a light

I think it’s time I crossed a book or two off of my “to buy/to read” list. Maybe tomorrow. Yeah, tomorrow. Sure, KLCC will be a bit packed but I’m not driving so yeah, traffic won’t be a problem. I should look a bit harder, too, and find some nice city shots to capture on Velvia 100F that will be cross-processed. Trippy city shots, oh yeah.

I’ve been trying to turn quite nearly everyone I meet onto Grant Morrison’s run on Doom Patrol, but I haven’t really been successful. Haven’t encountered much success when it comes to All-Star Superman, either (even less, in fact). I don’t blame them, of course: just the mere mention of “comics” still brings to mind some particularly boring and by-the-numbers superhero tripe, so hesitation is understandable. Of course, it’s not like I’m any good at trying to turn people onto shit, so yeah.

abracadaver

Shintaro Kago, I love you.

There’s quite a lot of his stuff (including the mangas these pages are from) here, if you’re interested.

That also means your taste is as horrible as mine.

Also: if you’re a girl and you like this sort of shit then GET IN TOUCH, NOW.

i wanted to write a poem on my deathbed

One of my favourite books ever, and probably one of my favourite book covers ever as well.

Best RM9 I ever spent.

gömul vísa um vorið

It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything, eh? Haha, yeah, four days is “a while” when it comes to my usual standards, I guess.

I’ve been a bit unwell recently. Thankfully, however, I haven’t (yet?) succumbed to any sort of fever, but I have been coughing a lot, and my throat’s a bit sore, although it’s not that bad right now. Not bad at all, actually.

Things have been a bit slow recently. Haven’t been out shooting in a while, which means that I’ve actually been wasting the Zinc-Air battery in my OM-1 (those only last a month or so, give or take). I do plan to rectify it soon though, particularly since I’m looking forward to not only seeing how Fuji’s Acros 100 is but also because I have a roll of Tri-X 400 to burn through, and I am definitely looking forward to seeing the results I get from that.

As you might expect, I’ve been writing a lot too, although I’ve managed to refrain from posting any of the new stuff on the Internet (so far). I did post this one up on Facebook, but that’s about it. Might be posting some more soon, although I’m not sure what. I feel quite good about some of the stuff I’ve written recently and I’m looking forward to hopefully being able to release it on an unsuspecting—yeah right, probably the only people that will get the “book” (for lack of a better term) are the people that I’ll have endlessly pimped it to—and very limited public. It’s not about making money or becoming well-known or anything of the sort, though: I want to do this because, well, I want to. Teringin, if I may. At least if I ever have to do it again in the future (for a ‘zine or whatever) I’ll know what I’m doing. Roughly, at least.

With writing comes reading, and I’ve been reading a lot of both Rabih Alameddine’s Koolaids and Etgar Keret’s Missing Kissinger. It helps, yes, that both books aren’t novels: Keret’s book is a collection of short stories and Alameddine’s, while it has a storyline, is very non-linear and structured in (generally very short) vignettes that allow me to skip through it at will, reading whichever vignette(s) I choose. Koolaids is probably one of the best books I’ve read recently and has rocketed to the upper echelons of my “favourites” list, as has Missing Kissinger. I got Koolaids for RM9 at the Pay Less in One Utama too, which, I think you’ll agree, is obscene. Has to rank among the best RM9 I’ve ever spent.

And yeah, Keret is Jewish, so what.

Aside from that it’s been mostly lazing around, CoD4 online and lots of  kinda-wierdo kinda-noisy music (Kuupuu, Islaja, Fursaxa, Hospitals, Sightings, Pocahaunted, Anaksimandros, Kemialliset Ystävät, John Zorn, Naked City, Kría Brekkan, etcetc). It’s good shit. I feel so trendy right now.

No updates in regards to the xLumbrahx EP, don’t know what’s up with that.

And, since I’m in the mood (read: I was bored and looking through my photos and felt like uploading something), here’s a photo:

a man, a plan, a canal: panama.

I bought three books today: Oscar Zeta Acosta’s The Revolt of the Cockroach People, Wang Shuo’s Playing for Thrills and the 15th volume of New American Writing, all for a combined total of RM18. Yes, RM18. Probably the first time the whole mega sales going on have significantly affected the amount of money I’ve had to pay. Pay Less Books have a storewide 50% discount going on, people. What the fuck are you waiting for? Sure, they may not always have the greatest selection, but with a bit of looking you can definitely find some gems. I have.

I managed to finish Garros/Evdokimov’s Headcrusher as well. Really good novel for sure, highlighted with certain moments of manic, delirious genius. Funny, violent, witty and somewhat thought-provoking as well, even if the philosophy is a bit . . . quirky, for lack of a better term. A highly enjoyable read, it was one of those novels where I really couldn’t stop turning the pages.

Aside from books and lots of loud, abrasive music (I’ve recently gotten into Sightings and rekindled my love for Merzbow, much to the chagrin of whomever may be in the bathroom when I’m listening to either), today’s mostly been taken up by a significant amount of confusion and thought. I’m confused about college: what I’m supposed to be doing, where I’m supposed to be, what I want, what I should work towards, all that stuff. Sometimes I find myself at college, alone, and I’ll ask myself: “what the fuck are you doing, man?”, and I find that I honestly can’t answer with any sort of conviction.

And then there’s my feelings towards certain things, places and people. I used to think that I had things figured out—at least, to some sort of reasonable extent—but some events over the past week or so have somewhat thrown that into doubt and left me in a bit of a lurch. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still going strong (well, kinda), but you could say that there’s been some sort of turbulence.

I was not prepared for the memories that came back to me when I visited a certain place today, and neither was I prepared for the (admittedly, somewhat silly) things I felt when I texted someone tonight. God knows why I did that, particularly in the fragile mood I was (and still am, for the record) in.

God, I need this feeling of unease to go away. I have a life to live.

under the influence(s)

Four books that have recently influenced me a lot, both in terms of my writing as well as my tastes. They’ve shaped my writing style to a significant extent and have definitely set me on a very different tangent in terms of the books I look to read/buy/devour/enjoy. Quite a ways away from the Neil Gaimans and Ernest Hemingways of the literary world, that’s for sure, and I think I’m the better for it.

I owe a lot to Sufian Abas’ Kasut Biru Rubina and how he/it reminded me that I don’t have to try and write 2,000-word pieces every single time, and that sometimes shorter and simpler is infinitely better. I honestly feel that the quality of my writing has increased somewhat since deciding to go down this current path of mine, and many people I know agree with me.

That’s a good thing, yes, as it means I’m not imagining things. And besides, it’s always good to have people agree with you.

At the moment, though I’m not half as productive as I used to be. I haven’t really been writing much, and that’s got to change, even if it’s only to stop my “skills” from atrophying due to lack of use. Consistency is needed. Keep yourself sharp.

However, yesterday I finished writing two “new” short prose pieces which, I will have to admit, aren’t exactly totally new pieces of work, but rather re-writes of previous material that never really saw the light of day, at least not in any form similar to the ones they now possess. I’ve submitted both of them to Jerome Kugan’s Poetika Malaysia project for possible inclusion in the upcoming issue.

Appearing in print would be a wonderful way to make my year, for sure.

Tengok lah macamana.

epilogue of a car crash

I find myself grappling with an all-too-familiar sense of confusion these days: I’m thinking too much and it’s occasionally having quite the negative effect on me, and not just in terms of an increased (if that were possible) tendency to lapse into intense phases of self-hate and insecurity. Sometimes I find it hard even to fall asleep (not helped, of course, by the fact that I find it hard to fall asleep regardless) or actually concentrate on anything much, and I often have this kinda-sick, uncomfortable feeling in my stomach.

It’s not all that great, to be honest, this stuff.

I could never deny that I always think too much, and this whole phase is certainly proof—if more proof was needed—of that fact. I really, really wish I could chill the fuck out but I’m finding it to be quite tough, though, the act of “chilling out.” It sounds quite pathetic but it’s quite true. Most of the time at least.

I feel quite alright at the moment, though. It’s a Friday and I’m just trying to relax. Nearly finished with re-reading Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Just as fun the second time around as it was the first. I might decide to hop over to KLCC (and Kino) or some other bookstore and perhaps see if I can get myself one of the books on my “want to buy/read” list, which would include Kerouac’s On the Road and Dharma Bums, William Burroughs’ Junky and all three from his Nova trilogy, Allen Ginsberg’s Howl, Heller’s Catch 22, Hunter Thompson’s Hells Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga and Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ’72 and some others I’m sure I’ve forgotten.

So many books, so little money: a situation I’m sure many are familiar with. On the positive side though, I guess I know what books I’ll be buying over the next year or so.

I watched High Fidelity in class on Thursday. We were supposed to analyze characters and make notes of how they developed over the course of the movie, but, really, why lie, I spent most of the time just enjoying it. I’m going to have to write a blog post about it on my other blog (which was created solely for my Creative Writing 1 class in place of a physical journal), so check there if anyone’s interested in reading what I have to say about it. (I don’t know why anyone would be, but who knows?)

Speaking of movies, I finally got around to watching Mulholland Drive a week or so back. What can I say? It’s David Lynch, of course it’s fucking brilliant. The musical score was awesome too, and fit the movie brilliantly. Oh, yeah, reminds me how I should get around to watching Tan Chui Mui’s Love Conquers All. Bought the DVD at Art for Grabs ’08 but haven’t watched it yet. Damn.

But first it might be best for me to focus on my Creative Writing 1 assignment first.

I leave you with a photo:

we were somewhere around barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold

The one real constant in my life recently aside from depression has been books. I’ve been devouring books at quite a rate recently, and I’ve been enjoying myself greatly in the process. Helps me get my mind off the pain and provides some fuel for my own writing.

There was a time when I told myself that I’d get more books by Murakami once I finished Norwegian Wood, but that’s obviously not been the case. I’ve consciously moved away from him and from those kinds of books and that style of writing and find myself gravitating towards either the hardboiled noir of Bruen or, my current preference, the whole world of craziness, oddness, drugs and sleaze presented in Burroughs’ Naked Lunch, Aniruddha Bahal’s Bunker 13 and Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, the latter of which I just bought today and will start reading now that I’ve finally finished Bruen’s Priest.

I like craziness, I like oddness, I like things to be whacked out and I particularly like it when things in a book would make people cringe and say “that’s not right” or “that’s not good”. If one thing’s quite certain, it’d be that. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have enjoyed Naked Lunch as much as I did, what with its transgressive sexual acts, drug references, occasional gore (nothing like hanging a person and then eating his penis, yay) and various incredibly tripped out scenes (the “Talking Asshole” routine is classic). I enjoyed it greatly. I liked how funny and witty it was and I liked how Burroughs wrote it (even if it sometimes required me to read a paragraph once or twice to really grasp the meaning . . . if there was any, that is). Stuff your Shakespeare, man. Gimme Burroughs any day of the week.

And if I was easily offended (which I am obviously not), I’m sure I wouldn’t be enyjoing Aniruddha Bahal’s Bunker 13 either, which has some violence, lots of things for some people to be offended about, lots of morally-ambiguous behaviour (ok, more like “morally wrong”), but God, it’s an awesome book. Incredibly fast-paced and quite funny, too. I can just imagine some of my friends going “why is he doing this? This is wrong!” and so on and so forth. Bollocks to them, I say.

I finished two books recently: The aforementioned Bruen book Priest and George Orwell’s 1984. There’s not much I can say about Priest except that it’s archetypal Bruen, which is another way of saying it’s quite fucking good. I love Jack Taylor. He’s not exactly an antihero, but he’s by no means a hero, what with all his demons and all his failings. It’s a great book, definitely. I thought some of the scenes were fucking brilliant, as was the dialogue. Gritty, realistic and believable. Makes the characters feel alive.

Not much to say about Orwell’s 1984, either. Brilliant book. I finished it in about two days, drawn in by Orwell’s great writing, the very intriguing storyline and by the novel’s theme(s) and concept(s). I really couldn’t put it down, to use the cliche. It’s quite a thought-provoking read, for sure, and I’d say that it’s essential reading for anyone remotely interested in literature. I thought the third part of the novel was quite brilliant, perhaps a bit of a twist, and the closing chapter is certainly one of the darkest I’ve read. I think I know quite a few people who’d expect a happy ending to it, but there’s no such thing to be found in the novel. No sir. But you really wouldn’t expect anything happy from it, would you? It fit in with my somewhat cynical worldview, I guess.

The reason I decided to buy a Hunter S. Thompson book is partly due to the quote on the front of the aforementioned Bunker 13 goes: “Imagine Catch 22 rewritten by Hunter S. Thompson and set in an unapologetically modern India”. Someone whom I trust greatly for his taste in books and movies told me to check out both Catch 22 (which will probably be my next acquisition) and a Hunter S. Thompson book and said that Fear and Loathing is as good a place to start as any with Hunter S. Thompson. I predict that I’ll enjoy Fear and Loathing greatly.

I’ve also been working on another story. I’m trying to increase my oddness quotient but I’m not sure if I’m succeeding. Trying to think of a way to end this piece. I might have something in mind. We’ll see.

sweet dreams

Today wasn’t all that great of a day. I was incredibly depressed, and for some reason there was this short moment where I was incredibly, incredibly angry. I slammed my bedroom door twice, punched it a few times, threw my plastic chair at it and generally fumed for a bit. I was genuinely scared of myself, scared that I’d once again do something stupid.

I don’t know why I can never be happy by myself, man. It’s pathetic. Utterly, utterly pathetic. If I can’t support myself, if I can’t help myself, if I can’t somehow make sure that I’m at least ok then who will? I can’t rely on friends all the time, they’ve got their own lives to live, they’ve got their own problems, their own demons. They’re busy climbing their own ladders.

I do feel guilty for always kicking up shit, but oftentimes it just gets too much for me to handle. I can’t talk to myself and reason shit out when I hate myself and can’t stand hearing what I have to say, can I?

No, somehow that doesn’t work.

I’ve been reading Sufian Abas’ Kasut Biru Rubina tonight, and I think it’s quite awesome. Short, unrelated vignettes that are, by turns, beautiful, odd, funny (in, perhaps, a slightly dark/black way) and, sometimes, a combination of all of those. I particularly, so far, like “Nenek Oh Nenek” and “Asri Mula Panik”. I feel like I can somewhat relate to the latter, even.

It’s one of the few times I actually haven’t felt somewhat demoralized by reading someone else’s fiction. In fact, I actually feel like his style of writing is something I can actually do decently well, short vignettes that don’t really fit the traditional “short story” mold. After all, I was fond of 500-or-so-word “stories” during my early days, and, hell, I still consider my best “story” to be one of those (“A Warm Light on a Cold Night”, if anyone’s wondering). I’m not thinking of a book or anything, but just writing however I feel like writing and not worry about arbitrary definitions of how many words a short story should be, not worry about how long whatever I’m writing is. Looking back, I can’t help but feel that sometimes I wrote with word count in mind, for some odd reason. I still did, during the writing of this following piece, but not as much. Perhaps all the calls for short story submissions that also mention minimum word lengths had/has something to do with it.

If anything, though, length needs to come from having a plot and not from writing over-wrought prose.

I should cut down on the words, perhaps, to find myself. And I guess I need to reconcile my apparent ability of playing around with words and crafting “nice” sentences with a much more economical style of writing. Bruen can do it, why can’t I? (Haha, because I’m not half as talented as him?)

Partly as an experiment, I wrote this story tonight. I kinda like it, if only for the fact that I think it’s an interesting concept.

Enjoy, eh?

—

        I woke up from my dream with a start, as if I had been jerked back into reality by someone pulling the plug on my dream. Just like that. As the ceiling drifted in an out of focus, I could feel the dampness and stickiness of sweat clinging to every part of my body like a second skin, and it wasn’t at all comfortable. My blanket lay in a messy heap on the ground beside my bed; I had no doubt kicked it off while I was asleep.
        I sat up, my feet hanging onto the ground and tried to gather my senses. My vision was blurred, my mouth and throat felt like they had been stuffed with tissues and there was a dull throbbing in my head that felt as if someone was operating some heavy machinery in there. And the room was still popping in and out of focus as if my eyes were a camera lens and someone was playing around with the focus. I felt dazed and confused and totally unable to focus on anything.
        I tried to get back to sleep but it was no use, and I spent what I presume had to be nearly half an hour tossing and turning on my bed, seemingly bothered by anything from the occasional chill wind blowing in through the window to the sound of my next-door neighbour coughing in his sleep. And the dull throb in my head kept growing stronger and stronger, louder and louder until I realized that, to my horror, it wasn’t just in my head.
        Someone was banging on my door, and it definitely wasn’t me imagining things in my daze. I could see the (unfortunately, quite thin) door giving slightly every time the person pounded on it. I could actually feel the impact of the person’s fist on the door, somehow, right in the middle of my chest, as if I had suddenly become hyper-aware and hyper-sensitive to every little thing going on around me.
        I panicked. I didn’t know who it was, I didn’t know what he/she wanted, but I had the feeling that it wasn’t a social visit. Possibilities and situations ran through my head every which way. Could I escape through the window? Could I perhaps hide somewhere (a cursory glance around told me I couldn’t)? Could I take the person on? What if he/she/it (for some reason I suddenly felt like I couldn’t ignore the possibility that it might actually be an “it” banging on my door) was armed? Or dangerous? Or, probably, both?
        In a moment of arguably ill-timed humour, I decided that, whoever it was, he/she/it wasn’t going to get me with my pants down, and thus I promptly decided to put on my favourite pair of jeans, jeans which were so worn that even a hobo might think twice before taking them, if I ever decided to dump all my old, worn articles of clothing into a box in the hobo-infested alleyway just behind my apartment.
        And, all the while, between my thinking and the act of putting on my jeans, the pounding grew louder and louder. And then a voice, recognizably human yet with more than a little something odd and inhuman about it called out from behind the door.
        “Open up!”
        “Don’t make me bust the door down!”
        But the voice didn’t come from behind the door. It came from inside my head. It was as if whoever it was behind that door was speaking straight into my head, telepathically.
        It occurred to me that it was perhaps slightly odd that he/she/it would choose such a loud and easily-noticable approach if the intention was to kill me, but it wasn’t as if I had the time to sit down over a mug of hot tea (or coffee) to think about that fact. I was in danger, that much I knew. I felt it in my gut, and I had to get away, somehow.
        After weighing up what little options I had, I decided that the window was my only choice.
        I opened the window and tentatively began climbing out of it. However, just as I was on the boundary between being inside and outside, between the stuffiness of my room and the openness of the fire escape, I could hear the door give way behind me.
        I had one foot nearly out onto the fire escape, but my other leg was stuck on something, and I could hear footsteps approaching slowly and deliberately, as if I was a sure kill and that there was no use rushing. I began to panic and tried desperately to get unstuck, but I wasn’t getting anywhere. Whatever it was that my right leg was caught on wasn’t letting me get away that easily.
        I began swearing under my breath as I tried to extricate myself from the position I had found myself in, left foot nearly touching the fire escape and right leg stuck on something on the window sill. I gave one final pull, and I heard the ripping of jeans before I fell with a thud onto the cold steel of the fire escape. I was out.
        I wanted so desperately to lie down and catch my breath, but I knew that I didn’t have the luxury to. I grabbed hold of the fire escape guardrail to help pull myself up, and as I stood I heard the sound of a revolver being cocked behind me.
        I should’ve just ran as fast as I could, but during moments like that you really can’t help be like a deer in headlights. I froze, but my mind was racing, screaming at me to just run, get out of there, jump, break a couple of bones, as long as I didn’t get shot there.
        But then I did something quite silly.
        I turned around to look at whoever it was that wanted to kill me.
        It was definitely a “he”, or, at least, an “it” that looked very much like a “he”. I couldn’t see his face as it was in the shadows, but I did see a very shiny .357 Magnum pointed in my direction. I could even see the elaborate engravings all along the body, and I was almost in awe at its beauty, if that’s even possible.
        For a moment we were both static, like a scene from a movie. I could feel the wind blowing, ruffling my hair and sending newspapers flying down in the alleyway 6 stories below. Again, my brain told me to run, but my body wouldn’t obey. I was, indeed, a deer in headlights.
        And then he pulled the trigger.
        I felt a huge, painful impact in my chest which threw me against the guardrail with a violent impact, before I once again fell onto the cold steel of the fire escape. But by that time I no longer felt anything. I wasn’t even inside my body anymore.
        At the moment when the bullet hit me, it was as if a huge, silent, explosion went off in my head. My mind seemed to explode into millions and millions of pieces and everything became white, accopmanied by a loud ringing sound not unlike the tinnitus which I had lived with for 20 years of my life. I even felt a sort of orgasmic sensation, as if this, death, was the ultimate climax, the ultimate thrill.
        And then I suddenly found myself looking down at my body hit the guardrail before crumpling down onto the ground like a ragdoll. I turned to look at my killer as he climbed out the window to examine my dead body, and I noticed that he looked oddly familiar.
        He had the same hair.
        He had the same beard.
        He had the same nose.
        His eyes were blue.
        He was wearing the same coat that I had bought a week ago.
        He looked exactly like me.
       And as that revelation hit me, I felt myself being pulled up towards the sky at a frightening rate, past the clouds, past the stars, into a realm of total whiteness.
        And I remember asking out loud:
        “Is this Heaven?”
        Right as those words escaped my lips, all became white once again. And suddenly my eyes opened with a jerk and a short cry of anguish escaped my lips.
        It was only a dream.
        I sat up on my bed, breathing heavily, feeling the sweat all over my body like I had just taken a shower. A light, but cool, wind blew in through the half-open window and I could hear the sounds of a football match from the next-door apartment.
        I took a while to compose myself and calm myself down before deciding that the best course of action would be to try and get some more sleep. It was only 3am, I wasn’t due up in about 3 hours and I needed all the sleep I could get.
        I lay back down, turned onto my right side, facing the wall, and tried to get to sleep.
        And just as sleep was beginning to envelop me in its blissful embrace, I could hear the sound of someone pounding violently on my door.

—

I came up with this general idea (and a slightly different plotline) last night, but my attempt to actually write produced only drivel, which, coupled with it being 5am and me being sleepy, resulted in a huge bout of depression. Anyway, I decided tonight to give it another shot, but change it up a bit, and thus this story was born.

If there’s one conscious influence, it’s the ending of Neil Gaiman’s short story We Can Get Them for You Wholesale, or however it goes. It was actually somewhat replaying over and over in my head as I was writing this.

As I said, this is partly an experiment to see if I could stop being overly draggy and over-poetic (in a sense) while not crafting crappy prose. I’m not sure if I succeeded, to be honest. Some of my prose feels like it leaves a lot to be desired, but then it might just be my typically high standards.

Tell me what you think. Thanks.

did i ever tell you about the man who taught his asshole to talk?

Oh God, Naked Lunch is such a trip. Tee hee. It’s fucked up beyond any reasonable doubt, but in an awesome way.

I was at Art for Grabs at the CM Annexe today, and it was quite great. Bought two books at the KL Alternative Book Fair (Kasut Biru Rubina by Sufian Abas and a compilation of stories entitled Aweksku: Himpunan Cerita Pari-Pari Untuk Bidadari Kota [yes, I read stuff written in Bahasa too]) and a movie, Tan Chui Mui’s Love Conquers All (I’m a sucker for romantic stuff, what can I say?) at Art for Grabs.

Browsing through some of the books, particularly the compilations/anthologies of stories made me really want to see if I could somehow get published. But I guess that’ll come in due time. God knows I wouldn’t know how, anyway. And the photos at Art for Grabs honestly made me feel quite… inadequate, as a photographer. Maybe someday, somehow.

I bought a roll of Lucky b&w film, and instead of loading it up into my dad’s Olympus OM-1, decided to wait until my Minolta 3000i arrives from the US for a grand total of RM90-ish. The 3000i’s small, so I’ll be able to carry it and my A200 in my bag at the same time, probably. Yay for increased pretentiousness and faggotry.

Now, where the fuck do I get b&w film developed?

Watched (and enjoyed) some acoustic sets as well, which certainly a far cry from the live music I’m used to. Very enjoyable nonetheless, and I somehow was reminded of my age-old desire to be up on stage with an acoustic guitar, some pedals, a drum-machine ticking away and someone singing over my ever-cliche chords. Not that it’ll ever happen, since I don’t have an acoustic, don’t have a drum machine and certainly don’t know anyone that’d want to sing. And I’ve forgotten every song I ever wrote on an acoustic guitar and can’t write any more since I suck at writing. And I don’t have an acoustic guitar that I even feel like playing.

Time to buy one, I guess?

Two photos from today:

I need to learn the art of getting to know people. Because, frankly, if I didn’t have the Internet then I probably wouldn’t have any friends outside of uni. God’s truth. And that makes me feel pathetic.

Haha, funny how I can never have a good night.