At some point of life, people start being nice to someone he dislikes. It doesn't mean that he's a fake; it means he's mature enough to tolerate his dislike towards them. This point of life is called growing up.

There's always something to do, something new, something that goes wrong, something to handle, something to vet, something to look over because I can't bring myself to trust that it can be done, something to force through, something to sacrifice, something to let down, something that requires the extra ounce of effort that I really cannot produce.

It's like trying to patch a burst pipe. One new opening gashes with every hole plastered. I wish my only complain about life is having advert exam this Friday, or regretting not paying attention in lectures/tutorials for the past 17 weeks.

P.s. I should never have gotten myself into this mess in the first place.

Because I'm dumb. And stupidity, unlike literary convention, is not blunt. It cuts.