Why I don't talk here anymore

I don't want people to read carefully crafted blog entries (a few are, I admit) and figure me out. I want people to read me, in person, and know me, if they want to.

The pin-drop silence is eerie. Makes me want to drop off the radar. You know, shut all my windows and doors and hatch a plan for world domination from my room. It feels familiarly bipolar, being this, today, and that, yesterday.

Yes, I feel like one of those people who love dogs so much that they'd do anything for one. Yet can't have one because they're allergic to them.

C'est la vie, you say? Ouch. To think that it's chipping off at my very existence.

All that said and done, I better get back to my plan for world domination.

Your very own next-door Evil Overlord,
--
Tom.

P.S.: I am over-punctuating, amn't I?

P.P.S.: The plans are documented in Frenglish (Franglais).

My eleventh grade

I can now safely assume my eleventh grade was mostly very, very useful.

Except of course for - well, mostly.

All hail xkcd :)

I am going to go thereht og ot gniog ma I

The man has it in his mailbox.

My seventeen year old existence, crushed, trampled and bludgeoned into six pages.

Devoid of the failures, the emotion and the transformation, it lies.

One of the more important passkeys to where I want to be.

Ah well, I'd better cut the mystery drama before I lose the last ounce of your attention that I'm clinging onto.

That Katy Perry song has been playing on repeat for the past forever. There's something about the song that I just can't get over. And I don't think it's the beat. God forbid it's the imagery that it's supposed to create in my head, I have a feeling it's the underlying theme of bold, spontaneous feminism. You know, like the world would've been a better place if not for the Y chromosome.

That said, I wore eyeliner today. Lots and lots of it. A black Revlon pencil + my sister + me = Tommy Joe Armstrong - the voice. I'd show you pictures if I didn't care for your sanity. But I'm nice like that.

Mac! Now, now, it's not like Apple's infallible. Still, one of the best things that's happened to me. Meet Baby Epsilon, my very own MacBook Pro:

Synchronize 2008! Suffice to say, IT happened. :)

It'd be a shame if I didn't tell you about the Alien napping in the attic that I'm so much in love with. :D

P.S.: I'm male. I swear I am.

Averting damage

You know what's to do when you're feeling sour?

You count till ten.

1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.

And you know what's to do if you're still feeling sour?

You sleep.

That way, the sourness goes away without any collateral.

I'm doing just that.

Goodnight.

void main() { /* F1 */ }

I used to be independent once upon a time.

Hell no, not anymore.

Void main, when I used to code.

Now, it's just void, no more.

There's stuff waiting to be done.

Their patience is waning.

They start testing me day after.

I'm in no position to see them through.

My education is the largest hindrance to my learning.

Most of my education.

So goes my whine.

All mine.

"Hahaha. It's in BH-213."

That's what the damn kid told me when I asked him for my bag. Dark complexion, seemingly bratty but precociously smart. BH-213 for Black Hole 213, by the way.

Class was over, it wasn't so good for me, and all of us were leaving.

But just as the last of us walked out, he called us back in.

The classroom had transformed in those few seconds of our absence. For it wasn't the same sunlit, cheery place. The curtains had been drawn and the sense that something had gone wrong crept into my suddenly alert mind. The tables had all gone. They'd been replaced by a multitude of chairs, chairs with desks hinged onto them. The kind that you got into and then closed around you.

He sat us down and started dictating monotonously in a manner most atypical of him. We hadn't even taken out our notebooks as yet.

Me, being me, couldn't seem to find my bag. Initially, I just looked about in search of it. But in no time, I grew panicky. He continued dictating ostensibly unaware of my dilemma.

I got up from my place in the front on the class and turned around in search of it. The class seemed longer than usual. And there seemed to be a lot more of us than I thought. No, they weren't my classmates. Who were they? Some of them looked so much younger than us.

I reached the end, all the while searching. But to no avail. I looked up to the front of the class. He was still dictating. But I could barely hear him. One kid, short, dark, exuding an aura of prodigious intelligence and sharpness looked up at me. Trying my luck, I asked him for my bag.

That's when he laughed. No child-like laugh. Rather, one that represented a defined emotion and frame of mind: pure sadism.

It was while he laughed his laugh that he pointed at a black-something attached to the wall. Not in my two months of study in that classroom had I seen that thing. On closer inspection, it seemed like a vortex.

"Your bag, is in BH-213," he finally replied.

I edged towards it. With every step I took, I needed less physical effort to walk. It was as if all the forces in the universe wanted me in BH-213. Black Hole 213.

It grows three square millimetres every single day.

Backlogs. The single most wonderful effect of procrastination.

And It's backlog clearing time for me. Like this unbounded stack of things to do. And some ten hours a day to do them.

Ah, but complaining's my forte. You don't get better than me when it's whining your doing.

My sister claims to have noticed a clear 1200% jump in my focus. Off the charts, people!

It's like this: There's Chakko in the morning. I saw this book on his desk, covered with some kind of butter paper, neatly titled "Synthesis of Subsonic Airplane Design: An Introduction to the Preliminary Design of Subsonic General Aviation and Transport Aircraft with Emphasis on Layout, ... Design, Propulsion and Performance."¹ I think the non-homophobic fraction of me fell for him right there. This guy, he takes Physics and Math for me right in the morning at 6:15. And he cheats too. I swear having entered at 6:13 to see him already explaining the next big thing. I mean, the next chapter.

Then there's coming home. Alter Bridge. Coming Home. Four minutes, twenty seconds of aural bliss. Orgasmic stuff. I've never, ever had a favourite band. Clear status change there. My favourite band of all time: Alter Bridge. Digressed but again, haven't we? Where was I? Ah, coming home. I reach home, wake my household, breakfast, yada-yada, study, yada-yada.. lunch, yada-yada, study, yada-yada, FRISBEE!

Frisbee with my little sissy. Must be the second happiest time of my day. And you won't dare laugh. It's intense. And the reason for the very many bruises all over me. Fun. I never thought I could jump half my height ever. Or dive across double my height. Or any of that Michael Jordan stuff.

Some more study happens, then dinner, even more study and then it finally gets funky. Because by eleven, my upper and lower eyelids find togetherness. Even though I prefer them otherwise. And before you know it, <graphic, reader discretion advised> my head finds itself in a viscous puddle of drool, paper, ink and even some graphite if I'm lucky.</graphic> For sleep overcomes me, right there on my desk.

Off with me, now.