No, no, don't consider this blog deserted. I'm having a tough break at the moment and my brain is too clogged up to spew up some ideas to write and ponder upon. Or it could be that all my creativity has been sapped by the fucking novel and I'm now left dry and limp and... Well, you get the point.
I think I'm having a fucking mental breakdown over all these shit. Surgery, Internal Medicine, the Novel, myself in general, lack of productivity, all of them are fucking coming at me with fucking swords. Paranoia is on its way, or hell, it's already here innit. There's just too much to fucking do in a lifetime. Too fucking much.
A few days ago while I was in class, the teacher started to go ahead and tell us about different surgeries and all that shit I knew nothing of. It's like a fucking slacking alarm bell, ringing just exclusively for me. Other people are nodding and asking shit while I'm wide eyed at the back wondering what the fuck is the goddamn contents of the spermatic cord. My fucking Anatomy was flushed down with all the other theory years shit the day I got the news that I passed my exam. Fucking hell man, surgery is fucking nuts.
I can't even seem to read a book properly lately. I've been at Rushdie's Shalimar the Clown since the 31st of December. Can you even fathom that? Reading a book for almost a fucking month? It's bollocks.
Thing is, it's not like it's a boring book or anything. It's fucking awesome. There's so much romanticisation of beauty in the book to the point that it's fucking absurd. Still I take a fucking month to read it. Goddamit all.
I'm not ready to grow up. I'm content with the fact that I still like to do things that I have been doing ever since I was a kid. It's not like growing up is a bad thing or anything but I've seen so many people losing the essence of their being when they decided to be fucking mature and all that jizz. I need to keep a part of me insane and carefree to even fucking function in society.
Then it's the fucking novel. You know what, when I first wrote it, I had the idea of writing our story. It will be epically magical, a realm of fact nesting on a bed of fiction and only few would truly know what they're reading. I want to let them know how great it was but holy fucking shit, now I'm finding it so hard to tell. It's like being exposed, being robbed, being fucking torn. This was our story, and here I am showing them what it was like. Being fucking naked, more like.
But it's okay. Things will work out. As the fucking optimists love to shove down our throats.
Eargasm of the day. The only thing that actually fucking relates to the fucking title.
I think I'm having a fucking mental breakdown over all these shit. Surgery, Internal Medicine, the Novel, myself in general, lack of productivity, all of them are fucking coming at me with fucking swords. Paranoia is on its way, or hell, it's already here innit. There's just too much to fucking do in a lifetime. Too fucking much.
 |
| Okay... Chuck Wilson is going on the list of people to avoid and possibly murder while out on a stroll. |
I can't even seem to read a book properly lately. I've been at Rushdie's Shalimar the Clown since the 31st of December. Can you even fathom that? Reading a book for almost a fucking month? It's bollocks.
 |
| Possibly his best after Midnight's Children. Goddamn this book is awesome. |
I'm not ready to grow up. I'm content with the fact that I still like to do things that I have been doing ever since I was a kid. It's not like growing up is a bad thing or anything but I've seen so many people losing the essence of their being when they decided to be fucking mature and all that jizz. I need to keep a part of me insane and carefree to even fucking function in society.
Then it's the fucking novel. You know what, when I first wrote it, I had the idea of writing our story. It will be epically magical, a realm of fact nesting on a bed of fiction and only few would truly know what they're reading. I want to let them know how great it was but holy fucking shit, now I'm finding it so hard to tell. It's like being exposed, being robbed, being fucking torn. This was our story, and here I am showing them what it was like. Being fucking naked, more like.
But it's okay. Things will work out. As the fucking optimists love to shove down our throats.
Eargasm of the day. The only thing that actually fucking relates to the fucking title.
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