Here's something for you to consider:
what would happen if every single person in the world had your name.
Here's another thought for you to ponder upon: why do you keep coming
back here when I repeat every freaking sentence structure, pattern of
word usage, and other semantics every damn(overused word) time.
Also(yes, it's an ironic use of 'also', targeted at my own overuse of
'also' and 'and' to begin sentences because I can't be bothered to do
better) (and yes, this is also an ironic take on my peppering my
writing with braces to explain things that are not directly relevant
(ie, irrelevant) to the topic under discussion.), would you like to
read a fiction whose format I came up with?
This is an attempt at fiction that's
different. Let's see where this goes.
I was nine. My uncle had just returned
from America. He said he had a gift for me, and he would give it to
me only if I were a good boy. I had always been a good boy, hadn't I?
His nieces wife's side came over unexpectedly from India, and he gave
them the gifts he had bought for me. Three twelve-year old girls got
American T-Shirts. I got nothing.
I didn't cry. I wasn't there; I felt
like an outcast. The flash flood of that afternoon swept one of my
friends away. I really wanted to go to watch the new Salman Khan
movie where he double-times his wife despite loving her profusely, as
he claims in the songs. My friends wanted to go swim. I was thirteen.
I was fifteen. My classmates and I went
to a restaurant for an all-nighter. We were not sure why were doing
it or what we were doing, but we knew that fun was going to be had
and we would be grown men after the night. My dad picked me up at
midnight against my wishes. The night that my friends lost their
virginity to cheap middle-aged streetwalkers. I remained virgin.
I was terrified. I was the only one
from my class who got published. I didn't want want to get published
so I made up the most outlandish tale that I could conjure and forced
what I thought were the most cliched tropes as a joke. My English
teacher made our class submit stories to the newspaper. I was
sixteen.
I was eighteen. My group of friends was
slowly thinning out thanks to relationships and those guys and girls,
so I summed up courage and asked out a girl a year junior to me. I
was soon going out with the most cute and lovably nerdy
seventeen-year old our school had. I was bored.
I was deflowered. I surprised everyone
by making the conversation last four hours. My Biology class was on a
trip to Pokhara and the Banda muddled our travel plans so we went to
a lakeside bar and I got myself into a bet on how long I could chat
up that cute girl sitting next to her emo friend talking to the two
large east-European guys. I was nineteen.