(screw the title)
i can't believe dat i'm in the midst of the As already. all these yrs, it seemed so distant. n yet it is coming to pass. when i think of these cambridge markers, i think of a dusty, old forgotten cottage. there's losts of snow, lots n lots of it, n inhabiting this seemingly hostile environment, is a wizened artifice of our dearly beloved marker. this fellow's physical appearance seems to suggest dat he/she's about as old as time itself, apparently. n i'd like to imagine dat its a she. makes things alot easier. wif those cliche thick-rimmed glasses with connecting strings, n her dusty mop of hair, she sits marking furiously. next to her sit piles n piles of scripts dotted wif words n squiggly figures dat r almost entirely illegible. or in her eyes, at least. but anyway, dis old piece of antique has apparently growned quite accustomed to dis sort of thing already. she's wad u call a warhorse. guided by candlelight n the warmth of her fireplace, she ploughs thru the scripts n essays slowly but steadily. her hands seem to move wif unnatural swiftness across the paper, its the only part of the body dat seems to b moving; a phenomenon u onli see in grandmother markers of this specimen in cambridge. do not belittle such a creature however, wif one full swipe of her fountain pen, she holds ur fate in her hands.
suddenly, there's a loud thud, which disrupts her concentration. no. its not her playboy santa. this old hag turns around n realizes blardycocklesparrowingers! a huge lump of snow has fallen thru her chimney, n into her fireplace instead, extinguishing dat healthy source of warmth n light dat once was her only source of hope, wisdom, knowledge n inspiration. she curses n swears under her breath. its going to b a long, cold winter. n chances r dat she'll b spending her christmas cooped up in this shithole marking away too, poor thing. sigh. talk about palliative care for the elderly. its depressing to think dat under such conditions, our fates r forged. apparently the 20th century n the industrial revolution has yet to permeate this part of the world.
which begs another question. if all these high n mighty cambridge pple r all lonely grandmothers n grandfathers, then where r the young markers? surely, these old farts were young cambridge markers once. they didn't just pop out of the sky u noe. which points to the fact dat there must b young examiners in cambridge. apparently, the general consensus seems to b dat cambridge is comprised mainly of old farts who seem to live for eternity in these hallowed halls of learning.
for the equally unfortunate student such as myself, its one mth more to go.
alvin ong dozed and watched the sawdust trampled night @ 1:32 AM
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