Ah, yet another weekend whiling away in the realms of nothingness. My productivity, once a towering monument of ambition, now resembles a deflated balloon drifting aimlessly in the winds of apathy. I've become a connoisseur of reels, consuming them with voracity only to find my memory retaining a paltry 0.1%.
This weekend's escapades included rendezvous with a friend over beers, indulging in kebabs, indulging in more beers whilst watching a movie, and attempting to convince myself that I'm the next Wimbledon champion during a round of tennis. Alas, the list ends there, leaving me feeling like a protagonist missing a crucial plot twist.
The absence of progress in my trivia web app, the stagnant pool of my Spring Boot knowledge, and the immobile state of my supposed "trading career" all serve as reminders of my existence on a hamster wheel of procrastination. And don't get me started on the enigma of why I can't dive deeper into trading—apparently, time consumption is a real thing, who knew?
Despite the lack of substantial achievements, this weekend's journey wasn't entirely devoid of charm. Yet, lurking in the shadows of contentment is the ominous premonition of impending doom—a harbinger of someone, somewhere, making me rue these moments of leisure.
Oh, and let's not forget the epic tale of the half-liter milk consumption, culminating in a symphony of stomach pain. A saga so grand, it deserves its own chapter in the annals of trivial pursuits.
Are these woes universal or are they the plight of us "aliens" wandering amidst the mundanity of existence? The answer eludes me, much like the plot of those forgotten reels.
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