Flipping the bird

I don’t feel like updating my blog with some bloggywoggy karma-hostile bullshit-intolerant post that goes to prove a point, more like typing my fingers short, because the last 48 hours have been, as always, quite odd, but let me start off with a certain announcement to all of those whose lives afford the time to probe into others’ : If I feel like using the word fuck, shit, dick, bitch, or asshole, by all means I will. If you don’t like it, you can always move that little concerned finger of yours get to the (X) button on top just where it belongs. However, taking my friend’s advice, I will however put a Parental Advisory Badge on top for all of you with a sensitive ear. I do appreciate your concern, however misplaced it is.

Now, starting off with my odd 48 hours. Went for a jog, I overworked my leg and my jogging buddy can’t move her knees, so we were tagging along as the hunks fly past us and the old men slowly yet surely beat us to the end of the curb. Charming eh? She walked me back home, we shopped for neckband headphones and I trudged back up, too lazy to even think of taking a shower, let alone changing. Somehow a couple of hours fly past, during which I’m used as a guinea pig as a friend tries skyping with me from their phone and suddenly dad feels like taking a walk. I tag along, even though I find out that I can’t walk without a limp. A 17-year-old with a limp, not a charmer. On our way down I met my friend who’d immigrated, unpacking on the curb. I said I’ll catch up with her in a couple of hours, and since she hadn’t seen her dad in two years it was a win-win. My cutting her some slack and her catching up on good old quality time with her dad. Sometimes the best thing you can do for the people you love is to bug off. True Story.

My dad kept walking ahead, then slowing down, then walking ahead as I fall behind, then slowing down, falling in and out of pace yet never out of train of thought. I found out about a new bookstore called “Alef”, a bit past Diwan bookstore not 20 minutes away from home, so that’s awesome. Now I have two bookstores in reach that I know how to get to without begging for rides and appointment rain checks. It’s this little store, with the entrance hidden from view with a slight hedge, entrance made out of cobblestone steps in the grass with the most annoying gate ever. Getting in, it’s apparently new and didn’t look like it was in business for long. The book collection per author was quite limited, and the titles were slightly out of date and the way they placed the books on the shelves made it impossible for you to ease one out to read the plot with the entire line of books falling to one side. That didn’t look like someone who knew their way around the block. Getting past the cons, the prices were awesome, almost 40% less than virgin megastores, levelled with Diwan a bit. Anyhow, I subscribed to the bookstore for the membership discounts, grabbed a couple of brochures and stroke up a convo with the salesman and walked out with a book that a friend had recommended, “The Book Thief – Markus Zusak”, there was this other book I wanted to get but didn’t have enough cash on me, called “The book of other people”. Apparently plotless with nothing but autobiographies of imaginary characters.

For someone who found her cell phone in the trashcan a couple of days ago and who usually goes out Bag-less, phone-less, tissue-less and sometimes even money-less for 6 hours on end alone, it’s one of em times I wished I’d packed in an extra banknote. Yes, I’m stupid that way. With dad as a guru and sweetheart, and my hip slightly lubricated, I mind mapped the way and we got back. I had bought a book for my friend as a return gift, of her favourite author, knocked, hours fled past, blablabla, her dad was jetlagged so we hung around at my place catching up on everything that happened, could have happened and should have happened that year, hence talking the top of our heads off till 4 in the morning then we both passed out, fast asleep. I hadn’t slept in a couple of days and she was jetlagged, so we were quite sure, even though I drowsily set an alarm, that we wouldn't wake up. I woke up at 11, she wasn’t there, I’d missed the morning jog without cancelling on the poor dudette. A couple of hours later, spending it online with another friend, fumbling at the door and they’re packing to leave. I go out, say my goodbyes only to come back and find, cutely enough, that my friend fell asleep on the keyboard.

I re-read this and I’m aware that there is no punch-line. Well, I did tell you I wasn’t feeling bloggywoggy.

Oh and just for the sake of it, have yourself a “Fucking” good day. :)