Those, my pretties, are apparently search words that will bring you to this blog. Not that I've ever been to Jodhpur or heaven, and I don't remember discussing my fetish here either. What does it even mean, Jodhpur heaven fetish? Some kind of strange desert-spirituality-gone-perverse thingy, I suspect. Leave me out of it, is awl I'm saying.
I made my first plastic purchase on the 19th of this month. This is not something you need to know, of course, but then, most of what I write here isn't either.
Like my chocolate cravings, I suddenly have this intense, inexplicable, paralysing desire to be fabulously rich. It's different from the garden-variety desire for wealth, which, I usually don't have anyway. Suddenly I want a weekend getaway chateau in .. oh, I dunno ... Belgravia (am I making up this place? I don't know, but I sure as hell know exactly what it looks like) and want to be able to afford every fucking spa treatment at Ananda.
I also want to live on tuna and truffle cake for the rest of my life.
Yes, that is correct, I am burning up with fever.
I thought Pujos would be miserable this year, what with the job and everything, but I had an enjoyable Pujo. I didn't sleep, worked from afternoon to evening, then festive-cheered all night till late morning, then back to work in the afternoon, till I was ready to collapse. But it was great.
It bothers me a little bit that I spend every fucking Pujo with a new set of friends. Every single year. I'm a drifter, aren't I? Bob, I apologise. There is in me, a very screwy something that I do not care to share. I hope that excuse was cute enough for forgiveness. Ish, that was not sarcasm, promise. Just defensiveness. Promise. Please don't leave a comment.
Ok, what else. My friends. They're great. I just wish they wouldn't try to deconstruct me. Or, assault me physically [I'd say rape, but that wouldn't be politically correct. I'm a fucking journo now. p.s.: They did try to spread my legs, though]. Panu and Pablo, I'm looking at you.
My other friend thinks I'm an idiot. Plenty of people, I suspect, think I'm an idiot. But I think I'm smarter than many of them. Emphatically. Look at these last statements. Q.E.D.
Gawd. It's the bleedy paracetamol combined with some other fecking pills. I swear I'm quite nice. Haha, plenty of people think I'm a "good person". Thank you, brothers and sisters.
Doods, if I don't quit smoking I will seriously die. It's a struggle, this breathing. Honest bolchhi. Ma go ma, I am so never going near a cigarette again. Of course, it may also be that I'm so FAT now that my lungs are clogged up with all the cheese and the 24/7 thoughts of crispy chicken and Valrhona.
Deep, deep inside somewhere, I think I'm Britney Spears.
I can't fucking believe I'm writing this shit. Who is reading this, I wanna know.
Ok, I'll stop. Forgive me, gentle reader, for the liberal use of fuck. You will now please to fornicate fiendishly elsewhere.
[holy crap, I must be very ill]