(I’ve now used two exclamation marks in a single title, so I’m obviously a clickbait-writing views-whore)
I mentioned my fantastically improvised tattoo arm of revision the other day, and it’s grown; I won’t show you a picture because I’m a writer, not a photographer (at least according to my writing blog’s Facebook page), but it’s now covered up to the elbow. There is a particularly large and vibrant reminder on there too, which consists of the reminder written in green, with a green ring around it, coloured in with an orange highlighter. And, much to my horror, applying that much highlighter to a single area leads to borderline suffocating highlighter fumes being given off for the next million years. Or fifteen minutes.
I use this note-taking arm because of how practical it is, but this has thrown a spanner in that argument, and turned the tables of these contrived metaphors completely; now the arm is a source of that most troubling thing in the Western World, a minor annoyance one can’t ignore, nor succinctly bitch about within the confines of a tweet.
And faced with the inability to accurately lament my sorrows to the world, in a desperate and fundamentally narcissistic way to make people feel sorry for me to fatten my own faltering ego, I’ve had to stew in my fume-heavy room all day, toiling away at the horror that is revision for an exam being taken at one of the top five universities in the world (apparently).
But don’t worry, I can always moan to you guys in a fundamentally narcissistic way whenever anything like this happens; and because this isn’t Twitter, there’s no 140-character limit on my bullshit. Hooray!