Bad Decisions

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Chapter II : What time you comin' out?

“We don’t pick who we fall in Love with, and it never happens as it should.”

These lines kept echoing inside the walls of my mind ever since my roommates made me sit through the amazing Rom-com of our time “No Strings Attached” starring the glorious man-boy Ashton Kutcher. What was more amusing that it was in the same exact moment that Kutcher’s bed-ridden movie dad said those words to an emotional struggling writer played by my teenage crush, the screen of my phone lit up with a text of my recent crush.


“Saw on your story that you’re watching a movie.”

“Yeah. TTYL.”

 I hoped that would keep him away as a distraction and let my stupid heart catch a breath. I honestly didn’t understand why my brain started sweating or my chest had this thumping every time I caught myself thinking about him. And when he texted, Oh God. I literally felt my heart trying to make a break for it from the somewhat strong bindings of my ribcage.

Just as I convinced myself to calm down and finish the rest of the movie, it vibrated against my chest again. It’s like the whole universe wanted me to be a part of this crazy dance. I looked at my phone and threw it against the pillow, dreading what might come next. I mean, I didn’t even feel this tingling nonsense for a boy ever, not even for he-who-shall-not-be-named. Not Voldemort, just my loser ex whose existence I was in the process of removing from my memory.

The worst part is, I didn’t have anyone to talk about this. I mean, I didn’t really want to tell my friends about this new boy that I just met who’s lighting these fires inside my bones that I didn’t even know could burn. Above all, I was afraid of being judged by them for probably, moving on too soon from a serious relationship. Of course, later I would learn that all of these fears were bogus to begin with.

I tried to keep my mind off of thoughts concerning Rick and his stubble – oh that two day old dry stubble, how prickly it would be if I rubbed my cheeks against his – FOCUS!

I shook off my head and again tried to open my laptop, this time to work on a social philosophy assignment I had to submit within the night. I opened the file, and to my surprise, I hadn’t been doing a bad job in my quest to submit a blank page. I quickly went to the net and searched about the topic I had to do a 700 word essay on, and I realized that if I was any smart to get myself through two degrees, I would be able to finish off my work in about two hours, which would leave me about 3 hours ahead of the deadline.

It was 7pm when I started, and by the time it was 8.30 I was losing my mind. Why did I ever think it was smart to leave it till the last minute? When did Professor Shrivastav even give this task? If I acted sick, would I be able to get an extended deadline on this very rushed and totally-unfairly-deadlined submission? Alarms started blaring off in my head as I forced myself to not admit that I was indeed, in a fly in an ointment situation. The ointment being my stellar reputation as an above-average student who somehow managed to get lucky every time, the fly being my terrible time management skills.

“Damn, I don’t think I can finish this tonight, it’s like, too hard.”

I wondered if walls started somehow tapping into my conscience and magically learned how to speak. To check on that matter I looked up from my computer, and saw my ever clueless roommate Sanjana hunched over hers on her bed, her face a mixture of anxiety and despair over the very smooth edge of the feeling we call “giving up”.

So another person with the same predicament. Great, my escape routes turned on the yellow signal of hope.

“I know right? It’s insane.”

“I mean, how many days has it even been since he gave this assignment? Like, two?”

I started to open my mouth to say something in agreement, but my other roommate somehow emerged out of nowhere through the open door and took the blank space and said something absolutely obnoxious.

“A week. It’s been there for a week.” Sayeri put the enormous amounts of chips and various kinds of carbs that she was holding in her hand on her table, and looked at us with a smirk, “Did you guys seriously just start working on yours?”

This bitch.

I looked away from her stupid face and towards Sanjana and asked, “Do you think we can finish this?”

“I don’t know, can you?”

I honestly didn’t know, if this current speed of my work was any indication, I wouldn’t be finished with this even after midnight. At that moment, like a lightbulb it hit me.

“As you know, Sanjana, one of the key aspects of Emile Durkheim’s teachings was about Division of Labour.”

“So?” She raised an eyebrow at me like I was speaking in French.

“So, we are supposed to do this on social philosophers of our choice right?” I tried to nudge her on with the point I was trying to make.

“That. Is. The. Problem.” She enunciated each word to me like I was a training monkey.

“Okay, whatever,” there was no use of using my subtle logic play of manipulation on her, “I’m just saying that if we can work on it together, you know, pull our resources and divide the work, we can probably finish it before time.”

“That sounds fun, but what does Emile Dork or whatever have to do with this?”

I cannot with this one.

“Leave it to me.” I replied, with a sigh. “Who were you trying to do your report on?”


Edited: 21.12.2018

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