:)

Starvation is uncomfortable.

There was a time when I used to eat throughout the day and night and then have a so called midnight snack and then go to bed. And then I’d be telling myself, ‘Tomorrow I will starve myself so that I don’t put on weight’, but, alas, tomorrow never came.

Now that I’m starving with no intention of losing weight, I look back, drooling, wishing I could eat all day again.

Living in a hostel is hell, especially when you’re on a strict budget and you get food only at a particular time, shitty food at that. It’s not like home where you could walk up to the fridge anytime and have a variety of things to choose from to eat. It’s not like home where you could tell mom to make something for you or make something yourself. Ah, home, I miss home so much.

I look into my fridge, it has been empty for weeks since my roomie has gone back home, empty but for random things with which I cannot satisfy my hunger. I look in and see a tray of eggs, and my mind rushes past a few random things like Humpty Dumpty and Eggbert and points out with bright orange and green neon lights on to one thing that I’ve neglected for a long, long time: this blog.

And then I found myself looking at those neglected, tucked away eggs, saying, “Dear little oval orbs…”

today my mother was yelling over the phone and my ear felt like a slaughter house.
the earth is dying of dying people. dying people are raping the planet. old men everywhere should lose their teeth they'd look much more human that way.
none of this is funny. my nose is very runny. outside my room its sunny. lets slaughter a suicidal bunny.

to be accurate about my identity, im just a fucking vagina. and since im one of those shy ones by the world's standards, i suppose non existence would be a more pleasant option.

lets never eat cockroaches.

Cold sunshine flooded the lyrical terrains of William's long-ish, yet not entirely grandiloquent, beard. A warm drizzle. William picked up the paintbrush, and gazed uncertainly at the fine bristles converging to an invisible, almost pointless point in space, and spelled out, with inflection grave, a qudrasyllabic word, emotion, state-of-existence. M-e-l-a-n-c-h-o-l-y. Melancholy, he whispered again, and refused to blink, refused to let the teardrop feel some serious stubble. A knock.

- Who is it?

- B.

- As opposed to?

- Bee.

- Come in.

Mr.B, emotionally gravid, physically inept, perched himself on William's lap.

- Do you not feel tender?

- Shut up, William. I dig you.

- Don't give me ideas.

- I thought you were a closet case?

- I'm straight as an arrow. But not quite penetrating.

- That's where the melancholy comes from?

- I shall inflict on humanity despicable humour, jokes that never quite existed.

- Fuck the broken lyricism, trying-to-be-witty depressive-shit. Let's be normal.

- And.

- One of these days, I'm going to cut you into little pieces.

- How intimidating.

The rest is, of course, history.

(Postmodernism. Bah. I'd rather meditate with Marcus Aurelius.)

Mr. B, quite exasperated with the hyperbolic workings of his cerebral system, decided to put an end to the lack-of-clarity and unimaginable horror of thinking by cutting off his head. So, in a dingy little room filled with butterfly wings and decaying rib-cages of dead family members, Mr.B started planning, equipped with a pink sketch pen, custard-yellow handmade paper and an empty useless ink bottle. The plan was prosaic, precise and plaintively perfect. A snippet:

Requirements:

1. Head

2. Sharp cutting device

3. Sound-proof walls

Experiment:

1. Use sharp-cutting device to cut off head.

2. Sound-proof walls shall not serve any definite purpose.

Inference: (..)

Having written the plan, Mr.B went out to buy a sharp cutting device, capable of decapitating a human head as well as fine cucumber slicing, the one-of-a-kind cutting device, which had to be imagined as well as constructed, a beauty, a poem, an ouch. Mr.B scoured the hopeless streets of Melancholia in vain, not finding a single morbid shopkeeper or death-maker, and finally decided to make one himself. After picking up random sharp objects from the street, like microscopic glass pieces, broken hearts, teeth of combs, wolfish incisors, metaphysical love poetry and brain-pieces of successful Russian expatriates, Mr.B set out to make the one-of-a-kind sharp cutting device, bit by bit, prick by prick, until it was fully constructed as well as imagined, imagined as well as constructed, and could be now successfully used to decapitate a human head. But Mr.B had an oddly satisfying brainwave, he decided to fool around a bit.

Thus was born Mass-Murderer B. The tragic part of this story is that, and forgive me for breaking the bubble, the device did not work, for it suddenly decided to sprout a conscience. Mr.B, the unscrupulous twit, killed his victims by reading Aphra's Behn's plays, justifying communism, and showing naked (read: brainless, if not entirely heartless) pictures of Akon, da mahn.

A Dozen Reasons To ReJoice???? WTF??

"Tunisian Women expected to deliver six boys and six girls later this month."

Did i just type it right?? Duodecaplets(another random word which i shall forget it 3 seconds or be imprinted onto my infintesimle vocab for eternity)

"She said she is looking forward to hugging six boys and six girls "

Yea right!!! Im an only child and i cannot recall a memory wheremy mother wasnt trying to Moses me..

"The Babies were concieved Naturally"

Who are you KIDDING lady???

This is as natural as Amithabh Bachans Hair

Must be something in the hummus that makes all arabs this fertile.

The husband Marawan " In the beginning we thought that my wife would give birth to twins,but more foetuses were discovered (more like uncovered if you ask me , like in Tuts Tomb.."more mummies where uncovered").''Our Joy increased with the growing number " (''So did Our debts")

Notes

In times of distress, do not hesitate to call Pink-Doll, mistress of silver ashtrays, glow-in-the-dark tragiclove and hyena-clowns. The redrock is ringing. On a more serious note, why the hell is Life not calling? (unless?)

The blog title, this very blog title, seems to be something an icycool, deceptive narrator in an Atwood novel would quietly say, while gently wiping off a thin, seemingly inconspicuous layer of sweat above her lips. Be my murder weapon, she would say. And let me live.

He smiles, knowing fully well he is making a mistake, that he should run away and never return. He takes a step forward.

Conclusions I've Come Up With After 12 Hrs Of Non Stop Boston Legal...

1.Who needs more engineers??.. lets all be lawyers!!!

2.Cant get someone to hook up with you??..make a blow up doll model of them... if you're filthy rich make it more customised to suit your specific tastes...

3.SUE like there's no tommorow...be it the dentist or your mother....

4.Dont call a dwarf a 'midget' unless u want them to put a hex on you or worse.... Sue.

5.Cross Dessers Rule!!! (even beckham does it..'nuff said)

6.Hillary Clinton is a man.The pant suits
say it all.

7.'Poopy Cock' ,'Namby Pamby' &'Nancy Pancy' will soon be included in all mainstream dictionaries..

8.Chubby guys are irresistable.. has got sumthing to do with teddy bears.

9.The Balder The Better

10.Obesity is Contagious

NOW IM WEARING PINK.

and i thought i was a man of principles.

:/


turns out i don't even have a dick.

Anti-Quit Smoking (Feelbad Hyperrant)

Smoke, as most of us shady salvation-seekers know, is not touchable in the same way an apple is. Or a helium tummy (squeeze! bop). Or the much-muddled consciences of those-who-join-the-bandwagon-without-mindnumbing-metaphysical-enquiry (pinch! pop). In accordance with universal standards of mock-tragedy, Newtonian causality becomes physically fallible when it comes to-

(This is a hasty interruption. Hastily, I cease to think. Only images. Freelove. SMOKE. SoporifierMediating Opprobrious Kaput Endomorphins. Oh you holy gods. You pigeon-holes. Damn the terror. Error. Aristotle was a biped bee-drone. Be. You. Bee. Philosophy, my phoot. Loot and lampoon the perpetrators of discriminatory fiscal policies, hyperventilated moral-policing, bourgeois ethics, utterly unnecessary academic discourse, T.S Eliot hate-campaigns, pink-dildos and the Other. The sea, the sea! O the world remains only-if and not-now, what a thorougly redundant- )

Ode To A Lamentable Thrush Writhing Beyond My Panoramic Vision:

O beauty, I call thee

Tweety.

In a thousand lives

(Let it not be Dyootee)

this is psychotic penguin killer representing the state of delusion..In the name of the lorelai gilmore who once dared to ask the unthinkable question ,

"whatever happened to all the anvils in the world?"

Hopefully this blog will last more than Obama Hype of '09-Change, Yes we can
(sounds more like a motto new born mommies convention--->Change(diapers),YES WE CAN!!!!

The purrrpossssse

Okay. If you ask me, I think we should have a purpose for this blog. What do you think? I have no idea what to write here, that’s why. Maybe let’s all “rant” about something. Or argue. Or whatever.

Or maybe let’s all do what we’re good at. Random-ness. Like the eggs I was talking about earlier. The pretty Oval Orbs. Thing is, I can be random about specific things only. Like my moods for example. I can be very enthusiastic this moment and then become blank the next and then angry and so on. And I am random when I’m bored, which I am, for most of my life. So okay, no issues there.

Long live random-ness.

QUIT SMOKING

one smoke and it makes you wanna poop.

HI MY NAME IS HONOLULU LOLLIPOP.

hello, i am 89.i bake raspberries for a living.tomorrow im going to pick pineapples and can you please buy me a hat? tomorrow i will clean my wardrobe and get dentures. i drink wine every afternoon. i drink whiskey everytime i need to break an ankle and remind people of my existence. the scar on your face is hot. I FORGOT SOMETHING I ALWAYS TYPE IN CAPS AND OFTEN LIE ABOUT EVERYTHING I DO.

no really, it is hot. get me some whiskey again.