Unproductive.
Ever had those days when you find yourself at a loss on what to do? You’d feel chained with lethargy; anything you do would be as unproductive as a rabbit experimenting the concept of abstinence.
I attempted to fold the mounds of unfolded clothes in my wardrobe (digesting the importance of household chores, which is supposedly attainable from all the army regimentation shit, is inconceivable for my case), but I reckoned it’ll amount to nothing as I’ll give up halfway. My nose has all the prowess of a bloodhound’s, hence it’ll probably act up from all the dust. I’ll most likely end up spraying all the clothes with bacteria, and I’d have to get them washed again. Unproductive.
I attempted to draw something to add to my portfolio, so I can at least deceive myself with the idea that I still have talent. Alas, the blisters on my palms that I’ve gotten from incessant chin-ups deter my ability to successfully manoeuvre a 3B pencil. What good would that do, unless I plan to emulate a toddler’s creative interpretation of his kindergarten teacher (which oddly looks like Gandalf with a case of leprosy instead)? Unproductive.
I attempted to clean my sister’s room (mine’s always spotless, ruling out the insides of the wardrobe), but her humble sanctuary’s littered with all the different kinds of bra you can imagine, I applaud my younger brother for being able to share the room with her without deciding on a full-time career at Orchard Towers. No, I’m not one of those boys who still believe in the existence of cooties. I just don’t like the fact that I won’t know whether the next pair of bra I pick up from the floor carries what invisible residue that excretes from my sister’s mammaries. Mentally scarring, I know. Verdict? Unproductive.
In conclusion, I think I’m better of just sitting here, resuming my being as unproductive as a rabbit experimenting the concept of abstinence.
The story of my life.
Named Shafik, I am no more than a guy who only recently forayed into his twenties. Dramatic screams over acne breakouts and missing cans of hairspray are but things of the past, with the advent of my NS life. Due to my ineptitude in typing an encapsulation of myself in a short para, I'll just follow up with random phrases. Freelance designer, Singaporean, 21, cheese fries, the smell of paper, ice longan, swimming, hand sanitizers, donuts, staring contests, falling asleep without the intention to, adhesives, laughing at little kids when they fall, burning stuff, moderately-sharpened 3B pencils.