Wayward Son

I might just start naming my blog posts after whatever song I am listening to at the moment.

Anyway, I have 4 midterms coming up. 4. With 3 on the same day. Why do I have to be tortured like this? Gah, f*ck.

Aside from that, I know that only a few people read this blog. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if my blog's total views are lower than Dick Cheney's morals. Eh, whatever. It's my journal, my mind, my insight.

Now, to what I originally intended to write:

I awoke to an explosion. My house was shaking, but I could only concentrate on the ringing and blood in my ears. I put my hands to cover them and could feel the warm, comfortable pain of my eardrums beating on my skull like an invading army. I sat up in my bed and with one bloody hand threw the covers off of me. I stumbled to the floor as the house continued to shake and throw me like a ragdoll. Another explosion, this one closer, shook my house with vehement force. I stood up, trying to balance myself amid the constant rattling of my pictures and falling of my bookshelves.
My pictures...
I looked to the wall where my remaining pictures held. There, my wife and son smiled back at me, enjoying themselves on a Spring day in a clear field, unaware of my current malady. I stumbled to the far wall and reached my bloody hand to save the last remnant of my family.
My head was a swirling mess of constant ringing, delirium, fear, and adrenaline. I couldn't make sense of my occurrences, but all the while I knew that I had to save the picture. The picture. The picture...
"Smile!"

Feedback would be appreciated.