On a deserted island

today marks the day of my first exam essay. Or, rather i should say "essays".
I feel an apology is in order - you are probably sick to death of hearing about the 'e' word as you've just finished yours. Be warned - these blog posts will be incredibly tiresome over the next few weeks. Even more dull than usual; therefore coma-inducing.

Other thoughts about Castaway came yesterday. If i was stuck on an island like that, i think it would be necessary to go a little crazy to keep yourself from going totally insane. Don't you think? I mean, imagine it otherwise. Having to perpetually face reality that YOU ARE ALONE. No man can live like that.
Also, if i were somehow 'castaway' i don't think i could bear not writing. It's the only place where i can realise myself. I'm serious- i hardly know my own personality til i actually write something, and my eyes are often surprised by what they see on the page. weird, right? I'd fill the cave walls with chalk writings, about anything, everything, nothing at all. At least, so i surmise. Of course, these projections could be entirely false, for i cannot even come close to portending the emotions that i would experienc if such a major extraction from society were to occur. What could you not live without? music? that indeed would be a hard one. Society, of course- but that goes without being said. hmm. we really should appreciate everything so much more.

well, i had better get back to history. Gosh, i got the collywobbles. Every time i think about where i will be in four hours (good grief, IS THAT ALL??) i feel decidedly queasy.

wish me luck. God, if you're there, give me a hand, will ya?

QUOTE OF THE DAY:

"There is not work to be had. I can't accept charity and i am too proud to appeal to my kin or friends, and i am too honest to steal. So i see no other couse. A land flowing with milk and honey and a first class mechanic can't make an honest living. I would rather take my chances with a just god than with unjust humanity."-- the suicide note of a desperate individual in the Depression.

'by five o'clokc tension had mounted to such a pitch that a workman outside the upper floor of a wall street building found himself staring into the wild eyes of four policemen who were reaching out to pull him inside.
"Don't jump" one cop shouted. "it's not that bad."
"who's going to jump?" the bewildered man asked. "i'm just washing windows!"'-- when the stock market plummetted with the burst of the speculation bubble, many stockbrokers hurled themselves off high rises when they saw their million reduced to cents.