someone kill me now

mood: dead
music: the breaking of my soul
CPCetc: after i write this, i'm slitting my wrists

I just bastardised Oscar Wilde's work for the sake of academia. Despite my better judgements against the action. Despite the small, scratching voice that such an action could only lead to suicidal thoughts and inner emptiness. Despite my more efficient plans to tell this woman, in so many words, to forcefully insert the lifestyle card into her anus.

But I didn't.

I did my schoolwork.

And I am honestly ready to kill myself.

Especially because my mother thought it was actually good.

Hopefully, I'll be dead by the time it gets a ridiculously good grade, a smily face and a comment about how wonderful of a grasp I have on the text.