Sometimes I ramble, which is a useful tool in arguments. Rambling maketh a lilly white livered liberal raising tuition fees.
I ruled with an iron fist that only looked pink. I could change time so was my power, bedtime could start at 3pm if there had been naughtiness.
But suddenly these days, these older days, without knowing when I actually morphed, but I think I may be in a parallel universe because this winning an argument malarchy is taking longer than usual.
I am worn down by the years that my education becomes remedial.
I am crushed by the logical counter-arguments based on theory and not practice.
I am worn down by teenage idealism.
He may be right, he may be the one who escapes the rat race. He may lead the art race.