A crazy internals week, the alarmingly quick passing of days leading to the finals, the listless days at home, the short-lived uninteresting Whatsapp conversations, an unceremonious family Sunday (which happens to be Mother’s Day) and the constant drone of the TV in the background (it’s on because it keeps everyone sane and stops mom from picking on me), a novel which absolutely REFUSES to pick up pace, a street pup who just WON’T listen to you after weeks of petting it and showering it with love, no interesting movies to look forward to, the fast depleting data plan on my phone, and alarming hair fall to top it all off.
See, I’ve gone through my entire things-to-do-when-you’re-down agenda, and It’s. Not. Helping.
- Listen to Stereo Love at least 17 times. Check.
- Have a pointless debate with a friend. Check.
- Pick on someone in a crowd and have everyone laughing about it. Check.
- Be an adamant acid-tongued teenager and refuse point-blank to everything your mother says. Check.
- Sleep till your face has a permanent just-out-of-bed look. Check.
- Make up glorious tales of adventure in your head. Check.
- Scowl till you feel like you’re in control of things. Check.
- Download an addictive new game. Check.
NONE of this helps! In fact, each one of them ADDED to my misery.
Stereo Love began getting sliiiiightly boring (it’s NOT possible, it has never been. The world is going to end)
My friend got utterly pissed (that’s unforeseen too) and long story short, I got reduced to tears in the end.
I felt like a pathetic sadist five seconds after trying to be funny.
I picked Mother’s Day to do that. Mommy hates me, surprise surprise.
I look like I’ve had Botox jabs all over my face. My head hurts.
Scowling doesn’t help anything except attracting a million negative energies. I’ll probably attract Hitler’s spirit by tonight.
I kept losing in the game and it ticked me off so bad, I ripped up the nearest object to bits. Turns out it was the newspaper I wanted to cut an article out from for my scrapbook, I realized that later. And I’m overly sensitive about my scrapbook *snarls*
Now, like a very mature person, I’m looking for something to slap all the blame on. Maybe it’s the general boredom?
Maybe it’s the hormones; I might be PMS-ing?
Maybe it’s the depressing dump my room has reduced to? Maybe it’s the dearth of new things? Maybe it’s the generous sprinkling of monotony over everything that I do? The same people, the same chores, the same EVERYTHING. It’s such a draaag! I know, this is a phase, and I’ll be back to my shameless (and often annoying) perkiness, but I don’t know how to deal with this monstrous, ominous grey cloud of boring predictability. I could probably do a Sherlock and wrap myself in a blanket and bellow at the world at large.
Usually, Paulo Coelho manages to infuse this strange dollop of light in my soul; his writing brings this strange wondrous glow with it. I’m halfway through his book, The Winner Stands Alone, and I’m devouring it with feverish excitement, desperate for that overwhelming feel-good warmth that always follows. But alas, when something lousy happens, it happens with great pomp and splendor. So yes, I’m still reading it expectantly. The more I read it, the more I’m convinced that he wrote that particular book out of sheer annoyance at humanity. He sounds so tired of human behavior, of our helplessness, of our pathetic excuses for being what we are. All he’s done is wrapped a story around that, and penned down all the venom he’s felt after spending 70 odd years in the company of pretentious, ordinary airheads.
I wish I had something to rant about, something marginally more meaningful. All I have is THIS. And I hate that I need to put in so much effort to dilute the bitterness that’s been welling up inside. Everything’s completely scattered in my head, and I still have to push myself to type sensibly.
I give up; I can’t seem to find an outlet! I thought maybe blogging about it would help me narrow down to the cause. It’s getting worse! My head’s pounding so fiercely, it seems like my brain’s got a throbbing little heart of its own. I’ll probably go sleep again. Or maybe try finding out if this madness has a name.
Whine to the world about how rotten you feel. Check.