This is a hurried post, written to soothe the distempered nerves of our resident belle du jour, rimi. I request all citizens of the blogosphere who find place on her hallowed blogtelpiece [it's a very clever portmanteau word - blog + mantelpiece. when will you people ever come up to my standards of intellect. Say When?!] to come forward and express solidarity for a good cause - let us, as it were, join htmls and stage a cyber intervention [a cyntervention, you know] of sorts, so as to prevent the poor girl from drowning technology and crying over lost perfume. Of greater psycho-social import is stopping the girl from scouring the seamy bylanes of Burrabazar and muttering under her breath to pot-bellied perfume-peddlers whose pan-bespittled lips spell words in a language that can only mean Incoherence. I mean, perfume?! In Burrabazar?! Clearly, Rimi chooses to smell like things far far away from a Chanel No. 5, or even a slightly down market Clinique Happy. We (who wear fake "Lomany deospray" and the occasional onion-breath of a devoured egg roll) scoff at her. Thus and therefore, dear bloggers, post post-haste and let us retrieve her bats, her bolts, her nuts and kookies, to put it mildly, for Rimi.
'Tis the time to be merry and to prance in the prairie, for the Peep has finally overcome the avalanche that exams cause to her substantial balding head. On last count, the bygone semester had added a mere 4 strands of grey hair - quite a negligible number compared to the hoary days of the undergrad years when she spent an entire night before her Romantic paper, wondering why opium didn't wipe out the whole lot of 'em godforsaken Romantics. To write a profound poem and make people study it centuries later just because you're peeved at having a bit of hot tea dropped on your pants - it is Devil's work, I tell you.
Anyhow, the important point is that I have a month to do absolutely nothing - which is a very blissful thing to do, when you really put your mind to it.
And I, Rainbeau Peep, hereby declare, that I, shall lose some weight. Of course, don't even for a moment, DD, imagine that I'm going to put myself on a diet! *mark the phlegmatic distaste with which i use the word. Use your imagination, goddamit* Dieting is for people who hate their lives and want to die, and I'm having none of that pansy stuff being done to Me. I shall, however, cut down on the portions that I consume - portions that would make the Empress of Blandings quiver her multiple chins in shame of displacement from her throne of gluttony.
You see, dear reader, there comes a time in a person's life [usually when she's done with her semester and hasn't much to think about] when you look hard into the mirror in a mood of deep philosophical musing, and say to yourself,"Enough.is.enough." Now, don't get me wrong, I'm sure there are people in this world who would consider a daily ritual of writhing on the bed like a dying serpent to pull up your pants, thrilling - but I am not one among them. There may indeed be an element of adventure in it - especially when the bed is strategically positioned in front of a full-length mirror and you can watch yourself in the act - but I do not cater to this brand of masochism. I will, hence thus and therefore, uhm ... you know ... do that thing you do ... er ... EXERCISE. There, I said it. I may even, in a moment of mad derring-do, don my swimsuit, which is a cross between a Tomb-Raider costume and a light, summery frock - and tiptoe into the pool. Diving, in my present condition of bloatedness, would be hazardous to fellow swimmers and people in the vicinity of the pool. So all you heartless people who come bounding up from across the Department corridor to slap my bottom in gay abandon, yelling, "Mota! Mota!", beware, coz I'm just gonna drop to the floor and give you ten, Sarge.
Aah, c'est la vie - you birth them, you delicately nurture them and watch them grow, but one day, you must set them free. The love handles, I mean. :-[
Right after I finish this piece of chocolate nougat cake, that is.
And when I'm not exercising or eating 4 meals a day instead of the staple 6/7, I might even poke and prod nervously at books. For instance, I'm curious to know what this man, Terry Pratchett that everyone goes ga-ga over, is all about.
It's best to maintain safe distance, though, I've always believed.
Eeeeeeeeee!!! and Wheeeeeeeeeeee!!!! and Yeeeeehaaaaaaaa!!! for good measure. My nooh eye doctor is young and very very inneresting! He's not hawt, per se, but when he smiles his lips curl at the sides, very much like the Christmas grinch, and I think it's delightful! And he uses words like 'deleterious' and 'repercussions' in the same sentence and even pronounces them right which is more than I can say for any doctor I've known so far and he called me in thrice to his chamber on the same day and I think he brings out the natural flirt in me because he can effortlessly make me wink at him and act as if it was all part of procedure and he's going to scoop my left eyeball out and tickle it to perfection so that I don't go blind and so as you can see he's quite my Saviour and I have an appointment with him tomorrow and oooh it sounds sooo like a date even though there'll be that meddlesome nurse and understudy and other patients with dirty eye infections but oh lemme go practice my most alluring lash-flutter now!
With so much activity and the oppression of writing that last Queer Studies exam, is it any irony then that the logo or wotchamacallit on my decrepit Panasonic cellphone now reads 'Pa nic'?