I blame my tendency to procrastinate, and inefficient group members which led me to stay up late one night at the faculty, struggling to finish our final assignment due the day after. I staggered back to my hostel at two in the morning, risking life and limb by confronting the ever present security guard. After a stern warning, I forced my jellied legs up the two flights of stairs, into my already dark room, greeted by gentle snores of my other room mates. Fully dressed, I plopped onto my bed and dozed off into a deep slumber, oblivious that while I was busy labouring over my assignment, I had missed the crucial hour of submitting the forms to apply for the in-campus hostel for the next semester.

No one would ever know what would have happened if I had instead finished my assignments earlier, and had queued up in front of that office along with my other course mates. Maybe I would be staying at the hostel now, instead of having to rent outside. Maybe I wouldn’t have qualified anyway. Either way, I would never know. But fate had run its course, and here I am, sitting in my own room, listening to Diana Krall, looking out to the entire city, unobscured by water tanks and yards and yards of laundry.

I now have a washing machine instead, no longer hampered by unwashed clothes and under things because of my innate laziness to wash my own clothes by hand. Someone said that owning a washing machine is a sure sign of one growing up, being independent finally. I am not sure whether it is the case for me.

I am still the same whiny person I was before. I am still unable to fight my own battles. Timid in confrontations, and yet foolishly fierce at protecting the unimportant. I speak of high ideals, and yet unable to speak my own mind. I dream of adventures and escape, but never am I brave enough to make them come true.

Washing Machines…it’s just a romantic idea.

30th July, 2006 (12.58AM)