Life on Hold

This is probably a bad time in my life to be having a teenage breakdown-in-identity and self-searching of the kind that is only supposed to happen to forteen year-olds. I had thought I was past that age. But it turns out, after all, that I'd been living in a hospital and had never seen the sun.

So the price I have to pay for snobbing my foolish, emotionally-rich friends who wrote cheesy poetry and invested in horrorscope-interpretations to more fully understand themselves is that I am now spending my time staring into space and making all-new discoveries about myself that I had thought had been resolved years ago.

I am as yet unsure if I have opened a can of worms, or if the worms just happened to have been disguised as... wriggling appendages previously.

Okay, the whole architecture thing has been more concretely thought out. According to friends who are working, it is evidently not so easy to go back to studying once you're in a job... unless like xuelanghu your job sucks and you can't wait to get out of it. Also, my financing plans have been somewhat deflated by friends who point out that I spend like an insane megalomaniac with a fetish for expensive girls. I, of course, do not have a fetish for expensive girls, but I supplement that with too-many varied-interests and fruit-flavoured condoms instead of the regular ones that do the same thing and cost less. I have also loans to pay, potential costly medical treatment to think about, and an increased upkeep brought about by a sudden decrease in the number of things I can still wear in my wardrobe.

So now what, Alex, now what?

Am I to be bereft of even clutching at straws? I do not want to splutter at the edge of aspiration any further. I want to stand in the warm embrace of ambition, to have the golden light of hope shining down on me.

I wAn tO sToP wRitiNg lIke a foRteEn-year-OlD giRl!(!!)

And life just keeps going on. I can't even press the pause button to think things through first before I get into anything. I'm committed to just being here, wandering around like some lost sheep (albeit a very fast-moving sheep - I know, it's a poor metaphor) until I find something to graze on (ummm - another poor metaphor) again. Which is what I've been doing most of my life, I suppose, but back then you thought you had all the time in the world. Now the sand is trickling from my fingers and etching lines onto my face (which I must start buyinf anti-aging cream for, they say the best time to start is in your early twenties).

My steps are actually starting to feel more solid now, but that means they're also starting to hurt.

From pondering the meaning of existence of humans in general, I've come to ponder instead the special case when said human is me. It turns out that the answer is no easier to find. And that nothing that works for a general populace can really apply to a specific person. I should have spent my time getting a six-pack instead of thinking about life at all. At least I'd be more popular at parties and have more to talk about (I think; ARE good-looking abs a more interesting conversation topic than existentialism?).

And to add fire to the sludge of my troubles - passion when I need it the least. Sigh. My life is completely out-of-time. How is it that I can only now be doing all these things I should have had happen to me years ago? What was my youth consumed with?

Oh. I know the answer to that - video games. And fantasy novels. And MTG. In general, fun.

Shit. I put life on hold and now it's back to make unreasonable customer complaints.

Maybe I should just put it back on hold? Can I ? It's just hitting the button. Just for a while? A few weeks? Months? A little bit longer?

Please?