why dont you get a haircut? you look like a chrysanthemum.
– P. G. Wodehouse
i smell a bit. havent waxed my legs or arms. there’s a disgusting little heap of cigarettes in an ashtray that appears as though tiny spores of fungus have coated its insides. im craving buttered toast rusks [an indigenous biscuit found in the subcontinental region of india and pakistan] and tea. i need a warm soapy bath, but that can wait because i’m really getting this enormous kick from writing here now.
unit tests hit me in about three days, starting with history and i guess, like the bath, i should even open up that godforsaken textbook and read about Aurangzeb or something. instead i paint pine cones using chrome yellow and violet and they turn out to be strangely comforting pictures.
also got my glasses on so no one sees me. oh its a picture of perfection and the postcard’s gonna read. fuck yeah, we can live like this.
i see my favourite aunt tomorrow and later catch a 1o thirty show for the latest in indian contemporary about a trio of idiots. i thwacked my brother with a hockey stick on his brow; by mistake. i heroically handled the situation and he didnt cry because i kept telling him – its just blood. you still look handsome. just blood.
no stitches, only adhesive tape and words from the scrub-clad doctor – you have a monster of a sister.
well he’s wrong.
other than that, life is caramel hued and amusing, especially in the evening when i have that nice, whole feeling of a productive day because yes, i know sigmund freud’s anti-social self theory and why recall is harder than recognition and the fundamental concepts of most web 2.0 companies and that later at night nat geo will broadcast meet the natives and i can spawn dreams of receiving research grants that will enable me to go to fiji or tanna.
on the 13th im looking forward to the smell of new shoes.
this is far worse than a refrigerator haiku.