Tomorrow is results day, that one day a year where everyone judges you, sweating profusely and clinging tentatively to the envelope containing your results, gently lifting the flap and parting the seal you take out the little slip of paper containing one of 8 letters corresponding to the quality of your performance in the recent examinations.

Honestly, I couldn't really care less; examinations are one of life's discreet pleasures, they really do reflect the level of effort you put into a given vocation.
When it comes to results (obviously with the exceptions of trauma or bereavement ect) there really are no excuses, if you didn't try hard enough, you failed and you're the only one to blame.
Success breeds comp

Tomorrow is results day, that one day a year where everyone judges you, you sweat profusely and cling tentatively to the envelope containing your results, gently lifting the flap and parting the seal,

I'd thrown him in at the deep end, his stupid malevolent smile beaming, like a buck toothed-ginger cat, the thought of the little auburn bastard made my skin crawl, he knew nothing of my world and should my explicit instruction to News International have been followed he would still be sat at home, sat alone with four cans of weak lager and a press pass to the local charity white collar boxing event. (Rhinestone Ricky "The Fist" McAdam pitted against Pucker Luck Kamaran; two overweight 40 year old gentlemen, trapped within the confines of an incredibly dull and conservative suburban life wherein they resigned from what little happiness they could find in order to sit watching Channel Four documentaries on aircraft crashes and occasionally speak to their ageing increasingly unattractive wife.)  Alas, that's photographers for you.

I dont feel the need to express my discontent towards the art anymore than I already have; but you've joined me and my plucky accomplice at what would seem to be an ordinary event, surrounded by two-bit record executives and suited higher-ups; I'd been sent here to cover the release of an album, the name of which escapes my mind but I'm sure I can find this out at a later date;

Pure Horatio Alger

There's something incredibly romantic and tantalising about the freedom of the mind under the influence of narcotics which to some could be an unappealing thought, something about tapping into the subconscious, that little part of the brain that remains hidden from view and is only coaxed out under copious amounts of mescaline and reality distorting drugs. Under heavy use the distinction between "upper" and "downer" begins to blur and external appearance begins to matter not, freedom of expression flows, freedom of thought flourishes and I think only then is the feit of personal exploration fully achievable, not in any sexual or metaphysical sense, but the rewarding notion of merely realising where you lie, its very true to say that one never really realises they are at a peak till they begin to come down and one only realises they are in a trough when they begin to climb out.

But exactly what is it about (in this instance) the lack of narcotics and social interaction that allows the author to experience this moment of clarity? Well I believe myself to be somewhat of an extravert, at least in the company of others, obviously, a term usually found within the reserve of micky-mouse psychologists which tends to be a euphemism for "A bit of an annoying cunt if I'm honest" but we'll roll with it for the time being, it adequately describes the majority of my traits within the company of others, per se: I oft fight for attention within a group and attempt to establish myself as a leader, though this could be said for many. ("Im an enigma" - Of course you are, you titted idiot).

Yet, as I find myself segregated from social interaction for a brief period of illness and a distinct lack of plans made, I dont feel any longing to be with anyone, which is often true for me, I consider myself to be somewhat of a sad, lonely back-bedroom casualty sometimes, though I feel this is offset with the juxtaposing of an outgoing personality and the ability to have a good laugh and make great friends. Though prolonged isolation is never, in my experience, a bad thing. I consider myself to be in a sense, my own best friend, I often think for myself and in my own best interest, thats not to say I am a particularly selfish cunt, I go out of my way to help others, I keep my friends close and I value my friends completely and wholly, but when it comes to it, I do not rely on others for emotional support, as it is I feel that desperately sharing problems with anyone that you can coral into listening often becomes the antithesis of 'Lifting the weight of the world' from ones shoulders; because quite frankly, no one actually cares about your problems, and those that do are being incredibly sycophantic.

Yet, as we slowly begin to realise the downer, to begin to emerge from that trench, tail between the legs and head full of pharmaceutical grade ether and adrenachrome, there is often the very real risk of taking the plunge again as you try to climb atop, shedding all your problems and your deamons, you pick yourself up take the leap and ride the great and beautiful wave, spurned on by the heaving, rolling momentum of the vivid realities created by the acid, or benzine, or methadone or life. The very feeling that whatever you are doing is working and YOU, YOU ARE RIGHT.

But now, as you age and wonder, aimlessly, jaw agape and mind agaze into the deserted forecourt of a twenty-four hour superstore, amidst the bright lights and the nauseating, prickly feeling created by the tail end of a mescaline high; you can almost see the high water mark, that moment where the wave broke and rolled back.