An hour and a half earlier, is when I had a bath, but it looks like I just walked out from one. (Yes, I know, surprising, isn't it? - me and bath...) The Indian summer wrenches the body, and once the pores open up there's no looking back - you better be prepared for a humid being, despite the air conditioned environs. [tropical ~= sweaty] Being a biker, I could feel short of the car guys; but I know from experience from many a soggy rides inside those moving greenhouses, that they don't have it perfect either - and its all the more infuriating, coz a carowner knows that they could not aspire for more. I so miss the hills, all the more today, when I'm forced to step out into a landscape I detest and forced to work in a century I loathe.
Yesterday I got a taste of my own medicine - long time back, when after a pint too many, I'd demanded Y to make me bread, only to later ignore the exclusive meal and drift into sleep - when, on a quick run to Supreme's, Y made me go out of the way to this overpopulated South Indian resto and get him stuff, me returning with an abundance of food good for a whole volleyball team, only for him to walk out on a trifling excuse. And it was as if he could further divine my embarrassment - when my sloppy ways in his absence saw a river of 'Sambhar' sprouting from its abundant polyethylene glacier and changing the geography of my kitchen - I had the Gangetic floodplains right there in my kitchen - only that to substitute water was the dal, to substitute the silt deposit were the spices, and to substitute the boulders were the vegetable chunks. It was an inconvenient affair cleaning up the mess. Well played, Sir, well played.
Now Y is also putting up pictures of my soon-to-be-fiancée Ana Ivanovic for the world to ogle at, and hence expand the competition pool (which is intimidating, not for the competition, but that it will add a temporal offset to my conquest). Well, played, Sir, again. You are really after my life.
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