This world we livin' in, man, it ain't nuthin' but drama.
Everyone wanna harm ya;
In New York, brothers bein' shot for bombers.
Now they got your life in the foamer.
They in like California
Playas with buds of hydroponic
Gangbangin' got the ghetto hotter than a sauna.
Down in Orange, my boy Pops died on the corner
Behind a five dollar dice game--
I saw him once before he died,
Wished it was twice, man.
I remember bein' eight deep off in Chucky crib:
Lettin' us act bad, not even carin' what we did.
When we lost him I knew the world was comin' to the end,
And I had to quit lettin' that devil push me to a sin.
My brother been in the pen
For about ten;
But now it look like when
He get out, I'm goin' in.
So now I walk around with my my mind blown
In my own lil zone
'Cuz one day you're here; the next day, you're gone.
The version of the verse used in Every Day on the new Girl Talk has different lyrics than the ones I could find online, so I have transcribed them. Then I added punctuation. Because, in the future, rap will be immaculately punctuated.
I'm assuming that what sounds like "Repromoana" is a reference to a particular strain of marijuana--as opposed to a magnificently garbled attempt to actually say "marijuana". These are minutia you don't learn about when you spend the '90s as an upper-middle class Canadian white boy.
So it is 3 PM when I am writing this particular sentence, which means I have been awake for about... twenty hours, we'll say. This estimate doesn't reflect the additional fact that I had only gotten about five hours of quasi-troubled afternoon-sleep before I dragged myself out of bed to resume my end-of-semester toil. For the past week I have basically been operating nocturnally. There are fewer distractions at night and I needed to produce twenty pages on the incoming copyright reform law. (Short story: It's okay!)
The only classes being held this week were for review (until tax this morning, anyway), which I don't find useful when I have been too busy researching and writing to organize summaries. Plus, it is that stressful weather-changing time of year, and the acts involved in catching the bus and sitting through a lecture take a lot of potential paper-writing pizazz out of me. I have been at this school gig for awhile. I Know The Score.
Exams start on Monday. I had anticipated that I might be in the current situation and made some initial preparation some weeks ago, but my recent adventure in copyright paper has still left me well behind my colleagues in terms of actual exam-ready material.1 If I did not Know The Score this might be cause for a sleep-deprived study panic, but (a) a week of fourteen-hour night shifts represents approximately as much optimal use as I can get out of that schedule, and (b) the likelihood that your brain can retain useful legal information rapidly approaches zero after the sixteenth hour of consciousness.
So, LiveJournal. Keep occupied until a reasonable bed time. Resume end-of-semester toil tomorrow morning, slightly further behind but significantly better able to marshal available resources going forward.
Although it sounds perfectly awful, the situation is still much improved in comparison to the workload to be stared down at the end of each semester by every 1L. My life is downright manageable.
1 Curiously, this has not put at least some colleagues off of enquiring after my help. I believe this is a passive effect of Knowing The Score. People believe that if you Know The Score you must have your shit together, even if the score you are knowing is that you are behind in the count.
Venture Bros. Season Finale (New Hank Cusses). Weeds. Boardwalk Empire (Steve Buscemi still occasionally difficult to take seriously; Gretchen Mol still most attractive woman alive). Futurama Holiday Special. Bored to Death.
Running Wilde. Effing Running Wilde, kids. It's not like we can actually have nice things, so enjoy it while it lasts.