I've been getting increasingly agitated e-mails inquiring about my health and well-being. (By the way how come you guys only write when I stop writing? Haan? Haan?) By the grace of Pfizer and Bayer, I still live. And write. Okay, so maybe not so much write. But if I told you the number of things I'm currently doing (including but not limited to rubbing strange-smelling oils into my hair, read for 3 days uninterrupted {check out my goodreads. 35 books in the last two months, baby. And the janeeyrelaidbare was a mistake. No, I don't generally read erotica. Just vampire porn from time to time but hey, I'm a rapidly aging, red-haired, cat-hating vegetarian singleton, cut me some slack yeah?} and so on), your head would explode. No, really. It would go KABOOM! .
But because I'm inscrutable and mysterious (and not lame and transparent as evidenced during this year when I got face read TWICE this year by Sunny baba who told me good days would be here by 24th August {Do I look happy sunny baba? Do I? Do I?} and Kutty Sir who asked me in the kindest way possible to something about my commitment phobia and my zero self worth {which made me bawl and bawl until I passed out} but let's forget them freak shows. Can I also take this opportunity to ask #boy1, #boy2 and #boy 2.5 and boy #3 -- did you know? What was my tell? I don't want to anyone to ever know I like them. Until of course, they sign a written declaration of intent . But not a minute before. Not one minute. Help me!!! Okay, this is definitely not going as planned. Let me jump out of the parentheses now before grammar lady jumps out of my memory and stabs in my insomniac daze).
Because I'm inscrutable and mysterious, I will only tell you the approved and censored material that I've noted in my commonplace book.
Yes, I read Lemony Snicket. And so should you.
Now, where were we? Right. So I read somewhere that there is no cure to a common birthday but I disagree, your honour {oh harvey, I watch the abomination that is Suits for you. Will you be my Batman?}. I have one word for y'all -- Alcohol. And one word of advice, if I may. "Pre-game." So there I was in Blue Frog (which EVERYONE I know said I should go) and whatddya know, free entrance et all, and I knew it was going to my night!
The next two hours will forever be etched in my memory, dear readers. Here's how I remember it.
Enter. Galactic Senate {where's leia or padme}. *Blink* Food. Drinks. Projector comes on. *Blink* Jalapeno Poppers. Puke. Vodka. Sigh. *Blink* Palestine conflict. Goats. Blood. What are they screening?! *Blink* Vodka. Blood. Iranians. Boom. Subtitles. Vodka. *Blink*Aunty slides into booth in front of me. Hair. Zero visibility. Bombs. Vodka. *Blink* West Bank. Torn limbs. Trees. Vodka. Broken Camera.*Blink* Subtitles. Blurry. Hair. Aunty side please. Vodka. *Blink* Giggles. Aghori. Me. Outside. Rain. Smoke. Clove. Vodka. *Blink* Enter. Belly dancing music. Army. Blood.*Blink* Giggles. Samwise. Me. Badda. Smoke.*Blink* Risotto. Puke. Tanks. Stone pelting. Blood. Tears. Are those cows? Giggle. *Blink* Vodka. Smoke. Hair whirl. Aunty exits. The End. *Blink*
Think about me, dear reader. I survived that. I giggled through Palestinian slaughter on my birthday. No, no need to talk about my Karma.
(Hello readers, look at my cake. Now back to me. Look again. Now back to me. Sadly you can't have mine, but if you stopped eating rubbish and switched to fondue, yours could smell like mine. Look down, back up. Where are you? On a blog with a cake that smells like mine. Anything is possible if you are an old smurf! Ha ha ha ha )
You think I've lost it. But not so, dear readers. This year is all about venturing into the unknown, doing the unthinkable, conquering the unbeatable... or something.
You asked for it. For me. For the 25-year-old-me (who's reading so much young adult, it's pathetic. And sad, like watching my 75 old neighbour trying to lure me into his lair by wearing polka dotted underwear.
Okay, fine. I go sleep now.
