Saturday, 25 December 2010

Powerpuff. Paapaf. Elphinstone. Elfistone. Can. Tin.

He got me a Bart Simpson bag with a Happy Meal toy inside it. My grin is bigger and huger. He is awesomer. Go read his blog now. Now. Happy DayAfterChristmas!

Want to be featured on my blog? Buy me things. A balloon will also do. Bonus points if it features Spongebob. Send me an email at and I will send you my address. Not if you look creepy and stalkery but.

Also, don't make fun of my email id. I made it when I was slightly mentally unstable even more unstable than I currently am. But now I'm very emotionally attached to it and can't let it go. So yeah. Bye!

Mamma Mia is our name at XYZ

I've decided I want to read all the books Paro Anand has ever written (oh get over it, I read bachcha books). My friend got me this one and it arrived today. So I have a bighuge grin on my face now. I also just realized that only one of the stories is by Paro Anand but the grin is still there. And I'm going to pimp his blog for free. So go read his blog! This one. It's awesome. Okay I don't know because it's about football and I care this much about football but he bought me a book so it must be awesome. If you want me to pimp your blog, buy me things.

This book is called Mom and Me and talks about quirky mothers and how can I mention slightly unstable mothers without talking about mine? The disturbing thing is that I'm starting to get the feeling that I might actually be turning into her. For one thing, I tend to lie wheneverhowever it's convenient for me/makes my life easier/prevents me from breaking out of my bubble of laziness. It's definitely hereditary. Mom frequently lies through her teeth not just to colleagues and friends but also to her only darling daughter. She once let me eat pakodas made of leaves after specifically leading me to believe it was brinjal. Leaves. Leaves!

Then there is my extremely low threshold of pain. I run for pain meds at the slightest headache and scream bloody murder when my tooth throbs even the slightest bit unnaturally. This I also blame on my mother. Her level of tolerance for pain was clearly demonstrated when I went to get my ears pierced. I held her hand looking for moral support in those difficult minutes full of emotional and physical trauma. And what does she do? Flings my hand aside like it's infected and holds her hands behind her back. "What if you squeeze my hand too hard when that man drills a hole through your ear?"

I had a dream once where my mom was trying to incapacitate me by pushing me out of our fourth floor window. When that didn't work, she tried to set me on fire. I wonder if my subconscious is trying to tell me something.