Question.

And then she asked, where all that anger went,
Well, it disappeared from the skin ..
Slipped quietly - deep within.

The Horror

I will turn nineteen in a little over a month. So we've already approached the end of our teenage, have we?
This is depressing. So very depressing. Yes, this is the post where I complain about how I absolutely do not like growing up. Its all well. Just the reaffirmation of certain things is a tragedy. Who wants to age and find out they were right about life all along when they were a sulking young teen, right? I don't. I don't like it. You find out how all the cliches you'd been avoiding like a plague? They hunt you down in the end. And attach themselves to you. Like they did to the others. Because, lets beat it, in a population of millions, you're just another disgruntled face. Same old story. And repeat. Repeat.
Perhaps, if you'd met with a different set of experiences. That hadn't been set off by the triggers they had. Because some or the other event had prevented these triggers to actualise. Then, you'd have turned out different. If that boy in the fourth grade class hadn't had that fight with his mother that day, hadn't spoilt her mood to provoke that tiff with his father she'd been putting off for ever resulting in their grisly divorce damaging him enough to act out on the first thing he saw after his drug-addled sister called him up to let him know in her cackly voice - You. You would have been different. Maybe, you'd have even retorted on his face if only you'd told yourself, believed yourself, lied to yourself that you'd have gotten away with it, without that ugly bruise on your face. We are truly the lies we tell ourselves. Its a lie the first time. Its half-truth the second. And then suddenly, it is, the only truth that could be called upon.
Oh. I am a struggling journalism intern now. Fack. The hierarchy that has developed progressively since when I was a kid to now, in the set-up really overthrew me. You're an intern first. If you can score that. For a few months. You're a trainee journalist next. For a few years. If you're lucky. And finally, and many give up mid-way, if you're really that good, and you're well-to-do/engage in other side jobs to sustain yourself, do you become a journalist. Just a journalist. Just the title. And that was and still is the start. Phew.
So not before 25. In any way. To count the minimum. Unless you're a hotshot, then you're "fitter" than us, the rest, to survive.
Shit.

Fuck This Shit

No, really.
I am bored. And tired.
And hypersocial at the moment.
Its like I am trying to talk to as many people as I can. Listen to all their stories.
But there is nothing new to listen to. And as soon as I start paying attention. I get bored again.
I am afraid I might turn into a hermit next. That is how high my mood curve has risen and stayed. For longer than it usually does.
Oh. And also I don't really think I appreciate all the affection coming my way.
All you've got to do to win people over, is lend them an ear.
The sadist too, must be asleep somewhere. Because the sobstories are no fun either.
Wow. I might have just described the beginning to Garden State and Fight Club. No shit.
0_0
Yesss. Its like I've drunk empty an ocean of espresso.
Fuck.This.Shit - I say.






(And lets get high)