My Summer Plans

My Ultimate Summer Plans: The Ridiculous Part

Somehow, though I’m not sure why, I seem to get all of my creative inspirations at 1 o’clock in the night, and since I have to write everything down at that very instant, I have to get out of my comfy bed, walk to my desk (which feels like its 10 kilometers away instead of 10 feet when you’re half-asleep), grab a notebook, and describe the idea in excruciating detail (only to find the notebook missing from its place on the pile of books and loose papers (aka my desk) the next morning.)

No surprise then, that this post was written at a time when even the ghouls have given up and gone to sleep. Having finished eight exams, I was in an appropriately coma-like state when the powers of the universe decided to bestow upon me inspiration for a new blog post. As I have painstakingly described in Part 1 of My Ultimate Summer Plans, this one will be about the Ridiculous Part of my grand scheme, which consists of plans that I might be able to do if  I suddenly turn into Wonder Woman (even then there is only a 0.003% chance)-


I’m not completely sure what I was thinking of when I scribbled this down in my list at number 3. Maybe I’d seen one too many 5Minute Crafts videos. Presumably, by “Build Something”, I meant “Build Yet Another Birdhouse, And Panic When The Birds Leave Giant Mountains Of Poop”.

So, the backstory on this is, when we’d first moved into our new house, I was totally into building birdhouses. I even made one out of rolled-up newspapers and hung it outside in the lawn. Needless to say, it rained heavily that night, and the poor birdhouse passed away before ever seeing the light of day. Apparently, I cried so much while cradling the dead, soggy remains of my artistic masterpiece that my father surprised me with a perfect wooden perch two weeks later, on the condition that I’d take care of cleaning it and feeding the birds. Of course, I forgot about it and when I finally did go to clean out the birdhouse a month after its installation, little nine-year-old-me was horrified to see the inside of it smeared with bird droppings (presumably the work of a pigeon with severe diarrhoea). As of last year, the birdhouse proudly resides in a little room we have on the roof, where we store cans of paint and beams of wood and those things.

birds on brown wooden feeds dispenser
Photo by Flickr on


I figure I must’ve been delirious while writing this, too (actually, this can be said for most of my ideas)- thankfully, no tragic backstory here, but there are some pretty embarrassing memories associated with dancing. My first and last attempt at modern dancing was when I’d gone to my first Model United Nations, and the socials were consisted of a Ballroom Dance (for those of you who’re unaware, the socials take place after the prize distribution ceremony, and are basically an excuse to PARTY LIKE MAD!!!!!) (For the people who aren’t established introverts). Feeling very certain about my dancing abilities (or lack thereof), I got onto the dance floor and proceeded to kick my feet and flail my arms and throw my neck in a way that had my friends convinced that I was, at the very least, having violent seizures. One of them even told me that a boy who’d previously been approaching me, slowly backed away in horror as I demonstrated a particularly violent pirouette and kicked myself in the shin.

Yeah, so dancing isn’t exactly a passion, but I’m (maybe) willing to give it another try.


This one sounds like it wouldn’t be quite so difficult to do, if I weren’t so ridiculously attached to EVERY SINGLE THING I’VE EVER OWNED. Seriously, though- I dug through my old cupboard and found the dress I’d worn to my first birthday party, amid lots of clothes that I’d last worn when I was in the third grade. I have every test paper I’ve ever written carefully folded and saved, and I even have my picture books from kindergarten. The weirdest thing of all, though, would be when I’d swatted at a mosquito and accidentally killed it and saved its body between the pages of my old diary (SPOILER ALERT- it’s still there, though a full state funeral is being planned as we speak).

It isn’t even as if I’ve never cleaned my closet- I do that every three-four months. But that basically means that I just fold everything up nicely and put it in piles to avoid having to actually throw (sob!) some of my beloved memorabilia away. This time though, I’m completely serious and firm, and I’ll probably get rid of about five things. Well, it is progress, though.

Okay, so I’m gonna stop recalling more cringe-worthy incidents and just end this post right here.

Signing off,

Yours truly,

A Bibliophile.