Rabid monkeys with fancy tools

Let me predict my future. Three years from now. It’d be the year of the Ox again. I’ll be 24, graduated, old, penniless and probably single (being optimistic) .. If things go as planned, I’ll be in Kay-el, trying to make a living through writing. Preferably creative writing, but a writer’s gotta whore herself sometimes. By jove, I might even end up working for some beauty magazine. Or even become a teacher, god forbid. But let’s stick to idealistic dreams, shall we. A freelance writer. Maybe have a little weekly column. Too ambitious. A bi-weekly column. Publish a short story or two in some obscure short story compilation. Write a script and get it produced.
I don’t know what else. Would I still be able to hang out with the same friends? Highly impossible, isn’t it. This blog, by then, would probably have been abandoned some time back. Friendster would be defunct, just like ICQ. This laptop that I’m typing on would surely have become shit-fodder.
Would I look back and think, man, my 21st was crazy. What the hell was I thinking? Would I remember all those people I loved and lost, would I remember them with the same fervour as I do now? Would I fester and rot in those memories or would they have, as is natural with me, gone with the next train? I’m so full of contradictions, it pains me. It really does.
Three years isn’t very long, but boy is it unimaginable, to an extent. People would have come and gone and come again and gone back to wherever people go. But I’ll still be around. Look me up, you’ll find me. If you still know who I am, that is. You go, ‘Yeah, that crazy girl who laughs too loud and wears flip flops and has incorrigible habits. What’s her name again? What is her goddamned name again?’

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