Sometimes when I’m a little hungry, I avoid eating.
I keep goading my appetite, poking the flames till it’s an inferno. Then, I burst down on food like a cloud nine-months expecting.
In fact, I do that with almost every single thing that I love. That includes self-gratification in all its forms. Including writing.
I have been stuffing my literary urges(if this even qualifies as literature) into a small hole at the back of my head, partly out of guilt, and partly because I treasure the sensation of buckets of thoughts tumbling out of my mind in a mess of amalgamated vomit.
Its like holding your pee in, till you really have to fucking go.
I’ve been doing that, gathering stimulants like a whorish bee, till I’ve reached a state where, as my friend puts it “I sense an impending blog post.”
Unfortunately, as with all forms of starvation, the final salvation often comes as an anticlimax.
Not literally, foreplay is the new sex.
But in general, if you sit on your hunger too long, your appetite dies a miserable death. If you sit on a toilet break too long, your needs shift to the next excretory function.
Atleast mine does.
And here I thought I’ll never resort to bathroom humour.
So many things to talk about, my mind feels like an omelette baked with fruit-flavoured cereals and dipped in black coffee served with chili vinaigrette.
Where on earth did I come up with that.
Oh wait, that is probably what my stomach tastes like right now.
Me: so what was the blog post about
Me: I don’t know, I have a truckload of topics, including my frustration at my exams, and the pointless indian censorboard and the whole thing about finding out that someone who I know, and who doesn’t know me has liked my blog.
Me: Don’t you have to study? Plus you’re extremely distracted right now, and you possibly cannot put this mile of garbage before a post on any of those topics.
Me: I could tag this under “needs psychiatric evaluation”
Me: there you go, another topic, how easily we tag ourselves crazy without considering the gravity of insanity.
Me: Typical. Creative diarrhoea when you have a hundred other things to do.
Me: I thought you’re abstaining from these horrid metaphors.
Me: You cannot judge me, you are me.
Me: lack of self-criticism creates an Adolf Hitler.
Me: Oh Oh I totally forgot about the skype-bot who cyber chased me today.
Me: should I inform your genitals and your books that neither of them are getting any tonight?
Me: absolutely, I’m booked.
Me: oh but keep the self-gratification on hold, I just remembered the cute pizza delivery boy I wanted to write about yesterday.
Me: I can’t believe you’re going to put this on the internet
Me: stop judging.
You too, stop judging. Thinking aloud helps. You tolerate Justin Beiber, don’t you?
Well, ask WordPress for the down vote button if its that bad.
Its not like anyone is even rea- *slams mental door shut*