Friends, backslappers and assorted glorybees. Burn the sweetest incense and dance ritualistically round a holy fire, because these times are so very wrong. The Peep, the one abrim with the booze of satanic wildness, is in the teeth of a butt-clenching crisis. She, and her toilet, as it were, have fallen apart. At loggerheads, them both. And if you think people are going to be sympathetic, on this the second day of my bowels not rising to the occasion and shining forth toward the path of duty [or potty, if we're being specific], then you're wrong. It is with a sense of bitter resentment that I have resigned discussion of my ablutionary activity to this my only vent, my beloved blog, as opposed to that which is haunted by unfeeling types whose bowels, presumably have vowed lifelong allegiance to the upkeep of their well-being. I will not name names, but the pimple on my left cheek and I are feeling grossly misunderstood.
I've tried eating bananas, drunk warm water, pots of coffee. I even put on trackpants and took a long, long walk. Still nothing. I'm telling you people, this is war. And stop trying to tell me about Isabgol. My system works in wondrous ways, which are least affected by the onslaught of guzzling glasses of tasteless fleaseed husk.
Ok, I'm tired of this now. Bottomline, Peepie needs to poopoo. Khyak, I just really wanted to use that line and chuckle while you squirmed.
But seriously, it's my only weightloss programme - this relieving myself business. If I keep stuffing myself anymore with no hint of release, it's going to be a really really long time till I can buy a pair of jeans that I'm not going to be embarassed about when people suddenly come up from behind me and lift the backside of my shirt just that little bit to expose what is not the shapeliest bottom in the world (panu, thank you for the comment you shall now proceed to write), all the better to see what brand denim i'm wearing. Seriously, why the fuck would someone do that? You can just ask, yea, and I'll tell you? It's not a secret that I've got to keep or else the evil Mr. Strauss is going to monkeywash the world and put it into his slimfit pocket? And what is the DEAL with Levi's having the waist size embossed out on that patch for all the world to see, eh? My waist size, now That's an important secret. Notice the caps in the middle of the sentence and the italics, and appreciate the gravity of that statement immediately. And stop lifting my shirt from the backside already!
Uhm, that's a weird phrase. Pretend I didn't just use it twice.
Otherwise, the exams are over. I am done with the outstanding menace that was the Lit Theory paper. I need a 6 in the endsems to pass, which, considering how I unabashedly wrote 2/3rds of the paper based on life's experiences and buttercups, and NOT on any kind of literary theory, is still a tough call. But I mean, come on, I'm going to get a 6 out of 30, no? Touchwood.
And now for the true, the blushful Hippocrene! :-]