Blah.

At times, I turn off airplane mode to check if anyone has called. It still surprises me that I am disappointed everytime, when no vibrations from the voicemail box come to return my expectation. Not even the scammers dial this number, which I suppose I should be grateful for.

What is the purpose of a mobile phone again? Being in my possession, it certainly does not live up to its most basic
raison d’être of making and receiving calls, sending and receiving text messages. Must I deprive even a device of its purpose!? Imagine the kind of essay I'd hand in now if you dressed me up in a bright blue pinafore. Back when things used to be things without 101 functions, their lives also seemed to be just as simple.

I was born in a factory somewhere along with a dozen others. Shiny and full of enthusiasm, I waited to be loved by one who would find me utterly useful, but sadly, I could only watch my fellow shiny things get picked up by their human masters one by one, leaving me behind, every damn time. So I weep in an impossible way, no tears come out because I am a thing with no liquid in me. Then one fine day some bloke came into the store and chose me, because there's nothing else left! Oh, was I delighted! Finally after all that waiting somebody BOUGHT me! I will pledge my life to you, Master, and swear that I will please you in every way. Happy days ensued where my Master would use me everyday, and I thought they'd last forever, until some tragedy befell me months later when the capitalists came up with an upgraded version of me. I was left in the drawer to rot and collect dust, never to see the light of day. I should be upset with my Master, but in the end I am simply disappointed in myself for not being able to live up to his expectations so I shall gladly spend the remaining days repenting in this musty drawer.

Usually, that is the flow of every essay titled "If I am a Thing" because our teachers told us (at least mine did) that tragedies move hearts and score points. If at 13 I thought that my essay was special, then I really ought to have asked the rest of the class what they wrote. I wonder if the kids these days still follow this simplistic plot? Teachers really do have it tough.

It's been about 30 minutes since I turned on my Wi-Fi and enabled calls to come in. The sky is still cloudy, the fan is still spinning, and my phone is as silent as it is when it's turned off.

My nose is itchy.

I don't suppose I should be studying, and working on my thesis? Ah, what is life? What is now? Living from day to day and indulging in nothing when the pace of society quickens with every second, it's exhausting to think about catching up when I know that I'll never get there.

I should shave my head and renounce the world.