Just Writing Stuff Down

You know how every emotionally constipated, caffeine-fueled, chaotically functional romcom protagonist has that  one person ? The human equivalent of a late-night junk food binge, an unexpected Spotify shuffle that just  gets you , or a perfectly timed meme at 2:13 AM that reminds you why you haven’t set fire to everything yet? Yeah. That’s him. My best friend. My brother in disguise. My emotional support menace. My gossip hotline. My Joey to my Chandler. My Louis to my Harvey  and  Donna. He is that guy — the one who shows up on the worst days with exactly zero solutions but all the wrong answers delivered with so much confidence, I almost believe them. The guy who brings chaos in his backpack and peace in his presence, sometimes in the same breath. The one who makes me laugh when I want to disappear, and then makes me want to disappear again by being the most exasperating human in the room. I’m convinced he wakes up, stretches dramatically like he’s in a Bollywood ...

There’s something beautifully stupid about writing when you absolutely shouldn’t be. Like, the kind of rebellion that makes no sense but still feels like a small victory. Right now, I have a PE exam on Saturday. PE. As in, Physical Education. As in, the subject that’s supposed to be “easy” but somehow contains more charts, definitions, and health-related guilt than a fitness influencer’s Instagram story. And yet, here I am, not revising somatotypes or the Rockport Fitness Test, but writing a blog post. Because my brain whispered, “Write a little, it’ll help you study,” and I — being the gullible little content goblin I am — believed it. To be fair, my brain is rarely helpful during exam season. It has the attention span of a squirrel on French Press coffee or Chai (which, ironically, is what I run on). I’ll sit down with the full intention of studying about flexibility or cardiorespiratory endurance, and five minutes later, I’m staring into the abyss, wondering why we have knees. Like ...

I didn’t know what to write today. Actually, I opened this blog with zero ideas. Like… less than zero. Empty mind. Full head. If that makes sense. (To be fair, I was tired studying and I was on a break, just like Ross and Rachel enjoying my chai and live concert videos) So this one’s about the music. My music. The kind most people my age don’t listen to. The kind that isn’t in every Instagram reel or sped-up for some 15-second Instagram trauma dump. The kind that came from old aux cords, not algorithms. It’s not a superiority complex, you know. Okay, it is, maybe just a little bit. But mostly it’s because I just don’t relate to the *new* sound. I don’t want bass drops. I want meaning. I want that scratchy, live-recording sound. The kind of music that makes you pause mid-scroll and go “wait, WHAT did they just say?” and then rewind five times because it’s that good. To be fair, I didn’t choose this taste — it kind of chose me. Grew up hearing it around the house thanks to my dad, and li...