Throwback: Alice Didn't Think There'd Be Midterms in Wonderland

Written August 23, 2010

How do you know it's exam time? When your Rate of Blogging (no of blog posts per twenty four hours) increases exponentially. When you find yourself trawling Blogspot.com and following random seniors. When you find yourself finally commenting on Loboguy's blog. When the 4 little figures down in the right hand corner of your computer screen keep moving at an insane pace, and all you've done are those 2 damn Powerpoint presentations.

Do you know why proxy servers are dangerous? Because they tempt you into watching Fanaa videos at midnight, when you're running late on prep and have 4 slides left on your second presentation, which you have been doing for the last four hours.

I'm generally nocturnal, but I really would rather I was nocturnal sans the accompanying twinges of guilt. And that's why I hate exams. They don't let me be my usual chilled out self. [🙄 Such deep thought.] I have to actually force myself to put a worried frown on my face and go sit in the library and write out notes for a good hour - before I fall asleep for the next hour and then the lib shuts down so I have to come back anyway.

You know what? There is something very pleasant about failing, as I have learnt over the last two years (and might be learning further over the next five years). [Prophetic. 🤦🏾‍♀️] The plaisir lies in the low expectations, or rather, the zero expectations. No tension, because, you know, it really doesn't matter.

To continue on my random idea hopping tour, the song I like to refer to as Break Up Song # 1 is playing right now. It's funny that since the day I received the e-mail that began with the lyrics of this song and ended with me fuming and trampling all over his heart, I never really listened to this song again... or even thought about it. But now that he's back to put the plaster on my knee and call me an idiot for pulling off the bandage on my finger prematurely, I can listen to it. And smile. [Wait, who is this?]

Is it wrong to feel so happy that you want to climb on top of the nearest car, spread your arms to the heavens - all Bollywood style - and scream? Tell them, "Guess what, my best friends and I are talking again. Guess what, we might be meeting up for a reunion and it'll be like nothing ever happened. Guess what, WE play football like it ought to be played... And everyone else is one big fail.

And really, WHAT do you do when you figure that someone you looked up to as far as understanding in human psychology is concerned really is crap at understanding and seeing through peoples' shields? I felt like throwing my phone at her today. I guess it shouldn't come as much of a surprise considering the decisions she's taken in life, and the reasoning behind them.

I'm only 18, and I tend to be blond/ pig-headed/ silly at times but I would never have done any of those things. She's 30 years older than I am. I mean, yes, I understand idealism, but there's a reason it's called that - you're not meant to literally apply it.

There's something to be said for your ethnic roots - even ethnic roots you hate to the core. Like when they get you credit at Chetta's and allow you to bitch with him about somebody who's standing right there.

So... signing off on that note (quite possibly in order to start a new blog post about the four of us great childhood friends and the things we used to do; allowing myself the luxury of romanticizing for a change.) Wishing everyone a Happy Onam. Here's to the luxury of bitching, to imagination, to innuendo laden text messages and the best friends who can decipher them. Here's to Chetta's and Law School - which, despite everything, I am still falling desperately in love with. And here, my dear friends, is incontrovertible proof that I fall in love with the Wrong Type. Always. [Literally. I mean...]