Dearly Befuddled Beloved

My Will (refer to very previous post), it so happens, has a little error in it. A tiny flaw. More like a gaping hole actually. SOMEONE brought it to my notice that all the Striped Socks that I almost arranged to give away were not originally my Striped Socks. This is my confession: those socks were flicked at various points in their hung-out-after-washing stage from my affluent sister who also happens to be a Buyer of Striped Socks That I Refuse To Buy.

Just in case you're wondering why I refuse to buy my beloved Striped Socks, I will proceed to tell you. And just in case you are not wondering why I refuse to buy my beloved Striped Socks, you will proceed to listen anyway cos you're already here and have nothing better to do. I happen to have a hidden post on this blog that I constantly update titled Who All Read My Blog, and I happen to know that most of you are that particular type of shady employee that keeps an official looking word document minimized on its (his/her) comp and then randomly surfs vox and the net with thumb and little finger constantly hovering above its Alt and Tab keys. In other words I know the precise degree of your joblessness and will hence persist in talking in this circumlocatious fashion, resorting to long and complicated sentences in order to keep you occupied for a bit. Also none of my sentences really lead to anywhere, but screw that.

So, about why I refuse to buy my Beloved Striped Socks. Theres three reasons. And if there aren't then I'll screw around with the numbering and then there will be three reasons.

  1. I believe that striped socks are a symbol of the triumph of consumerism. They make every innocent little (or obese) college-going girl sit up and say "I WANT I WANT I WANT". Which results in the innocent little (or obese) college-going girl scouting the pavements and little chindi station stores for a pair of the Striped Socks. And inevitably, dear blind unthinking slave of the capitalist bastards, the innocent little (or obese) college-going girl will end up in that place that the culmination of the irresistable lure of the Striped Socks, the pointless quest and the urges of the Id will inevitably lead her to: The Mall. Which, I assure you, is the only place that stocks these cute little thingamajicks (unless you're in a chin country) and will burn a hole in your pockets and will aslo snuff out the possibility of your grandchildren ever living in financial security if you persist in parting with your Gandhis like an idiot.
  2. Inadequate pocket money. *pauses* For your benefit, sweetest sister, I will repeat this point: Inadequate pocket money. And because I don't believe in the power of mere suggestion, I will repeat it in BOLD CAPITALS- INADEQUATE POCKET MONEY. As you have probably figured out, I wouldn't care a shit about giving in to the consumer culture if I could afford to.
  3. A philosophy that governs every aspect of my life: Why buy 'em when you can flick 'em?

And so it is. Those Striped Socks are the property of my sister, and they will go back to her after my sad demise. However, as I pointed out before, how do you know they don't stink? (They don't, though I don't wash them very often for fear of their being re-flicked at some point in their hung-out-to-dry-after-washing stage.) So, to rule out that possibility, I will leave the Striped Socks to my Bai who will wash them, and then they can go to their rightful owner. There's a catch here, my Bai is Fucking Annoying, Kavi Boo, and you have fun learning which soap star you most resemble once you've managed to get past her paan smell.. but she's a nice person, really. So effectively, my Will stands altered to include a Goodluck With Bai card that will go to Kavi, who also gets potential ownership of her own socks.

:)

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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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