Oh bab-ey! She bangs-she bangs-she moves-she moves! I am happy! I am so happy I could not describe. This is one of the Phew-hah's. Sunday and a pink braid in my hair with a fish at the end is fascinating. I so feel like a little chicken with pink attire. I feel nice. I hate stalkers. I genuinely do, because I do not like unknown unintelligent, possibly unattractive guys texting me. Rebuke the racism but Mals repel as well. I slept at a stretch for 16 hours again. Actually I have become so comfortable with my circadian rhythms that I have set them at 18th December, 7:30 p.m. That is the time I start journey to station. Until then all time will be spent in waking sleeping. Ooh! I love manipulating! I love letting out sly secrets of informal enemies. I love being a prick and then flashing the winner smile. And, I don't get my roommate's obsession with maturity. That's okay. I think all teenagers tend to be obsessed with such stuff.
We have this exemplary ranting about Anne Frank's livid teen experiences during WW in our psycho text. All in our time is war and there is no love in times of cholera. Then abey the demotivator barks: There is no question of my existence.
Now its me. I need to rely on my collective imagination powered by social fantasies. I have a very powerful visual imagination but a weak hand to realise the same. There are tiny pixies pink and purple caught in a glass globe. Pixies inherently, inertly carry out thoughts, dreams and impulses. I want such a pixie in the pit of my stomach for, I wish to be unattainable, the wanted, the desired, the comet on whose tail you can ride. Right now it may sound all vague passion boredom anarchy comic book that all kids prey on but trust me, in is a truth there:
There exists nothing in this world beyond what I want to see, the way I want to see it and the influence exerted due to my social contracts in the store room. I so originally say this (snigger):
Look inside. There is nothing outside. Ooh! I feel a high when I say this. Similar high as when I eat Rajma rice or self-made Pulao. I cook really good Pulao. Do you know you get wine for Rs 23 a bottle. Yummy wine.
2 comments:
A war now would be nice. If only men stopped acting like mice...
Yes. Yes. I would feel my passions and fury being million-folded realised in such instances.
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