If there’s a term that can be coined in reference to one’s efforts being considered as complete vain. Then, whatever so called name it presents itself with should not happen to meet me in the dim streets of Portage. Or good heavens, blood will be spilled on the cotton grounds which rests the snow.
But suppose the long arm of the law finds it’s way up my buttocks. I shall confess to Frustration as my leading accomplice. I would testify that its anger inducing influence had lead me to a bloody act of murder concerning the aforementioned victim. Innocent and ill-fated.
I would nonetheless count on my English teacher to serve as a witness for the helpless victim. Upon experiencing an abrupt behavior in class in cahoots with the aforesaid confederate, Frustration. She will make it a case to attest that her criticism of my 4 paged long essay written in sheer blood-clot and mental sweat have triggered a lack of interest in what she was reciting as to be the exact reason for my written work’s flaws. Then a mentioning of my sharp facial expression depicting serious distemper would be stated; that in my exit, the cold atmosphere effected steam as my subtle ire flares up.
This would conclude the jury to come to a final decision that the suspect, yours truly, is clearly liable for the crime of frustrated homicide. While his associate to the crime at hand transpires to be but a mere figment of imagination; one that came into being upon the denial of efforts made. I would then be sentenced to a reconstruction of the written work from the scraps of identifiable content that remains in the noted essay for a long 5 days and 5 nights, including the weekend. In short, death penalty.
SONGOFTHEMOMENT: Sky Might Fall by Kid Cudi