Daily regular borrriinnggg stuffs

Neighbour, girl and Christopher Nolan. ๐Ÿ˜‘


Exams, guys. ๐Ÿ˜‘

That apart, I think I’ve run out of topics. From love to commode, I’ve touched upon every spectrum of life that seems worthy to be touched upon. Yeah, I haven’t written about crabs, or NASA’s ongoing endeavour to successfully pave the way for intergalactic meme exchanges, or GST, but you wouldn’t really care about those petty stuffs. I really don’t know what to write. At times, I want to write about neanderthals and slavery, but there’s no fun in that.

So let me shower upon you the daily regular monotonous stuffs of my life.

1. My neighbour lost his admit card. Almost.

Well, such things pretty regular when it comes to my neighbour. It is the first day of exam and he thinks, ‘oh well! There’s no reason why one should not have spring roll on the first day of his exam.’ So he goes to this little corner by the park, munches on some nice little spring rolls and while pulling his wallet out, loses the admit card. Two minutes later, all the spring in his life turns autumn brown. And then he darts around like a blind bee, wishing for x-ray vision or something. He is already late for the exam.

A shopkeeper shows him an MP’s secretary’s door, who writes vague orders on his writing pad, that supposedly allowed him to sit through the paper without being harassed by the examiner. Then he races upto the college with the speed of light, thus proving Einstein’s thoery wrong, and makes two rounds of college to find his room. He eventually gets in, and finishes the paper before everyone else. Adrenaline!

Later he finds his admit card posted on Facebook with a lost and found notice, with love reactions and all, and people praying for its safe return.

Happy Ending.

2. This girl is back with a bang.

She was pretty insignificant in std. 6. I mean they all are ugly little annoying things in std. 6. Look at Doctor, for example, even though she was never ugly – I mean even the ultrasound photos of her foetal form could inspire artists and cause world war 3 – she was pretty annoying. Like, remarkably annoying. And evil. Like, if she had a choice between a lifetime free coupon to Baskin-Robbins and watching us choke to death she would happily quit ice cream.

Anyway, this other girl I was talking about was kind of invisible, despite being my friend’s supposed girlfriend. Flat chest, single pony, plain features. And fast forward 8 years from then, and oh my heavens! I ran into her on instagram and found this short video. No it wasn’t sexual, it was just her expressions, and my pulmonary veins spasmed with the thud of a lifetime. My eyes bulged out with escape velocity and my jaw sank into earth and pine trees grew behind my molars and I was still not in my senses. My neighbour saw it too and he was impressed as well.

I texted my friend that he was the dumbest ass in the multiverse for leaving a beauty like her, to which he replied, “she friendzoned me. ”

O you poor thing!

I told this other friend of mine who was busy ogling his hot neighbour showering naked with lights on and so he didn’t pay attention. Later he told me she has been in a pretty great relationship for the last two years.


3. I watched memento.

Christopher Nolan hands down is the most intelligent movie director of all time. He is so intelligent that when they were launching Cassini, they hid pirated copies of his movies inside, so that if aliens hit upon the vehicle, they do realise we are intelligent species.
So I watched memento and realised how awfully Bollywood had copied the theme from a south Indian copy of the movie. They just made it a romance-revenge drama, where it was the thriller of the century. I was mondblown at the end of the movie, turning and twisting in my bed like a poisoned dog. I googled and tried to understand the theory. It took me a while. Then, the Jio Guy saw the movie and he barged in last morning.

“Barbossa, what the fuck did I just watch!!?”

Fifteen minutes later, we were hunched over the notebook, trying to figure out the ending with the help of diagrams and flowcharts. We did a little research on anterograde amnesia and discussed all the perspectives and possible cases. It was like preparing a thesis. We even watched the movie, this time in a forward order, wondering if Leonard’s version was fabricated.

Another neighbour dropped in and seemed quite impressed with our nerdity. Or maybe he thought we were idiots. Anyway, he congratulated us for making such a deep contribution to the development of nation and exited. We couldn’t reach a concrete conclusion though.


Gangs of Wasseypur Effect

My neighbor watched it…finally!!!!

Writing blogs when you are 4 days away from your exams is an Ongbak level stunt. At the same time, it’s secretly  exhilarating, like murdering your thickhead uncle who keeps dropping at your head monotonus career advices. I’m not that concerned this time though, and that’s the reason why I have been busy picking literary devices from a friend’s English assignment question yesterday. Euphemism is when you say I’d miss the boat instead of I’d flunk in exams. I’d study religiously for the next 4 days is a Hyperbole.

Anyways, I am writing this to tell you about my neighbor’s aka flatmate’s aka The Kota Guy’s latest stunt. He is the queer man you tell your grandkids about, his queer-ness queer-y enough to stretch their eyes wider than Kardashiyan butthole. After the date debacle, he’s sort of gone bonkers. I had been badgering him to watch Gangs of Wasseypur as there never was a gangster movie before or after, that has surpassed the swag pinnacle touched by this movie. I have never seen a gangster movie so gangster. I mean when people told me Godfather was the greatest gangster movie ever made, I watched it and later had to google why the fuck it was the greatest gangster movie. I mean the marriage scene lasted for probably half the movie. Dumb people. But when I saw Gangs of Wasseypur I was mindblown and speechless.  

But needless to say, my neighbor wasn’t convinced. He is the guy who keeps half a dozen movies in his phone but never watches them until they rust into flakes. And he is the guy who watches the whole movie forwarding and jumping scenes before watching it in one go. And he likes to give away spoilers of the movies he’s already watched. Basically, he is the guy you’d rather discuss integrals with. 

But boy a boy! Did he go nuts after watching Gangs of Wasseypur! All he has done since then is watched the movie on loop. He keeps singing Chi Cha Leather and Electric Piya all the time. He even practices Rajkumar Rao’s steps in isolation. 

“Barbossa, “he says, “people are so stupid. They travel to stupid places. I want to go to Bihar. ”

The other day he was asking me if I had a pistol or something in my cupboard. When I gave him a quizzical look, he shrugged his shoulders and said, 

“Biharis are dangerous people. ”

I took it as a compliment and decided not to ruin the respect the movie was fetching me. 

“I want to be a goon. “He said dreamily, as if he was wishing for candies. I wondered if I should shake him to reality. But then, I remembered Apple-philosophy and realized consciousness is complicated and realities can be warped and so I should probably not give a fuck. 

About Apple-philosophy? Well, if there’s a fruit philosophers love, it’s apple. Like a mad scientist’s poor cat, apples are the victims of thought experiments. So there’s a question – if an apple is consumed does it cease to be an apple? Now, it may seem like a child’s play, but if you look deeper, the question gets extremely bewildering. Aristotle is much like this 9 year old cousin of mine, who believes his shoes are actually dwarf cows. 

“What make it a shoe?” That little rug asked me when I told him it was a shoe and not a cow. Now I could have given him a little smack on the temple and he’d have agreed it was a shoe, but I chose to be a good influence and explained to him that cows have horns and a tail. 

“Just because my cow don’t have tail and horns don’t make it shoe. “He argued and ran away with his cow, I mean shoe. I was left puzzled. 

Is it a shoe, I wondered. Or it’s a cow? What do we call a cow who’s lost the tail and the horns? At what point does a cow stop being a cow? 

I never disturbed the kid again. 

Anyway, all my neighbors friends have watched the movie and they flock in the hall and rehearse profane dialogs. The scenes are discussed in great details, as if the movie is a central theme of their research paper. They keep interrogating their Bihari friends if they know gangsters. 

I wondered if I should cook up gangster stories and tell them but then it dawned upon me that I do care about exams and so I let them rot in their gangster debauchery and shifted my focus to agrarian expansion of early medieval India. 


Me and Mosquito #just a rant


Here I lay in my cold November bed, listening to a Sonu Kakkar song, wondering where those times went when words flew out my mind to the wicked white screen, when I wrote witty whirlwind stuffs and felt the sheer undiluted awe. Yeah, I just tried an alliteration here. 

As I punch onto the screen the words that don’t make sense and have never heard of coherency, a lone mosquito dances in front of my eyes. It’s about midnight and it’s quite lonely here. The only source of light is this wicked screen, with its charge dipping faster than Airtel shares after Jio explosion. 

My phone has been sick for some time now. It’s dying of senescence, like we all are. You see, I am trying to get philosophical here, but I can’t. I don’t know how to be philosophical without being borriinng. I’m out of words. This is just a rambling probably. I’m simply typing my ideas. Everything that’s going through my head. And actually, now I feel good. Wow. Wo! Umm..okay. Wait. I need to think something. 

Yeah, the mosquito. The mosquito is a female one, because it’s buzzing. I suppose female mosquitos buzz. I don’t know much about their anatomy or behavior. Doctor knows them quite well. She draws mosquito appendages in the last pages of her copy. Okay, that was made up. A lot of things I say about Doctor are made up. But the imaginations still have their root in realities. Okay, that was philosophical. Kind of. 
Now I’m wondering about the mosquito – the only living soul in the entire universe amidst this impregnable darkness, besides me. How lonely! But there’s a certain mutual respect we share. She is bobbing here and there at lightening speed, almost like a quantum thingy which Neil Degrasse Tyson has been trying to explain in his shows for centuries. It’s wonderful but annoying. Wow! What an amazing paradox. 

Why the hell am I thinking about a mosquito? Seriously! I could think about anything. Like I could think about Pisa’s leaning tower, that giant phallus on the belly of the earth. I could think about ships and stars, about Dragons and Dinosaurs. But all I’m thinking about is a petty mosquito, who I could squash with a flick. 

I wonder what the mosquito is thinking. Mosquitos think, don’t they? But they think differently from us. No they don’t. It’s amazing to think how they think, though. 

Now I am blank. I could say I saw a nice movie a few hours ago – Monsoon Wedding. I could say the Desi Chinese girl is dating my dumb Manipuri classmate (and now my gang is planning his assassination). I could say how the Mount Zion School reunion plan went down the commode. I could say that my neighbor is head to toe in debt (thanks to poker). I could say many things, but I won’t. I just want to rant. Rant rant rant. 

And yeah, I just squatted the mosquito with my bare hands. And now I am alone, all by myself in this unending blackness, amid this infinite silence. 

Happy Diwaliย 

Not so happy ๐Ÿ˜‘

My eyes are full of tears as I write this. No, nobody died. It’s just that the blockheads who live on the second floor have been performing some fucking yagna for the last few centuries. As ancient Romans would call it, my apartment is gravioris infernum now. All I see is veiled objects, smoke billowing in and out of every window and door, and I don’t even have Asthma. It’s just that my eyes are a bit sensitive and more than that my brain is. I was happily watching Reaction channels on my mobile phone when my eyes started to hurt. Four minutes later, I was sure I was going blind. 

“Didn’t I tell you to stay away from phone? “My mother would say and I wouldn’t be able to see her. I wouldn’t be able to draw naked ladies. Every time I’d admire a beautiful woman she’d know I’m lying. How awful to be blind! 

I pulled myself up from that nightmarish thought and blinked profusely. I ran around like a pesticide-stricken honeybee, unaware of my destiny or senses. I ran for air but every inch of it was polluted, like they show in disaster films. The pigeons at my window had already flown away, and I with a complete lack of wings, was flailing my arms because that’s what you do when you are dying and don’t have wings. Those fucking pigeons! I rushed to the bathroom and splattered a sea across my face but it didn’t help. It felt like there were ants running on my cornea with katanas attached to their bootsoles. I started sneezing as well. The whole thing was like a Stephen King novel. 

Restless and dying, I soaked my towel, wrapped it around my head and stood at the bathroom door like a B grade remake of Tutankhamun. I was also cursing in muffled voices and bobbing and shaking my head out of irritation and pain. And then I heard the shriek of a woman. 

I removed my face bandage and discovered my landlady standing horrified, her face paler than a fish, her eyes two big meteor craters. 

“Aunty..I..I was just..”

And she scooted away. Perhaps she had come to ask for rent. Perhaps. Perhaps she’ll soon find a new renter. 

I thought about going down to the 2nd floor and confronting them, but they have an animal named Lucy. They say it’s a bitch but I am sure it’s a Leopard or something. Goddamn Lucy. I couldn’t go there. So instead I imagined my empty dustbin-carton was Lucy and kicked it till it crushed like a Styrofoam cup. Now feminists will say it’s misogynistic but I don’t give Santa’s fuck. I was dying. I could kill a bitch. Or whatever she was. 

There’s this sink in our apartment which we don’t use, as it leaks. The water flows directly into their flat. I thought about peeing in the sink but then I didn’t have the required urinary urge. I didn’t even have water. 

So I wore a shirt and went to fetch a bottle of water from my neighbor, or as I’d like to call her affectionately, my landlady. There she was, brewing tea peacefully. As I entered she froze like a spider. When I passed her she trembled. The minute that passed filling the water was the quietest minute in recorded history. It was so quiet scientists heard Big Bang waves without those byzantine radios. It was so quiet libraries and hospitals went into shock and Zeus rubbernecked through clouds to check if everybody was dead on earth.

I filled the water and my landlady asked, staring into my red eyes with stark fear. 

“You didn’t go to home? ”

“Hehehe..No Aunty. Hehehe..My home is very far. It’s so far…”I thought about adding humour but she was gazing me like sheeps gaze at a murderous lion, so I left. I went back and the mist hadn’t melted yet. I sniffled and sneezed and cussed and decided to write thise grumbling post. 

As I finish this, the pigeons are back on my window. And they’re fucking each other like it’s the end of the world. 

Sometimes I wonder how spectacular my life would be if I were a pigeon. 

And yeah, Happy Diwali

Long Day #1 : Birthday Cake

We decided to celebrate it…formally.

Index – Following are the petnames of people in my group :

  • Netaji – Hailing from a political and gangster background, he wants to become the president of India.   
  • Popatlal – Otherwise a genius, his skeletal frame makes him look like a grasshopper. 
  • Danger – I have no idea why he is referred to as that. 
  • Ummm, I don’t know, but we have a petname for his future wife – Begum Noor Jahan. For the sake of convenience let’s call him Dick
  • The Aggressive Guy – He so desperately wants to pick a fight that when he’s got no enemies he kicks empty air. 
  • Laddoo – well, that’s what they call me. Because I’m fat. 

 It was Netaji’s birthday recently and so Popatlal decided to throw in a surprise. Yeah, we are so single that we plan birthday surprise for our male friends. Danger called me and we agreed to a deal. We would get him a cake – that would be, essentially, for consumption. There are people who buy cakes for face, which, if you ask me, is the worst use of money after Pablo Escobar’s famous logfire. Anyway, we decided for a small cake (chocolate -> MANDATORY). It’s just that when we went to the store nobody had money. Cute. 

“That will be 220 rupees. “The shop owner said with a smirk.

Popatlal looked at me, I looked at Danger, Danger looked at Dick, and Dick stared at the duststorms left by the glamorous cars that zoomed by. 

“I don’t have that much. “Popatlal said. “What you all got? ”

“Umm..let me check. “I fished in my empty pocket, “Nothing. ”

“I was born poor. “Danger said. We all loked at Dick, who stood there, pale and flaccid. 

“We don’t have enough money in our family to buy a pen so that we could apply for Ration Cards. We are Bangladeshi immigrants. “Dick said. 

The Agressive Guy waited for somebody to ask him so that he could turn it into an argument and pick a fight, but nobody said him anything. 

“Here’s the money. “The Aggressive Guy gave in eventually, “If I don’t get it back soon, I’ll break all your teeth. ”
We happily accepted the money and I chose a beautiful cake with a dark chocolate layer at the top and two more in between. 

“Do you want to write something on it? “The owner asked. 

“Netaji. “We echoed. He smirked.

“No wait. ” I said. “Write Chutiya. ” 

They all stared at me. A pause. And Popatlal nodded. 

“Yeah. That. ”

The shop owner smirked again. There was something fishy about that guy. He took the tube and wrote the word on it. While he was doing so, his phone rang and Saare Jahan Se Achcha started playing in the air. The customers looked at us, the old ones, as if we were the reason why God sent Earthquakes and Floods in this world. 

But we got the cake anyway. 

“Wait, I’ll go first. “I said, as we stood outside his alley, “and when I say ‘All Clear’, follow me. Okay? ”

They nodded like a good battalion. But didn’t follow my advice. 

Netaji was already leaning on the rails of his balcony when we entered the alley. So that just ruined the surprise. He was dumbfounded to see the word Chutiya though. 

“Whoever wrote this, I’ll get him hanged when I become the president of India. “He vowed. 

After the formal birthday song was sung, Popatlal divided the cake into 4 parts – as the Aggressive Guy had a fast, Netaji wasn’t interested in cakes –  which he claimed were equal. They would have been way more equal had a bee, with a knife tied to its tail, divided the cake. Fight broke and I grabbed the 2nd largest piece. I licked all over it before I began to eat, in order to safeguard my possession from any possible foreign invasion. 

“This is unfair. I got the smallest. “Said Dick.

“You are a Bangladeshi immigrant, remember? You are lucky to even get a whiff. “

It saddens me….

The century of machines has already made us machines….

Two people I’d known died this month. What hurt me the most was the insensitivity of those online mourners who expressed grief through texts, the number of crying face emojis directly proportional to the magnitude of their sadness. There were also those crappy filmy oneliners that would have made much more sense in a Broadway tragedy. I knew the people that died and I knew the people who mourned. Knowing them just saddened me even more. Every new message that popped up on my notification toggle only made me sicker. 

People aren’t sensitive anymore. Injured men lie on the road, groaning, calling out for help, but all the onlookers do is take out their phone and record their helplessness. The news channels were once showing how a man who lost his wife and kid in a road accident was crying, stuck to his dead family, in the middle of the road. Nobody offered him a soothing hand, nobody asked his whereabouts, nobody  cared to talk to him as he wept for hours while people recorded him. 

This is a dangerous, dry world we are moving into. This apathy will someday gobble up humanity. My teacher died a few days ago. The whatsapp group was full of messages like – Sir please say it’s a lie. Sir please come back. I feel like crying – from people who never attended the class. I so wanted to scream in their ears that it’s not a fucking goddam movie. A person has died and you are well aware of it. And still, you’re giving oneliners. There was a battery of emojis following texts. That pissed me off. How convenient it must have been for them? Tap ๐Ÿ˜ญ six times and it makes you the most devastated soul in the entire fucking universe. Mourning has become instant and ready-made now. Those bastards started putting up statuses, each with his photo and at least 3 crying emojis. They made it seem like they were shattered beyond recovery. The fact is most of them didn’t even know him. And this girl who wrote in the group – I am going to cry right now – never dropped a tear when she heard the news. It made me even madder. If you are going to cry right now, why do you have to tell it in a group? Just go cry in a corner, don’t fucking announce it. You weep in the chatbox because you want to come off as a caring person who’s sad. You want people to believe you’re sad. You want people to see that you cared for somebody. You want people to see it how you empathise with somebody. But when you want people to see, the whole purpose is lost. It just enrages me. 

We deleted the group and then they started asking how we could do that. 

It is so disappointing to see these platforms of virtual reality drain out sympathy, empathy and sensitivity from people’s heart. Mourn, pray, cry, but please don’t update your statuses with wooden words. The dead won’t see your WhatsApp mournings. 

Snippets #1

A call, a girl, and a question…


My Samsung Galaxy J2 buzzed early in the morning, jolting me up from the deep endless roaring Atlantic of the 16th century, on whose tides rode a magnificent Trinidad captained by a gutsy Ferdinand Magellan. It was an unknown number and so I wondered if I should pick it up. I might have won a lottery by mistake, I told myself as I tapped the green icon. 

“Hey handsome! “She said. 

It was my mother. She was speaking low and with a touched up tone, but I was sure she was my mother. I am so single right now that it had to be my mother. 

“Maa, would you knock it off, please? “I said, and she broke into laughter. 

“How did you catch me? I’ve been working on my voice for the last two hours. ”

So it was my mother. How disappointing. 

“How many hours did you say? “I asked.

“Two. I successfully fooled the neighbour though. He might as well divorce his wife tomorrow. “She spoke excitedly, as if she’d won an academy award for her stellar performance in Saving Private Ryan. 

Okay. Here’s a lady who’s in her 40s and what she does on a fine Sunday morning is practise fake voice monologues for 2 hours, call her neighbour and manipulate him for fun, and then call her son to try the same. When I was in the heaven waiting to be born, I distinctly remember having applied for a simple kind woman whose idea of fun would be simple kind stuffs, like solving Daily Sudoku in the newspaper or something. I didn’t know I would get a Morgo Roth Spiegelman.

We talked for about 20 minutes, during which I was reminded 20 times about the goal of my life – UPSCE – and also how I was an irresponsible, stone-hearted brother, and how my father was an out-and-out dick. Then she went on for a few centuries about this new home she was going to build on the damned plot we bought when dinosaurs were still alive. 

“It’ll be like a small farm house. “She said. “There will be beautiful gardens all around. It will be a paradise. ”

Ha ha. The fact is, we don’t have money. And as you all must have come to know by now, my mother is sort of nuts. She told me about this driving school she enrolled into, and then I-don’t-know-how-the-fuck the conversation flowed to her daughter-in-law and she put a million terms and conditions before I could utter a word. 

“It’ll be arranged. “She started, ” Laddoo got a dowry of 40 lakhs, so yours will only be higher by miles. Also, I want a sanskaari bahu. Like Gopi bahu. ”

I had already thrown up twice inside my mind by now and to save my sanity, I told her I had to study. 

“Alright. Take care. “She said, and I felt my throat tighten. Doesnt it happen with you? When your mother is inches away from hanging up and she’s saying bye and you know it is the hardest thing to say, even when she’s been talking absolute nonsense for an eternity, and even when it’s not like she’s dying or something. 

She hung up, and I started missing her already. 

Isabella. That was her name. She broke into my life like a storm, shook me up and wrecked my inside. By the time she left, I was a hill of my own debris. 

I have an id on chess.com. It was a regular day. I was beating the crap out of people. People were beating the crap out of me. Then came Isabella, and we began a match, and she asked me to resign after move 2. That pissed me off. When you’re just 1476, fighting a 1507, you don’t tell the superior guy to resign. I thought I would win brilliantly and so I told her to not to worry because I wasn’t going to let her resign.

“I’m checkmating you by move 40. “I said. And it started. 

God! Was she beautiful! Wretched, shrewd but beautiful. She killed my knights, destroyed my castles, captured my queen, and all I was left with was a poor old king. So I resigned. Because she was eating my pawns now (ultimate humiliation, that is, if you play chess).
“Do you even know how hard it is to concentrate when you’re eating a cake? “I asked rhetorically, to cover up. 

“๐Ÿ˜‚”Came her reply. 

“I’m beating you in the next game. “I promised her. 

And it was going fine in the next game – she was telling me the mistakes I made in the last game, and I, like a good student, was checking out her profile and guessing her surname so that I could find her on Facebook. 

After some twenty thousand moves, I blundered my queen. And God, was she a ruthless monster! She wrote, 

“You blundered. Remind me of what you said in the beginning. ”

“That I’ll put up a good fight and die like a hero. “I said, my self respect now a crushed tin can. 

“Well, Hero, I’m winning now. Again. ”

I had never felt so embarrassed before. It was like somebody had undressed me and then invited people to make jokes on my flaccid penis. So I challenged her for a Bullet game. 

“Okay. “She said. “Soon. ”

I sent her a friend request which she accepted and then I sent her forty five challenges she rejected. 

And then as the day flowed into dusk, Isabella of storms left my wrecked Westeros and moved on to her next prey. 

At night, I was wandering through Quora when I found this question – 

What’s the difference between loving someone and loving the idea of someone? 

I thought about skipping the question, but since I wasn’t designing space suits for NASA, I decided to give it a try. I started to wonder and the first thing that crossed my mind was Doctor. You know about Doctor, right? I’ll tell you more about her someday. 

So I begin to wonder if Doctor is an idea or an actual person. The other day, I was watching a philosophy tutorial on ‘Objective reality vs Subjective reality‘, where they showed you how the same object can have multiple subjects. The whole plot of John Green’s Paper Towns revolves around this very identity theme – Who is Margo?  
Let’s understand it this way. People identify Doctor with different names. For every living being that’s been around her, she’s a different person. They all see those big eyes and that little smile of hers, the objective realities of her, but interpret her in their own way, the subjective realities of her. Her mother has a different idea of her than her father. For her boyfriend she’s someone else, whereas for her chemistry teacher, she’s someone else. She’s all those persons while she may be none. The thing is, you can’t love the objective reality because you would only be able to see it. Love is subjective, so you’ll always love the idea of somebody, no matter if you’re fucking her twenty times a day or you’re just a long-distance friendzoned guy. It’ll always be the idea, which will change with time. 

Whooo! Too much philosophy. Let’s get back to Doctor. My idea of her isn’t singular. I see her as I want to see her. Clumsy, graceful, kind, cruel, phony, humane, troubled, blissful – it totally depends on my state of mind. 

So sometimes I wonder if the girl I’ve been in love with for half my life is just a reflection of myself….

How mindfuckingly narcissistic would be that!!!???