Notes to self.

1. Penalty shootoutss are mildly traumatic, when not downright entrants into the 'trainwreck' category.
2. FIFA's giving them referees some kinda crack and it is NOT JIVING.
3. Oh Brazil, how sick and tired I am of you. How sick and tired exactly? I wrinkle my nose and yawn the moment I see Ronaldo tumbling towards the goalpost.
4. ESPN India telejourno hack with glasses? Shut your pie-hole. Failing which, just, like, die or something. Thanks.

Memeage.

Got tagged by Aishwarya. Not tagging anyone in turn because my blog readership beyond the other people she tagged is er doubtful at best. So here goes.


I am thinking about
Sunnyside up, eggs.

I said
'We all know which of them really was hired for being pretty.'

I want to
Draw.

I wish
That gorgeous book on Schiele didn't do the inanimate-object equivalent of dancing naked in front of me. With bells on.

I miss
The news, sometimes.

I hear
Lebanese pop. Vot?

I wonder
If I should write to Stephen Fry (oh my god, my palms are so clammy they're practically clams, how do you write to that man without exposing yourself as a witless loutish spewer of metaphoric botty-dribble?).

I regret
School.

I am
Your daddy.

I dance
Like Moz.

I sing
Songs by The Smiths, operatically. I am awesome. *inserted pointed look from taggee in general direction of tagger*

I cry
For my country! Alas ehui hay bhogobaan.

I am not always
This patriotic.

I write
In cursive. Ain't nothin' sexier.

I confuse
Death metal bands with other death metal bands.

I need
Money to spend on books.

I should try
Sushi.

I finish
With a clean plate.


Ta-ta for now.

Fame fame fatal fame.

It's been a rough couple of months, my little honeylumps, sugarcrumbs and other assorted antipastry. Did you miss me? Aww.

I have the cough from hell, very puerile of old Luci to poke me in the alveoli with his silly cutlery every two and a half minutes. It's summertime and the weather is fine for the sweet oblivion of sleep and misery. I now have no idea if I should pick up a Middle English reader or a copy of 'How To Read D.H. Lawrence's Fiction Without Wanting To Commit Random Acts of Homicide - For Dummies' because this optional course business is just sparkly and unpredictable like that.

There seems to be a copy of 'Trainspotting' in the Film Studies library, which is exciting but sad because Ewan IS SO NOT Rent Boy.

What else? VH1, please stop showing Arctic Monkeys videos. As India's resident expert on British 'indie' rock, I declare them provincial, overrated and just plain sorry.

I fail to understand what I've recently identified as a folkloric obsession with the procreative powers of snot, but I guess it's all good.