pinch me!

No more nasty wails whipping me awake from above, no more fear of being split haphazardly into pieces of gut and sticky flesh and red. My fan’s got a bush. Ahem! Yes, apparently it’s a gadget that muzzles it into place instead of letting it swing wildly in hallucinatory rings. Oh and it also makes it meek. Before, at around 3am or so it gets guttural and starts hiccupping and when it goes into the final lap, it begins to screech like a banshee! Without it is so silent. Without it means growing wet like frozen lemons out in the open – slippery, slithery, leathery. Without it means no sleep and squinting at it with disdain in the dark. With it means wind (it’s got four blades). No, actually a mini typhoon. With it means I get into my frog position and say ‘so screw you! I’m gonna sleep nice especially if it’s my last night!’ Now, it just wisps along demurely. Patriarch I sound like.

Gummy day yesterday. Juiced and stretched beyond wood pulp. Made quite a purchase. 7 meters of upholstery and a lovely dhurrie. My aid was a good bud, quite uncomplaining till my bike shuddered to a halt. Bledy drunk had walked out on me one more time. I rolled it up to a bunk 200ms ahead. And good bud cum aid turned coolie, lugged dhurrie, profusely sweating, cussing and hoping no one caught him trailing with a big brown mat, especially in his red jacket, which almost did well as a uniform. Sorry Kuku.

My nights slip into days considering I’m usually jilted by sleep. And what a day. Hot chocolate with good friend and a midnight chat with her lying on a hospital bed! Ankle broken in 3 places. Wired and bolted this morning, she’ll be up in 4 weeks or so.

The fragility of it all is freaky. It seems to be the only thing that’s real. Everything else, the means, the whole being perched on things that flit, is surreal. The only thing we wake up to is a tap on our porcelain window. And then quickly, it’s all plastered over and the grooves grow thick with the muck of life, only to crack up a lil later. How many wake-up calls I wonder.

She was on a bus heading home, and midway, the front tire exploded tossing the crowd out. In all that metal and meaty bodies a woman lost her leg and my friend thankfully just an ankle, temporarily. MTC will pay up I hope. But being just a statistic doesn’t help. Don’t think there’s a long wait to be barcoded. We already are. Busses will be overcrowded. People will footboard. The entire frame will be falling apart. It will still run. It will still be spitting out black fumes recklessly, with no emission control in place. Women will be pinched. One woman to another woman will advice on how modestly to drape a dupatta. Women will take men’s seats in the name of positive discrimination and holler when an old man takes a lady’s. Babies will relentlessly wail. My friend will walk. We will be numbers.

Oh yeah and then there’s Hope.

Flitzzz

Aah morning and I feel like a headless chicken especially when I’ve got so much time on my hands, cupped like orbs waiting to be freshly juiced. Brad Pitt’s voice from Fight Club goes like a gong in my head, ‘your life is ending one minute at a time.’ Patience evades, panic settles on skin like gooseflesh prickling to a siren. Food is gobbled. Taste scathing on tongue…like I don’t deserve to have it any longer.

Gaah! When most things are fire walled and discretion and quickies to blah and co is a must so as to not get them tagged ‘forbidden’ by abishtoo spouting IT people, and to ensure that rituals can be conducted without interference the next day, abstinence meanders to boredom, which in turn chugs towards Linda Goodman’s zodiac signs. Scorpio. I am cute. Not some husky voiced seductress. I’m specksie boo up for cuddles. Egad!! I guess it's the same difference the bones make...one's own voice sounds different from the way others get it. Can’t escape Specksie Boo even if my name is ‘Arcane’ insists p'dner.

Overall emotional compatibility – Aquarius. True. Overall incompatibility – Leo. False. People I’ve fallen hard for including my first crush in 2^nd std is a Leo and I still trip on him. Plus, i've discovered him online after aeons. Though none of that sucked-in-stomach state happens anymore, it's still got the highlights going off my cheeks. Secretive. I just forget to tell. Dreamy eyes. I’m an insomniac. And I don’t have a planet anymore. Pluto isn’t a planet…tsk tsk.

Watched Hostel…freaky concept…torture house where you can explore your sadistic side on a variety of nationalities, American’s being the most high-priced. Very disturbing to know that violence of that kind is imaginable. Charles Manson’s a Scorpio. Don’t understand violence being described as animalistic. Animals hunt to survive. But then sadism seems to be a singular entity, which needs to thrive. Incidentally, goo from the vein connecting the eyeball to the skull looks like mint sauce. If this were Happy Tree Friends they'd be slurping it up

Now, how can someone constantly turn ideas into senile vegas boards?! That only. How?! An awareness ad was turned into an obituary for the dead person. Now it's cheesy glamour, uncool bling, raunchy glitz and all of it in one go has got to clear the stomach lining out.

Toodoo lama lama toodoo lama lama...

Faux pas de la vida almost lived. Not anymore. Cause I refuse to be apologetic for me and my rambles and hide. No more unsettling feelings of being exposed, of stuttering over grammar. Detachment starts here. I don't care. P'dner...faux pas de la vida's last words...actually last mother-of-paras

It's amazing how 2 words and a conjunction can take me on a spin that's totally out of order, self-inflicted, unwarranted, unfair. All it did do is throw up a few things that stand as they are in spite of anything, be it smart, talented, and all those nice positivie ego-boosting things. I don't seem to want anything bad enough. And that's what I want badly. To not want. To flit through life, get zapped by what it has to offer and move on. And there's a very convoluted connection to all this in the name of work, save, get real. In a weird ass way that I can't explain I'm happy. What I don't like about being happy is that there are so many kinds. And this one is placid. I hate placid! Duality would be easy. But duality never met. Doesn't get to meet I guess. Btw I don't believe in that. It's theoretical. It's real and therefore I don't believe. Plus, there's no such thing as duality. It would exist only if I were a sunbathing cow on cud. Why is letting go such an issue. I don't know why I cling on to things umm well like fluorescent rubber bands with polka dotted teats hanging off. I don't need a shrink. I need a blockage. I can move. Masochist in me wants to know how much longer. Apparently longer. Breaks don't do me good. Time off is absolute no no. I am running out of time. I wanna hop rides like a hobohemian. Nothing's stopping. I need to buy a ticket. Not unreserved but first class. I just have to. And when it's all done with I'll be bumming around the 'real and sensible' way because somewhere I'm above average and yet want to be safe not cause chances unnerve me but the fragility of losing it all in a wink. Detachment. It's easy. I've almost touched it and scooted back. I want to get there...pronto! I don't know how...ya think tis an entity or some privilege club that approaches you. Am I too lowly not to deserve a reason? Or ya think money can do the trick? Maybe you're going "i can't believe she's so complicated." I'm bad with knots. I just want to know. And weirdly it all boils down to one thing in the lack of detachment. Being loved.

Now, I'll just go chaperone my boredom.

RitzyKracker. I almost called the blog that. But it sounds like some peroxide blonde in a doll dress doing the splits amidst bright bulbs and hoops. Oh and that's how far my French cum Spanish goes...faux pas de la vida. Franish. Franish sounds like an omelette with foie gras and spanish tomatoes. That's pretty much z idea...faux pas...foie gras...fattened with averageness, churned into averageness, oh fie life! Enough methinks with all that pasting and grating, enough of those sporadic giggles and poke at poor geeky, plump, bespectacled, waddling life.

Toodles boredom! Tata! Shoo! Scat!

I lost my larynx...

methinks. I've been scrounging for it in replays of fabulous days that don't wait for my nostrils to dilate as I pass through moments of glee or collapse with my deep sighs on blissful moments, but just keep rushing past. And now it's almost automatic. And I can't find my larynx.

When it makes a meager appearance, it can't keep up with the speed of recaps. Soon a fresh burst of sores clog it up. Words come out searing and difficult. And I let myself be lulled by clippings of zipping on gorgeous roads with a person I hold closer than close.

And when exhausted of doing those umpteen trips, I allow myself to be gnashed in a motley mess of squatting commas, periods due for eviction, and narrow straits of dictated strains and insipid creativity.

Manual work. Shoveling bodies and parts in Lebanon. Or building. Cleaning the gore. But Red Cross apparently takes in only American citizens. Tsk Tsk. I'll settle for a lift operator. Shuttling up and down, I'll be limbo-happy in that damp, dark, musty box in a void that comes in fragments of unpeopled moments gradually growing in humidity and sweat swirls churned by the buzz of dust laden rotors.

Half the time I’m reminding myself the means to an end is just a means. The remaining quarter I let the means seep in so deep that I’m running out of time. The other quarter is reserved for those flashes of nincompoopness that laughs at its own dilemma likened to a sticky Turkish sweet that wont give. And then it swears that it wont let me be average, seeking safety. It’s lot like the East coast undercurrent. The water wallops you to the shore and the sand underneath drags you in. Clawing and digging your toes into the loose wet gold grips you in a tantalizing fear. I know I’d love to know what happens on being dragged away cause like someone said at the end of every fear is freedom. Blank-out pills help blot out all the striving that takes to be average and wanting of a world with routines, a world that’s staid and flat. But a few grains of sand have gotten under the seams, and can’t be washed out. I’m folding that bit up and stitching it up double.