Drills

Fire drills at work are 75% needlessly dropping my facade of pretending I’m busy doing work and 24.5% awkward socialisation, and 0.5% remembering the last horrific time there was a fire drill, more of a false alarm really, that happened to occur only on the day I had a really bad case of diarrhoea.

Needless to say, I don’t like fire drills anymore.

 

Behind Enemy Lines

I hate the people behind the counter.

Yeah, you know the smug guys on the other side of the barrier, showing you how clearly and plainly they have not picked your side in this war. Them of the tired, weary looks, and also them of the indistinguishable, incomprehensible drive-thru voices, but they’re a different story.

It’s them of the “Next, please” that I am onto today.

(And also, this has nothing to do with the little yellow guy who’s biggest ambition was to stand before a table, pen and in hand and say, “May I take your order, sir!” Just so we’re clear.)

So I went to buy my a sandwich, which is a very ordinary, Adult™ thing to do. Nothing fishy here.

…I occasionally stop by to buy food, because I don’t want to cook for myself.

And given my cooking capabilities stretch across the vast expanses of egg, bread, cereal and milk, who am I kidding, I’ve bought me more food from outside this month than I have in the last nine months combined.

So I go to Tim’s, and ask for a sandwich.

Hi, could I have the xyz sandwich?”
(No, I’m too mad to recall which one it was)

“Sure thing!” Says she, because why wouldn’t she say that?

I say, cool! Sandwich for dinner and then straight to bed for the tired adult kid who stayed up till 4 last night. I’ve only half a good reason, and that reason was SpongeBob SquarePants. The other half was work.

What, logically, should have been the next thing for her to say?

Maybe “to go?” Except everything in Tim’s is wrapped.

“Napkins?” If you’re feeling judgy.

Or, “Have a nice day!”, because you’re Canadian.
Okay, no that’s too nice, even for a Canadian.

The correct answer is, you ask, “debit or credit?”

And guess what she asked?
“Debit or credit?”
—NOT!

She asks, “Would you like a combo?”

No, I would not like a combo, I just want a sandwich.
… what’s in a combo?
Well, I just want a sandwich.

Somewhere behind enemy lines, a siren rang out. Soldiers gathered in formation and blared their trumpets, cocked their guns upwards, and sang the national anthem. They summoned the very fathers and mothers, and going back far enough, apes, velociraptors and cockroaches, of this land and poured their very animal spirits into their souls. Then all together, they looked towards the enemy approaching on the horizon, with a look of hope and new found confidence, as they prepared to begin their march for victory.

Whatever all that above was about, this lady seemed to sum up, within milliseconds, with a smile.


The end of the day arrives, The soldier takes a break. Trying to walk back home is great for the adrenaline, not so much for a backpack with a laptop on a back for an hour. At least I don’t need to make me food.

The hand dips into my bag for that hard earned loaf, and wanders to the side pockets of the bag.

Defeat is bittersweet, and I mean it.

She had me and my social awkwardness at the eyebrow raise. You can’t take a word back. You can’t take a question back. The aftertaste of the question is bitter.

Good for me that I have this whirlpool to numb it down.

DFB23982-8DD1-470C-85E1-D09892A20FA9.jpeg

It smells like vanilla, but this stinks.

Decisions, Decisions.

It’s 4:45 in the evening.

You’ve spent all week thinking about beginning to take a look at that problem set that’s due on *sneak a peak at flashcards* 27th.

Every day you tell yourself, it’s due on Friday, I have time.

You turn up at class on Wednesday morning to see, flashing in big letters on the sidescreen: “Assignment due tomorrow.”

Some math tells you that the 27th is indeed, not a Friday, but a Thursday.

You curse inaudibly and sneeze into the fifteenth tissue paper you picked up from the dining hall this morning.

You realise you’re actually going to have to do it today.

You begin working.

You’re actually starting to get the hang of things.

And then you come by this question that everyone in class has been talking about that you’ve thought to yourself, I’ll figure it out when I read it.

Turns out, it’s hard.

You’re stuck.

It’s also 4:45 PM, by the way.

You find yourself a comfortable, quiet spot after having tried to solve your sheet all day in different places, running into, alternately, burning cigarettes, noisy people, bad winds; and out of tissues and battery.

The phone buzzes.

Probably a reminder to turn my work in tomorrow, you think.

Unsurprisingly, you’re wrong.

“Music club initial meet from 5PM to 7PM today.”

 

I can either turn in my math sheet in time, or I can attend the music club meeting and try to become a member.

Decisions, decisions.

Why must life be so unfair? Why must I be so disorganized!

It’s 5:10 PM. And here I am, writing a blogpost instead, doing neither.

“Only When The Time Is Right”

Ever since I walked into our shared room on the first weekend of the month with two bags badly balancing on my shoulder and a guitar slung on my back fumbling with the keys and stumbling through the door, my roommate has been asking a lot about my music habits. I’ve always replied, I’m going to wait for the weekend, late in the evening, just when people get home and free from the week’s work (Friday) or busted out from a party I’m going to blast out (whatever my music vocabulary for the day consists of), either on my guitar if I can, or through my laptop speakers.

So far, the day hasn’t come, but perhaps she’ll realise that in retrospect, that’s a blessing lazing in the middle of our room. I’ve been sitting around for the past hour (intermittently) reading through my brand-new computer science assignment and realising, once again, that my education so far (university included) has been a lie and I’m staring at pretty much my personal equivalent of coding Google from fucking scratch.

Okay, so maybe it isn’t really that bad an assignment. But it is 11:30 in the night. And I know I’d rather be crying about my ‘hard’ CS assignment due in two weeks than actually be working on the psychology assignment I need to hand in Sunday night.
Oh well.

And thus, making all the logical connections, my musical vocabulary of the day is emo punk. Or at least, what some folks like to call emo. I just call it My Chemical Romance.

This one, in particular. Fitting?

Anyway, I decided to start watching the reference video for my computer science work, and my roommate looks at me.
I’m putting my earphones in my ear. Am I just going to chicken out of blasting my music again, as I most unabashedly declared priorly? I feel I owe an explanation.

“I’m just doing my CS work, don’t worry”, I say.

“I’ll take it off when I get to blasting the music. After all, music is meant to be shared.”

“But as a rule of thumb, in CS, you’re meant to die alone.”

 

On a completely unrelated note, it’s really windy outside and I’m sitting at the window (on my table too, my poor roommate…) and it’s going to rain tomorrow! : )

 

 

Celery For Thought

Supermarkets are hell. Grocery shopping is hell. Grocery shopping in a place where you aren’t limited in choice to just groceries and can in fact buy anything from celery to stationery, medicines to washing machines and god alone knows what more, is hell. I’d have wondered why, if vegetables were more of a nightmare than they’d originally been slated to be, people didn’t just stick to eating ice cream.
But then again, in a supermarket of such stature, you probably get your ice cream shopping done too.

It’s the sort of place where you come out with a shopping bill that looks more like a scroll transcription of an ancient epic.
And whatever the discounts may make it sound like, you’re not going to come out feeling any richer for sure.

Mum decided that as an Eighteen Year-Old Adult, I ought to join the happy family tradition of Sunday morning grocery shopping.
As if I’ve never had to do this before.

Alright then, let’s pretend I’ve made new revelations

It is quite hell.
I can only imagine what sort of an adult I would make. I’d detest the obligatory weekly necessity and curse my human need to eat. Or something like that.

I’d be that person with noise cancelling headphones and a ton of experimental music in my ears, carefully analyzing pieces I haven’t had the chance to in the weekly rush of a [insert weird job title]’s life, carelessly striking items off my list and then getting home to realise, “I forgot to shop for toilet roll… again!”

No, I think people might want to pay me not to be an adult.

But anyway, if I had any use at all in today’s opera, it was that of the trolley. And pacifying mum. Both of which turned out to be the same.
If I had a stereotypical girlfriend, I’d be expected to lug shopping bags around, a scene anyone can identify.
Now replace the shopping bags with chillies and potatoes, and a mum grumbling about how dad wouldn’t allow a second trolley. (After all, what am I for?)

No, putting myself to a little more use than just that, I did shop for ice cream.

But I really am a multi-purpose instrument that deserves to be advertised on the shopping mart bill board. And that’s because I had another task to carry out.

Babysitting. Trolleysitting!
And yes, they’re the same. When you’ve spent an hour at the mart, painstakingly remembering and collecting every item needed to complete this clueless treasure hunt, braving failure every step of the way, that trolley does indeed become precious as your baby. Or at least, what’s inside it does.
A short note about these failures: I’ve taken five trips up and down the store to relay from dad to mum the fact that the vegetables she’d picked out were ‘just not right’.
The second last time I got there, I handed mum the offending packet and told her, “Try again.”
The last I got there, I simply handed her a brand new report card: “F.”

Trolleysitting. When people eye so much candy on shelves, there needs to be a solid anchor to watch over your past efforts. No one said it had to be voluntary, even when the volunteer would rather be leagues away!
My grandparents were here with us today, so I had to babysit their shopping cart. Oh well, with trolleys around, absolutely nothing can be frictionless. (In narrow isles, navigating an overfilled shopping cart with maddeningly screeching wheels is an art. Avoiding the squeaky cart is more luck than an art, because almost no cart is perfect, but it seems today was my day. Ironic, given I had to go at all. But the friction today was elsewhere.)

They momentarily left me to mind the cart as they stood in line for the checkout. The minute they were gone though, all hell broke lose.

A few nods and a glance up later, I realised that they were standing in the senior citizens’ line!

Many people complain about not looking their age, and no way in hell could I ever have fit the board hanging above my head: “Sixty years and above only”. I also think I’ve been overusing the word hell today.

At any rate, my first reaction was panic mixed with a mad, fleeting moment of Inposter syndrome, and then an explanation of how I was trolleysitting. No charge per hour too.

The rest of my time there was spent bumping into (and getting squeezed by, into corners, like no one under the Jacobin government had any business to) other people who’d lucked out with rebel trolleys while typing this post out and occasionally getting that self righteous look from others in the senior citizen queue that said, “this infernal texting generation!”.

But I guess there’s one thing my “adult” self will thank mum for getting me here for: next time, we bring along Paganini.

[Edits: the ongoing civil war against Autocorrect’s subversion of my opinions.]

I’m Capable Of Being Late To My Own Graduation

I’ve had a weird day.

Here’s some background. There’s something sad and something very weird about being underslept in the summer vacations.
It’s like some law of the universe being violated. But it’s also inevitable.

At this point, you’re probably on the verge of giving up on me, but give me a chance to explain.

Summers often mean free time, sure, but it’s not just free time for me, but for everybody.
There’s the phrase about an empty vessel being a devil’s workshop. Let’s only focus on the empty vessel. Have you ever pretended to be a drummer banging on a steel plate when you were young? (Or still are young, who am I to say)
If you look back on those rock star days, you realise they probably wouldn’t have gotten you signed to a major label with a multi-million dollar contract, and you know the reason why.

Empty vessels don’t sound good.

They don’t, to me either. And that’s why, come the night, I am overcome by an irresistible urge to read. Reading a book is really not about the words. It’s not so much about seeing, recognising and understanding the words you come across on a page.
It’s about being immersed in the story, to feel your characters, thinking what they’re thinking, creating in your head a scene envisioned by the writer, basically living in the same world your story unfolds in. It’s about forgetting that there’s a white page with black impressions before you, and replacing it with a face, an expression, a conversation, a city, with colour and sounds and voices.
And man, can you do that in a mind equivalent of High Definition, in the silence of the night.

Also, as you can guess, I’m a book addict. Naturally, I sleep at 2.

It’s led mum to become quite the Sherlock Holmes in the morning, trying to figure out why I’m falling asleep repeatedly till 10 AM in spite of having supposedly gone to bed at 11:30 in the night, and why I begin yawning at a plum 4 in the evening. (Hint: boredom exists)

Anyway, I’m sleepy in the mornings, and the weird look mum gives me is only the start of a weird day.

In short, I was out on an art expedition (fancier than saying ‘design class’, eh?) and got late coming home. I also brought back with me an assignment to study dragons because my dragons look like friendly dinosaurs from the 9 AM slot animated children’s show.
Now I’m figuring out how to make meaty dragons.

But back up a bit and you’ll notice I mentioned the word late.
What’s new about that, you ask?

True, I’m almost always late, or being more optimistic for the future, let us say I pretty much have been late, to school, to classes, to go home, throughout the year. What made this time any different?

What made this time a little different was that I was off to school again. I know, school has officially ended, and all us ex-twelfth graders are in the hazy mist of confusion of neither being current students, nor being alumni. Not really.

But today was the day, in our principal’s words, we don the tag of ‘student’ for the last time, and really become alums. No, not potash alums. We’re not wiping anyone clean… only having our own brains wiped clean because our exams are finally over. And for a long time.

Whatever you want to call it, it’s the closest thing we were going to get to a graduation ceremony.
It may be true that we wouldn’t have the graduation gown nor the hat, not the open grassy podium, t’is a fact, but for the school terrace we are given for the occasion, I’d rather not be pent up in a stuffy gown and be sweating worse than I can possibly cry, for hours.
So it’s the closest thing we get to a real graduation ceremony. Oh, and no diplomas, though. At least we all know for a fact already that we really have passed and are graduating!

My record, as many people know, has been to just about make it to school in time. I still don’t know how they’re graduating me, given that I almost missed the beginning of the first period, just about slipped in and sat on the very first bench– almost every day!

Here I stood today, chancing the ridiculous: I might very well end up being late for my own graduation!
This is the epitome of asinine, and you agree with me.

So I spent five minutes, sticking my thumb out ridiculously, trying to hail a ride home.
As always, in times of need and all times otherwise, the auto guys bail on you. With an all-important look on their face, they watch you desperately flailing you arm out.
As if out of sympathy and to test out waters, they ask you where you want to go. The look on their face already gives you their answer, but you try and mumble out your location anyway.
The eyebrows furrow, the head goes deep in thought, the mouth pouts. All this in the space of half a second.
The head then tilts, shakes, and out comes the answer: “Nah.”

Well, yeah, I knew that.

Eventually, I decided to walk home rather than waste another minute. I tend to be one of those people who either thinks real deep and does not execute, or doesn’t think at all and begins, and makes up a plan along the way.
The current plan, I thought as I crossed the road, dodging a car, is to stay alive.

Having safely made it to a non-existent footpath, I devise a further plan. I have twenty minutes until an hour for the event. I need that hour, or maybe half an hour and some buffer, to get ready. So I get running.

Taking some weird inroads and wishing every five minutes that I’d stuck around to play the cabbie’s game, I finally made it home only five minutes late.
Oh well, I guess we’re used to it by now.
Of course, any time I saved not playing to the cabbies’ tune was lost on a 25-minute walk, and the absolute NEED to shower after.

But it was definitely a strange feeling slipping into a school uniform again. It had been months, nothing since the end of March, and possibly for the last time. I’ll never have to wear the uniform again. I’ll never have to wear any uniform again. I will officially not be a part, not responsibility, of the school again.
Of course, that’s not going to stop me from spending all day there!

I’ve legit talked to my teachers and told them they’ll be seeing much more of me than they should, and that with me doing close to nothing all day at home, she’d rather not see me at home at all right now.

And I proved my commitment to my word right today, arriving for a graduating event at 4:07 (?) and leaving at quarter to 8. Booyah.

So now I’m an alumnus. I’m free. I’m really free. In a way, I’ve lost my home of two years. But I know that’s not true. I’m still going to be squandering my days away down there. I’m thinking of trekking down there and spending a full day drawing the building. I actually hadn’t thought of that before I typed it down. I probably won’t do it. Researching dragons is enough for me.

The feeling of really not being attached to an institution for the first time since I enrolled in playschool is definitely unreal. It hasn’t hit. I suspect it won’t get the chance to, because college will engulf me soon enough.

But symmetry rules our universes, and everything eventually comes full circle. So, weird day or not, I know that if I was almost late for my school graduation, like I was almost late for school everyday, everything will really be okay.

Over and out!

 

Up In Smoke

There was an idea, a seemingly foolproof plan, that had lurked in my head for a while. During the last few months of school, I’d been thinking of trying to study in the hours that no one was around to disturb me– early morning and late at night. At least so far, there’s no construction at 3 AM!
The only reason my foolproof plan kept failing was that I couldn’t sleep in the day.

Regardless though, I’d been taking to the night. Four years ago, I couldn’t have possibly stayed up past one. But I think, when I look back on my high school years, I may just associate 2 AM with thermodynamics. Go figure.
Unless I am super distracted, in which case I give up at 2 and go to sleep, at least the studying at night part of the plan still doesn’t fail me. (One minute… I’ve done nearly zero studying since school ended, this statement has no evidence backing it up.)

But as always, there’s an exception to the rule, and I’m not even talking chemistry.
Mum sometimes checks up on me if she momentarily wakes up at night. Sometimes she gets me a water bottle or yells at me to go to sleep (“it’s already 3 AM!”) or comes with the dreaded question: “Did you/Will you have your milk?”
This one particular night though, she decided, after checking up on me, to make something to eat, possibly for my sister’s tiffin the next morning.
She wouldn’t tell me. Maybe it was one of the protein powders she’s trying out on my sister. I’d know if I heard her scream the next day.
I was sitting with some chemistry, only half awake. I’m scribbling down reactions of burning salts, high ignition temperatures and product gases when I smell smoke.
I realise it’s probably too late in the night. So I glance at the clock for permission to leave, and it laughs back in my face.
It’s only 12:30 AM. What?
So I get up and go outside to grab a bottle of water.

There’s actually smoke, I can’t hallucinate a smell and cough! I frown.
My turn to check up on mum.
Mum says, don’t open the kitchen door.
I say, someone outside’s burning something?
Mum says, I was cooking…
I realise something.
You burned something? I ask.
“If you need a water bottle, take it from outside.”
“What were you cooking?” I ask.
Mum doesn’t answer that.
“I thought it was late, I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“But what could you possibly have burnt this late at night?” But she won’t say.
I begin to laugh. This could end up worse than mystery meat! In that moment, I forgive my sister for everything.
Smoke on the water
A fire in the sky

Man, mum makes it possible!

The laughing soon turned to coughing though, and I had to open every window in the house. Diffusion of gases. Middle school chemistry.

I did eventually return to my (new and improved) high school chemistry, only to find that it was 1 AM. Half an hour? My foolproof plan nosedived out the window.
I remember sitting down with a sigh, thinking, ‘spoke too soon’.

The Next Day…
The Burnt Magic Potion had revealed itself.
It was a mixture, just as I’d suspected. Like mystery meat though, I don’t know what it is. I can’t know the ingredients, that’s just the way it is. Of course, I only came to know from the scream.

As I sat with a chemistry text book, I heard coughs and screams. By the time I rushed out to see who needed a paramedic though, no one was there. My sister, the lab rat, was in the bathroom, possibly puking. What she’d left behind was a sight to behold.

It looked like a scene straight out of Trainspotting.
There was disarray at the table, some spilt liquid (water), overturned glasses, oh, and powder. A lot of powder, sprinkled over the table like someone had recently had a hurried session. All I needed to do to complete the scene was draw the curtains and darken the room.
I didn’t stick around and sniff though, but headed back to my chemistry books. [Fun fact for geeks and junkies: this chemistry text book of mine almost teaches you how to prepare herion, codeine and morphine. Almost. I know the structures. It’s under a section called “Everyday-life Chemistry. Come talk to me. 😉 ]
I did later hear something about puking up breakfast. The Magic Potion’s done it’s job, I’d say!

Integrating On Windows

Being fair to me, it was my mum’s idea.

After listening to me whine for half an hour about how I was tired of doing maths (chide me, but this is how I spend my little breaks. I’ll never learn.), mum finally got fed up, and asked me, if I was so terribly sick of integrating on paper, why didn’t I change my medium and do it on the windows? (This was an offhand reference to a conversation we’d had earlier in the day about how my little sister used to scribble on just about anything with a chalk.) Afterall, hadn’t I just gone out a few weeks ago and very enthusiastically shopped for marker pens I had no idea what to do with?

And so it happened that mum came along a few hours later to find me, on my toes, furiously solving integral sums on the nearest window I could find.

(Alright, I’ll drop the facade. Not furiously.)

 

Of course I was using a permanent marker.

So I ascended from the depths of integrals, to a couple of shrieks.

My mum was more concerned about me falling out of the window (no, I cannot explain that), my sister had more objections to the fact that the instrument in my hands was permanent.

I can sort of understand her concerns. I imagine she was already beginning to have nightmares about the pen leaving an indelible mark, integration haunting her every time she looked to the window, for years and years.

I had an answer for her though. There’s nothing a little alcohol cannot fix.

I might have posted about this before, but this is one of the cases so far where my chemistry has come in handy. Organic solvents dissolve organic inks and the cleaning becomes real easy.

At any rate, here’s the result of my work:

79CA30DA-6C2F-4F10-BED0-F3BAC09E4AD8

Wonder if it’s going to help my grades in any way.

 

On a completely unrelated note, as I draft this post, mum and dad are in a feng shui shop, looking for something to “improve attention and concentration.”

Oh well.

Ice Creams Don’t Lie

When I was a kid, there was an advert on the telly about sugar biscuits “so soft, they’d melt in your mouth.”

Now, I may not have been the science kid I happen to be today, but back then, such a radical change, of food in the solid state to the liquid state, food that was not ice, (which I loved to melt in my hands back then) seemed quite incredible.

I bought a packet, insisting to my mum that there was definitely something special about them biscuits.

Then I proceeded to shove one biscuit into my mouth and wait for it to melt.

I waited.

Then I waited some more.

I thought of the woman (woman?) in the ad who proclaimed that it melted and closed her eyes from the sugar rush.

Five year-olds don’t have that much patience.

Where is my liquid biscuit??

For forty-five minutes, the sorry, soggy piece of baked flour sat in my mouth, getting wetter, more deformed, but STILL. SOLID.

It never melted, needless to say, and (thankfully) I don’t remember what happened of that biscuit. Maybe I finally ate it.
Maybe I didn’t. I’ll never know, because mum doesn’t remember this incident. Maybe she doesn’t want to remember?

Anyway, it’s shattering. They lied on TV, and this five year old fell for it too.

And that is why I like ice creams.

They begin, cold, fuming, solid, and really do melt in your mouth.

Because ice creams don’t lie.

Although, with this biscuit incident behind me, is it really a surprise that I’m not too particularly fond of food?

Saviour of the Universe

Ooh, has this blog been bustling!!
Over the last week, I’ve received about ten new email follows already, but I’m not exactly jumping about them, in reality, they’ve only been really hit-and-run, and I’ll explain that further.

You know when you sit down to create your new email id (your thirty-fifth one) and really don’t know what to name it? You eventually end up hitting your head/hands over the keyboard like a tortured Bach and then run to Enter before you can truly realise your latest masterpiece.
So has been the case here.
I’ve been receiving follows from all the qwertyabcxyz’s I could, and they’re all Outlook ids, everyday/second day, similar time.

Yes, I know they’re spam. But I didn’t really take notice. Heck, if they’re scammers, their self-appointed job is to spam me, in this situation, it’s me who’ll be spamming them. Besides, the stats look pretty, don’t they?

But before you question the validity of my blog, I’ll give you the latest: they’re all gone, each and every one of them. Poof, vanished.

I’d be lying if I said I weren’t disappointed. I’d have loved to engage some random jobless people hunching over a computer somewhere in ‘Latin America or the Carribean islands’ (unless that’s a VPN). They all (all the drunk-slam id’s of the same person) unfollowed.
Oh well. I guess that was the last of my spam interactions.

Boy, was I ever wrong.

So yesterday, after a long day of coding, I open my inbox to check for college mail, aand I see an email from an ‘Alex’.
I click.
WordPress wants to let me know that there’s a new comment on my blog. The grammar’s beautiful. See, on this blog, I have a ‘Moderate Comments’ setting on.
Unfortunately, I’d forgotten to do that on my other blog.
Soon, I receive another email.

This time, WordPress informs me that a comment has already been published on my blog.
It’s from–guess who–Alex!

It reads:

Nice blog here! Also your web site rather a lot up fast! What web host are you the usage of? Can I am getting your affiliate hyperlink on your host? I want my web site loaded up as fast as yours lol

The grammarian in me is moved to tears.

I’m annoyed, at 2 in the morning when I’d rather be sleeping (second thought: when would I not?), I’m being spammed by some bored spammer over lunch. What’s worse, my spam filter seems to be down. This shouldn’t have gotten through in the first place!

I’m about to hit ‘Mark Spam’.
Then I realise I haven’t watched a James Veitch Scamalot video in a month. (If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I highly recommend you Google him up. Top-notch fellow, rising comedian who’s routine consists of his true-life trysts with replying to spam emails. Worth your time, I kid you not.)

So I decided, I need my fix.

I hit reply.

Me:

Thank you.
If you want your website or weblog to be as fast as this one here, YOU MUST SUPPORT NET NEUTRALITY, MY FRIEND!
T’is the only way.

I sat back satisfied. There! With such a reply, even the guy must know he’s not doing a very good job being conspicous, nor is he getting what he wants… whatever he wants. I don’t expect to hear back.
But you know we wouldn’t be here reading this if I didn’t, don’t you?

Alex:

I am no longer positive where you are getting your info, however good topic. I must spend some time finding out much more or understanding more. Thank you for magnificent info I used to be looking for this info for my mission.

Interesting. Now I definitely see reason for using 10 different IDs. Also, I’m glad my little poem complaining about my life was vital for you to get the codes you need to prevent a nuclear apocalypse. I forgive you, Alex.

Me:

Thank you, 007. I advice maximum caution, and wish you the best of luck in completing your Mission successfully.

Alex is on a Mission. He has a clear target in mind. (Wish I knew if he knows what it is, but) He’s out to get it.
Guy won’t give up.
He tries again, with a different email id.
Unfortunately, he forgets to change his name. He’s still Alex. Hey, it’s alright. Changing ID’s must be like replacing the flowers on his table.
If he has any.

Alex (with a new qwoxzcdfwdw@outlook ID):

Wow, amazing blog format! How lengthy have you ever been running a blog for? you make running a blog glance easy. The full glance of your web site is great, as smartly as the content!

I like butter. I also like running. Running long, pointless conversations.

Me:

I agree with you, making a blog run sure is a lengthy task! In fact, we’re aiming for the 20k next month! You ought to join us!

Are you getting a hang of this? The point is to be as pointless, and as annoying as them. And pray you haven’t forgotten a chemistry test that’s happening the next day. No, I cannot complete a post without the word ‘chemistry’. I must be extremely bad at this.

Unfortunately, our friend Alex is too!
In fact, he managed to remember this blog too. The post he had targetted was one I had posted on both my blogs, so it must’ve been easy for him to get confused. My spam filter is on here, but this was as good as they come, I couldn’t pass it up.

Alex:

You actually make it seem so easy together with your presentation however I in finding this topic to be actually one thing which I believe I might never understand. It kind of feels too complicated and extremely large for me. I’m looking forward on your subsequent publish, I will attempt to get the dangle of it!

See, I was feeling pretty perky by now. I felt benevolent replying to this.

Me:

Don’t get discouraged, Alex! I recommend signing up for the Word of the Day on https://dictionary.com, it’ll work wonders! For example, a word like Floccinaucinihilipilification might seem huge, but it really only means ‘to judge something as worthless’.
Once you expand your knowledge, you’ll start feeling more confident about yourself! Go for it!

PS: if that doesn’t work, try singing in front of a mirror.

And I look forward to hearing from you on other posts soon!

If nothing else over the past half hour, he sure got part of this message.

Of course I heard back from him. He was sort of becoming my pen pal/ego booster by this point. Feeling low? Alex thinks your post can save the planet from destruction! (Yes, I received that thrice.)
He;’s at it again.

Alex:

I’m not certain where you are getting your information, but good topic. I needs to spend a while learning more or working out more. Thanks for magnificent information I was looking for this information for my mission.

Alright, I get the point, I’m the Saviour, ain’t I? I don’t have to hear it from you.

I didn’t reply.

I think I broke him. His eyes opened. He saw the Truth.
I can sleep.


This afternoon, I check my inbox.
No Alex, bummer.

But, I have an email from an Enid Townsend.
Someone likes reading, and someone likes music.
And someone never grew up beyond Enid Blyton. Possibly. I don’t judge a book by its cover, nor a comment by the number of x’s/c’s/q’s in its sender’s email address.

Just to be sure, I check up the IP address.
Sure as day, it says ‘Latin America or the Carribean islands’!
Guess who’s back! I’m almost touched, Alex, no no no, wait, Enid remembered me beyond a day!

She says:

I appreciate, result in I discovered exactly what I used to be looking for. You have ended my 4 day long hunt! God Bless you man. Have a nice day. Bye

I love her already. She’s a rebel. She put a full stop for every sentence but the last. I have to oblige with a reply.

Me:

You did?! Lucky you, man! I’m glad you didn’t end up like this guy. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e3-5YC_oHjE
He’s been searching for 30 years now… maybe you guys should trade the secret to success, or something.

(That’s a link to U2’s song Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For, from their 1987 album The Joshua Tree.)

I haven’t heard from either after that, and it’s got a bit lonely with just me and those Carbon atoms, so I thought of sharing this here. Hope you enjoyed it, afterall, I’ve got to start catering to real people again!

Also, someday when I’m famous and you read my biography, you’d have heard it first: I just saved the planet from nuclear apocalypse.

Over and out.


Also, come morning and guess who’s back? Latin America’s buzzing me.

Kristi Acevedo: F*ckin’ amazing things here. I am very happy to look your article. Thank you a lot and i’m having a look ahead to touch you. Will you kindly drop me a e-mail?

I don’t know what to say anymore. I oughta file for sexual harassment.

So I reply:


Dearest Kristi,
How did you know I’m so clumsy? I drop emails, and tons of chemistry textbooks and press irons when they’re hot too! If you’re clumsy too, it’s about time you emailed zeklutzunion@klutzy.com

Unfortunately, I have a new follower in the most ancient sense: someone who won’t stop following up!

Lenora Novak (aka Alex):

You can certainly see your skills in the work you write. The world hopes for even more passionate writers such as you who are not afraid to mention how they believe. Always go after your heart.

Me:

Awwww, you know, I’ve always wanted to be an open heart surgeon, I suck at it.
You’ve just made my day!
I shall always remember to believe in myself and go for it thanks to you, training be damned!!
Also, do you mind if I quote you to my detractors?

What’s more, Alex has been exploring my blog, and has found other posts too.

He chose a post titled Doom to post his next masterpiece:

Kim Miranda:

Thank you for another great post. The place else may anyone get that type of information in such an ideal approach of writing? I have a presentation subsequent week, and I am at the look for such information.

Me:

Man, Kim… If you’re looking for Doom, where on earth do you work??

And hopefully, that’s it for now. It must be pretty late at night in the Caribbean, so we may have more tomorrow.
But heck, chemistry’s call is stronger, so I’ll try to keep the suspense… for a little while at least.
That’s all from me!


Update!! This happened for real.  I have nothing left to prove.

Gotta give it to the guy though, he’s a real sport!