songs went to die?
Was there a girl who'd never ever ever?
Was there an artery that wouldn't sever?
Did the heart fuck the mind with all its slummings?
Did Shakespeare always become e.e. cummings?
Was the end always sonnetary ruin?
Did Shakespeare always turn to Don Juan?

no, this isn't just cos a string of extremely annoying things keep popping up. i wish midnight would come quick. after 12pm, things just went downhill. incidentally, today is monday the 13th - fatal combination of the number 13 and the worst day of the week (as yet). whoever says friday the 13ths are the worst, clearly has not been in my feet-killing shoes.

just for the record:
1. fucked up day in the wards
2. fucked up assessment stuff
3. waste of a day in AH waiting for a lecture that never was
4. waste of a day in NUH waiting for the same lecture that never was
5. foiled lunches and dinners
6. fucked up computer
7. an acute sense of loneliness, otherwise known as fucked-up-ness

i understand now how it was possible for them to disappear without batting an eyelid. it's got something to do with never having given totally and whole-heartedly. it's all conditional. and no, it's not relative. yes, i am that easily left.