And then that time of
the year comes again, that time when you go like, “oh shit, where the deuce did
the semester go?” But it’s done. It’s over. So you can postpone your allowance
saving scheme for another semester, or decade.
Loser
This has been the most bizarre semester of my entire campus life. Or more accurately, what’s left of it. I didn’t drink that much, I smoked quite a lot, I didn’t excel (without cheating) at class, I didn’t make (m)any new friends, I lost a couple of old ones and I got skinnier a couple times over.
It’s been lonely, I must admit.
The thing about barring oneself from any sort of human attachment is that it makes you cold. You keep feeling that perhaps everyone hates you. Perhaps there’s something you’re not doing quite right. And of course there’s tonnes you’re not doing right because at this point, wrong is the new right.
So, you certify your badness by doing a new drug called something that even that Rebel chic wouldn’t recommend.
It later hits you that the people you’re trying to impress are actually continuously getting creeped out by you. You become unstable, bipolar and worst of all, hurt by everything and everyone.
Most times when this happens, I go to that church at the top of Makerere Hill. No, I don’t go there to pray. I go there to soothe a bruised ego. The view is really amazing. The breeze is so fresh and everything feels serene and divine. The best part is, you can cry your eyes out without any interruption.
Wait, scratch that…
The best part is that there’s a dealer selling some really nice marijuana a couple of meters from the top.
The last time I tried this whole bad boy thing, stuff blew up in my face and I found myself trapped. I just kept on going and going and going. So now I write to you live from the depths of vodka hell.
You see, it is the people that love us that define our niche and what we become. They are what we base on to justify our actions. We rely on them, though sometimes subconsciously, to make the tough decisions for us.
I met this really damaged up babe. She accepts me, laughs at all my jokes, we watch movies and smoke weed together, there’s the occasional blowjob and she buys my liquor.
Basically, I really dig this bitch.
She is my heroine, in every sense of the word.
When she jokingly hands me the needle, I take it and shoot that stuff up my veins.
You are thinking “dude, what the fuck”?
Well, the fuck were you at when I was sprawled naked on the floor at midday with nothing but a dial tone and an empty pitcher of vodka?
She was there. And god be damned if I’m going to let myself feel the emptiness that comes with facing the world alone. I won’t let go of the drugs because with them, comes someone who actually cares or at least pretends to. That’s all I ever asked for.
I could get a decent straight up girl who probably goes to church every day and masturbates a couple times in a week. All I have to do is sleep with a specific handful of her closest friends. That method is proved and true. The problem is, I would have to put up this act of being a nice fella for all of them.
Urggh, boring
I’ve resolved to tell my parents the entire truth. Mum, Dad…I fucked up is all I can say. Your little golden baby boy is so far gone that he can’t tell his elbow from his ass. I have become a pious hypocrite, an ambassador of self denial and the epitome of grim itself. I am not in control any more. I need to go to a rehab or a church or a monastery or Cindy Crawford’s vag.
That last one, that’s the one…real cozy I heard.
Maybe we shouldn’t judge people by what we’ve heard or what we’ve seen them do. Maybe we should all take out some time to really listen to someone and make them feel like they are not solo in this fight. Maybe there’s much more under the surface.
I don’t imply that you should pity poke me on facebook. No, I don’t need that hokum. Matter of fact, if you haven’t been calling me, don’t. I will ignore you so hard, you will begin to doubt your own existence. Er, that doesn’t include the buggers that owe me money.
Anyway, look through your phonebook and you’ll find that number that you’ve always ignored and just find out how stuff is coming along.
You just might save a life.
PS: There’s this new drug called Wonnycaine. It’s sort of like cocaine but with the awesome Wonny holding the snort pipe and cracking bad jokes about how miserable your life is.
Also, I should write rap music.
Loser
This has been the most bizarre semester of my entire campus life. Or more accurately, what’s left of it. I didn’t drink that much, I smoked quite a lot, I didn’t excel (without cheating) at class, I didn’t make (m)any new friends, I lost a couple of old ones and I got skinnier a couple times over.
It’s been lonely, I must admit.
The thing about barring oneself from any sort of human attachment is that it makes you cold. You keep feeling that perhaps everyone hates you. Perhaps there’s something you’re not doing quite right. And of course there’s tonnes you’re not doing right because at this point, wrong is the new right.
So, you certify your badness by doing a new drug called something that even that Rebel chic wouldn’t recommend.
It later hits you that the people you’re trying to impress are actually continuously getting creeped out by you. You become unstable, bipolar and worst of all, hurt by everything and everyone.
Most times when this happens, I go to that church at the top of Makerere Hill. No, I don’t go there to pray. I go there to soothe a bruised ego. The view is really amazing. The breeze is so fresh and everything feels serene and divine. The best part is, you can cry your eyes out without any interruption.
Wait, scratch that…
The best part is that there’s a dealer selling some really nice marijuana a couple of meters from the top.
The last time I tried this whole bad boy thing, stuff blew up in my face and I found myself trapped. I just kept on going and going and going. So now I write to you live from the depths of vodka hell.
You see, it is the people that love us that define our niche and what we become. They are what we base on to justify our actions. We rely on them, though sometimes subconsciously, to make the tough decisions for us.
I met this really damaged up babe. She accepts me, laughs at all my jokes, we watch movies and smoke weed together, there’s the occasional blowjob and she buys my liquor.
Basically, I really dig this bitch.
She is my heroine, in every sense of the word.
When she jokingly hands me the needle, I take it and shoot that stuff up my veins.
You are thinking “dude, what the fuck”?
Well, the fuck were you at when I was sprawled naked on the floor at midday with nothing but a dial tone and an empty pitcher of vodka?
She was there. And god be damned if I’m going to let myself feel the emptiness that comes with facing the world alone. I won’t let go of the drugs because with them, comes someone who actually cares or at least pretends to. That’s all I ever asked for.
I could get a decent straight up girl who probably goes to church every day and masturbates a couple times in a week. All I have to do is sleep with a specific handful of her closest friends. That method is proved and true. The problem is, I would have to put up this act of being a nice fella for all of them.
Urggh, boring
I’ve resolved to tell my parents the entire truth. Mum, Dad…I fucked up is all I can say. Your little golden baby boy is so far gone that he can’t tell his elbow from his ass. I have become a pious hypocrite, an ambassador of self denial and the epitome of grim itself. I am not in control any more. I need to go to a rehab or a church or a monastery or Cindy Crawford’s vag.
That last one, that’s the one…real cozy I heard.
Maybe we shouldn’t judge people by what we’ve heard or what we’ve seen them do. Maybe we should all take out some time to really listen to someone and make them feel like they are not solo in this fight. Maybe there’s much more under the surface.
I don’t imply that you should pity poke me on facebook. No, I don’t need that hokum. Matter of fact, if you haven’t been calling me, don’t. I will ignore you so hard, you will begin to doubt your own existence. Er, that doesn’t include the buggers that owe me money.
Anyway, look through your phonebook and you’ll find that number that you’ve always ignored and just find out how stuff is coming along.
You just might save a life.
PS: There’s this new drug called Wonnycaine. It’s sort of like cocaine but with the awesome Wonny holding the snort pipe and cracking bad jokes about how miserable your life is.
Also, I should write rap music.
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