Holidays.

Work done: Zero. Perhaps going into the negatives; if it is not in that zone already.





I really don't do well during the holidays. Sure, I get the whole lazing around part just perfect (Or in excess. Probably in excess.) but you know how everybody has that vision of what they're going to do during the holidays? Like a list of fucking overdue chores and how it could be finished in a day?

Yeah. That's the multiverse lying to your face.

Here's what I thought the holidays would consist of:

1. Repairing my goddamned bag that tore in front of the university in utter defiance to tertiary education. If it could speak, it would have sang 'The Wall'.

2. Catch up to some people whom I have uh. Deserted for quite a long time now.

3. Read.

4. Do laundry.

5. Have an exceptional alone time by writing pure gold and being philosophical.

What the fuck. Aside from item four and reading a bit of Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita, I've achieved nothing. Nothing at all. My bag lies on the floor with a fatal injury still, my books lay untouched, my contacts heard no news from me and I'm having fuck all ideas to write down. And I talk far too much to myself nowadays. It's becoming strangely comforting.

I don't like holidays, to be honest. It's not because I'm addicted to going to class or shit like that. It's simply because I'm at a lost to what I'm supposed to do. On normal days, it's either I  go to class or I play hookie and then I can go ahead and plan some shit. My day is occupied. The problem with holidays is that I wake up in the middle of the night (Which is nice and all but the world sadly does not revolve around me) and then that's it. Putting in mind that I don't really go out anyway, I still need to eat and get a nicotine fix and stuff. I'm already preset to 'Lazy' and holidays just fucking bump the level to insanity. Any longer and I'll have my skin attached to my bed.

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Apparently writing about one's failures and criticising oneself leads to great motivation. Item number one done and my brain is now fucked from the amount of suturing the fucking bag needs.

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Fuck me. What was the purpose of this post? I shall now commence upon writing random, vague and perhaps incomprehensible gibberish.

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Drinking cold coffee is enjoyable but then there's one period of time; right after the five minutes given to actually drink the damned thing without cooking your GIT system, where it tastes like Satan's anal scrapings. You can't taste anything except this extremely pungent, fucked up flavour; it's like being hit in the jaws by an exploding molotov cocktail.

I highly discourage Googling 'Anal Scrapings'.

I disappoint myself in not paying attention to the local arts and literature scene. I really do. While coming back to Hell from Heaven (Paradise Lost; anyone?) I read three books published by Sang Freud Press. Malay writers mostly, bilingual at times and fucking hilarious. Hell, I recommend '28 Hari Jurnal Rock n Roll' by Muhammad Jayzuan.

It's about a musician (Broke, obviously) who goes on a nationwide journey in search of something that he himself does not know. It echoes Jack Kerouac's On The Road only more relatable. He describes the setting of wherever he is in quite adeptly, in short, I was fucking impressed. For people like me who's still quite fucking confused and unsure, so to speak, it's nice to read about another soul who's in the same situation. But as Tolkien said; 'Not all those who wander are lost'.

There's a lot of fucking talent, that's for sure. Here's to their future success. Perhaps I too could someday rise to that level.

Hahahahaha. Well that was fucking sappy. Thanks, sleep deprived brain.

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