Four Balls, Roti Wraps and more Hating the Universe

As of late I’ve been haunted by the word ‘extrapolation’.
What does it even mean? To be honest, I had to ask my dear friend Google. He pretty much said it’s a guesstimate, where judging by the previous and current outplaying of events, the future events can be predicted. It’s a sciency term. I have lots of friends in Science.
I’m lying. I have no friends.
So, naturally, I needed to apply the term to myself. Everything is about me. Didn’t you know?
So, what am I doing with my life?
If we extrapolate – nothing.
It’s a sad, true thing.
University fees are quite high. Mother forks out almost 35 grand a year to allow me to attain a highly regarded degree in psychology.
This, again, is not true. I will lie to you a lot in this piece.
Almost three years have since passed, and I will soon graduate, only to return to UKZN as an honours student, rightfully taking up my place as part of the abused furniture. Every year, the usual influx of first years reinforces just how old I am.
I’m 21 this year. I should be married with my firstborn Seth and his pet puppy Cujo. As expected, Zuma has not responded to my proposal.
Who knew 8 wives were too much? Not me.
I arrive at campus before 8am, pick up my morning coffee as if I’m getting ready for a long stretch of work ahead, and light my first public cigarette of the day.
Then I run into a group of misfits on the nicest stairs on Howard Campus and spend a shameful amount of time laughing at haircuts and drivers wasting their petrol while revving unnecessarily. I feel like I’m supposed to be impressed.
I’m not.
Campus can be draining. Why couldn’t some junkie have killed my parents in a dark alleyway, orphaning me, leaving me excessive amounts of money and the drive to become a brooding vigilante?
Wait. I love you, Mom.
Instead I am doomed to spend my days playing thunnee with engineering students who know what cards I have in my hand before they’re dealt, while hoping I remember to call double and not get fourballed for colour-cutting.
I don’t cheat. I’m an honest player. I studied ethics as a large part of psychology in third year.
Dishonesty is frowned upon.
You should be frowning.
Then there’s the hunger. Most mornings I’m too busy sleeping to make lunch.
Yes, my priorities are straight.
There’s always the roti wraps from Uncle Dan, and on those days where you only have 10 bucks, there’s a box of chips with tomato sauce – which you assume is tomato sauce solely because it’s red. But, it’s not. Tomato sauce should not be sweet. Nor semi-transparent.
It’s these daily activities that make campus tiring. Those, and travelling a long damn way to get there. If getting there before 8 isn’t already bad enough, there’s also the tiny little detail that I get home after my afternoon car nap – around 5:30.
This is shortly followed by more sleep.
Sleep is lovely. Don’t you love sleep?
It’s my favourite thing, trumping social networking and eating. Who has time for that anymore?
Worldwide, countless hours are being dedicated to pointless, substanceless conversation about well-being, daily woes and your latest selfie’s Instagram filter.
No. Message me when you want something. It’s okay. I like that. You won’t like my bland, emojiless brand of interaction anyway.
Short-lived communication hardly leaves an impression. In the end, messages are only sent when there’s an avatar that strikes your fancy or a status that remotely relates to you.
“I love pie.”
Oh, my God. ME TOO! We should be friends and talk about it.
Lies. It’s all lies.
We’re all looking for that special someone. I mean, I am.
Don’t you want someone who gets you? Someone who owns less skinny jeans than you and pays less attention to their hair?
These are simple things. I don’t ask for much.
In the mean time, I play online Scrabble with old people and try mighty hard to beat the scores of my 80 Facebook friends in Candy Crush.
I’m past level 300.
Man, I need a life.

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