Monthly Archives: May 2013


Hey, hey! I’m back again!

So, tonight’s affairs regard education. Broad topic, I know, but what can I do?

Damn it; this broad topic thing makes it hard to decide where to start… I suppose, from primary school? Yeah, that’ll do for now.

Personally, primary school was great for me – I mean, I had friends (which doesn’t seem to mean much since everyone in my year seemed to be friends), and I think that’s all that I really took note of. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t in a superficial way where my life was based on popularity or something (I mean, I’d attended two schools, and at one, I had no friends – spent my breaks reading books in the sun, because that’s how cool I was…), but I didn’t care for much else, in the sense that, I was contained in this little world of mine, and the ‘larger picture’ did not cross my mind, whether it be about who I wanted to become and where I wanted to go etc. I guess I seemed a little non-ambitious. Also during this time, though, my marks weren’t that great; maybe it was because of this little world of mine, or maybe I just was not that apt at absorbing new facts, but for this period, I don’t think I cared too much. But I think this point really affects the future – it sets our whole mind set on learning and goal setting and all that fundamental concepts that you hear self-help speakers advocate (to which many of us scoff at the obviousness); I had a great experience to start me off thanks to the educators. Unfortunately, I sometimes feel like this standard at which I had experienced has diminished slightly; with further research as to what’s the best approach etc. I think some of us have become a little more methodical and mechanical, less flexible, you know? It relies less on that natural instinct to teach which many have inside; and maybe there are more less passionate teachers simply because some people pursue the degree as it has less years, give or take the equal amount, if not more job availabilities, let alone a career path which is not likely to be replaced by machinery in the visible future. I don’t know, but it makes me sad, that’s all.

Then high school. As far as my regular, old public school went, we weren’t divided as thoroughly into the typical Americanised system of junior, sophomore etc. The only distinction was either junior (years 7 to 10) or senior (years 11 and 12). I think this is when I truly blossomed as far as my studies went; I started to absorb information a lot more. But that being said, the downside was that I was never one to crucially question – I would simply make sense of what I was learning, and unless it was completely illogical in my mind, I would no longer question it and memorise the facts (how un-Orwellian of me). So, as far as high school education of memorising facts went, I went well enough, assisted by my fairly reliable memories. I started make close friends as well, and would try different extra curricular activities; everything was enjoyable.

But then the choices came. Despite being an advocator for choices, I am indecisive. By natural ‘talent’, I was competent at a lot of the subjects offered at school, and would often achieve above average marks. No complaints. But when it came to deciding electives for the final years of high school, I simply struggled. I ended up enjoying the subjects I’d chosen, no doubt, but I query whether I would have had as much success in those which I was unable to try out. Then the same thing happened again come choosing the subjects for my HSC (the final secondary school education, from which you obtain a mark depicting a rank – the position of your mark, after scaling/adjusting the marks according to subjects, against the state cohort). After this, I knew I was going to university. It was just what I was going to do – learning was simply what I did. I’d considered a gap year, but simply decided against it. Anyhow, still in my final years of school, I did not know what I wanted to do at university, and subsequently, for the ‘rest of my life’ – I wanted to try a bit of everything, and there were only a handful of things which I said I did not want to do. There are too many options. So, being the controlled individual I am, it frightened me to the bone not knowing what path my future was going to take in the slightest. While many of my friends walked on heavily paved roads to their future, I was off my wits, bush bashing in circles. Nonetheless, I chose a few courses at various universities to apply for, and although I did not obtain the marks to study the course with the highest cut off on my preferences, I got a reasonable mark, and gained university admission.

But here I am now, a university student, and do I have my future sorted? Nope. Not even close; and I’m in my second year at university. Mind you, I started off with a generic degree which accommodated for my lack of decision making talent, but now, for some obscure (well, not that obscure – the outcome is somewhat appealing to me) reason, I transferred to a more specific degree. And to be honest with you, I’m still frightened; not knowing my unwritten future, I mean. There’s no instinctive drive that’s pushing me to one area as a career – I want to try it all, but I don’t want to ‘waste’ time to discover something I may not find. Great. This is what a rut feels like. And not going to lie, more often than I should, I’ve thought about (once finishing my degree, because I just don’t leave things unfinished) simply opening up a cafe/bar in the suburbs not far from the coast; in my mind, I don’t thin that’s totally out of line, I mean, I like accommodating for people’s wants and needs. But that doesn’t mean that everyone will see it that way. Anyhow, talking about being indecisive and not knowing doesn’t help me to be decisive and to know, so let’s keep going.

The main reason I’d started this post was actually to whinge about university (at least my one), so sorry about the detour! The main problem I have (in conjunction to the commuting hours mentioned in my, I think, prior post) is the contact hours. For those who aren’t so familiar with this term, it simply refers to the number of hours you actually spend in class – so this can consist of practicals, tutorials, and of course, lectures. Before starting universities, everyone seemed to promote it; how great it was, especially for its flexibility and how it accommodating for the students. From my experience, that’s been a lie to a certain extent. Sure, it’s flexible as far as transferring goes, and to a certain point, marks. But my university, unfortunately, is not flexible with the times. What do I know, I’ve only been to this one university? Wait a minute, now. I have the majority of my friends attending another university. Their contact hours consist of maybe eight to ten hours, even if it is a double degree. Seems like what people had been talking about – I mean, that many hours per week is ideal; means I’ll have time to work, relax, and to study. But not for me. My contact hours for the week has reached up to 27 hours over five days. That doesn’t seem too bad from a high school perspective, I suppose, but from someone who knows of what my timetable could be like had my course been offered elsewhere, it’s frustrating. And on top of that, I probably spend around three to four hours commuting to and from university each day that I go in. Then, the lecturers and tutors expect us to do maybe three extra hours of independent study on top of pre-class readings, online quizzes, assignments, and studying for other subjects; which then piles on top of (at least for me) work (on the weekend), a social life (despite how pushed for time someone can be, I’m a great believer in moderation – so if you work hard, take a break!), and going to the gym. This life is simply crammed too much! And if you fall behind on a subject in my situation, all hell breaks loose. My friends at the other universities don’t understand – they reason that their lack of contact hours is compensated for the amount of assignments they do. Newsflash people, we get assignments as well – if it’s any less, it’s not that much less than your work load! Yes, maybe it’d be easier if I moved out of home to somewhere closer to university, but then I have to consider the distance to work, let alone being able to afford it. What frustrates me as well about my university is it’s sickening pride. I understand that as a university, you require integrity – you need to show off that you provide the best for your students, domestic and international, with the newest facilities, most experience lecturers, and the near 24/7 commitment of the university in assisting you wherever they can. I do. But it annoys me when you have already deprived us of however many days worth of a social life (which university life should promote) and sleep, you still have the nerve to take away holidays: while other universities take a fortnight off for a mid-semester break, mine takes one; wouldn’t be as bad, if it didn’t overlap the break with public holidays as to ensure that we don’t miss out on that extra day. Poof – there goes our long weekend. And when your friends are still on holidays when you’re back at university, toiling away and struggling to stay awake, you really feel aggravated. To promote how fun university is to attract new students should entail the university actually enabling the students to enjoy the university experience – especially when there are other universities competing with you and with the knowledge that everyone ends up coming out with a piece of paper and the same fundamental skills for the job, you really ought to offer a lot more than excessive, laborious hours of friend and sleeplessness; or at least, if you don’t want to be broke and empty.

The only reason I’m here is because without it, I have nowhere else to be. And for providing a place to be, I thank you, but for making things difficult, well…

Yup, that’s it. Despite having had great education-success in primary and secondary school, because of university, I have managed to epitomise my procrastination ability, so much so that I may fail my first-ever subject and that I have managed to procrastinate sleeping. Thank you…

Thanks for reading, and hope to talk to you soon.


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So, I’m back! Hurray! Anyhow, let’s get the ball rolling on our peeve of the post!

Unlike many of the youth around my age, I am yet to get my P’s (for those out of Australia, I’m simply referring to the provisional driver’s licence – so, here down-under, an individual can obtain a learner’s permit from the age of 16, then after a given time and amount of hours spent driving, he moves onto his ‘red P’s’, then his ‘green P’s’, then his full licence when he’s, I think, 21, given that he does all of this from the moment he turns 16 and everything goes according to plan). For the topic today, this simply means that on the days that I travel into university, I must take the public transport as I do not own a car, let alone owning a licence.

Many of you city and suburb-dwellers will understand that morning commutes are nowhere near the definition of fun – you have a place to get to by a given time which you had forced yourself out of bed for at an ungodly hour (at which the sun has not yet risen), so the last place you want to be is sitting next to some disease-ridden strangers for half an hour to move 10 metres up the road from where you caught the bus.

Although the peak-hour commute is very much rant-worthy, this is not the motive to which I had started this post.

So, as I’m sure it’s somewhat similar in many other countries, here in Australia, or at least in the city in which I reside it, many of us commuters purchase a ‘pre-paid’ ticket – as the name suggests, you pay and buy a ticket before your desired public transport trip, and depending on what you purchased, you use that one ticket for however many trips for however long (for instance, I currently purchase a ticket which enables me to get on any bus, ferry, or train as many times as I like for one week, given that this ticket covers the distance I wish to travel). Essentially, this is to promote efficiency in public transport, or so I’m guessing, but inhibiting passengers from handing over paper money to the driver, slowing the whole process down; this especially helps during these peak-hours, and in the city.

So, so far, I’m on good terms with this whole process. But wait. Then you insert the massive concept of the passenger (of course, another whinge about people). Let’s say that I have been at university for six to eight ours that day, and I’d already spent probably three or four hours commuting (this is not an exaggeration, I assure you), twenty minutes of that just having passed on the old-style trains which scream as you go through the tunnels, rock precariously on the tracks, have no ventilation, and has a suspicious stain on every seat. When the train finally and gloriously pulls up to your stop, the last thing you want to do is linger. So, you gather your belongings quickly, snatching everything up before you hear the dreaded whistle of the train conductor announcing the train’s departure.

You get off on time, phew. Now, let’s get down those stairs.

Only kidding, because somehow, and for some mystifying reason, every single person who enjoys a nice dawdle and ponder down the stairs happened to want to get off the train first, and cut everyone off, as to slow everyone else down. Sort of like, if you imagine someone pouring sand out of a bottle, but then there’s these shells and rocks which clog up the mouth piece, stopping you from emptying the bottle out. And these rocks always opt for the middle of the passageway, not to the side (sort of like the way when you walk on a narrow pathway and come across this group of friends who are adamant not to walk in a straight file, but instead just barricade the distance ahead off).

Finally, you get to the bottom of the stairs where everyone is free to disperse. Here is the chance for us quicker-paced folks to overtake and race to the ticket gates. Easy enough, right – to take out your ticket, insert it into the mouth of the machine, the gate opens, then you leave. Freedom is merely a few steps away.

Only kidding.

Know why? Because, for one thing, there are those people, being impatient in their queues for their ticket machine, who simply cut you off. Wait. No. Hang on. You can’t do… And he’s gone. Because it wasn’t like I was waiting here like you were, or anything. Thanks, buddy. But what frustrates me on top of this, is when people are unorganised. Maybe that’s not the greatest word for this situation, but I can’t really think of anything else at the moment, so it’ll have to do. Anyhow, like before, there’s a mad dash to the ticket gates. You’re almost there. Yes!


There is that single person. Who is just standing there. About one or two metres from the gate, stopping others from using that gate. All because she is looking for her ticket. Really? Is this of all places the most appropriate place to look for your ticket; in everyone else’s way? Well, thanks lady.

So, I beg of you, everyone, to have you ticket ready before – and if you don’t, don’t stand in the most inconvenient of places to look for it – and I bet you that you probably have two months’ worth of tickets in your wallet, all of which you’re going to have to look through in order to find the valid one. Ugh.

And since I mentioned the commute, I think I’ll touch upon that, too; since I’m here and all, you know?

So, for most parts, it’s fine, I guess. I get on. More often than not, I am that person you see that has fallen asleep because I never manage to get the right number of hours of sleep. But in my defence, I have always managed to wake up before my stop, which I’d like to consider a bit of subconscious talent. I think there are three main things which annoy me most when commuting:

  1. Bus drivers: two things; either the driver being the most brutally angry and rude driver you’ve ever met, or the driver being a non-aggressive type driver annoys me. When you start your day, some crude comment does not make you feel like it’s going to be a good day. At all. Guaranteed. And when the driver’s not an assertive driver, the trip just takes twice as long; there’s another thing relating to this that frustrates me: when my bus pulls up outside a city train station. Naturally, people get on. But in the amount of time that the last person gets on and uses his ticket, another three people have run up to the bus from the train – this goes on for ten minutes, despite the bus being full. And even when the bus doors eventually close, and we’re JUST about to pull out, the bus doors open once more because the driver saw someone running up. Great. Deep breaths.
  2. Talking on phones. I’m not going to lie, I have unfortunately been a culprit of this a few times in the past, but I’m proud to say that I have at times actually declined a call, and texted whoever it was that I was on public transport. I mean, what’s the point of answering the call if you can’t even hear whoever’s called you, right? But whenever there’s that person who is talking on the phone, 95% of the time, it is that single person who has the loudest voice. To all those people, no, I was not interested in your upcoming business conference tactics, or how awesome and intoxicating your not-rememberable Friday night was. I have my own life to entertain, but thank you for your offer, nonetheless.
  3. Lastly, personal space. I’m not a big build, I admit that. So, I don’t tend to take up that much seat space. But guys and girls, that is not a permission for you to compensate for that. Simply imagine that there is a line down the middle of the seat – your half, and mine. If I wanted to rub and rustle elbows with you for the next hour as you maniacally played on you iPad, I would have gone out of my way to ask for it or sit frighteningly close to you. But I didn’t, did I now? So, please, do not provoke me to build a wall between us with my bag, because I don’t want to make you upset simply because you don’t understand the concept of personal space. And this especially applies to school kids. It has occurred to me since I left high school, with shocking force, how loud and touchy students are. I mean, I understand that they’re all hormonal and deranged, but I cannot say that being on a bus with thirty pubescent kids who have just finished playing sports for two hours is not on my favourite’s list.

And naturally, there are minor things like sitting next to strangers with a cold, or the air conditioning being extremely strong, but I think those three are what pushes me over the edge.

So, yeah… That’s my vent for the evening, thanks guys.

I will get back to you soon, I’m sure.


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Let’s get this metaphorical ball rolling with another rant, shall we? So, my topic this time is going out; but more specifically, going out to clubs.

So, like many of the (but not restricted to) youth out there, I enjoy going out with friends. But look, there are some problems with this. “Unfortunately” for me and the minority of you out there, I cannot tolerate the devil’s nectar, alcohol, very well. As far as I’m concerned (and I suppose this is my blog, after all…), I don’t get tipsy or become overly enthusiastic with a sip or two, then blank out the rest of the evening like some traumatic event, with only a raging headache and several questionable cuts and bruises as I wake up on my windowsill, apparently having tried to sneak in (I assure you this has not happened; I mean, I live on the 2nd storey, so as fun a story as this would be to tell, I can’t happen… Or can it?).

No. This is not my case. What happens is after a mere two, or even one drink, I start to feel queasy. Not cool, guys. Not cool. So, essentially, this means that I can’t fully enjoy being inebriated as much as my friends can. Don’t take me for a fool, though, guys. By no means am I the type of person that would go out every night to wake up hung-over every morning even if I could; I just wish that I could join in on the fun at times, you know? Basically, I get to experience the first drink as the same as everyone else, then on the infinitesimally rare occasion, I’m “privileged” enough to skip the fun, careless few hours to immerse myself in the guy-I-don’t-feel-so-good minutes of the evening. I also sheepishly admit that I want to at least experience a hangover at least once, which, I regretfully add that in this world of ours, has in a sense become a coming-of-age ritual.

Anyhow, there’s more. This section, I don’t think would be overly affected whether or not I was able to drink: the club scene. Despite my “condition”, I have been clubbing. I enjoy it to a certain extent – but I feel like that’s not saying much, right? I mean, as long as I have a few of my closer friends with me, I’m happy to go wherever (within reason, of course!). I like the feeling of the bass thundering in my rib cage, the way fireworks do, and just immersing myself in the situation. However, there are a few things. Like the ratio of drinks actually drunk, to the amount of drinks that’s actually spilled. And knowing my luck, on me. People, I understand that you want to dance. I understand that you want to drink. But don’t dance while your drunk and drinking, because something is going to go down if you do. Which leads me to my next point.

Sticky floors. I might as well be walking through tar, just saying. I can almost hear the sickly peeling of the soles of shoes from the once-dry floor, as the half-dried drinks cling onto my feet. Just a small thing that gets to me. Will this ever be fixed. Probably not. Damn.

Then there’s the sweat. It’s natural, I get it. People are drinking and dancing. I get it. But I don’t know, I think the only place that I’d ever imagined that I’d accept 12 other people’s sweat to slobber over me simultaneously would have been at a music concert of some sort, in the sun and all of us singing along, you know? Not from that dirty-looking 20-year-old-wannabe who had been grinding up some poor girl who wore a highly minimalistic outfit for the past half-hour, smelling of vodka and something else suspicious.

Now, it’s a little bit of a double standard (but you know what, we all do it, so why stop with me?), but as much as I enjoy the music pumping and pounding, at the same time, when I go out with friends… I don’t know, I guess I enjoy talking to them? I mean, you don’t make plans for the weekend to ‘see’ each other, only to literally, see each other, then talk to them again next week to plan the same thing, right? Or is that just my friends and I? Then as the night goes on, feeling your voice slowly die away; you can feel that roughness in your throat, throttling. But despite that, you fight on. And it doesn’t stop when you leave the club either; your club-induced deafness also makes you continuously speak as loud as you can to your friends for the rest of the evening, even in the cab ride home, when they’re literally 20cm away from you.

Then there’s the overly-drunk people, which you can only enjoy if you’re almost, if not equally, drunk as them. For a while, it’s entertaining with a hint of sympathy. But then they see you. But you’re paralysed. And before you know it, you’re surrounded. And from personally experience, drunk people do not have a sense of personal space (as illustrated by that dodgy, Mr. Grind from before). Thank you stranger, I appreciate having you face so close to mine, that your tongue could probably reach my face from where you are. Just please don’t choose now of all times to up-chuck your night over onto my shoes. Thanks.

As the night ends, there’s the inevitable travel back home, more often than not in a cab. But before you can go, you need to see who’s actually coming with you, and who’s staying to slay the dance floor some more. After, you say your goodbyes; some awkward, some pointless as some won’t even remember this exchange, and a few sincere. Trudge along the main road for a few minutes, seeing your competition, all seeking that one cab at the end of the road. But somehow, you and your friends manage to hail it down; winning. As claustrophobic as it can get, you’d prefer to sit in the back with your friends, to spend the few remaining moments of their alertness before getting drowsy to engage in a few conversation topics. But no, you somehow get pushed to the front seat, sitting next to what happens to be a non-native-English-speaking chap who is blasting something immensely foreign to you in attempt to drown the awkwardness that’s clearly draped between you two.

The last few moments of the evening is made up of the fumbling of payment for the cab; one or two people always pay for it, then we always split it to pay back later, which never comes; the walking home of the still tipsy ones home, who are adamant that they’re ‘fine’ despite their ability walk in a steady, straight line. Then, the aftermath. Where all that comes up in conversation and Facebook are incriminating photographs, silly little in-jokes, and the guilt of who did the most stupid act of the night.

I’m sure if I were able to drink and participate, my point of view would be different, but I can’t, therefore it’s not, and hence, I am here. Complaining. Again.

Talk to you guys soon, I’m sure.



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Look, guys and girls, like I’d mentioned, on the occasion, I’m going to be talking about the pro’s of the First World, just to even things out, you know? So, as fun as it is to have a cry together, let’s just remember that there are things that make us, at least, somewhat happy (surprise!). But because I feel like the positives are much easier to cover in a short amount of words, unless it’s some “amaze-balls” (yes, I regrettably just wrote that…) thought or thing, I’ll be covering two or even three happiness-inducers (this is going to get overwhelming).

Let’s start.

Froyo. That word probably sums it up for many of you; but in case it doesn’t, come on, people, what are you doing with your lives? So, for all you inexperienced ones out there, “Froyo” is a “hip” abbreviation for frozen yoghurt. For the few that depressingly are unaware of what frozen yoghurt is… Well, the name says it all, doesn’t it? It has the consistency of somewhere between yoghurt and ice cream – I somehow doubt it’s not as easy as chucking your favourite tub of yoghurt in the freezer overnight to produce though… Damn… It also has a slightly different taste, which I can’t describe. But basically, it’s de-freakin’-licious; the ‘yoghurt’ itself can come in various flavours, from vanilla to green tea, and on top of that (it just keeps getting better), you get to choose toppings. And who doesn’t love toppings?! Who?! My personal favourites are fruit or Oreos; just saying. Anyhow, despite the whether, despite my mood, Froyo’s just make my day with its delightful, healthy freshness, unlike a pre-chewed Macca’s burger which make your arteries cry, and your heart sweat with fear.

Now, my second pro for the day: winter sleep-ins. As suggested, this is not just any sleep-in of the year, but specifically winter. Don’t get me wrong, when people ask me ‘what’s your favourite season’ (not a daily occurrence, but it has occurred), I’d immediately opt for summer – I mean, I live in Australia, what kind of question is that, right? But that being said, I don’t hate any seasons. I’m not afraid to say that I also love winter. Predominantly because of its freshness; the air just feels that much lighter, and breathable, you know? Anyhow, back to the sleep-ins. What I was saying was that the freshness of winter just make those Saturday and Sunday morning sleep-ins infinitesimally better: you’re just cosily cocooned in the depths of your blanket and pillows, not too hot and not too cold, and on top of that, you know you have nothing on for the rest of the day to worry about. Then by the time you wake up, the sun is high up above, without a cloud in the sky: the perfect time to just lounge with your back absorbing the sun’s rays like some semi-hibernated reptile. Pure joy, that’s what it is. And you can even sweeten the deal with a cup of your favourite hot chocolate (or for many of you, coffee), and waste the day away, like the weekend was never-ending.

So, everyone, if that didn’t make you slightly joyous… It at least made me happier. So, thanks for that! Like last time, comment, discuss etc. etc. and I shall get back to you soon.


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We all have one, and many of us are guilty of not being able to live without one – the sad truth being that that is no longer an exaggeration. It’s our mobile phones.

Although I’m proud to admit that I’m not over-dependent on my cellular device as many of you out there will sheepishly deny, no one of this century can say that these palm-sized wonders make daily routines a whole lot more manageable.

These days, forget simply sending the odd SMS with our Nokia ‘bricks’ which we owned (let’s be honest) for the soul purpose of spending a good few hours playing Snake. Those times no longer exist. Many of us practically have our phones fused onto our palms, if not sewn into our pockets, whether it be to send and receive messages every few seconds because you’re bored witless during a university lecture, play games, voice OR video call friends and family etc. etc.

Don’t get me wrong, I am happy for these palm-sized wonders, but there’s one (probably of many) thing which frustrate me – and all you phone-addicts, you’re the perpetrators.

Let’s set a scenario; a word-picture, if you will. It’s a brilliantly beautiful day – the weather’s just right and everything is just going well. I’m just enjoying my stroll on the sidewalk in the city; naturally, there are a lot of people, so essentially, you have to watch where your going. Everything on this walk is just going smoothly; none of that awkward face-to-face side-stepping, or squeezing yourself between the dodgiest seeming people as a last resort.

But wait. Then there’s you, Mr. Opposable Thumbs with your gadget of choice. I swerve left, I pull a right, but it’s clear you’re headed my way. Your eyes do not move away from the screen – you’re mesmerised. You’re entranced. You don’t know where you are, except for the fact that you’re walking. And as simple and petty as that sounds, I am not afraid to say, that THAT peeves me. You, who do not care for those walking around you, and simply go about your technological business, and expect the world to accommodate for your movements. Would you like us to roll a red velvet carpet beneath your feet while we’re at it?

It’s not over, though. Then, when you’re inches away from me, you somehow manage with what I must assume to be the most will power anyone can muster (my hero!), you tear your eyes off from the screen and we make the awkward eye contact – yes, you’re in my way. But no, it obviously is not your fault, as you’re explicitly being occupied – us, the conscientious sort, must manouvre and contort. And with that, you grant us with the greasiest of stares, then continue on your ever-purposeful journey.

For all you addicts out there, I say with the most sincere of concerns: You have a problem. And I bet you’re thinking ‘yeah, I guess I’ve done that before, but it’s not like I do it all the time”. Well, you know what, guys and girls? Habits and addictions don’t just drop out of nowhere. And remember, our little scenario there happens to be set on a good day for us folks – let’s just hope that you don’t do this on a bad day for us (but I suppose it’d be one way of getting you to permanently rid that habit!). If you cannot live without your phones, let alone walk without it, that is just a step too far in my opinion; at least stop yourself and stand to the side somewhere to prevent any awkward or dangerous situations from happening!

Anyhow, I think I’ve managed to stupidly elongate this simple point! That’s it for now, but I’ll post something else soon (possibly something positive?). Make sure to follow my blog if you somehow managed to appreciate this post in any way, and comment if you agree, disagree, or just want to share how phones have ironically made your life that little bit difficult to manage!



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