Where we empty our tears into these massive cauldrons; vats full of our tragedies

I wonder if there is a unit of tears. One which not only measures the quantity or volume but the pain as well. You could have some sort of formula or assign points for quantity, that would not be too difficult. The pain though, that may take some time. I don’t think it is impossible though, measuring pain. There has to be a base unit of pain, there must.

Will check and revert back to you asap.

I see a lot of “asap”s in my inbox and I am almost always like kya chutiya hai kya?

As soon as possible it seems.

Bloody obviously I will only reply as soon as possible you gaandu. Or do you expect me to do the impossible kya? Doo kya? Kaan ke neeche. Saala will put your pee pee back in you ass if you know what I mean.

Pee pee.

Such a wonderful term. Such versatility, such tapped and untapped potential. Pee Pee.

It could mean susu or it could mean penis. So much mystery.


I think all days should start with a looped session of “Who let the dogs out” cause then, even if you are little sleepy, you can say “woof, woof whoo” and stuff.

Went for a jog today morning. Bad idea. Cause it was raining and I somehow managed to wear a white t-shirt. Fuck man. I could see the moobs swinging right below me. Swinging. Like fucking two tarzans I swear. Going aaaaa and ooooo all over the place.

Kya chutiyap hua bhai.

Anyway, went and had me some raspberry soda down at this place called Coffee House in Fort. Run by this crazy Parsi guy and serving this unfukingbelieavably sexy burger. Like all full mayo and cheese and disgustingly good. And they also had this steamed chicken wanton thingy that was just drenched in garlic and steaming and slightly soupy and stuff.

Kya baat hai.

Wah taj. Nahi nahi, wah ustaad.

Recycled jokes are like those dirty pamphlets that nobody reads. Ooo which reminds me, I got a Jehovah Witness pamphlet stuffed down my throat the other day. Except it was called “JW” and I was like wtf this is.

Ok. Time to run and revert to the asaps. Those bastards.



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One Response to Where we empty our tears into these massive cauldrons; vats full of our tragedies

  1. Sroyon says:

    The dol is a unit of pain.

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