Feeba! Feeba! Femur! Tumour!

Baah! Most of the times (which isn't much really) with men it seems like a half-hearted sea-saw ride. Bounce-dip-dunk your toes-up you go. Never, feet flat platypus like-knees apart for a squat pee-turgid calfs-and whee! and vice versa. And MF is the bony lass squiggling in palm-space seat, grunting down and up, hoping to make up for the happily smirking one on the opposite with legs dangling as though boneless. Ok so MF is an indecisive hotstepper too. But then there's this weirdass oracle nestling in my sinus wheezing thick yellowed affection, the colour of colostrum, point being matured and unconditional affection. Because somewhere Oracle deems that nothing lasts. The Oracle needs to put foot in mouth! If nothing, the nothing is at least filled with a peaceful, cordial relationship springing from non-existence. So arcanus in the tradition of remaining arcane figures that the only thing she will ever be is a comfort woman...great company. But thats all. You know...the Geisha types, Devadasi type...around but nothing defined. Arcane was comfort woman for 4 years (Arcane blames the sunflower kid who believes that it's ok to talk about love for another when you're going out with someone cause what the heck it's love after all). And then Arcane is comfort woman for 3 years ('cane blames satyavati for sticking to the deal and expecting nothing above the deal and calls it a deal eventhough it's much more in an attempt to depersonalize it. Pthrrrr!) Arcane lives. Inspite of all this Mata Hari texture to it without the really deadly elements of course, she's called Specks! True, her real name is the kind which needs a tongue with a likeness to MTC busses where every roll and judder is evident, but Arcatella?! How about Tarantula? That's not so bad. Dumb optimist.