“Hey, this piece sucks! At least the grammar’s good”
“I read a fabulous article the other day; too bad the grammar was poor”

Being a writer for over 8 years, I’ve had the luck to work with a number of amazing, inspiring people on a mission to become content writers/ghostwriters/copywriters for the foreign market. Some of them were exceptionally talented; others just had to put more hours into their craftsmanship. Nevertheless, regardless of how (un)well they were doing in terms of their stylistic approach to writing and the topics they were assigned, the thing I would always advise them was to be extra mindful of their grammar. Sometimes — even if the piece itself is failing, good grammar will help its reputation. On that note, here are just a few writing tips shedding light on why bad grammar will ruin your reputation, and ways you can put a stop to it.

IF IT’S NOT YOUR MOTHER TONGUE

Writing in a language that isn’t your mother tongue can be really tricky; but — if you want to be taken seriously by your target readership and your clients — you need to make it impeccable. Why? Because poor grammar is not only offensive to your fellow writers who have spent years learning how to manipulate grammar to their writing advantage but to your target-readership, too. What is more, foreigners whose language you are writing in won’t think your bad grammar is “cute” or “adorable” — they want a piece by a professional who knows what they are saying and is capable of properly writing it down.

I think most people agree there is a component of skill in art making; you have to learn grammar before you learn how to write.

- Chris Van Allsburg

Some of the most common grammar mistakes I keep seeing on LinkedIn, in Medium posts and other author-blogs are:

• Article omission
• Article stuffing
• Poorly communicated thoughts failing to meet the English sentence formation (i.e. a writer’s mother tongue sentence poorly translated into English)
• The attempt to sound professional/educated by using archaic, uncommon words and expressions, then failing to communicate your end-idea properly
• Confusing, unfortunate punctuation
• Using wrong idioms & prepositions
• Vague pronoun references
• Subject-verb agreement errors
• Split infinitives
• Run-on sentences

If you’re writing a post/comment/blog/etc. that needs to be immediately published and you’ve got no time to thoroughly inspect your piece for potential grammar failures, consult with your trusted colleagues. A second pair of eyes will do wonders, believe me!

*I consulted with a colleague in putting together the list of most common grammar mistakes

Your grammar is a reflection of your image. Good or bad, you have made an impression. And like all impressions, you are in total control.

- Jeffrey Gitomer

(BAD) GRAMMAR IS (ALSO) A MATTER OF RESPECT

Whoever’s interested in reading your post, they want to understand who you are as a writer, and what makes your voice different to everyone else’s. On that note, your (potential) readership will give you a chance but will hardly stick around longer than you let them. If your language is bad, they’ll leave. If your grammar is poor, they’ll leave too. The moment you start trying to sound a certain way (i.e. using popular GOT & fiction language irrelevant to your topic and overall writing bravura), is the moment the audience smells the bullshit and leaves. Why? Everyone is looking for authenticity and honesty, and the sooner you try to trick the readers with (false) linguistic ornaments that disagree with your style, your writing potentials and your creative expression, the faster they’ll be onto you.

As a writer or an English language communicator, you need to know your cadence, the art of your intended narrative and the music of your prose. Don’t spoil the harmony of your piece by punishing it with nasty grammar. In all honesty, almost half the writing is about good grammar skills! So, unless yours is impeccable, invest in upgrading your grammar skills by learning, reading other writers and interesting pieces, and scribbling your own try-pieces before you hit “publish”. The fact you’ll be working on upgrading your grammar doesn’t mean you have to stop writing altogether; it only means you are giving your vocabulary and grammar a chance to grow, so you can grow as a writer yourself.

Whether you are writing LinkedIn posts, project announcements, ads, job posts, blogs, Medium articles, or just leaving a comment on someone else’s post — make sure you watch your grammar. Otherwise, you’ll only run the risk of sounding unprofessional, uneducated and ignorant — and that’s not an image you want to build for yourself.

On 24th March 1999 I was 10 years old and completely oblivious to what evil sounds like. But then — I heard the first NATO bomb fall. I knew then just as I know now — it’s the sound I’ll remember till the rest of my life.

Imagine 9/11 happening for three months.
Have you?
Good.
That’s how it was for us.

The former U.S. president Bill Clinton who was later known as the guy who “did not have sexual relations with that woman” decided it was time NATO aggression found its way into Serbia, the country that had already been stricken by economic crisis, an internal crisis, poverty and people who survived the Bosnian war. On his mission to make a point and teach Slobodan Milosevic (the former president of Serbia, ex Yugoslavia) a lesson, he decided the best way to do it was kill thousands of children, women, men and the elderly, and cause so much material damage that the country won’t be able to recover from decades later.

Hospitals and schools were destroyed, bridges and entire neighborhoods were burned; some children were born in the most devastating conditions, others died without ever seeing the beauty of this world. Some of our fathers and brothers were called in to fight the NATO and were away for months: we had no idea if they were alive or not. Others stayed at home to try and protect whoever’s left. Our mothers kept making up stories to beautify a reality that was too difficult to bare.

The power would go out every night at 9 PM. The sirens would sound every two hours, each time a NATO plane flew over. To us kids, the bombs looked like (loud) fireworks. Only, we knew those fireworks weren’t the birthday ones.

Living here, I’ve seen injustice and suffering in its purest form; I’ve seen people die before my own eyes, people like you and me — hopeful and innocent. I’ve seen bad people do good things, and good people do the worst of things. I’ve seen horror and I’ve seen life: intertwined, they are everything a country on the Balkans is expected to be — a survivor. Chronically suffering from a Fenix-syndrome, no matter how many times we get destroyed, we rise up and still find it in us to fight.

My country is one of the most beautiful pieces of planet Earth. It’s where I learned to think and walk, it’s where my mother decided she’ll work two jobs to help me get where I am today. My country is where my grandfather was first held in a concentration camp, then made run barefoot from Jarak to Sabac (just because he was a Serb), a run that would later be named “blood march”. Serbia is where my best friend gave birth to her baby daughter and where I hope to give birth to my child one day. This is the country where my uncle died fighting in the Bosnian war and Ivo Andric got his Nobel Prize. It’s the country of chance, history, and victory. But it’s the county of tremendous loss, suffering, and injustice, too.

Nineteen years later, on 24th March, many of you still have no idea there ever was a bombing on the Balkans, Europe. Many of you are oblivious to the terror that was forced on a tiny, helpless country back in 1999 and it’s possible you’ll never understand the magnitude of our loss. It breaks my heart you never heard the news back in 1999, or — even worse: that you did, but changed the channel. Still, do know this: everything that happened to me can happen to you, too.

The evil is spreading, and no one is doing anything of substance to put a stop to it. Instead, we write blog posts. Yes, posts just like this one. NATO bombed Serbia back in 1999. The irony of this post? I’m writing it in English.

PLEASE, WATCH THE VIDEO BELOW. LET’S ALL TRY AND LOVE MORE, FIGHT LESS AND GIVE A HELPING HAND TO THOSE IN NEED:

SRBIMA KOJI OVO ČITAJU:

Zapamtite ove ljude i setite se da su bez reči, i bez ikakvih uslova krenuli da brane ovu zemlju. Odajte im počast gledanjem ovog dokumentarca, i čuvajte ih zauvek u svojim srcima. A onima koji su preživeli pošaljite najlepše misli.

Potpukovnik Života Đurić, pilot 98. lovačko-bombarderskog puka. Oboren je iznad Kosova 25. marta 1999. godine

Major Zoran Radosavljević, pripadnik 204. lovačkog puka. Oboren je 26. marta 1999. u rejonu Loznice.

Pukovnik Milenko Pavlović, komandant 204. lovačkog puka. Poginuo 4. maja iznad Valjeva u borbi sa NATO lovcima.

General-major Ljubiša Veličković, raniji komandant RV i PVO, iako penzionisan, leteo je u prvim danima bombardovanja. Poginuo je 1. juna 1999. na raketnoj stanici u okolini Pančeva.

Lately, I’ve been hearing a lot of this 21st-century nonsense called “It’s about the way you sell yourself”. Well, no it’s not. Although being a great salesperson that has an exquisite manner of promoting themselves is wonderful, such attitude will only get you so far — especially if you don’t actually know how to do the work you are selling yourself for.

I am a firm believer in quality, hard work, talent, and dedication, as well as being honest about how much you can and cannot do. Knowing your boundaries is beautiful, just as knowing your strengths is. Both make you stronger, more determined and — ultimately — successful. It is not until we learn what our business passion actually is that we can become experts in our chosen fields. On that note, while cutting corners and accepting a project you may be up for (based on your previous knowledge and experience) does make sense (after all, you learn through your work), the recently popularized mantra “Fake it until you make it” is diminishing and disrespectful to everyone who’s actually spent years working on themselves and their craft, in the field you only deign to try working in. Isn’t it just a tad comical, this attitude of being above anyone and everything else, and getting something in return by doing nothing (or faking that you are doing it)? It sure is.

Learning, and wanting to (actively) learn is one of the finest qualities to have. Being ambitious and not giving up is admirable, as well. But faking it? Now, that’s just wrong. The ‘Fake it until you make it” mantra will only get you so far, especially if you are working with knowledgeable, experienced professionals that aren’t easy to fool. Although “the way you sold yourself” may have been a winner initially, failing to actually deliver results you’ve promised you would will not only cost the firm its time, effort, and money but — most importantly — it will cost you, too. The price? Embarrassment. Observing the scene for a while, I’ve come to realize that — it is only a matter of time when you’ll find yourself job hopping more often than you’d like to, and, ultimately, lose your integrity and professional credibility in the long run. All of a sudden, your CVs get longer, your (actual) experience gets shorter — and all you are left with is a semi-career in the business you semi-liked to begin with. “Fake it until you make it” mantra is pretty similar in its base concept to the girl who cried wolf. How so? They were both believed for the first few times… until they weren’t.

I do understand the love of a challenge.
I do understand wanting to test your limits.
I do understand ambition, and I wholeheartedly support it.
What I don’t understand is trying to be something you are not.

The most phenomenal professionals are people who find their light, their talent, and creative impulse — and follow it. Excelling at your talent is the most rewarding thing in the world! Trying to be the best in everything will only leave you frustrated and barely qualified for anything. And you are better than that, aren’t you? We all are.

Love yourself enough to find your own professional passion instead of trying to steal someone else’s. Your colleagues will appreciate it, your potential employers will appreciate it, and — ultimately — so will you.

Who are you going to hold onto if not each other?

I hope no one ever again has to march.
March demanding equality and recognition.
Or the freedom to love — the gender they want.
Or the right to be appreciated — for everything they are.
I hope the walls of prejudice fall once and for all and open up a world of acceptance, understanding and compassion.
I hope everyone will hold hands freely, kiss publicly and say “I do”s supported by the law.
I hope love will get bigger than you, and me and — life itself.
Because love is life, and where there isn’t love or one is denied love — there is no life worth living.

In this life, there aren’t absolute truths, nor there are absolute wrongs; there are opinions and arguments subjectively and individually grouped by relevance, genre, trend and appeal.

I have a rainbow flag in my room; it sits in the left corner of my desk, right next to R.M. Drake’s quote saying “All I wanted to tell you are the right words to make you fall in love with yourself again”. The flag was picked up from a gay club one drunken night out in Belgrade with one of my best friends. To some, this flag means absolutely nothing. To many— it means everything. As far as I am concerned, this rainbow, a token from a night out, stands as a reminder of all the lives I might have lived but didn’t. It stands for every gay friend I have and adore, for every ex girlfriend and boyfriend those I love had loved and lost. For those I myself have loved and lost. It is a reminder of every honest conversation, honest emotion, honest hope I’ve shared with those close to me. And every gay relationship that’s healthier, longer and has more substance than plenty straight relationships I know. This flag is a reminder that love, energy and emotion don’t recognize gender but exist, circulate and form to accommodate the soul. From where I stand, this rainbow is freedom — a freedom to be happy, appreciated and accepted — not for who you love but for the way you love them.

Love is life, and where there isn’t love or one is denied love — there is no life worth living.

When you think about the life we live, most of it is spent struggling with something — our body image, identity, confidence, religion, the amount of money we have or the love we hope to find. We constantly twirl in discussions with no solid endings, hoping to prove points that aren’t just ours to prove. In this life, there aren’t absolute truths, nor there are absolute wrongs; there are opinions and arguments subjectively and individually grouped by relevance, genre, trend and appeal. Hey, if it happens we get passionate about the same thing, great. We’ve got something in common. Other than that, life is not ours to judge. At the end of the day — we are all the same. We’re all equally lost for solutions, happy in our little victories, hopeful in our grand plans and even bigger dreams. We are all persistent to err and succeed. Resentful in our mistakes, betrayed or honored, we push and fight, we rebel. We laugh and we cry, we tear and rise again. We bleed and heal, we’re unstoppable — everyone at their own pace, in the way they know best. We are all human, and that’s our power.

The night I picked up the flag was the night before the Parade. I remember my friend saying how walking the Parade was stupid because she and her girlfriend are “just fine in their apartment” and “why would anyone want to walk for something that will never happen”. I had more than a few tequila shots in me, so naturally, I argued: “But, doesn’t it sadden you that you can’t kiss her or hold her hand when you are out?” or “Do you not want to be at liberty to hug her around the waist in public or introduce her to your parents as more than just your best friend?” Her voice started breaking as she whispered “More than anything in life”.

I hope you never get to live this feeling. I hope I never do, either.

I hope the walls of prejudice fall once and for all and open up a world of acceptance, understanding and compassion.

In the name of all idealists out there, I’ll dare say this: life comes down to coming home to someone you love, regardless of their appearance, their gender or their bank balance. I mean, who are you going to hold onto if not each other? I love to think we’re all one and we’re all fluid. I love the energy we share, the power of being, the truth of every single emotion we carry. I love the power each and every one of us carries within, that unique, beautiful power to make the other person love (us).

We’ve managed to turn something so simple and pure into a philosophical matter when all we were supposed to do was just let things be — love who we want and let others do the same.

Acceptance.
Tolerance.
Support.
Compassion.

Look it up. Please.

This flag is a reminder that love, energy and emotion don’t recognize gender but exist, circulate and form to accommodate the soul.

The Parade came and went, but my friend never marched. Still, she and her girlfriend did go out that night. And they were holding hands. In the dark. When no one was looking. Tiny rebellions do give birth to grand pleasures, don’t they?

As I was walking naked around my apartment on a Friday night, in the heat that was so intense it felt like it was about to melt my life away any minute, I got struck by one of those excruciatingly uncomfortable thoughts that hit you out of nowhere and for no reason at all: am I happy? Just a few hours earlier I had tears of laugher mess up my mascara and a flock of my favorite people around me as we were making plans to spend the summer in Italy. In that moment, right there — life was good, it really was. And I was happy.

I wasn’t bipolar nor was I on any type of meds, ever. I guess what I was suffering from, or better — am suffering from — is a sense of incompleteness caused by self-imposed and socially triggered expectations I haven’t learned to process right.

But then, I looked down at my tits and remembered I disliked my nipples; I didn’t like my legs or my hips, either. A pimple on my cheek had already taken office on the left side of my face and I wasn’t even rich enough to quickly jump in the car that I didn’t own and drive myself off to the beautician I didn’t book. Suddenly, what normally makes me extremely proud — the fact I’ve had to work since a very early age to earn money and build a name for myself instead of just enjoy the privileges of being born into riches and oblivion — disgusted me. I hated that the cleaning lady I didn’t have won’t come in to help clean the mess I made because I was too busy chasing pavements. I felt miserable, so profoundly miserable without any obvious roots to trace that feeling to.

“If you are going to live somewhere, anywhere — live where people are passionate and open because if we close up, if we don’t build relationships, we’ll end up miserable.”

I mean, I had a great job, a fine paycheck, the most amazing friends in the world that made me feel loved every single day. I had several side business projects I was juggling and I even developed a crush on this guy that was so charming that he made my throat go dry each time he would touch me. Still, it wasn’t enough. A discomfort, a very familiar discomfort of the PM hours took over my day in a second, and I couldn’t shake it off. I wasn’t bipolar nor was I on any type of meds, ever. I guess what I was suffering from, or better — am suffering from — is a sense of incompleteness caused by self-imposed and socially triggered expectations I haven’t learned to process right.

But, is that it? Is internal happiness defined by the external reactions? Have the external expectations grown so subliminally powerful that they’ve become the reason we constantly feel not good enough? I bet all psychology books and life coaching seminars would tell us we should pause THAT feeling and hit PLAY on self-awareness. Nevertheless, we repeatedly continue to suffer from something almost phantom-like but yet so palpable that you can almost grab it by the hand and take it out for some ice-cream… or a plate of mental breakdowns.

To distract myself from whatever the fuck I was feeling, I did the most logical thing of all — the dishes. Like a silver-lining a talk from the other day run through my mind:

“I dislike sad people, they make me sad. Even when it’s my sadness, when it’s internal, I just let it go.” — said a colleague to me the other day as I commented on her always being in the best spirits. “And it’s not that I never get sad, I do. I just process it fast. You have to put on a face, a happy face to be happy. I’ve got a lot of things going on but when it comes to choosing between being sad and being happy — I choose the latter”.

She is Syrian, this colleague of mine — and absolutely gorgeous, if I may add. In her mid-30s, with her hair charcoal black, her eyes radiating wisdom, the type of self-confidence you could cut with a knife, and a very low tolerance for bullshit, the woman owned the room. I’ve found her aura luminous from the moment we met. She seemed like one of those people who, if she were your friend, would lift you up. I loved that about her.

Mind you, the first conversation we had was about gender (ir)relevance, her life in Fiji and a very successful career at the stock market she’d built. The conversation went on to discuss the dynamics of this country she’s found herself in with her reminiscing and casually comparing experiences from before to the one she’s living now. “I love people with fire in them”, she said. “If you are going to live somewhere, anywhere — live where people are passionate and open because if we close up, if we don’t build relationships, we’ll end up miserable.” I remembered just sitting there, listening. It wasn’t anything new to me what she was saying but it was new to hear someone openly talk about it. “You have that. The passion, I mean. The kind of passion that doesn’t care about her red lipstick ending up all over her face if she feels like kissing. It’s admirable, actually”. I then offered her some of my fruit salad while starting to feel overwhelmed.

Have the external expectations grown so subliminally powerful that they’ve become the reason we constantly feel not good enough?

“You are amazing”, I said as she laughed. “Honestly, fantastic. I think you are my favorite person at the office at this point”.

She told me she was divorced, has a 9-year-old son and a boyfriend she’s been seeing for a while. Usually, hearing people talk about divorce makes you want to hug them and hand them a tissue or your therapist’s number but her talk was more a gospel about freedom and love in its purest form than a lament for a past life. “It is what it is, it’s life. Love happens, and then life happens and sometimes the two combined aren’t really a picture you want to look at for longer than a minute. I am all about healthy relationships. After all, it took me so and so years to build a relationship with myself. Do I really get to disrespect myself and stay in a relationship that doesn’t make me happy? No. I am fine on my own, even if it meant being alone forever. It’s solid.” I rarely ever pick up idols along the way but this time around I was sure she was the type of a woman I should strive to form myself into.

I felt miserable, so profoundly miserable without any obvious roots to trace that feeling to.

As I am finishing this post, I am sitting on the floor, wrapped in a bedsheet (I can’t really sit on the floor butt-naked, now can I?) and a few remaining, maybe even too forward-thinking thoughts: what if, WHAT IF… we risked, and really just decided to be happy?

What you are about to read has too many angry undertones. So, if you are one of the faint-hearted, please skip.

I’m writing this at a very specific time in my life; it’s more of an online journal thing than it is intended for anyone in particular to read. In that sense, judge it all you want but unlike what you’ll find around, this post is devoid of political correctness and sugarcoating. I couldn’t help it; I’m just genuinely pissed at what’s around me.

Anyhow, here’s how the story goes:

Once upon a time, in a land far far away there was a multitude of bullshit roaming around coming from self-proclaimed intellectuals & petty wannabe artists, attention-thirsty fuckers and too many aimless people that didn’t know what to do with themselves.

The relationships have become hollow, love has vanished into thin air, and pretence took over. Suddenly, dishonesty became the main ingredient of almost any human interaction you’d stumble upon. Everyone has worn a smile, a smile that so disgustingly reminded of honesty that anyone who was thirsty for affection (most people were, really) would easily have it mistaken for realness.

Then, those who had brains (or at least some of it) would spot the fakeness behind the whole charade from a mile away and gag. Then, craving affection but getting perpetually betrayed, they’d spend afternoons in tears justifying others and neglecting their own needs; but you have to pay a price for not being able to fake it, right? And that’s all that was — a rollercoaster of pretence we were all buying into, and — for some twisted reason — were dying to participate in.

The culture we ourselves had built transformed into a living & breathing creature of its own, a vacuum if you will, that would chew and spit us out, leaving us to struggle for air.

We’d become such grand victims of our own projections, fears, and expectations so much so that, at times, it felt impossible to live. Or be true. But that same culture wanted us — no, scratch that — demanded we kept on smiling. So we did. Sorry, we have. Gracefully. At least until we get drunk, high or go fuck someone randomly to fill the void of the honest sentiment that was actively slipping through our fingers. Pathetic. Yes, we were all too pathetic and too happy to entertain the sadness of our jolly fakeness.

There was a multitude of bullshit roaming around coming from self-proclaimed intellectuals & petty wannabe artists, attention-thirsty fuckers and too many depressed people that didn’t know what to do with themselves. The relationships have become hollow, love has vanished into thin air, pretense took; suddenly, dishonesty took over and became the main ingredient of almost any human interaction you’d stumble upon.

The self-proclaimed intellectuals very quickly took over and somehow persuaded the pathetic bunch that (we’d already been) that they’re fantastic in what they do and have to offer. They made us worship them, seek them out, want them. Their empty thoughts decorated with pompous phrases that reminded of points, knowledge, education, and depth had been successfully tricking the majority into thinking these people have really got something going on. But it was empty, it was all empty.

The louder they were, the emptier their actions were. But we loved it, every second of it. The degenerated bunch, confused in our own bullshit, we were eating THEIR sweet BS with a cherry on top all while hoping someone will eat ours. Sometimes, there were those who did; other times, not so much.

Back to the quasi-intellectuals. For some reason, we were quiet to tell those hollow-heads to go fuck themselves and read some grammar before they call themselves writers; we were too scared to tell them off when they’d fail to deliver a service they were supposedly excellent at.

We never fought to understand who gave them the right to put themselves on the pedestal and keep on selling swamplands in Florida to the insecure and naive. Hey, but we let them. It’s our own fault that they’ve taken the spotlight and pushed the real deals into the shades.

I guess these self-proclaimed intellectuals had to polish their own apple as nobody else was polishing it for them. It was sad, all of it.

The culture we ourselves had built transformed into a living & breathing creature of its own, a vacuum if you will that would chew and spit each and every one of us out, leaving us to struggle for air.

The creatives? They were on Instagram, for the most part. Nothing to bang your head about, really. A few photographs here and there, a little VSCO and voila — you call yourself an artist. Sweet, innit? There were some good ones, though.

The attention-thirsty fuckers were the most common group. They were everywhere; they laughed loud, they talked much, they posted everything about their lives on social media, they had their phones close-by 24/7, they were those annoying creatures starting up a conversation about how amazing they were when it was clear that they weren’t. Some people called them extroverts, others called them attention-whores. The rest? The rest knew they were just insecure and lonely. They needed to get it out somehow. I get that.

The culture of eat or be eaten, crack or endure got us all spinning in circles. We were looking for something bigger, something more important than this. We had our eyes set on the prize although we never learnt what the prize was. It was heart-breaking and nerve-wracking.

As for the depressed? Well, that’s a whole different story.

This depression if you will had a very strange, almost linear stream of times it would kick in. Often, with no rhyme or reason, the supposedly depressed would go on a soul-searching venture whenever they’d feel bored, rejected or a failure.

The term “depression” became very frequent among the youth but got a very loose form at the same time. Why? It was rarely ever the real diagnoses. That — what many referred to as depression — was more of a mood swing session in the midst of humanly feelings & impulses burst we didn’t have the skill to marry to the uncertainty, rejection, evil and falsehood we were all living. But it was easier to call your weird feelings a term it was already around than deal with what you were actually going through.

You had meetings, for crying out loud. Deadlines. An image of strength to entertain. No one had the time to dig deep, really. And why should they — they’d get fucked either way.

In this climate of twisted manners, it was hard, it was very hard to process all the feelings we all had but weren’t supposed to have. It was too hard to handle those who called themselves depressed while chilling on a yacht of their father’s. It was too hard to stay chill in a culture that bites your head off when you are real. It was just too hard.

We were all too pathetic and too happy to entertain the sadness of our jolly fakeness.

There was this girl I knew, she was too gorgeous. But she was shit. She talked shit, she delivered shit in her work, she was a shitty friend. She was sly and had daddy issues. But she was an artist, supposedly. Her art was shit, too. I knew too many like her.

It was easier to call your weird feelings a term it was already around than deal with what you were actually going through. You had meetings, for crying out loud. Deadlines. An image of strength to entertain. No one had the time to dig deep, deal. And why should they — they’d get fucked either way.

And this guy? Handsome to the point you droll. Chasing after every skirt he sees. He always had condoms on him, just in case. Capacity to emotionally commit? Zero. But very creative in ways he seduces. Too big of a pussy to handle. There were plenty of his sort out there.

We were all insecure in our own right, all of us. The fake, the real and the bunch still struggling to figure out who they were. But the pretence and the paradox kept on blossoming.

We were all sadists and masochists, and it was fine until it wasn’t. The culture of eat or be eaten, crack or endure got us all spinning in circles. We were looking for something bigger, something more important than this. We had our eyes set on the prize although we never learnt what the prize was. It was heart-breaking and nerve-wracking. For the most part, at least.

But the skies kept on being pink and blue, even after rain. That’s the only thing we collectively looked forward to seeing together. And life kept on being kind of great along with the schizophrenia of breathing. Other than that, bite me if I know.