Dosa and soap

Yeah, well you won't understand. It's complicated. You don't have the privilege of access to our chats and messages. Yeah, well we are friends, not really. A little different. I mean, we are a little crazy. We stop and think and talk and stop and hate and like then love then fight then write then click and delete and tear and eat and jump and shake and wiggle and smile 'cos we are like that only. You see, it's complicated.
We are sometimes like Dosa and soap. Slime and base and eyes and lick and tickle and pinch and poke. You can't eat Dosa without soap because once you eat and then layers will form of oil and then you will want to put those flying strands of hair behind your ear because nowadays girls cut hair to make it fly so hair will fly and oil will touch hair and hair will stick and moisturizer plus shampoo will become useless and dust will stick. I will run to you, on the steel wash basin and see you are not there but I knew you wouldn't be but I still see a phenyl bottle and in desperate hope for good measure I open and put some hoping it is you, soap. No rescue because you throw my beautiful exciting tales in my face like flying polythene bags shoved under the trash can right when I start ranting and have no remedy to make oil less viscous.
I have taken many a long breath of my lives because it is good to breathe long. Long and short, long makes proud of life more delayed and short makes guilt of stacking huddled life. Long means healthy and short means hurried curry. But only you understand and the other find oh-so-enigmatic and only you catch conceits but the other oh-so-debate. Layers of us, Dosa and soap.
Ps. You take the foul words too.