Hey, what’s up?

Dear Zonk,

I’m writing to you today because I’m in the mood to talk and my phone is in the other room and I’m too lazy to go get it and call someone. Which makes me sound like a potato, I know, but I’m not. I can prove it. I have a Google spreadsheet where I’ve marked all the days I did my 7-minute workout in the past 3 weeks, and another where I’ve marked all the days I did some music in the past 1 week. And right now, the spreadsheets look like this:

(The yellow squares is me. The blue squares is Rahul, who, thankfully, has not done too much more than me. Do not try to correct this sentence. Or the one before it. It’s probably erroneous but I don’t care to change it. And also it’s okay to start a sentence with ‘because’ or say ‘yellow squares is me’ if you know what you’re doing. Clearly I know what I’m doing. I use words like ‘erroneous’.)

I do believe I killed it. I can play Crash Into Me, now. Not too well, but still.

I bet you didn’t know you could embed Google spreadsheets in your blog. Neither did I. I only just found out. And if you did know about it, I’ll buy you a beer.

In other news, I feel pretty confused about how I feel today. I feel morose because I’m falling sick and I can’t breathe properly and my head hurts, and enthusiastic because my mom’s made amazing potatoes for dinner and annoyed because I’ve had an irritating day at work and happy because I got given a Toblerone for putting up with the irritatingness.

I think the Toblerone probably tips the scales in favour of Happy. This is why I like my office.

Also, today I listened again to a song that I wrote and recorded on Saturday with C that I wasn’t too happy with. This time, I took off the percussion parts and now I’m beginning to really like it :) If all goes well, I will share it with all of you. Here.

Goodnight and goodbye.

Love always,
K.

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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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