Friday, November 27, 2009

Our Freaking Feathered Friends.

Warning- Multitude of references to bird poo. No, I'm not kidding. I wish I was. I so dearly wish I was.

Hey.

I'm back from a drive around the beach.
Nice drive, nice drive.


I ate some ice-cream.
Nice ice-cream, nice ice-cream.


What? You think I'm being boring? You think that I'm not being my usual hilarious, genius self? *ahem*

YOU THINK RIGHT, MORON.


COZ YA KNOW WHY?


Some stupid pigeon/crow/evil bird decided it had too much of food to eat last night, and gratefully used my very expensive shoes as a place of excretion.


The left shoe, to be precise.


Cheeeeeeeeeeeee.


Birds, I feel, have radars in their little brains. Sort of like- "ALERT. ALERT. Girl has just stepped out of the house after a nice shower. Engage missile."


Stupid birds.


Let's make a pact, okay? Let's train birds.


No, really. Not joking.


Let's TRAIN those freaking poo-zookas into knowing exactly where and when to let out their S-Bombs. No, not the cuss words. An actual S-Bomb. O.o

I'm going to write a letter to our state government saying that we all want bathrooms for birds. Nice colorful toilets with therapeutic oils that instigate the dropping of bird S-Bombs.

What say you? They may laugh?


So what.


Because when a pigeon decides to drop an S-Bomb on the Chief Minister, only I shall be having the last laugh.


& the pigeon, though that is entirely besides the point.



A classic example

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

I was listening to 21 Guns, in case you were wondering about the Green Day song.

Chilling in my room, listening to Green Day. I have an english test on friday... writing obituaries, how appropriate... we're out of maltesers, dammit-

Piercing scream.

Stunned. Looks around suspiciously for mass murderer armed with steak knife.

Aiyyo! it's reaching the banister! Oh my gaaawd!!!!

Runs down hallway. Finds mother and grandmother cowering behind sofa.

What are you doing?!

Listens to teary tale of finding a rat on the ground floor. Widens eyes at the shrieking adults pointing at a small, mysterious figure trying to scurry up the stairs.

Piercing scream from three generations of frightened women.

Grandmother narrows eyes. We have to get rid of it. NOW.

Mother and myself nod furiously.

Well?! bellows grandmother, Call the watchman!! What are you waiting for?!

Mother runs to intercom. Grandmother spots another pest- this time an enormous white cockroach.

Mother runs back. He's coming-he'll take another 10 minutes!

Mother spots the cockroach Grandmother has found. Wields her house chappal in crazed fashion.

No no, says grandmother, picking up a chair from the side Let me do it-

And she decapitates the cockroach.

I almost pass out, but the sound of the scurrying rat downstairs hits me like a speeding train.

EEEEEEK! AMMA WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! screeches mother.

It had to be done says grandmother with a defeated sigh.

I'm here I'm here! Memsahib rat where it is?!?! shouts watchman.

It's crawling up your leg!!! I yell.

CHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE says watchman, shaking his legs in an oddly comical dance.

Another shake of the leg causes the tiny rat to be flung across the ground floor. The rodent lands with a thud.

Is it over? I ask fearfully.

The rat scurries out of the house as if in answer.

It is over says grandmother looking at the decapitated cockroach Now who wants to eat idlis for dinner, eh?

Mother and myself pass out.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Sadness, without a doubt, is...

A mystery.
You can be surrounded by a bunch of happy people who always smile and still feel miserable.

Said bunch of people can be saying hey, how's it going? life's good?

And you say i'm fine, watched a movie, sang karaoke.

And they say really? karaoke is cool, though i'm no good.

But they're thinking this person needs to stop moping around and be happpppyy like meeeee.

And you're thinking MAKE ME, loser. I want to mope around gimme some spaaaace.

Sadness is a mystery.

It's like a... poltergeist, even. It creeps up on you when you least expect it.

I don't like being sad. Being angry or happy... that's ok.


So when the situation arises wherein I start moping around, feeling like a failure, feeling like nothing can compare to my "pain", I don't like it.


At all.

So when I'm sad, I read.

When I'm sad, I eat a million Maltesers.

When I'm sad, I look out the window and watch the clouds.

When I'm sad, I drink a big cup of coffee.

I write sad little haikus and throw them in the bin.

I take a nap.

I dream.

I try and make people laugh.

I listen to music for hours on end.

I draw cartoons of people I've never met, and people I'd like to meet.

I text my friends and they text me back.


I ask my dad to drive me to the beach. I sit in the water till my legs get numb.

I'm sad.

Boo-hoo.

Now GTFO and make me a box of Rocky Road before I kill youuu.