Tagged: depressed

That joke isn’t funny anymore.

‘Walking a path’, ‘a hard journey’ or the colloquial ‘haters gonna hate’ are some of cliches attributed to living one’s life. Why reduce this monumental thing to a frivolous phrase?

Life is something that chokes you, performs the heimlich and then chokes you again. Funny how this applies to love as well.

It’s something that breaks you until you can’t get back up and then forces you to get back up. How the fuck does that count for a lesson? I haven’t learned shit. How do I make it leave an impact? How do I change?

Yes, yes, change is gradual blah blah blah and asking questions is first step et cetera but is it really the first step if I have done this a million other times?

And I can laugh now, joke around, hoping I still get my letter but now my fantasies border on schizophrenia.

Making the same mistakes has now become my forte. So, forgive me if I resort to cliches but

It’s all downhill from here.

Curtains closed.

Title is That joke isn’t funny anymore by The Smiths

You’re 23, act like it?

Well it wouldn’t be my birthday without me writing a post about it.

Winds of change, change of winds, fart noises.

My sense of humor has devolved to that of a five year old’s. That could also be a direct consequence of watching all those Minion movies.

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It’s funny ’cause humans do it too!

Yes, I plead guilty to possessing minion accessories. I should be jailed.

I’ve lost a few along the way, people, not weight. And I’ve gained a few as well, weight, not people.

But for once, I’m optimistic and I’m scared too.

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“Obligatory song reference”

But I know that I will survive.

So here I am, giddy like an anime schoolgirl, overtly joyous, extremely anxious and riddled with the need to excessively punctuate.

I’m just a tiny bit less sad.

And I’m smiling tonight.

 

 

 

PS- Highlight of my night, the google doodle.

 

Alternative Taglines Or my attempt at being funny.

Well. This blog is titled “THIS BLOG IS DEAD”. WordPress lets you put a tagline beneath it. And the thing is, you Have to be witty or it’s not worth it. So, thanks Obama!

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However, I take a challenge like Indian Politicians tackle national issues. First they create hype, then they blame everyone else, and finally they try to make a half-hearted attempt at solving it. So these are mine:

THIS BLOG IS DEAD

#1: Just like Batman’s parents. 

Yeah, I went there. I’m heartless.

#2: Just like this blogger’s sense of humor.

Damn, this should have been an obvious first. I really am losing it.

#3: Just like yo mama!

Things took a dark turn here so I decided to stop.

#4: Just like its blogger’s hopes and dreams. 

Well, we knew I was depressed. So I chose this. But I keep thinking…

qbzyi

Why aren’t there any posts on this blog?

For the new readers (hahaha As if): Well, I finally lost it.

For the old readers( hahaha as if): You knew it was coming.

I used to watch Two and A Half Men, you know back when Charlie Sheen didn’t have any tiger blood in him and Jake Harper was cute, oh and Jon Cryer had hair. So in a particular episode, fuck it, I’m not transcribing, what are pictures/memes for anyway?

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My dilemma is, I’m not particularly fond of alcohol. So I’ll do it manually. Beginning with this blog.

There were posts here, there might be new ones after this. The thing is, I have no fucks to give.

This, my friends, is a breakdown.

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Goodnight.

How do I write when there is nothing left?

Let’s face it, I am not a writer. So stating that I have writer’s block would be blasphemous.

My refusal to categorize myself as a writer is not a sign of my already diminishing self esteem. It’s just a conscious decision to distance myself from those who are passionate about the art. Since I have such respect for those who do (write) it would be sacrilegious, if I compare these previous penned “thoughts” with their amazing pieces. Take this as a weird love letter to them, if you will.

Books have been my world. And the funny thing is that the previous statement is literal, no, not metaphorical (for all the Ted Mosbys out there) but literally books have been my world. I loved being lost. It was so thrilling even if the book was a sappy romantic princess whiny thingamajig; engrossing even if it was Ayn Rand’s larger than my head novel on being a true rebel and what not or Harry Potter, because who doesn’t love Harry Potter- “always” man, that line kills me-.  Was it just a cheap escape (the expensive ones being drugs)?  Or I just wanted to fit in? How could I have when the rest of the teen populace was busy discussing what happened on the previous day’s episode of Balika Vadhu (on the morning of the exam, no less). Although it would be wrong of me to generalize just because of a (maybe) minority (like “hardcore feminists” do with the male population, but that’s a debate for some other time). I just didn’t meet the right people.

Regardless, I was happy.

Well, mostly.

Books were good to me. They helped me create a perspective that was broad and accepting for the most part. It was, well, nice to live with stories that had no end. I could take the last book in the series anywhere. Maybe Potter became the Minister of Magic, or died (or worse expelled-sorry, couldn’t resist-). Just the whole aspect of it being infinite and conclusive thereby defying the concept of an oxymoron really, really captured that chubby little kid.

Did I lose my childhood? Would my time have been better spent frolicking in the playground? I don’t think so. Sure, I might have been thinner but then that’s anybody’s guess. I mean, I did eat those barfis by the dozen when I was little ( I am kidding, well, for the most part I am, I promise).

This leads me to now. Because as I am writing this, I have A barfi in my hand. Purely coincidental, I promise, again.

Because I’ve stopped reading.

I don’t feel that ‘need’ to read (that rhymed) anymore. And it pisses me off sometimes. I have dozens of books lying around. Waiting to be opened. None of them beckons. And I am lost once again but this, this is a different kind of lost. The kind that leaves me with nothing to say and nothing to think about.

Bare.

 

Ambush.

As I write this, I’m blinded by the steady stream of tears escaping from my eyes and falling unceremoniously onto my bed sheet. The fact that I have been incapable of discovering the reason for their initiation astounds me.
Gingerly, I pick up my phone, do what every female on this planet does whilst in this situation and call a friend. By  doing so I succumb to a trait tauntingly  attributed to females and since I am not usually for all this sappy emotional crap, this act delivers the second surprise of the night.

Disconnected, no, not the call but I feel so. The phone, on the other hand keeps ringing.