CUNTS

You know what I always thought I hated? Kids throwing water balloons at people from terraces. Its fucking dangerous. Besides I'd appreciate it if you could grow some balls and leave the fucking terrace. Hit someone knowing that they can hit you back.
But I was wrong. There's something harmless about little kids throwing balloons from terraces. WHATS PISSING OFF IS THE FUCKING CUNTS WHO STAND ON DESERTED STREETS IN MOBS AND FUCKING ATTACK ANY FEMALE THAT PASSES THEM BY. I'M QUARTER YOUR SIZE YOU CHUTS. YOU DON'T NEED MOB SUPPORT TO FLING BALLOONS AT ME. ONE OF YOU THROWING SHIT AT ME I CAN TAKE BUT SEVEN OR FUCKING EIGHT OF YOU DUMBFUCK DESPERATE RETARDS WHO'VE NEVER HAD A WOMAN IN YOUR BEDS AND NEED TO FLAUNT YOUR MASCULINITY IN THE STREETS IS DISGUSTING AS FUCKING HELL. ITS NOT FUCKING MACHO TO LOB STUFF AT MY BACK AND SING SHIT VULGAR SONGS WHILE YOU DO IT. ESPECIALLY IF YOU'RE SEVEN OF YOU AND I'M ONE OF ME.
What do you get out of it? Knowing that the chic is powerless to react? Cos there's no way I'll turn around and slap you in the face if you have a whole fucking army behind you. Sick that you'd NEED an army to make me feel insecure. I'm about as big as you were when you were fucking ten years old.
What would you call it? Unity in numbers? Mass barbarism? Male animal instinct? Is that what your stupid festivals are about? License to fucking molest your women? Giant eve-teasing orgies?
Fuck you all. Wake up, Government. I say let women carry guns on the days of Holi. Gimme some target practice. And then we'll see who gets away with lobbing balloons at my head. My GUITARS fucking wet. AND it comes in a waterproof case.

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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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