- Moving on very quickly -

People ask me why I write the way I do, all cryptic and mysterious, with all this obfuscating and discombobulating grandiloquence, rather than to-the-point, so that people can actually understand me and know what I'm thinking.

. Because there's no fun in that
. Because I love to write
. Because you're more entertained this way (admit it! nyah)
. Because maybe I don't want people to know what I'm thinking, or don't want to make it too apparent, and want to see who's astute enough to detect that I'm not just throwing together a bunch of crap
. Because if I actually spoke like this it'd make you wonder which planet / cave I came from. So I have to write it
. Because when I fell out of the sky they implanted a chip in my peabrain and I'm actually being controlled by someone up ther--bzzt bzz bzzz bzzzt!

I know, I know. It probably makes me look much less real and a lot more devious. But heck, people form their own opinions, eh?

So I'm going to give a shot at writing like a normal person, though history would reveal my inability to do so. But here goes.

So I wake up as usual, not expecting this Monday 14 February to be any different from any other Monday. Or any February 14, for that matter (here's a spoiler: it wasn't. Stop reading if you get bored easily). And then I trot off to school. Surprise, surprise.
As is customary by now, Thomas Ahrens and Alan Marin get to enjoy my very divided attention (hey, at least I graced their lectures with my presence - most of their own students don't even do that), until the overwhelming urge to speak to an old friend overcomes me. So there I am, exchanging sweet nothings (they were nothings all right, whether they were sweet or not is a different matter altogether) with someone and bestowing what I deemed honest advice upon her, not entirely unlike that which a kindly old sage would find himself doing.
That is, until she comes and drops a slight shocker on me. I jolt a little, but compose myself in time to realise that, in retrospect, the signs were there from the start. Perhaps that should have warranted a shot, but me being the a**wipe that I am, I'd given her the pre-Thanksgiving dinner treatment. Probably better that way.
She's a little sister; let's hope it stays that way.

And then comes the whole dinner-no dinner-spanish-no espanol nada, gracias debacle because someone makes up his mind as often as he does his bed (Speaking of make - what can you make that no one can ever see? Simple question, yet so illuminating). The usual Macro class and seemingly interminable 5-hour Brunch Bowl wait make their weekly visit, except this time I get a text containing information regarding plans concerned with the exceedingly near future. And then the age-old debate: the pursuit of intellectual and academic excellence through the attendance of a Spanish recitation leading to the inevitable attainment of a higher level of knowledge, or 1.5 hours of stuffing my face and engaging in discussions that will ultimately affect nothing and no one? The question is an absolute non-starter and I find myself headed for C&R.

A pitstop along the Strand because someone suspects his nipples have frozen and fallen off. So there we walked, 2 rather large Chinese men strolling together and chatting animatedly, headed for a cosy apartment on this most lovely of days. I could have sworn his guard looked at us funny. The usual inane conversation about what a sad, sad world we live in ensues (it's getting boring, all this lamenting. And now I'm lamenting about lamenting - a new low), before we finally head off for the treacherous belly of Chinatown and all that it portends.

En route, I decide that 3 single girls should not be without roses on St Valentine's Day (consumerist, capitalist, bourgeois, megacorporation-driven, gimmicky, social construct that it is, I know. I have sold out, my brothers. But I do what I can to make everyone happy, fleeting as this emotion may prove to be. Shoot me.). Roses for roses, you could say (and which I was tempted to say, until it struck me how cheesy and insincere that would sound - happens to me a lot, especially when I really mean it). With minimal persuasion, he relents. Something tells me he thinks along the same lines. The presentation of said flowers takes a split second, before Mui Fun in all its 6-quid-glory greets me.

And then it's sending a friend home before I return to my own, arriving at 2100h.
So why's it that I'm still awake typing this at the nrather ungodly hour of 1248? Methinks I blog too much, too long.

Maybe this is why....