I like the Contours. And I pretend to be able to jive pretty well in my head. Or else I should just go with calling this post 'the world's always 3 drinks behind' as Bogart said. But sometimes it's such a dizzy I dunno who's ahead.
Average life it seems. Nothing really wrong. But it's buzzing with flies waiting to land on the stink about to ensue! One of them being owing p'dner a lot. Literally and otherwise. Sometimes nothing seems enough. Literally yes. 68. That's all I got. Otherwise... wish I could erase some and flick the grubby lead into a black hole. Or mix and match to every varying sense of perfection that accosts her at every step. Or at the least conduct a lobotomy. But then she would've never been her. I don't know the answer to mind block, contentment, tossing baggage. Baah! Incompetent. It feels crazy and freakishly so like bald tyres going wonky on roads. When an integral part of you needs the rest and you just can't get the grease in the right grooves. Terrible mechanic indeed. I just ride my bike and drive my car. I don't know what makes it move apart from the gas. Peering under the hood or letting the mechanic grope under my bike only reinstates helpless. In the former I know only the radiator. In the latter I know he's just unplugged the spark and taking me for my ride indeed. Wish I knew all the hows...
All day I've been having the smell of orange rind strung to my nostrils. Thanks to a 4 am sms on flavoured butter popcorn from P'dner (after which my nose was on high alert through fat mosquitos' drones and sudden bursts of jazz piano from the radio). Loverly indeed! 100 gms butter with dried corn in presure cooker. Here the crackle. Open up and dunk powdered orange rind, seeds of vanilla (where am I going to get that here?! In the city of sickeningly sweet Vanilla essence Arun Ice Creams!) and sugar. Bliss! What a happy world! Pthisssh!
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