Uh oh

Hello again. A new day calls for a customary new blog post (unless its the weekend or a national holiday)

Note: I was going to say BANK holiday instead of NATIONAL holiday, but backspaced cos people could get confused and think I'm a teller in a bank or something. Wouldn't wanna mislead anyone. But then again, maybe if I was an eyebrow-threader in a beauty parlour I wouldn't have minded the deception that much… Point being I got a cool job and now you know it. So much for subtlety.

So anyway, about my customary new post. You see, I really DID have something in mind, but I digressed too much and now I forgot what it was. So I'll start with some other random thing. *changes title of post*. There.

Other Random Thing: I've been calculating, and I know now that I'm exactly 19 years, 5 months, and 16 days old.(Fun Activity For Probably Bored Readers: Calculate again and tell me when my birthday is, and I'll give you a cookie. And if you're smarter than you look- I'M WATCHING YOU- you'll just go check the date on orkut or facebook or something)
But stick with me. There's a point. I swear. Just gimme a minute to make it up.

Point: I've spent a lot of my life sleeping. Of course, sleep patterns change as you grow older.. you sleep lesser and stuff. Also you try to make sure your mouth is not hanging open and you're not drooling or making dirty noises or farting in your sleep. Little kids, on the other hand, can be ugly as hell when they sleep and people will still find them cute. Please make sure you're not an ugly sleeper..it could break up your marriage. Someday when I'm rich and jobless or feeling industrious or else merely losing my marbles, I'll start a sleeping-beauty parlour of some sort where you can train people to sleep in strait-jackets with their mouths clamped shut.

Actual Point: I don't sleep much anymore and I'm hoping I never become an insomniac but right now I'm not bored enough to elucidate.

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Author: Kirtana K

I paint and make music and blog like a maniac. These days I try to run. But I have chicken legs and lungs the size of two-rupee balloons. I fail. I like pajamas and striped socks and books that read like song and songs that sound like poetry and strangers who read this page. And Maggi when I'm sick or cold or sad or celebrating. They'll find noodles in my veins if ever they cut me open. And potatoes. And maybe a tiny bit of whiskey. I'll be an Unidentified Living Object and they'll put my insides on display. It will be crazy. It will be awesome. It will.

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