Paint

Wotsa.

Painting is therapeutic. Even if you're no Picasso. Actually its therapeutic only if you're no Picasso I think. Cos, if you actually possessed a talent for it, you'd have to worry about smudgy paint and bristly brushes and all. You know… You'd be concerned about it turning out fugly all the time that you're doing it, cos it would kinda suck if your one and only advertise-able talent culminated into the type of eyesore that you pretend other people created. (Please note: this is a phenomenon common to various aesthetic disciplines. It's called using a pseudonym, which is just a fancy way of telling a lie.)
That was a pretty straightforward way of making a point eh? New development in the blog of Kirtana Krishnan. *pride*  Maybe I've decided to be a little less talkative. Maybe I'm tired and want to drink some tea. (I'd have said coffee but I just had coffee and what would you have done without that little gem?) Maybe I'm in the mood to figure out some Jack Johnson. I hope you will ponder about it. Might just come in handy when you're filing your income tax returns next year. Might also not come in handy, but don't not count your chickens before they hatch or they'll grow up to be depressed hens.

PS: Now you know what to expect from me for your birthday people. For a while at least.

:)

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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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