| Pt 1. | Pt 2. | Pt 3. | Pt 4. | Pt 5. | Pt 6.
| Pt 7. | Pt 8. | Pt 9. | Pt 10. | Pt 11. | Pt 12. |

That's when I got sick of writing. If you're reading this it's probably because you wrote it or stumbled upon it accidently when searching for candid underpant shots of schoolies sluts gone slutty. If you're wondering what the rest of the story is, basically I hooked up with Sammy in the police cell after she'd been done for molesting a garden. We hugged as we went our seperate ways, content never to see eachother again. We were good together, but only constrained to a particular geographic and temporal environment, and nothing more.
I went home, went to bed, went to sleep.
Thankfully though, for anyone who's bothering to read this overly-long and poorly written tome, I'd written the conclusion some time before I discovered I couldn't be fucked writing a resolution. I was going to rewrite it once I'd written what it concludes, maybe spruce it up a bit, but as you can imagine I really can't be fucked.
So now, in it's unaltered form, is the pre-written denoument to the unfinshed article that was, still is, and probably will continue to be, 'The Schoolies Weak Adventure'.

I was still reeling in bed from last night's adventures, my left hand firmly ensconced in my underpants.
After my hand got all sweaty, I walked to the window to look over the sight before me, reflecting upon my week's experiences, and what they've shown me about my life, and the strength of my character.
Two seconds into my deep meditation, a girl at the hotel next door hopped into the pool. Needless to say, I didn't mind getting my hand sweaty again.
Sitting on the bed, dutifully liberating millions of potential Beethovens, I thought about the symbolism of what I was doing. I reflected on the possibility that the week had held more for me than just rigid self-abuse, but I'd rather whittle away my reckful youth by whittling away at myself. I think that pretty much reflects the entire week of schoolies: Just a huge wank-fest for everybody.