Black Ashes

"This isn't the way I wanted it!"

He threw the rock in his hand into the distance. He watched with a quiet anger as the rock got swallowed whole by the fading golden horizon. No, this wasn't how he wanted it, but there was no way he could've changed it.

The weight on his mind felt too much to bear. All he could do was collapse onto the sand and curl himself up, closing his eyes, wishing that the next time he opened his eyes things would be different. Wishing that she'd be there, looking at him, smiling.

Walking towards him, slowly placing her hand on her shoulder, asking what's wrong.

But alas, he knew that was just wishful thinking. His reluctant tears revealed a tortured soul unwilling to open his eyes and face the world, his clenching fists revealed a man filled with anger and spite, mostly at himself. This was all his fault, he knew that fact well enough. He learned that the hard way.

The cigarette butt in his other hand was crumbling into black ashes. He didn't smoke, the cigarette wasn't his. The glow on this one has faded a long time ago. It has glowed slowly into ashes, never to glow again.

Immense melancholy blanketed his heart, the rolling tears growing stale. Eyes red he wiped his tears away. Whatever becomes of him after this, it was his to decide.

Forward And Out Of The Belching Dragon

Okay. This is just a pet peeve of mine, but it's been going on for quite a while. I seriously don't like forwarded e-mails. I hate them to the core of my soul. If they were physical letters rather than zeroes and ones, I would collect them all in a big bucket, pour gasoline into the bucket, and burn the whole thing. And I'm thinking every single type of forwarded e-mails.

Every single kind. I can't think of a single forwarded e-mail that I was not angered by.

Those cute, friendship-is-forever forwards. I hate them. I like friendship. It's not too bad. But if you forward me an e-mail saying that I'm one of your closest friends, so please forward it to 30 people at least, hoping one goes back to you, fuck you. I don't need to prove my friendship over cliched e-mails and generic words. If you're thinking I'll go goo goo over that, then you're very simply just damn naive. Nothing personal.

Those preaching forwards. I despise them. I hate preachers who try and force their morals into you, trying to instil fear so that you will follow what they say senselessly. I don't need your morals. I don't need your preaching. I've got my own developed sense of morality which I don't force into other people's throat. Though I did go through a phase a year and a half back where I basically hated all carnivores. Now do I realise how hypocritical that was for someone who hates a preacher. So Papa don't preach, please.

Those pity forwards. Please forward this to as many people as you can. Each person you send to gives 30p to a sick baby in Africa. It's the most sickly kind of emotional blackmail, and what's worse is that it's not even real. They won't have any way of finding out how many times the e-mail is forwarded. It's as simple as that. It's the same as those Microsoft scams.

Ironically, these past few months I've been getting forwarded e-mails about E-numbers and non-halal stuff. It's funny because I'm vegetarian, so really, it's as easy looking for the label 'suitable for vegetarians/vegans.'

I hate forwarded e-mails. If it doesn't involve me directly, like an e-mail forwarded from a friend with details of say, a reunion, then do not even consider forwarding me one of your 7,243 different forwards.

Signing out

Over and out

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Now playing: Vampire Weekend - Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa
via FoxyTunes

Think Of A Title, Quick!

I will try and do this blog in a maximum of five minutes.

Chemistry lecture, useless. Fun, yes. But only because we were sitting at the back and we got to throw paper balls at the people in front when Doc Samworth wasn't looking. There was proper carnage. A proper fucking meteor storm.

Once Doc Samworth almost lost it in a desperate attempt to regain control (which she never had really in the first place), but that was unsuccessful.

Five minutes gone. Lead. I need to go to English. Bub Bye.

Signing Out

Over and out

I Know What You Broke Last Autumn

Tell you what. I am so tempted to buy myself an LCD screen for my laptop. Yes, my laptop screen has been broken for months. Now I'm borrowing my mate's LCD screen, and it's amazing. It's sufficiently big to show two pages side by side on Microsoft simultaneously on font 10 TNR (or even Font 8) without me having to squint my eyes. Small thing, you say. But it's really helpful since I usually have my notes on my computer when I do an essay, so it's easier to have them both open and viewable at the same time.

Even if I decide to buy a new laptop, I might just starve myself for a month to get a new LCD screen, which means I could watch a movie on my LCD screen, and do work on my laptop. Which would be great.

So I'm thinking that my budget on a new laptop would be around £400. Which now would get very decent ones from Acer, Dell or HP. Or if I'm ambitious, I can starve myself for two more months and get an AirMac. Which is totally unnecessary. And pretentious (seeing as I'm not yet used to the Mac OS). And show-offish. And silly. What I need is something that would run Microsoft Word 2012 (or OpenOffice. Or even Notepad) and Pro Evo 2012, and Football Manager 2046, all at the same time. Any suggestions?

And oh, it has to have Minesweeper and FreeCell. So a Mac is out of the question. Or does Mac have them? I'm not sure.

If you would like to contribute to the Jay's New Laptop Charity Fund, please do so. Tell me, and I'll tell you my account details so you can transfer some money :D I'm only half-joking. Hahaha. Who knows, I might mention you in my next blog if you give enough.

Signing out

Over and out

Believe Me, We're Not Going

Heh. Bloody Warwick. Hahahaha.

Tell you what. They can fuck right off.

After making me wait for almost 5 months, they have the fucking audacity to send me an online interview before even offering me anything. Add the fact that they've only given me 48 hours to do it. It's not even funny. And I'm not doing it. Simple as that. I've already passed the deadline.

Okay, fair enough. Part of why I chose to not even do the interview is because I'm not even considering Warwick at all. Not my kind of place.

Do they not have the common sense to think that maybe, just maybe, that by giving an interview this close to an exam, it would be the last thing I wanna do because I might have better things to do? Like revise for my English mocks, do my two English essays, revise for my Chemistry mocks, and watch Clive game on Gears Of War?

So I'm left with York, UCL and Royal Holloway, which ain't too bad of a range of choices. Here we go. Again. First choice, UCL. Second, York. Easy-peasy. York's accomodation is unbelievably cheap, from what I've found out after reading the booklet they gave me months ago, which I only picked up two days ago.

Anyways, I'm tired as hell. I fell asleep on the phone to Pill last night. Again. I'm not sure why I'm so tired. I've done a fair amount of work, yes. Probably a lot more than usual. But I doubt that's the only contributing factor. I think I'm so used to waking up by Pill's side, and lie in until midday, falling back to sleep, and waking up to her again and again.

Maybe.

Signing out

Over and out

Leftovers When Left Over

t's the first day of Summer term, and it's been okay so far. Three 40-minute lessons ain't that bad. Nothing heavyweight.

For starters, our English mocks today was not bad at all. It turns out one of the two sections, the one I was dreading, wasn't included in the paper. That came as a massive relief, as I remember a lot more from my own birth than the lines from 'Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf.'

I've got a few other mocks to worry about, but knowing myself, I'll probably be more concerned over when am I going to wash the plate with Maggi Char-Mee leftovers on my table, which will probably stay there for a few more days.

And jeez, it's hot.

Signing out

Over and out

Where This Story Ends

Just in a blink of an eye, she says. Then it's gone.

I won't smile this time. The tears won't let me.

Gone, she says again. I stay silent as if I did not hear anything. My stillness is my response to her. She knows that. She knows it too well, I think. In my stillness, she sees clearly the thoughts that run through my head. Every pain, every pleasure. All the sadness, and all the smiles.

She picks up her lighter and lights her cigarette. Just like the cigarette, every part of her that glows quickly fade away into ashes. It's night. The glow of the cigarette is the only light left unswallowed by the nocturnal darkness. I can't even see her face clearly. It's only her outline, her vague silhoutte that I can see. But I know, she can see me as clearly as she would if it was daytime.

Nothing else happens. Nothing else comes. It's now so late it's early. Here is where this story ends. For now.

One Night Dance

It's the penultimate day to the end of Easter holidays, and to be honest, it's been a pretty mixed three and a half weeks.

It's been a very intense Easter, really. The good, the bad, and the unimaginables. I don't know. It's certainly been the most interesting holiday so far in my two years here. I can never say it was the best. My grandfather's death prevented it from being so. And also the paranoia and the anxiety of things I can't quite elaborate here. I guess in all probability I will never find out for sure if our suspicions were true, but then it's mellowed out a bit, so we're looking forward now.

In my moments of weakness, Pill has been there to pick me up. Three weeks with her has been truly amazing. I don't really want to think that tomorrow is the last day until we meet again three weeks later.

And then, there're our exams. Mine will determine whether I'll live in London or York. Wow. York. Haha.

I guess York will be good for me. Away from the judging eyes, from the scrutinising Bruneian gossipers.

Signing out

Over and out