Awkward Moments on Ye Olde Facebook.

As it is, the photos and stories have attracted a number of people to my facebook. I don't particularly mind, to be honest, I kind of appreciate it. Then these people come up with weird shit to compensate for their act as fans that eventually gets me riled up.

There's this one guy that posts an immeasurable number of photos of himself, i.e. camwhorism and tags me in it. I'm sorry but yeah, I'd rather spend my days not having to look at a stranger's face every couple of hours or so. The fact remains that camwhorism is the bane to social photography sites and yes, I detest it. However, if you do choose to go ahead and indulge in such activities, what can I do but grumble in silent disapproval. The situation changes though when for some bitching reason, you want me to be apart of said act. What is the fucking motive of even doing so?

Yeah? Yeah, alright.

The rules are pretty simple, I believe. When you want to be friends with another person, the logical thing to do - I will skip on the word civilised - is to obviously introduce yourself. You know, with a fucking message or something. Tell me who you are, why you're here, what you secretly wish for, whatever. People however, have apparently missed that whole etiquette. Take being on facebook for example. People request to be your friend with names like 'Menuju Puncak Kamehameha' or 'Cahaya Asshole' and shit like that, with the hope that I will almost definitely recognise them. Then, in an utter weirded out state, I'll look at the picture to see a sliver of recognition from said person and then I see this:

Am I the only one who realises that this is the most used profile picture on facebook?

Baby pictures. Or pictures of posters. Or pictures of cartoons. What? So let's see, right now, I am supposed to share my personal information with a person who does not have a real name, no real picture of himself and is basically a ghost. You know what all that leads to?

I fear for children. Wait, no I don't.

I get the fact that you might be that insecure to not want your deformed face to litter the internet and I applaud you for caring about the internet's state of quality. But really, hiding everything just makes you a suspected sex offender. Maybe I'm not that far off either.

Then there are the ones who do everything to the dot and are still able to use some sort of witchcraft to fuck my day up. Take this for example.

*Ding* You have a facebook message.
*Opens facebook tab with minor interest*
New associate: Hi.
Me: Uh, hi.
NA: Good morning, smoking is bad.
Me: That's good to know.
NA: You must quit. You will kill yourself and the people around you.
Me: So will your mindless blabbering. You've probably given ear cancer to your mates. Rectal cancer is probably on its way now. You should be careful.

See, I don't understand that for the life of me. I get the fact that you're trying to help or whatever but the fact remains that I don't fucking know you man. It's like going up to a total stranger on a bus and telling her that she looks like an ape. It doesn't matter if she really does, but the fact of the matter remains that it's an invasion of privacy.

Problem with the whole thing is that it leaves me torn between the fact that I should just delete this cretin. But then I'll lose a reader/viewer. Hm.

*

I'm writing a goddamn romance short story at the moment. Never really wrote any before and it came to my attention that I should since it'd make good practice and such. Problem is, my God it's hard. I'm not talking about the kind that makes you feel all fluttery and all mushy inside, no that's pretty damn easy to write on.

Mushiness.

What I have in mind is a story with so much goddamn raw emotion that if you read it twice, you'd fall into an endless pit of sadness and agony. Well, no, not to that extent. A tearjerker if I dare say so myself, and a good one.

While I've always write fiction, most of what happens in the stories have happened. It makes it easier and adds that much more realism into the piece. Now I have to write everything based on imagination and imagination alone, which of course is going to be a bit tough. Ah well.

Time is being a bitch now cause of the fucking weather transition and shit. Two weeks ago, 6 p.m. would be fucking bright as fuck and nowadays it's pitch black. Meh, nothing to be surprised about, fucked up places equal fucked up weather.

Second Week of Clinicals; Death Toll: One.

Clinicals are fuck awesome to be perfectly honest but fuck man, it sucks the bloody life out of you. I'm so fucking tired everyday and it's only after two weeks...

I saw a guy die a few days ago and for some reason, it got me hyped up. I mean I thought that it would actually strike me at the core or inspire me or whatever shenanigans, but all felt was an intense excitement. It's not because I'm a heartless frigger or anything like that (Not in this case, at least) but it's simply because it's new. I've never seen a guy die before in such close proximity and that knowledge addiction just turned everything off.

You dick.

Ah well. Going into clinicals is like going into your first class in primary school. You might know a lot, teachers might praise you but there's always that point where you have a sudden realisation that you are, verily, a bumbling idiot. I shit you not, the amount of shit my brain has absorbed (Or have not absorbed) is fucking phenomenal. It's like I've been doused in chocolate and thrown into a pit full of lesbians been in an accident involving a steamroller and at the end of the day God just revives me again so that it could happen again the next day. If that makes any sense. Still a fuck awesome feeling though.

Lecturers make me feel this way, everyday. Also, am I the only one who can't stop laughing at this?

I guess I like being an idiot in a sense. It shows that there's still a fuckload more shit to learn and I haven't got the point where I feel bored at the very sight of information. Still, the thought of having to open books everyday is quite painful. Yeah, I know, lust for knowledge, innit, but still, there is an ever present limit. One of the lecturers said that on average, a doctor studies for about seven fucking hours per day. I almost shat my tongue out.

Being in clinicals is like having to choose Zooey Deschanel over uh... Coffee. Wait no, coffee wins hands down, more like having to choose her over a brand new 5D Mark II with all the lenses in the world at my disposal. Literally an impossible decision.

Tsk, tsk. Meh, I still have books, coffee and hallucinations of kinky BDSM sex to keep me company. I guess that's good enough.

Once again... Mindfucked by google.

*

Why. As in, really, why? *Frowns*
Why not? *Sips latte. Café au lait as she insists on calling it.*
Fuck you, I asked first. You're bound by an unspoken thousand year rule to answer my question.
*Not amused* Anybody ever told you how much of a dick you are? Wait, that must be a daily occurence for you.
I take that as a compliment. I will find more ways to further sharpen my dickish behaviour. Now, answer me.
Because, tomorrow, the world will end. *Stoic*
What?
Yeah, it'd be about quarter past two, and people will just start to drop dead. Then when everybody is dead, the aliens will come and reap our corpses and then they'll summon a meteor to destroy mother earth. So, just because of that. *Awkward silence*
Right.
Right-o.
*Sips own black coffee* Ever realised how nobody likes talking to you?
*Pouts* Oh yes, and I cry myself to sleep everyday because of it. Whatever will I do without the general public.
The world will end tomorrow?
*Shrugs* Doesn't really matter, does it. You asked me why we should do it, I say we must because there's a probability that everything that we know and are familiar with have a possibility of just disappearing into thin air. That's why I don't give a fuck. That's why every second is a blessing. We have no idea what is going to happen. I didn't know that I was not going to see my kid brother again two years ago. If I did, that'd be quite... Bosan la camtu, kan?
*Mindfucked* Uh, yes, you do have a point there.
Dah, let's go.
After you, woman.

Clinicals: Fuck yeah, awesomeness.

While I may be quite the dork by keeping track of days I spend being a fourth year student, I have to say that I really don't mind it.

See, all through the three years of theoretical mind-fuck festivities, I've always looked forward to the day that we'd actually get the chance to interact and actually use our fucking minds instead of relying upon books solely. So yesterday being the first day of clinicals, it was... Frankly quite fucked up. Everything was in a rush, even when we had to shift to another classroom, we had to do it with some sort of rabid fervour and to be honest, I was not used to it. In my head, I was still thinking that fuck, we're not in a fucking emergency room or anything, why the fuck do we need to rush?

Then I actually realised that while I wasn't needed for any emergency, I'm in theory, already a doctor. I'm in a hospital, I'm seeing patients and I'm trying to think of what is wrong with said person. Sure, we were only taking history and shit but the fact remains that we have already come to a point that we are meeting people with ailments with one purpose which is to cure them.

Or you know... Do what this guy does...

Quite frightening indeed.

With this enlightenment, I went to class today and it was fuck awesome. We had no textbook present, and here the lecturer was aiming a shotgun of questions at us. We needed to answer, well, I did because the egoistical maniac in me would be wounded if I did not. Refreshing, actually, it's been a while since I've actually felt that rush, the need to extract information from the brain outside of the exam hall. No books to guide you, nothing to actually help and the only thing you could rely on is the inquisitive nature of yourself.

Eight in the morning to three in the evening, non-stop. I was hit hard at first, but then today I felt productive, another thing which I have not felt in quite a while. The workaholic gene is getting to me. Also, lab coats are fuck awesome, it's like now I'm actually entitled to fucken wear the damn thing.

Quite... Close actually...

What sucks though is my apparent lack of conversational skills and also my non-existent Arabic fluency. Yeah. That's fucked up.

Also, I saw a 25 year old kid today that looked no older than 12. Fuck yeah.

Ava Adore.

Holidays are drawing in to a close and well, as usual, one finds a lot to do on his hands. I've got pictures to edit, blues to get over and done with, a fucking house to find and a fucking mindset to repair.

It's amazingly hard to actually fucking do anything nowadays, like I have fucking bricks as organs or something. I don't want to go out, I don't want to meet people fuck, everything seems so fucking hostile. Of course, I'll have to get over that soon, fucking clinicals are starting.

After this it's study, study and more fucking studying. And guess what, I think that it's for the best. I've realised that my capacity of socialising has been dumbed down, only yesterday some dude sat down beside me trying to strike up a conversation while I was eating. I looked at him and all I could think of was how his face would look if I smashed it in with a bottle of ketchup.

Don't get me wrong, really, I like to meet new people etcetera. I made quite a few friends in the UK, and fuck, if I have to rate myself on a scale of one to ten, I'd give myself a four. Which is not that bad if you really think about it. However, I like to do it at my own pace, if I feel like it, then I'll chat. If I reaaaaally like it then I'll go and watch a film or something with whoever it is. I don't appreciate people thinking that just because I crack a lot of jokes or talk about a wide range of things, I'm definitely a guy to talk to twenty-four seven, three hundred and sixty five days. Also, I don't like to talk with people when all they bring up is fucking politics or religion or minor controversies.

I cropped my hair really short yesterday.

"Lovely girl, you're the murder in my world, dressings coffins for the souls I've left to die." Ava Adore; The Smashing Pumpkins.

Being 20.

I turned 20 a few days ago. It was... awkward. No, it wasn't as if I suddenly found myself burdened by a new found responsibility or some shit, no nothing like that.

I turned 20 and I realised that I haven't moved on at all. I'm still in the same state of non-achievement that I was say two or three years ago. This pains me.

I'v gotten nowhere, it seems. Everybody else who share my passions have at least gone and done something which has gotten them some sort of recognition in the respective circles. Photography wise, Sukh is in OneXposure which quite frankly, is one hell of a feat considering the limitations of equipment etcetera. Writing wise, well, look at Ani, 'Neener' is plainly fucking amazing. It's fun to read, smooth, ridden with twists and laced with humour. In all honesty, read it, it'll blow your mind. That's saying a lot from a person who under normal circumstances, detests fan-fiction.

Myself? Thousands of photos, hundreds of poems and prose. In my laptop gathering dust. I haven't gone ahead, haven't actually been recognised, haven't reached the point where I could pride myself in what I do. Don't get me started on Medicine, I've come to a point where I'm doing it because I've done it for three years. It's interesting and fun even, but sigh. It's just messed up.

Sure, some of you (If there actually is an entity labelled you reading this.) will go ahead and say 'For fuck's sake mate, you're fucking twenty.To which I reply: So what? Can I not aspire at this age? What is the fucking sense in waiting till I'm fucking forty to only start feeling like shit? Fuck, as far as I'm concerned, twenty is already a ripe age to get out there and show people what you're made of.

Just spiffy, you know. Turning twenty could drive a sane man suicidal. Or not. So much for being special, eh woman, where's the fucking masterpiece now?

Somehow, at this point I could actually see myself doing Medicine for the rest of my life.