Flaws In The Plan

“They’ve hacked into our databases!”
“No way! It was totally secure! How did they get past our twelve-layered security?!”
“Forget that, how did they get through our code? There’s like, a million lines in there!”
“Not just that, it was also coded by us.”

“What do you mean?”
“Only we know what code we write, kid. Sometimes, not even we know it.”
“Yeah, so if they’ve figured what was going on, we’re dealing with coding experts here.”
“Wait, what?”
“Anyway, boot up the code, let’s see what they’ve accessed.”


Ping... ping ping ping ping! (Intel Processor sounds)

Clickity clackity clack. Clack clack.


(Swearing noises)

“You know, there’s no shame in taking longer than a second to type in the password.”
“Shut up, intern.”

(Powering up sounds)

“Great, we’re here. Now let’s see…
What?! What’s this!”
“Looks nothing like our program! It’s all—”
“No way, you’ve got the wrong file,”
“No it isn’t. No one in this department can spell well enough to search for the path /users/SuperSecret/SDrive/scramblingfolder/fakefiles/floccinaucinihilipilification/ and access the file we’ve stored there, they’ve really got us.”

“But—isn’t that your code?”

“Whaddya mean, intern?”

“This is your code. I saw it last week. It was part of my project to add a function, and it was this file.”


Relax, nothing much, just run a counter that waits for 1000 seconds and prints “Please restart the application”…”


“Well, I,”
“You did something.”
“I just documented it! God, it was just comments, it doesn’t affect the code!”


“Why did you document the code? We never document our code.”
“I know. Intern or not, your code’s disgusting to read. It’s just good practice to document it. Took me all week to read a single file.”

“The floccinaucinihilipilification file.”


“Geez, no wonder we’ve been hacked.”

“What do you mean?!”


“No way.”
“You guys can’t be serious.”

“You mean to tell me, that you never had any security in the first place??”

“…well, we never needed it. No one could figure out what our code ever did. It was the simplest and most effective of security: the safety of no knowledge.”
“But now that you’ve so helpfully documented everything, we’re an open book.”

“Well, what now?”

“You’re asking me?
(sigh) I guess it’s time to put my degree to some real use, isn’t it?”

Terrible photography and procrastination at its finest, I sometimes dig down in my gallery and find random photos of code I either was writing on the verge of giving up writing. No one has code photos on their phone. No one should.

This is in no way influenced by the fact that I am learning assembly language and can’t imagine any better use for it than for concealing stuff that’s otherwise so obvious even a beginner coder could work it out. It’s also extremely cool and puts you in a very secretive environment-frame of mind.


All you like
With a glide
In your footsteps
And pride
Hold your chin up
Like you have somewhere to
And purpose to show
In every pace you
And they approach
Calm, composed
With the briefest look in the
That doesn’t give away my
Push on
One step
Back to my back

To let it all out
In a jelly wobble.

Walking through new buildings looking for a study space is one of the most psychological experiences I have in a day.
I know most people are only trying to help, but when I’m in a new building and looking around for someplace I might want to plop and get working, I really don’t want you asking me, “Where do you want to go?”
Am I lost? Yes, I’m lost. Can you help me? No, because I don’t know where I want to go. Yes, you’ve been around this building for years and years and know every inch of it by the inhale at the start of the syllable it begins with, but you still can’t help me, and I don’t want to stick around and hear it.
I know you’re being nice, but I’m just feeling like there’s impending judgement. Just don’t acknowledge me. I’ll find somewhere to sit.

Apart from that, exploring new buildings is also admittedly one of the coolest things you can do, because as a student, you’re legally allowed to just walk into a random building and it’s not trespassing, and you get to live out your Dora The Explorer dreams.

I got me supplies, let’s go!

What do you find exciting in a normal day? And what terrifies you, even though it’s totally normal?

Life of the Party

To be honest, I’m probably more of a panel number two. Who wants to deal with real people anyway, right?

Wait, you’re telling me they exist and I’m hurting their feelings? What?

Anyway, there are probably even more stereotypes, but I only get so many square inches of napkin.

You ever sit around wondering how on earth could anyone be enthusiastic about something as dull as a “reunion” with people you mostly don’t know? Or rather, people who ask you if you remember them but you could swear you’ve never met them in your life—but of course you remember them don’t you? You met when you were two years old!

Well, call me a silver-liner, but here’s what I just realised: reunions, or any gathering with a lot of people, are happy hunting grounds for material. So much material. And so here’s the outcome: new material!

What other stereotypes have you seen at gatherings? (Yes, you’ve been to one and had to stay for five hours, don’t hide it. And you observed too. You were too bored, so spill.) Did you run into my characters? And were you the life of the party, or me?

Micro Moments


This is my jacket putting up a fight against a drop of water. I just thought it would make for an interesting picture. It’s all about perspective, you see.

(My source of inspiration? I happen to be sitting outdoors on a bench overlooking the faculty of Architecture. I’m also sitting with my physics book in hand. It does create quite a mood.)

Still going strong

I could go on about the artistic cliché of how it looks like a crystal and everything, but I get the feeling this will end up turning into a discussion about the properties of crystals and how saturated nickel crystals look really pretty and how I kinda miss chemistry and how I’ve been stuck on a single page of physics for the past half hour, so I think I’ll spare you that.

(Also, my daily update on the tree:0301A659-5CFF-4482-BA50-388590FAA5C0.jpeg4191A635-4011-47E0-9121-A73ABA9AB92E

On that note, I think I’ll head over to the architecture building and admire it. It looks awesome.

Happy thanksgiving, y’all!

Soap Suds of the World

“You are not special. You’re not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You’re the same decaying organic matter as everything else. We’re all part of the same compost heap.”

“Didn’t I realise that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness?”

“We are not special. We are not crap or trash, either. We just are.”


I guess all three of them were right, weren’t they?
‘Jack’, Tyler and God?
We have the potential to be any, we all have it in us to be special unique snowflakes. Or we could choose to be trash and dirt of the world, but most of the time, we just don’t try to be either. We resign to, or just content ourselves with just being.
As ‘Jack’/’Joe’ (depending on whether you followed the book or the movie Fight Club) said, “we just are.”
Nameless, faceless beings, happy to rot away in a cubicle on minimum wage, or conversely, we just are, the label, that image, the good employee, the award-winner, the hard worker, the faceless, well-lubricated wheel cog.
Neither are we essential, nor are we causing trouble.
We just are, and that’s probably why, we’re replaceable.

Do we have any personality? Are you anything other than a well-labelled diagram? Is there any part of you a tag can’t define?
Is there any characteristic of yours that isn’t a Google-searchable Shutterstock image?
Can you define yourself outside of your resumé? Is it too hard, or much too easy?
Are you an online personality quiz? Are you your zodiac?
The daily horoscope?
Can I tell exactly how you’d react to this?
And is something wrong with you if you don’t?
Isn’t your name shared by a million others? Aren’t your traits in fifty others?
Aren’t you a compilation of influences, then?
Are you you? Who are you?
What about you isn’t replaceable? What about me isn’t?
Is this really me, then? Could an algorithm have picked up my style and be writing this right now, then?
Can I be predicted?
Am I just existing?
Not the melted snowflake nor the trodden shit, yet nothing at all?