39

Hmm, nothing to write. Waiting ceaselessly for (several) things to materialise. Zombiefied college-going to fill (kill?) time. With each day we live less in terror of the Lennon line and more in faith of the wisdom from Chekhov. Perhaps that is progress. (Such a one-liner whore we are, dear god.)

Meanwhile the good people at this place have decided to do something interesting or the other with an old poem. Those in the know of the history of said poem may notice why we are amused; but irrelevant ironies apart we do happen to be rather intrigued.

On another (slightly petty?) note, should it feel smug or appalling when popular people start to — as the expression goes — “rip off your style”? We have a suspicion this has to do more with insecurity than possessiveness: the distaste for being eventually thought of as a copycat of people you don’t even particularly admire, rather than the loss of what you cherished as a private quirk. If D happens to notice this paragraph, we must dissect, discuss and absolutely demolish the (ahem) philosophy/psychology behind this emotional response on a particularly insipid college afternoon soon enough, alright? That will show ’em sequin-dripping little ghouls, yes. :|

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2 thoughts on “39

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