As I recline on my bed as of 9.09 in the laptop clock, I look around to see- life.
In a cubicle.
There's inactivity. There's boredom. There's melancholy. We're alive!
As the title goes, Nucking Futs, for lack of an external censor.
I decided to burn my hand. It was mildly painful, as the head of a cigarette burns at a considerably high temperature. I'm sure someone will know the exact specs, but I tried it out anyway.
It left some skin burnt, but nothing too much... the masochist in me wants to slam the butt on my finger, the same one I'll write with tomorrow.
The realist in me shut up years ago.
Six minutes have passed since I finished the fifth download of a childishly imbecilic game that I decided to rack my laptop with. A 2005 model shouldn't by any measure be able to support 2009 games, and it doesn't. Sensible laptop, mindfucked owner.
Doesn't stop me from downloading the sixth part, before installing it and then wracking my brains trying to reduce its graphics and performance, and then uninstalling and deleting it when it doesn't work. Summat to do anyhow.
I debated whether or not to go down and have dinner or starve. Moral issue, existential crisis.
The humanitarian part of me realized that not having dinner would
- no doubt affect my stomach.
The logical part of me realized that not having dinner would
- keep me awake half the night and quite likely till morning as I prowled the corridors in stealthy reconnaissance looking for the unwary hostelite who would leave more than his/her share of food lying around,
- it also meant I would increase my performance-to-resource ratio, forcing my body to consume itself to support my brain, but giving my systems a temporary boost.
Unsurprisingly they arrived at the same conclusion together.
I finally looked around for enough "chanda" to go get my junk. Granted, there are no immediate relief zones of any discernible quality to be found from where I'm sitting (or staying); but if I'm going home by September then it stands to reason that I may sample goods of excellent merchandise in familiar confines... Panvel, Kamathi, BP, ah, my sainted whores.
In other words, BP rocks, Madras blues repress.
Until then, abstinence is the foundation of virtue.
Apparently a visit to the ATM is required after several glances into the musty reliquary that passes for my purse.
The adage sticks through, then; Money come, money go; mindfucked brain, remain.