I would not like to have a face where one eye could see the other.
So the lady at the office counter next to me is suffering from acidity. Or something that makes her burp every five minutes. Very loudly. What the eff ya. Totally, not wanting to hear this shizzle.
I went and saw this Kannad movie called Lucia. You should check it out. Little stretchy stretchy towards the end and of course a lot of the dialogues were not that funny via subtitles. But I still liked it. Full soooper some parts were. Soooper only mugga.
My likeness to kung fu panda is depressing. I am a depressed panda. I am a fuckin depressed panda ya’all. And the world is like “whogiveafuck”
This sala wordpress gandu keeps auto correcting and there are times when I feel like giving the gaandu one tight rap on the knuckles. Stay away from my shizzle beetches. I don’t want to be corrected.
Auto-correct is not that alien a concept actually. When you are small, parents are the auto correct. Unless they are my parents (ya baby kro, go on baby kro. Go closer to the mouth of that wild horse with the rolling eyes. gooo oonn). And as you grow up, and believe yourself to be a member of civilised society, you will more or less have auto corrects for companions at any given point of time. Telling you how to live, how to eat, how to wear your clothes (pyjyma strings on the inside), what to talk about, when to laugh, when not to laugh, when to sing, when to cry. Oh fuck this shit man. Fuck this straight jacket, this burden of civility, this unfailing, unwaning piece of sheeeeet.
FUCK YOU AUTO CORRECTORS!!
I totally want a rain and thunderstorm right now. Scream into the skies. Perhaps I should move to Odhisha. What is this one called? Palin or something it seems. No no. Phailin. Like failin but hipsta style.
Ruby Tuesdays. Diamond Wednesdays. Gutterstone Thursdays.
Teri mummy. Teri daddy. Tere do pyaar. Maar daa loonga. ahahahahahahahahhahaha
If they ever allowed me into a kiddies party, I would fuckin wreck so much fuckin havoc. I would be the cookie monster meets the hulk meets neenja assssasssseeeen. It would be a frikkin massacre beetches. And there would be not be a single piece of cake left in the crime scene.
Running away, chased by millions of cops, driving with one hand on the steering wheel. While the other hand stuffs chunks of pineapple pastry into my face. Chomping away, and then belting in some chips. Swig of the coke. A bite of that samosa. Okay back to the cake.
Even as the sirens continue to wail and wail behind me.
I guess that is what they call stress eating.
Have a killer weekend porkies. Remember, when nothing happens its cause nothing is like, dayum, I gotta moooove it moooove it.
Ta-na naaa naaa taaa na.
We like-ta moooooove it.