Pearl Harbour saw less bombing than this

[Warning: If you are averse towards swearing you might want to skip this post because I am ANGSTY, damn it! VERY angsty. I don't even swear that much, but the occasion really calls for it. (yush... I hear it's not big or clever...)]

[Also, parents: beware.]

[Furthermore, I will stop complaining about everything soon, I promise]

You want to know something that really bugs me? I mean something that REALLY bugs me, something that gets in my grill, raises my roof and all kinds of GANG-STA terms I have yet to learn?

I’m talking about fucking time.

Time is the epitome of all evil, I swear. Nothing irritates me more than having too much time, or too little time, or it being time to get up, time to go to sleep, time to go to school, or the bus not being on time.

It’s time to address this issue.

My most recent qualm with time occurred just this week, today actually, about five minutes ago if you must know, but I don’t have the time for such details at present.

Just this Monday, I was told that I had a week to do my statistics coursework. At the beginning of the week, that sounded like loads of time. LOADS.

But then on Wednesday or Thursday you look back on it and realise that a working week is only five days long (Ha. Hahaha... Whoever said that a working week stopped at the weekend was either a gym teacher or one of the elderly insane. Or both, we have four of those at our school.) and you have two days left to improve the coursework draft that was graded an E.

Then you start to stress a bit.

Now, last night I worked from the moment I got to school (8.30am) to 10pm, having had nothing but a pasta salad and a milkshake through all that time. Why? Because I didn’t have time to eat.

By 9pm I was tearing my hair out, I’d screamed into a pillow three times already and was dangerously close to snapping my beloved laptop in two.

And this is where the parents might want to listen up. Teenagers are all like this, it's best you're prepared for the worst. (ME!)

My family aren’t so much a family as an assembly of tragic fools, and that’s how we roll. My friends have this theory that I’ve had a really relaxed upbringing. They would be almost right. I was not brought up; I was dragged up, kicking and screaming.

So it would be perfectly normal in my house for me to storm into my parents’ room and commence the following conversation (Game: Count the swearwords, double points for the F-bomb):

Me: Permission to swear profusely?

Mum: Why?

Me: Because I’ve been fucking working for the last fucking thirteen pissing hours. I’m barely halfway through the stupid fucking portfolio, teachers are being twats, Nathan’s fucked shit up in drama by being such a suck up he should just go give Baguette a B-J right now and-

Mum: Nicky that’s sick.

Me: -and it smells of nail varnish, my sadistics coursework is due in in fucking two days and I haven’t done anything to bloody improve it and me and Joe fucked up the chemistry exam so badly that we have to do it again at lunchtime-

Mum: You didn’t say you had another exam.

Me: -my shoes exploded again and my stupid pissing bag broke and it really, really smells of nail varnish in here!

(QUESTION: World’s longest sentence?)

Mum: Riiight...

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But it doesn’t even end there. The clocks go backwards or forwards or to Switzerland next week so I lose YET ANOTHER hour of my day.

Stupid time. Go die in a hole.