Dear diary,

And so I blog again.

I'm in this fix; I wouldn't say it's a big fix, nothing that is close to a world-changing event. In fact, it's very inconsequential to anyone else besides me, and even now I'm thinking it isn't really bothering me that much.

Tom is twelve years old. Honestly I wouldn't know what a twelve year old prodigy in English would write, because I wasn't one, as much as I would like to tell myself that. One day when I'm older and getting senile I'll conveniently forget the earlier years of my life and boast to my grandchildren -who wouldn't really bother listening and wished I was dead- that their grandpa had always been a brilliant English prodigy.

I know I said Tom would be a prodigy in art, but I think it's easier for me to work around portraying him as an English prodigy too, or I'd really have to write in crappy sentences just to make it more believable. Besides, I have absolute power to add anything I want into the story, remember? (Read: Previous post) Then, the irony could be that in the process of trying to make Tom more believable, I made him less believable, because humans are conceited little pigs and they wouldn't want to think anyone can be THAT smart, plainly because everyone's so stupid and inadequate.

So that's my dilemma for you. That could be an excuse for not writing as much as I should, but I think not. And on an irrelevant note, I'd like to believe that Tom exists and he's such a smart, talented arse so that places me above other stupid and inadequate human beings, this raising another issue of me being still a conceited little pig but hell, the world's full of so many contradictory possibles I'll just choose to ignore that one. Just like I ignore that I wasn't really a genius in English at age twelve.

Disclaimer: When I said everyone's so stupid and inadequate and people are conceited little pigs, it should be taken with a pinch of salt. And if you are offended and couldn't draw the humour out of it, then it shall rightly so be intended.