Chinnon

I hate that guys can sleep shirtless and girls can't. It's really not fair at all. But before I talk bullshit for what I've been told is probably the 678th time on this blog: I'm not here to tell you about things I hate, I'm here to tell you about things I Like. Most of them you already know..but here's a new one that I discovered only today — saris in a material called chinnon

Sigh…
Believe me Zonk. It's the single most softest most awesome thing you've ever touched (please don't think sleazy thoughts) and I suggest you buy a few of them even if you aren't a wearer of saris. I'm never going to be a wearer of saris, but when I have a place of my own I plan to use chinnon saris as curtains and drapes and sheets all over the place. I'm also going to have a Bedroom in my house when I have a house. Not to be confused with a bedroom which is just a room with a bed in it where you crash every night, a Bedroom is a room that has no furniture and almost no floor on account of all flat and horizontal surfaces being covered with the fattest most awesom mattresses ever. Plus there's air conditioning and pillows and fat quilts and stuffed turtles (like Albert*) and huge windows with thick curtains (made of chinnon of course). Bliss. And don't even THINK of stealing my Bedroom idea. You may not believe it but I'm keeping an eye on everyone that's reading this post. In fact I keep track of everyone that reads any post of Supreme Importance. And I will know if a Bedroom turns up in the hidden spare room under the carpet on the false floor of the basement of your house. And I will make you pay. Oh yeah (to be pronounced as 'yay' in order to rhyme with 'pay' which is the last word of the previous sentence; and I would greatly appreciate it if you would be so kind as to read the last couple of sentences again. Minus the brackets and with no errors in pronunciation. For effect. Thank you).
So. As I was saying. 
I will make you pay. Oh yeah.
*Sheena's turtle

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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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