It's a lot harder than you think.

So, this is it.

The mere thought sends a chill down my spine. "Now or never, Molly. Get it over with!" My conscience speaks true words.
The people stare on in eager anticipation. There are hushed whispers all around me. "Will she? Won't she? Forget it, she doesn't have the guts."
I, however, am completely unaware of everybody present. There are slightly more pressing matters at hand.

The sky turns dark, right on cue. Time is running out.

I turn to face the Nefarious Mom-Lady. She gives me a cold glare as if to say, "Only one." I want to cry. It just isn't fair!
I take a deep breath. "Now or never, Molly. Now or never," my conscience eggs me on.
And so, with sweaty palms and shaky fingers, I reach out...


And grab the jar of Honey Roasted Chunky Peanut Butter. Almost as soon as I touch the jar, thunderous applause breaks out. I can hear people cheering, calling out my name. "Go Mollika! Woot!"
I turn to face the crowd, holding up the jar of P.B like a trophy, big grin on my face,
There's no one there. Just an old man pushing his shopping cart by.

"Enough drama, Molly. Let's go. It looks like it's going to start raining soon," Ma says.
"So this IS it," I think, depressed at the triviality of the situation. "Life does become more and more mundane as you grow older."

And then we make our way to the billing counter.

[Note: I was a nine-year old kid with delusions of grandeur when this happened. Don't judge.]

No, I don't feel well. At all.

My life sure is odd.
I decided to bunk school. Why? I don't know. Maybe I didn't quite feel like showing off my Interact Club badge to anybody today.
Nevertheless, I fell sick. So my whole unofficial holiday is ruined. Karma, thou art a heartless bitch.
And I'm sure something bloody spectacular happened in class while I was out. That always happens. >:[

A world without my Walkman is a sad, sad world.

16/7/2011; 3:45 pm.

It's been raining continuously for the past 4 hours. The weather is perfect for listening to 'The Smiths'.

Except my mum has taken away my Walkman. Such is my life.

The definition of soulmate, according to Urban Dictionary is:

"A person with whom you have an immediate connection the moment you meet -- a connection so strong that you are drawn to them in a way you have never experienced before. As this connection develops over time, you experience a love so deep, strong and complex, that you begin to doubt that you have ever truly loved anyone prior. Your soulmate understands and connects with you in every way and on every level, which brings a sense of peace, calmness and happiness when you are around them. And when you are not around them, you are all that much more aware of the harshness of life, and how bonding with another person in this way is the most significant and satisfying thing you will experience in your lifetime. You are also all that much aware of the beauty in life, because you have been given a great gift and will always be thankful."

 Going by this definition, my Walkman is my soulmate.
My Walkman understands me. Even when it's on shuffle mode, it ALWAYS picks the right song to play at the right time. Coldplay or The Smiths when i'm gloomy, Snow Patrol when i'm falling asleep, Led Zeppelin when i'm still awake at 2 in the morning, Mika or The Beatles when i'm happy...you get the idea.
I wouldn't know what to do with my life if my Walkman died.

(Personal opinion: Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd sound THAT much better at 2am, when the rest of the world is fast asleep.)

One might wonder: "Why did your mum confiscate your Walkman anyway?"
Well, it so happened that I was travelling in the car with my mum. Out of habit, I stuck my earphones in my ears and started listening to "There is a light that never goes out", by The Smiths.  As usual, my mum started talking just as the song started. I hate it when that happens. As soon as you put your earphones on, the WHOLE bloody world suddenly wants to talk to you.
In retrospect, I should have nodded a bit more. Maybe i'd still have Walkie. (Yeah, lets refer to Walkman as "Walkie" now.)

It's for the better, I guess. (I'm being unusually optimistic all of a sudden. Weird.)
Without Walkie, I'll finish that Murakami novel I'm still reading. I'll start studying for that biology test on Monday. Maybe I'll stop shutting out the rest of the world with my music.

But for the moment I am going to be a whiny bitch and complain about the lack of The Smiths in this rainy weather. Because that's how I roll.

Z is for Zero, the number of fucks I give.

I'm dropping a couple of f-bombs here and there. Be warned.

So I was travelling by auto the other day.
Autos aren't my preferred mode of travel. They're mighty expensive, and it is especially a NIGHTMARE for curly-haired people such as yours truly. Travelling even a pithy 2km by auto makes my hair look like tumbleweed from one of those westerns.
I happened to be travelling extra that day. So I came prepared against the wind, with my hair tied up "neatly" and everything. EVEN so, the wind managed to screw up my hair.
After what seemed like a never-ending wrestling match with the bloody hurricane in order to keep my hair restrained, I decided I didn't give a fuck and let it fly.
Fly into my eyes and nostrils. If you'd seen me then, you would have died laughing.
Wind- 1, Mollika- 0.

Which brings me to the point of today's post: "I don't give a fuck."


If I were to sum up my life up to this point, I'd say it's composed of 75% missed opportunities, 5% sickness and 20% pure, unadulterated happiness. My life is, if a bit excessively, peppered with missed opportunities; Risks not taken, all ranging from not speaking up in class and eventually losing out on something spectacular, to chickening out on the penultimate question of a quiz and losing by a difference of 2 points.

If I had a dollar for every chance I've given up till today. Oh boy...

I guess this sort of behaviour stems from my fear of being judged harshly.
Keeping up appearances is one of man's many obsessions, apart from gardening, alcohol and the sports section of the newspaper. With the constant need to keep up appearances and be accepted in society comes the need to constantly criticise and belittle anyone else. Everybody has an opinion about everyone, regardless of whether it's a good one or a bad one. No one cares if feelings are being hurt in the process.
Every decision is made keeping in mind that ubiquitous question:

"What will everyone else think?"


That question is like a resilient parasite, feeding on the conscience of human minds. It has crushed aspirations and screwed up the general decision-making ability that humans possess.
In short, it has turned the entire human population into cowards. I'm no exception.

Why didn't I speak up in class when I knew the answers?
Because I thought I'd probably get them wrong and be ridiculed by everyone.


Why did I chicken out on the last question of that quiz?
Because I didn't want to risk losing points on it.


Come to think of it, if I HAD answered that Q, we might have won. But NOO. Molly's too chicken to take risks.

Enough, I say!
Screw what everyone else thinks. It's time we started listening to ourselves for a change.

It's time we started taking chances. We'd never really know whether we were right or wrong if we didn't try.
What's the point of avoiding risks? So we can make it safely to death?
Needless to say, I do not approve.

It's high time we stopped giving a fuck what anybody thinks.

Of Nitrous Oxide... and Ether and.. st...uff...

Note: Fridays are SO uninspiring. :[

When i was maybe 7 or 8 years old, whenever anybody asked me what my mother did for a living, i'd reply:

"She knocks people out."

You should have seen the expressions on the faces of all the aunties and uncles then. Priceless.

I wasn't entirely joking, i might add. My mum DOES knock people out for a living. One might think-"HOW can a lady whose uppercut doesn't even reach her daughter's chin, knock anybody out?"

Simple. With nitrous oxide. My mum's an anaesthetist. Bahaha!

Being a doctor's kid means that we have to listen to detailed descriptions of various surgeries at the dinner table. Hemorrhoids. LIPOSUCTION. Oh, the horror.

And feigning sickness to bunk school is useless in our family. None of the classic "Sore-throat" or "Stomach cramps" claptrap works here. If it isn't as serious as appendicitis, forget about it.

It has its benefits too, however. Thanks to mum, i can spell words like anaesthesia and dextromethorphan, and know what they mean.

(Fact: Dextromethorphan is known to make people hyper and irritable. Found usually in cold and sinus medication.)
I can administer vaccines to people without killing them too! :begins to brag:  :D

I pride myself on my elite google searching skills.

So i was looking around on some websites, wasting time, giving no thought to the completion (or beginning, for that matter) of my chem project when i unearthed THIS piece of gold:

Shakespearean Insults!

Why hadn't anyone thought of this before?

My day is MADE. Now i can only hope someone gives me the opportunity to call them a villainous hasty-witted harpy. :D

Of the Rebecca Black philosophy and Dance Dance Revolution and stuff.

IT'S FRAIDAY FRAIDAY GOTTA GET DOWN ON FRAIDAY.
EVERYBODY'S LOOKIN' FORWARD TO THE WEEKEND WEEKEND!

Rebecca Black speaks the truth, yo.

I look forward to this weekend. And how!
Boxes and boxes of orange tic tacs are waiting to be eaten. And INSTANT COFFEE! THERE'LL BE LOADS OF COFFEE!

And DDR will be played. Oh yes.

DDR, or Dance Dance Revolution is a game, wherein you read the arrows as they scroll up on the screen and step on the corresponding arrow on the dance pad. The arrows go to the beat of the song being played.
Hence the name.
I love this game so much. And i play it 3 times or more every time i'm at Amoeba. 20 bucks to play 3 songs, FYI.

5 year old Japanese kid playing DDR like a BOSS.

And the best part about all of this is that there's no weekend homework that i have to panic about on Sunday night. Yay!