To let a cat in.

When it comes to killing creatures that are inconvenient to us, our ethics melt as easily as the electric fly zappers melt flies.

My surreal problem of the week is that of bees. Four of them have been flying in my apartment all evening and I have been running. One was sinisterly perched under the cane table, another was standing guard on the door knob determined not to let its prisoner out. Another was writhing on the floor, prompting me to throw the book Chettinad Kitchen (of which not even one recipe has been tried) at it. PP however came and killed them all. PP is gay. I wish the landlords would realise he is not my boyfriend. But this brings me to the main purpose of men. 

I remember a scene in this movie that I saw 10 years ago. The woman is suddenly widowed. I remember a line " I don't want to want." And then I remember that a mother (rat) gives birth to babies in the woman's house. She is traumatised by this scene. She doesn't want to have anything to do with the killing and yet she is irked by their presence.She lets a cat in finally. 

pleasure is a thing, that also needs accomplishing

The Word

  Down near the bottom  of the crossed-out list  of things you have to do today,   between "green thread"  and "broccoli" you find  that you have penciled "sunlight."   Resting on the page, the word  is as beautiful, it touches you  as if you had a friend   and sunlight were a present  he had sent you from some place distant  as this morning -- to cheer you up,   and to remind you that,  among your duties, pleasure  is a thing,   that also needs accomplishing  Do you remember?  that time and light are kinds   of love, and love  is no less practical  than a coffee grinder   or a safe spare tire?  Tomorrow you may be utterly  without a clue   but today you get a telegram,  from the heart in exile  proclaiming that the kingdom   still exists,  the king and queen alive,  still speaking to their children,   - to any one among them  who can find the time,  to sit out in the sun and listen. 

-- Tony Hoagland

of the men who are corn flakes body builders

I cannot speak.

It's the dead of night and my insomniac self is typically awake. Sometimes, one rude gesture can cloud a whole evening. I think its worth the effort you need to make to be polite to people. 

The keyboard of my brand new laptop has failed me, the only way I can type is by holding the function key down all the time and this is major finger gymming.

My ATM card split into two and I spent a whole week using one half of it (it worked) till I cellotaped it back together.

Reliance keeps calling me with fictional bills from 4 months back that I've paid but they insist so I don't pick up unknown numbers anymore, to my loss.

Skype has passed away on my laptop.

My other laptop only works when I stretch the charging cord really tight. 

(All this sounds bizzare to you, you don't deserve this bad treatment, I know, I should have written about my theory on men and their google hypochondria and corn flakes body building habits) 

Technology has debilitated me into facing these surreal problems. 

I wish I was in the hills smelling pine cones and drinking chai, dressed in the cheap new clothes I bought today and staring at the mountains from the terrace. 

Robot, don't dead puppy

The Robot is reading this and should call.