Fried potatoes and chatterboxes on the side

Potato dish#2 Lone samosa gets Kachoris

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K~ The chatterbox

Life is so good until you have to wake up. I say, even better than Neverland is Dreamland! Just let me be there god! Let me sleep and weave stories. Aargh. Also driving by yourself to the college isn't a very fun thing to do. You can't listen to music, you can't daydream, you have to focus on the reality for that time! It is not "my hair in the air!" or "fly with the rye" as the girls say. And the only guy I ever found interesting has vanished!

"So class, today we will discuss Unit 2 of this course, Emotions. And its first topic is..." trailed-off voices are surely very soothing. Sleep is ready to encircle me in its arms. But I have to keep my eyes open. Argh, it's not like the topic isn't interesting, but the professor, well he trails away from the topic a lot. And his voice is surely made to be a counsellor. Then why is he in this profession I will never know. Even more boring than the class right now, is the time spent in college. What's there to do except roam around like lone logs?

Well well well, so it seems that college is so much more boring than I thought it would be. Where are the background singers and dancers and the romantic instrumentals when you need them? The way I was conditioned by the dearest Karan Johar films, well I expect at least this much. But all that I can hear is chaos. And I don't know why in this chaos I feel someone is there for me. Many people are there who share the same brain cells as me, with whom I can be myself wholly and snatch food from their plates, without thinking once.

That's why my treasure hunt has been ongoing since the onset of this suck fest. And I found one, Mr. Perfect Potato, but I think he is Pavitr Prabhakar because I have never seen him again in his college. Maybe he is busy jumping from job to job.

He is like a spider too, and if I imagine him with eight legs, well the vision might be scary, but he does look like one.

Bizarre thoughts, mind? Really? And I blame others they don't sit with me. Of course, they won't. Maybe I should not chat this much after all. Nobody likes it when I start talking to them. Maybe I should also mind my business, and be silent. But how can I be silent when my heart bumping and thumping loudly?! Argh.

And well, nobody replies to the texts too. Not even him. I got the hint from the first day and he won't waste a second talking to me, and all he did was out of courtesy. But his expression after seeing the poem, well, I remember it vividly. It was, pure. Gleeful. And I thought maybe somebody likes my quirkiness. But he too is the traveller of the same boat as the others, and I am swimming against the current. I am sure to drown if this goes on.

While this mental monologue kills me I have to speak. Or at least write something to ease this flowing river of thoughts and slow my heart. Writing has always come to me when I am on the brink. Brink of something intense. Something that is beyond my control, and all I can do to ease the pain is write. Standing on the brink, All I can do to pull myself from jumping is letting it all out. The tears don't come to me. And everything is bottled up. All the instances when people ignore me or give me false hopes. Well, one would think I would have learned after being rejected for so long but sadly, the opposite is the case. The more I face rejection, the more I crave the feeling of being with others and come off as more desperate, and then again start the vicious circle of talking to strangers and maybe expecting a goodbye or a 'how do you do' from their side after we are done.

Anyway coming back to survival instinct and my sympathetic and parasympathetic systems, Increased heartbeats are reserved for Fight or flight responses, we might need it if I again start talking to someone and they call security. Girl gotta think about everything. Especially survival.

And soon the class ended. And I started my search party of people. There were many going alone, and I saw one. One who kept writing in her notebook like me, except she was taking down notes, but still. Common ground is common ground.