I have stuff to do today and most of it involves the University of Hull so after updating you on my movements........
I cycled home this morning.
my typing is going to distract the hammer strikes of the man who is fitting the windows that I painted. Gotta go.
It's nice to be back and it must be assent of a new tongue in me that after being sought for wise council.. was projecting my thoughts at the boy which was OK because we haven't had a lot of conversations.
Why, after the thousand trials of school, do they get "disabled" students to fill out another four sided form before they willl consider your application for University? There's an answer that bears relation to creative writing that is a little circumstantial. I'll go and test it out; see if I'm inspired. They give you a form just like this one before you have an assesment. I wrote "Fuck the System" at the bottom. Informed lines of history that go back to 1994 work convienently into sardonic commentary and matched the tone of our/the familiar interview and testing until he tried to establish if I had touret's syndrome and I made him sweat at three paces, accross a round table, by obliquely reminding him of swearing at his parents and won the argument, securing a score of some kind, laterally, and fucked his form.
I cycled home this morning.
my typing is going to distract the hammer strikes of the man who is fitting the windows that I painted. Gotta go.
It's nice to be back and it must be assent of a new tongue in me that after being sought for wise council.. was projecting my thoughts at the boy which was OK because we haven't had a lot of conversations.
Why, after the thousand trials of school, do they get "disabled" students to fill out another four sided form before they willl consider your application for University? There's an answer that bears relation to creative writing that is a little circumstantial. I'll go and test it out; see if I'm inspired. They give you a form just like this one before you have an assesment. I wrote "Fuck the System" at the bottom. Informed lines of history that go back to 1994 work convienently into sardonic commentary and matched the tone of our/the familiar interview and testing until he tried to establish if I had touret's syndrome and I made him sweat at three paces, accross a round table, by obliquely reminding him of swearing at his parents and won the argument, securing a score of some kind, laterally, and fucked his form.