[Showering didn't do it for me. I have this urge to get naked infront of people today so here's a page from my journal. Yes, I keep a journal, because it's good exercise and also prevents me from going ape shit over my friends. Well, most of the times. This one is from November because there's no day else that I haven't talked about my secret fetish of sucking Ellen DeGeneres's tits. Have fun stripping me!]
It’s really shaming that 6th
November is the most productive I’ve ever been in 2012. I woke up around 3.30
AM and learned an entire topic in chemistry AND got thorough with all the
question types of the topic. I am finally getting serious with my studies after
one and a half years of pointless excuses and laziness. I need to score
high in my January exams, anyway.
The real truth behind my recent
productivity is that I had disbanded myself from writing. Writing maybe the
only creative outlet in my life right now other than shaving my legs in the
shape of a mustache, but some things gotta give. It has recently come to my
attention that online blogging is not lucrative at all. And I just cannot
picture myself in a future where I am not a proud owner of an expensive jet
ski. Despite writing being my passion, it’s high time I stopped chasing the
delusional dream of me becoming a writer. Because who am I kidding? Writing is
not in my future, but being surgeon and legally cutting strangers is. I think I
lost sight of my ambitions when I receive the kind feedbacks online. I’ve
always been hungry for compliments on my work, and writing online did it. I
spent too many hours writing non-profitable articles which gained me no
practical benefit, and sadly I had abandoned what was really essential.
I don’t know what it was, maybe
it was the smooth shaving of my legs or it was the watching of gay Season 1 of
Glee in one day, but I am finally starting to see things differently. I’m
finally starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel, but I’ll try not to
blind myself with it; I still have my Jan exams to work my butt off for.
For all outsiders who are reading
this, most probably my sister (get off, I know it's you!), you better have a damn good reason for reading my journal. You can judge
the way I dress, or cook, or clean, or even my personality, but you can never
read my journal. Because this is my comfort zone, and I feel very naked at the
thought of someone else reading this. But I guess you’re just gonna keep
reading this anyway because you’re that envious of me. A piece of advice; go
write your own fucking journal, and fucking read that. You’re no
better than those nosey therapists who want to know everything about everyone.
At least they get paid for that, but you don’t. Go and do something useful
other than stooping so low as to read another person’s journal, like find the
cure for cancer or something.
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