writer's block is a myth

only when you end up getting something that involves frolicking around randomly fiddling with faintly farcical first page results of a fairly fruitful search on flickr for these:

first name, favourite food right now, high school,
favourite colour.

celebrity crush, favourite drink, dream vacation,
favourite dessert.

like to be when you grow up, love most in life,
one word that (possibly) describes you, username.

and picking an image from the results on the first page.
and using Big Huge Labs Mosaic Maker to create a mosaic.
and then getting drunk



that was fun. and it appears many have done this by now.
in case you haven't but feel like, do go ahead and drop a line.

An update as its eight minutes past eight on the eighth of august in the year two followed by two zeroes and an eight, after I ate roasted chili flavoured tortilla crisps with some hummus which was great and I want to mate

conundrum chinesse

So I've had this theory since long that If every other awesome girl is detected along a man within her personal space area, a 'brotherly-sisterly' relationship can be safely assumed while being blithely oblivious to what the bitter truth might be. Told you positive thinking works. It kind of comforts by giving some hope and sort of showers you with endless supplies of 'maybe's cushioning you on a safety net.

Sadly though, like with all good theories come the mandatory drawbacks. It all seemed to work pretty well, until a few months back. No they didn't turn around and throw dagger looks, nor were they long-haired male rock fans mistaken for girls if at all you thought that was the worse it could get to.

Get this—everywhere I looked around uni, 80 to 90% of innocent girls fell prey to appearing chinese almost instantaneously;
no literally, everyone.

Although when I say Chinese, they might well have been Koreander or Japhacheese cakes or the likes;
I couldn't possibly differentiate the taste.

It wasn't like I had stumbled upon a barrage of randomly prepositioned young chinese tourists, they were just there.
Or maybe I was doing it all wrong according to, oh I don't know, some bizarre set of Feng Shui body language rules. Their confused expressions as I looked at each one of them in sheer disbelief disturbed me even more.

It felt like something went terribly wrong somewhere in thy DNA. My innocent sight was either accidentally bestowed upon with mysterious 'racial mutation powers' of you know Huu Huangdi or the Chinese Kitchen God was frying fucking with me real bad.

You know there are times that make you think
"maybe I had too many noodles last night."
Something tells me this could easily be one of them.
and, that I need more of brazilian cuisine
sigh; talk about being beaten with a chopstick.

In other news, a mentally ill lunatic proves he is one rightly so by confusing the moon for my car.