Life, my fickle friend
Almost exactly a year ago, on this blog, I’d advised a friend to look you in the eye, and say to you “Game on, bitch.” You didn’t quite like that, did you? Considering you’ve not been very kind to me since then. I know, I know. I took you for granted and all that jazz. We were best buds for a long, long time. In fact, I don’t ever remember falling out with you. And then, you punched me in the face. Smooth move. Well played. I knew I deserved it, so I didn’t say much. I thought we’d shake hands like gentlemen and it’d be like old times again. Clearly, I was wrong. You kept punching me, especially when I least expected it. And then you started pushing it. We had a situation. They would call it ‘disproportionate reaction’ in law school. I know there are more people in your corner. This prolonged battle has drained me out, physically and mentally. You’re winning it right now. No doubt about that. But I think there’s still something left in me. You know what; I’m not going down without a fight. I’m going to lose this honourably. I’m in this for mamma and papa, and I’m going to keep fighting as long as I can. Notwithstanding frustrating ankle injuries just a couple days before inter-batch football starts. Notwithstanding disillusionment that is bordering on indifference. Notwithstanding the cold and cough that continues to plague me 15 days of a month. So yeah, the game’s still on, bitch. I’m still fighting.
Moares
