"He's a Son of a Gun."

I bought an old notebook and a yellow pencil the other day, with the intention of penning down my thoughts onto paper. So I wrote a random, supposedly emo piece of pseudo poetry while people-watching at a cafe. Was not exactly a fantastic day, weather-wise. It was unusually hot and incredibly humid. I had wanted to soak up the sun, but soon regretted choosing an outdoor table because there was hardly any breeze. I couldn't head back indoors since I didn't want to look spastic or fickle minded - like anyone gave a fuck. I couldn't leave because I didn't want to waste my cup of iced-tea, and I didn't want to spend my day off sleeping away. I needed to finish my book - because my Life Plan said so, even if the man kinda already lost me there at Chapter 18: Buddha's Eyelash. Realised my sad, miserable, boring little life is dictated by some random words scribbled down on a notebook. Read more books, less magazines. I should clean up my room, I wrote.

I didn't know how to finish my jaded-inspired couplet.
My iced-tea was tasteless.

I found the notebook and the pencil today, stashed under the mangrove of wires on my table.