I haven’t stepped out since Friday evening. Racing the impending low that is fast overtaking me, here is a quick post.
Random thought: Men, masturbating with your right hand is a sign of the gay. For women, it’s the left.
Revelation: There’s a short, fat man with sad eyes who comes around every Sunday and walks door-to-door selling bread. He reminds me of Droopy. I never liked that show, so I never buy any from him. I never checked out his stock to see if it was the same bread available at the convenience store outside our building. Maybe, it’s specially bread prepared using one of 283 ways prescribed in the Atharva Veda. Every religion must have its own special way of making bread like the Christians. It stands to reason. We became civilized when we stopped relying on boars cooked over spits for our nourishment, when we turned to a more guaranteed source of food. Like grain.
They’re showing Raja Hindustani on TV and I can’t watch it because of all the mutant spermwaste outside discharging little bangs and booms and squealing at each other. I wonder how many of them will lose an eye or a glans today. It is times like these when I’m sad Sanjay Gandhi didn’t get a chance to work his way up from the homeless in his Family Planning campaign.
What I have been watching lately: House Season 2, which is starting to grate on my nerves now. I don’t see why the audience needs to be reminded every episode that a certified asshole like Ralph Laurie’s House has to be miserable. It’s like those parents who keep apologizing for their spastic 8 year old who loves screaming gaalis every now and then.
We had one of these in Goregaon where I spent my growing years (I haven’t grown an inch since 15, I know this for fact, though I’m thinner now.) Sweet little kid with that gaptoothed smile and little beady bandicoot eyes that married/old ladies loved (The younger unmarried ones tried. They restricted themselves to petting him and thin smiles. I figured they were afraid he’d steal their teeth.) Except when he was in pain or otherwise discomforted. He never bawled, he cursed. To his credit, he never screamed inarticulately. Every sound was precise and drawn out. There isn’t a chance in hell of someone hearing him go ‘Madarchod’ and mishearing it.
But, House. Yea. Great thing about medical shows, you learn new and fun ways of imagining people die. Death by a horde of flesh-eating ants is only fun the first 210 times. Then it starts getting repetitive. But a bacterium lodging itself against your heart valve and slowly building up its little gooey empire out of your cell wall? Or an allergy to gold you never knew about and suddenly learn 2 days into your honeymoon and go hypoxic and get told you will never have full control of your penis again and will need a tube to reroute all urine through your ass-end?
What I should be currently reading: Wolf Hall. I have it right beside me now. And I’ve read just over 50 pages into it, enough to know Cardinal Wolsey is an important character here, in a very different light from what I remember him being in Henry VIII, the play.
What I am reading: The Something Positive archive. A waste of time, yes. Sends me back to those days I spent trawling through the Megatokyo archive or the Dominic Deegan archive and then abandoning both when I was done.
Fancy Poetry thing I read: A History of Origami, by Bob Hicok.
Uh, yea. That about does it for today. I’ll now resign myself to waiting till the 25.7% left on my Hamlet-porn gets done. The preview looks promising. It’s in Italian.
