This is why I shoudn't be allowed the music of Damien Rice and Sting.

So Mrs Wells is piling on the homework, and here I am slaving away. I'm writing about a poem called 'The Eve of St. Agnes,' and discussing whether or not Porphyro is a voyeuristic villain (check out the alliteration there, why don't you,) or whether he's just so desperately in love with Madeline and idolises her to such an extent that he doesn't see anything weird in hiding in her wardrobe, watching her undress and shagging her while she's only semi-conscious.*
To be perfectly frank, I do not give a flying shit. I don't like Keats and his arty farty attitude. I don't like Romanticism. There. I've said it.

I hate the use of 'poetic licence' where moonlight shines through the stained glass window and casts its colour onto Madeline. The beauty of the image is somewhat eclipsed by the fact that THAT CANNOT PHYSICALLY HAPPEN! Why not write about beautiful things that are actually feasible? This annoys me rather irrationally, as you can see.

So what's all this study leading to? Well, **an A-level in English literature, then ***a place in university, leading onto ****a job that allows me to provide for myself and possible family, and then inevitable death.

This begs the age old question: What's the point? Our whole lives are planned ahead of us. This structure is the backbone of society, and if we don't conform, we're...scratch that: what else is there to do but conform?

At least this structure gives us something rather than nothing. I'd rather be working towards some achievement, no matter how small. It's either that or living an even more pointless existence. In the end, everyone has the same aim in life: to better oneself. It all comes down to whether you die on the streets or in the warmth. You can only hope to die in a better position than you were born.

So, ultimately, life is futile. We build little houses and societies around ourselves, but for what purpose? We do it because there's nothing else to do.

To sum up, I'm going to steal a line from our good friend Morgan Freeman:

"Get busy living, or get busy dying."

Me Footnotes

*I will say one thing for Porphyro, however. At least he comes out of the wardrobe and reveals himself to Madeline. At least Porphyro doesn't keep leaving anonymous messages on Madeline's formspring and refusing to facebook message her. I mean, even if it's a piss take, I reckon Madeline might agree that it's gone a little too far now, so wouldn't it be better that Porphyro just swallows his pride and messages her if he isn't taking the piss, lest she think that he is and be rather hurt?

**That's if I haven't stabbed Mrs Wells, the entire class and then myself before I have the chance.

***That's if David hasn't banned everybody who doesn't have a double barreled name from attending.

****That's if university education actually counts for anything at all.