Please Read Past Para 3.

No bath for three days. Feeling stinky.

No shave, feeling rough.

Haven't cried for three days. Not too bad.

Haven't done much over the week. Not feeling too bad about that.

So, it's been an interesting week, hasn't it?
I was thinking about renaming the blog. Conversations With An Imaginary Girlfriend makes me sound really imaginative, if not more desperate. And I was thinking about this on the way to class. Class. don't call it college, it's classier to refer to it as class, not college.

Squirrels are so nice.

Manu, your conversations just wander on and on, says the person who has seen, and done everything from having drawn his first paycheck recently. Smart boy, isn't he. He's trying to prove that wandering conversations are a waste of everybody's time.

I haven't played Scrabble in a while on Facebook. Wonder how everybody is doing.

I've never learnt the whens-and-wheres of putting semicolons into a sentence. What really does a semi-colon convey? And how does one put it: semicolon or semi-colon? Which one seems more distunguished? Am I eager to prove myelf distinguished? Am I really distinguishable from all the rest? Does it matter? Isn't it really proving myself to be me that matters?

What I am I doing here? Who is reading this right now? Are you reading this and thinking about what I'm going through? Do you really care? Should I get myself somebody to talk to? A girlfriend perhaps, because honestly, everybody seems to agree. And by everybody, I refer of course to my good friends who I shall not be naming here. You know who you are. You do. Do you honestly think I am that weak and pathetic? Experience is different da, they say. But what exactly are you basing that relationship on? Why can't you just be friends without the added pressure of being "boyfriend" or "girlfriend"?

You're thinking too much they say. Thinking about life. It's not that serious. It's your final year, you need to get out more often, do more things. Well, my dear friend, you don't seem to get it, you're just wasting your life. By the time you realise it, you'll be 40-years old and nobody'll give a crap. But honestly, do you really mean to say that somebody does give a crap right now? You, for instance? Does your advice really mean that you care? A girlfriend? Why, I can't even handle being myself and here you are, advising me to get a girlfriend.

But maybe you're right, it might provide me with my source of intellectual stimulation, at my discretionary level of conscience. There ought to be somebody I choose out from the hordes to not abstract myself from. Somebody who just gets me. Completely, wholly, and without restraint. Somebody who can listen to me.

But is there somebody, really who can? Who can listen to me going on and on about myself and what I think and care about. It's almost too much to bear the idea of all that time being wasted. All that time.

I use the "all that" phrase too often. Must limit myself.

Structured conversation is for people with no imagination. Too general, nobody has imagination, it has been sucked out by endless YouTube videos where dogs are being sensible and cats and parrots silver-tongued orators. Maybe this is a sign that the slow ageing process of civilization and thought is coming on.

Does anybody really care?

Am I being too judgemental. Is this what I really think about?

What am I here for? To do what is right?

Who is reading this? Nobody, that's right. Nobody. Nobody is even reading this.

What's a blog. Why are there so many questions/. Where are th eanswers? Where are the answers my dear friends? Where are the answers. I know not.

I'm sure of that.

What else am I sure of? Nothing much. Snap. Snap. I'm sure that no blog post of mine can be coherent and thoughtful. I'm sure. I try, but I've lost all the patience to sift through my thoughts. It's almost as if I have to rush them all out the door at the same time.

I realise that I don't kno wwhere the keys on the keyboard are, I just know that my fingers know where they are. I don't know how they know. Do they remember where the tab key is? Could they give me some 'Space' when I needed it. Flip the pages back. When did I start. I've been typing for as long as I can remember. I keep typing and typing till the keys start feeling a little slick. Looks like my skin's a lot oilier than I thought. A lot oilier. They just slip.

I've thought about carrying around a notebook with me. Nothing too fancy, just alittle thing where I can carry stuff about and note down things of interest. Mostly everything is interesting, and everything is so different from day to day. Getting them all down in one place makes putting down content in a blog a lot less harder. And these thoughts, and especially the best ones tend to come in most unexpectedly, they come in when you're taking a crap or when you're on the bus, or after you're done taking a crap or in class, or when you're walking about. I've realised that a cellphone which lets you save draft text messages is especially useful in this case. Plenty I've noted down.

For instance, I was once at this place - Ragam bakery, if I remember correctly - waiting for my friends to arrive. I was sipping on some lime juice. And watching people return home from work, some of them going in to shop for dinner that evening. The bakery is adjacent to a supermarket, which makes blowing your money on friends ("Nicely done on that bike man, you got a sweet deal there! Where's the treat!" or "Oh, you got laid last week! Way to go! So, how was he? Treat!") in the bakery, and then blowing money on things that you don't really need. Who needs instant noodles. I'd take mine slowly.

12 hours later,

this blog post is still open. Anybody who cares to go through will find that it has lost it's way, after the 3 paragraph, if you get there, that is.

What shall I call it now? I know!
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