Dear psychology,
Speaking of honours, I never got in. The Honours Programme, that is. I wanted it so bad. (Yes I'm making this sound like a sex scene. Deal with it. Freud is starting to mess around with my brain.) Words can't even begin to express how crushed I felt when I found out that I wasn't even selected, and that my seat was handed over to a person who applied just for that sake of an honours degree. (Oh you know who you are. And I curse you. May a thousand rabid raccoons feast upon that excuse you call a face, you stupid twat, you.) It was as if the universe denied me direct passage to my future, and was making me get to my goal the hard way. (Karma, apparently. Just because I copied my map of India in the 10th grade.. Tche.)
But I'll let you in on a little secret. Even though I was so prepared for the grilling and the projects and the internships and the workload etc., I hesitated. I remember sitting in the classroom, waiting my turn for the interview and watching all my classmates and friends talk about the techniques and strategies they were going to use for their interviews.
What was I thinking about? My next blog post, my next prose piece, my next poem, my PS3, Clarkson's columns and my books. And then it hit me. Yes you, darling, were my everything. I did see a future with you. We were so happy in our cozy little office somewhere in Upper Manhattan where we'd counsel heartbroken men and anal women, sign a couple of autographs for our commendable work towards game development for special children and discuss future research projects with colleagues over a glass of wine. Yes, we would've been beautiful. But you're merely a priority. Literature is my passion. (I'm so effing cheesy. Mills and Boon misses me.)
This feels like I'm cheating on you. And I must confess: You've been reduced to plan B. What we had was special. I planned my entire future surrounding you and all it took for that dream to shatter was an interview. There goes my research. There goes my trust fund/scholarship. There goes UCLA/Michigan/PennState.
There's a sliver of guilt that's been embedded in my conscience about the way I've approached this whole situation. I wasn't all that disappointed about not getting in. Crushed, yes. Heartbroken, very. But that's just because the thought of losing freaks me out and this was one such situation wherein I felt like I came third in the race. A few tears were shed, curses were echoed, and vows of bloodshed were sung but that was it. I moved on. Faster than what I had initially anticipated but I did.
My parents adored you. I don't know how I'm going to break it to them, now that we're over. I fear for my life, quite frankly. They said that we were a good combination, the two of us. I need to brace myself when I tell them that I want to get into print media. I think their first response would be "Oh so since you're throwing your life away, here are some marriage proposals. Feel free to choose your future hubby. Ignore their paunches and paan-stained teeth. Just pick. Close your eyes and go Eeni-meeni-minee-mo if you must"
Forever yours, Aaliya.
__________________________________________________________________________________
It was a bad break-up, really.
I must admit, you're kinda scary. I've never feared my favorite subject, ever. I never thought that I'd be running away from you but here I am, on the floor of my room, typing out this hurried blog, while one of your text books is currently sitting in a flaming pile outside my house. (Oh and I'm sorry for setting it on fire. It wouldn't spontaneously combust so I had to do the honours.)
But I'll let you in on a little secret. Even though I was so prepared for the grilling and the projects and the internships and the workload etc., I hesitated. I remember sitting in the classroom, waiting my turn for the interview and watching all my classmates and friends talk about the techniques and strategies they were going to use for their interviews.
What was I thinking about? My next blog post, my next prose piece, my next poem, my PS3, Clarkson's columns and my books. And then it hit me. Yes you, darling, were my everything. I did see a future with you. We were so happy in our cozy little office somewhere in Upper Manhattan where we'd counsel heartbroken men and anal women, sign a couple of autographs for our commendable work towards game development for special children and discuss future research projects with colleagues over a glass of wine. Yes, we would've been beautiful. But you're merely a priority. Literature is my passion. (I'm so effing cheesy. Mills and Boon misses me.)
This feels like I'm cheating on you. And I must confess: You've been reduced to plan B. What we had was special. I planned my entire future surrounding you and all it took for that dream to shatter was an interview. There goes my research. There goes my trust fund/scholarship. There goes UCLA/Michigan/PennState.
There's a sliver of guilt that's been embedded in my conscience about the way I've approached this whole situation. I wasn't all that disappointed about not getting in. Crushed, yes. Heartbroken, very. But that's just because the thought of losing freaks me out and this was one such situation wherein I felt like I came third in the race. A few tears were shed, curses were echoed, and vows of bloodshed were sung but that was it. I moved on. Faster than what I had initially anticipated but I did.
My parents adored you. I don't know how I'm going to break it to them, now that we're over. I fear for my life, quite frankly. They said that we were a good combination, the two of us. I need to brace myself when I tell them that I want to get into print media. I think their first response would be "Oh so since you're throwing your life away, here are some marriage proposals. Feel free to choose your future hubby. Ignore their paunches and paan-stained teeth. Just pick. Close your eyes and go Eeni-meeni-minee-mo if you must"
I still want you in my life though. You've been the driving force for most of my work, see, and I still love you. But times have changed. I have changed. And I need to let you go. You still mean a lot to me.. So let's stay friends?
Forever yours, Aaliya.
__________________________________________________________________________________
It was a bad break-up, really.
