It’s 6 year anniversary(WordPress reminded me). I still remember the early morning waiting the bus for a bridge simulator course while I typed the ‘about’ post of this blog…

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Yesterday was the two year breakup anniversary (yeah Fb reminded me, I really don’t remember dates like that). Today is anniversary of this blog.

Time seems to pass too quickly…just slipping away.

Sometimes someone makes time stop.

(Maybe it’s the monotony that makes time pass as huge chunks).

I think honest is the best thing we can do, especially to ourselves.

(Watching Edge of Seventeen, it’s really good.)

Is it normal to feel ur ass breaking n groaning with each movement even 1.5 months after starting Gym? Isn’t it supposed to get better? And to think yesterday I was like “I’m not satisfied with today’s exercise. It finished too soon. “

At the gym

Are all men obnoxious or is that something peculiar to straight men?

Squat: Butt hurts the next day

Should a child be the purpose of life? Isn’t it investing too much into another living thing? Something you don’t have any control over?

Not solid muscles, not yet anyways, but at least it’s not boobs anymore.

The Great Novel

You could turn ur life into a novel but you know that you’re not good enough to write it.

More of a problem when you like happy endings but your life is like at the middle of the novel and the love interest has made no entry. Maybe he won’t make an entry at all. Does that make this a tragedy? Do all stories need a happy ending? I am reminded of Of Human Bondage. But then that story ends where he embarks on a new career. I’m still in the middle.

Or maybe I make it a story about Him. Of the deceptions and the lies and how I’m too blind to see it. And then like The Sixth Sense there is a defining moment and everything suddenly makes sense. I might have written about those things somewhere-how I hated the Doctor’s guts etc. But I’m not smart enough to write such a twisted plot where you think of the end first and then write the story cunningly with the end in mind. I’m more of a stream of consciousness kind of writer- the story has to write itself. I can’t think of plots etc.

And I like a funny story. Something like Under the Net. But there was nothing funny about our story. Was there? There were long conversations, great companionship, not too much silence- there wasn’t anything really humorous. I am not funny at all. He was ridiculously funny, but with others. I sort of kept him grounded? Are the comedians funny at home? I don’t think so.

Maybe I write little episodes. Little tales and then sew them up together sometime in the future? That could be done, right?