Love and Torsos

Recently I was given the privilege to write for a book project approved by the university press. Along with six others, I will be writing an English piece centred on Erik Erikson’s Stages of Psychosocial Development. Surprise, surprise, I went with Love, or Intimacy versus Isolation. As of now I have no idea what to write, so I asked around and interviewed random people. Plot fuel, as JonnThn called it. Turns out writing about love is very hard, and all my attempts so far are just… no. I’ve forced myself to write, but unlike my bestest friend, it didn’t go too well (not that his was all rainbows and unicorns, but hey, he managed).

Rummaging through old notebooks helped, in a way; realisations from two, three years ago gave my barren mind a bit more to process, though I barely recognised most of my writings. It seemed so long ago, and I seemed so different.

Let me tell you about one thing that truly bugs me and thoroughly derails my train of thought: male torsos. I don’t care if it’s fat or flat or flabby or washboard-abs. TORSOS ARE MY ULTIMATE FEMALE WEAKNESS. So when three of my good friends decided to flash each other with their torsos with me as an accidental audience, naturally I went ballistic. Smooth torso, hairy torso, big tummy torso… PLEASE. Let all the deities never put me through that kind of agony ever again. There is a reason I avoid swimming tournaments.

(013) My favourite quote

“It is the time you lavished on your rose which makes your rose so important.”


Nothing ever happens to me.





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