angelina jolie made me a cheese sandwich

I've had an minor angelina jolie infestation in my cluttered mind; I'm told the only way leading to a jolly riddance involves touting anti-feminist annotations in all directions until I start seeing anniston's face all red in my breakfast cereal. yes it's a bit more complicated than cooking up elaborate master plans of shunning academic responsibility through sheer brainwork with less salt than usual. as the presence of my absence continues to dominate my internet palace, let it no way imply I've been finally cured of that year long disease. I was suffering through insert synonym for laziness of the worst degree here ever had one of those mid-life crises? except that it's not really mid-life, and much more worse than being beaten by an 11 year old chinese counterpart in Crysis. it might well have been a delay actually, I'm positive I started writing this blog post early this month; blogger's publish page needs a tad bit sprinkle of angelina jolies, honestly. I know no other way of a productivity boost. days are dwarfed of recent, with Usain Bolting for buses and playing cavalier to last minute coursework caveats. to make matters even worse, the washing machine has started smelling of fresh curry.
*google employees get 20% off their time to do whatever they want. some probably initiate intimate expressions of their own giga (10⁹) geekness, while others may just make out with their keyboards. this blahwg, disguised with fuelling flamboyant narcissism except anything else, was born on similar constraints except that the 20 was actually 80% time off of two days before the finals. try it sometime, the adrenaline thrush easily beats nicotinal narcotica however strong your other whoever claims it to be. particularly when the strongest of coffee makes your eyelids go all heavy in under 15 seconds. strange thing sleep is. some people have no idea how hard I have to work just to keep my bleedin' eyes open. it's like when you want stay awake, all the university and lecturers in it conspire in helping you to doze off. the conscious state plummets radically into blue depths of deep sleep deprivation, rendering the ancient art of attempting to save the crashing trains of thought, entirely useless. the mind's eye turns from the usual aye-aye-spot-that-bird tunnel vision to a weary, unsteady brown blur dipped in volatile waters of academic inconsistencies almost instantaneously.

ever noticed yourself scribbling around on a notepad half asleep? well, I just did. presenting to you, the language of the human brain. the mother tongue. langue maternelle. spoken, and expressed only during an unclear suspension into a pseudo-conscious state which, coincidentally, happens to being achieved while you're mid-lectures half asleep and simultaneously engaged in a fierce battle with your energy ageing eyelids. clicken est enlärgen.




edit: turns out it holds an uncanny resemblance to this. I therefore deduce sleep is as good as sex. no comments.


I do realise I might've just made a big fool of myself, in which case I have nothing more to say. I rest my face.

unrelated—waiter, there's a fly in my yeast.