| platitudes |

Social agendas can be campy, useless, boring, destructive―I filled my week up with the unfortunate verve of someone looking for distraction, and depsite having a 5,000 word essay on media freedom vis-a-vis commercial agendas and political implications due next week, I said yes, yes and yes to things that just happened.

H wanted to share a bottle of wine at a newly-opened bar.
S tempted me to gatecrash the trade launch of a well-established local daily, just for the kicks.
A wanted to catch a chick flick with the works―hot dogs, mustard, popcorn, candies.
M had an extra invite to a party where the Beautiful People of the Publishing Industry congregate.

I said yes to all of them, half mindlessly; work is escalating again, bringing with it an enormous tidal wave of responsibilities. At the end of each working day, between my mother's herbal tea and my father's stoic lethargy and a strong glass of wine, somehow, the latter seemed more―logical.

With an insipid social agenda―just to 'catch up', 'chill out', 'hang loose'―I don't need to think. I'm not a natural homebody, and mingling is not difficult for me. I can play the whole social 'oh my god you look fabulous!' role really well, if I choose to be, and I have an innate curiousity for people. But at the end of the day, they're all platitudes. Fluff.

That's why I choose to round down my week with a sushi date. Just me, her, a dish of tempura shitake mushrooms between us, along with steaming hot tea and a steady stream of girlish conference.

The bottle of wine with H was fantastic.
The trade launch was fun.
The chick flick and popcorn date with A was suitably distracting.
The party was cool.
But they're all platitudes, blank and empty inside―and like alcohol, these platitudes can be a pleasant shock to the system, but the after taste is a bitter, acid whisper of exhaustion.