rain, rain, go to spain.

my subconscious gets a little more bizarre each day. i dreamt i was a sports car. and when i woke up, i knew beyond doubt that i'd been a red one too. i wonder if, instead of a padded cell, they'll give me one of those nice sunny grounds with a pond and benches and pottery class. or at least my own tree to sit and read under.

i smell lilies, i think of fall colours, i think of tomorrow, i can taste raindrops i caught outside my window, i feel tremendously blue. i wonder if i have synaesthesia. not likely. the only sensation that has any permanence is blue, everything else fades away. i need a green day tomorrow. i need more colours.

i blog. therefore, i am. hah.

"i feel so horrible. i have to act grown-up now. the responsibilities that come with attaining a certain age is terrifying. i can't believe i won't be seventy-seven again." at this point, my mother stopped mid-way through singing happy birthday for him and clouted my father on the head.
i wish i had more adults in my life, so i'd know how to be one.

while there are designated office spaces at work, there is no rule that says you actually have to work where you keep your stash of dirty magazines and the menus from the takeaways. so at any random point in the day you may find people walking in and calmly staking out on a terminal, much in the same manner of people coming to spend a day on the beach.they sit and look around and smile at people, then keep their keychains, mobile and notes scribbled on dirty napkins on the table. if its a woman they take out a planner. if its a man they start scratching. sometimes you give them a look, sometimes you are given a look. sometimes they plead deadline, sometimes you yell page release. but it is understood by all parties that it is a day trip. a very fluid arrangement and nobody makes a habit of it.
except the weirdo who fastidiously eats pineapple discs every afternoon. he comes in with a coffin-like black bag at the same time, occupies the same pc, pisses off the same people, surfs the same websites and eats pineapple discs every single day. and no-one knows what he works on, who he works with, no-one has ever seen him actually sitting in another office and most people don't know his name.
i was naturally very shocked to find that weirdo actually knows my name. he called me by my name to give me my phonebook today. but before i could recover from it, he yawned so widely that i could see the little fleshy thing at the back of his throat. it was so gross that it was kind of fascinating. then i couldn't stop wondering why i couldn't see his tonsils. and that did me in. every ten minutes i kept looking at weirdo to see if he'd yawn so spectacularly again. i tried the furtive glancing, i tried the absent-minded gaze, i tried the focussed look. but nada, zilch, nothing. then the bugger went and got himself coffee and ten minutes later, walked out not to return. if he doesn't return ever, i'll be left for life wondering whether or not he has tonsils and if yes, whether or not they will be visible when he yawns wide. i find this not knowing disturbing.

look ma, so pretty

my own two-bit venice. don't you love it?

horrible, horrible, horrible day. i deserve a sunset on a beach; i deserve a remsen cooler; i deserve a foot massage; i deserve nothing short of pure bliss. anything less will not do. no.