How did I survive? Forget that, how did you survive? The last week sans antidisinformation has been a trial on my frayed exam nerves. Five down, two to go. Oh yesh. Four medium successes, one failed disaster. That was the cinematography test. I handed up a shameful paper. I knew so little of what was asked that I resorted to describing my last sun holiday.

I would like to propose a lovely "shout out" to my "homies" and beloved "bitch ass niggas" who read this "phat" blog who are also doing "muthafucking exams" or "wack disser-fuckin-tations". This is fo' y'all, slags - Debo, Stig, Lydia, Clare, Bonzo, Silke, Martin, Angela, Luke, Adrian et al. Dawgs, you so fly.

[Edited to add the masters people - I forgot about your pain.]

So I've not been up to much, what with the examming and the studdering and all of that lark. We took a trip to the hideously boring Trim Castle, where I took some artsy-fartsy photographs of a paint-stained bench, a used lollipop stick and some American travelling drama types who were dressed in medieval period costumes and running about drinking out of goblets and what have you. It was slightly eerie. I mean, I can understand wanting to have been born in say, the sixties, with the love revolution and all that crap, but wanting to have been born in the pox ridden middle ages? PASS.

I've also been corrupting my clean-living husband - staying up late drinking neat whiskey shots. He's gone and devloped a taste for it. He's currently in the kitchen developing a morning whiskey smoothie, to give him the kick he needs to drive to work.

Now I prepare to conclude this brief entry but first, I leave you to ponder the following philosophical question - what if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us? Just a stranger on the bus, trying to make his way home? And he was on fire? I leave you with the suggestion that if that if this is indeed the case then we're all royally langered, and not in the good way with cheap liquor.

neuro-praxis -- What Would She Look Like, And Would You Wanna See?