If I knew that you were going to be ok, I would not be hurting as much.
I almost wish you had betrayed me...that you had someone else, because then I could just feel angry and move on.
Then I could bear my own pain, lick my own wounds, and heal.
But you haven't.
You have walked away from this for reasons I do not know what to make of but to blame myself.
Why is it I'm hurting for you?
Why is it that though I have lost everything my universe revolved arround in the bredth of an hour, I'm sitting here numb -like a man who's just lost a limb- and all I can think is that I wish I could hold you now and tell you it's going to be ok?
Why is it my heart is breaking that you are alone tonight.

Just got back from watching Darjeeling Limited. Wes Anderson films are funny in the way real life is. You come out of one almost seeing the world in the way you did the film, and half expecting someone in the background to hobble past with a ridiculous hat, or for your ordinary comments to be followed by the silence that only off-beat/dark humour is followed by. Also, they leave me feeling a bit solemn though accepting of life in all it's shiKt-ness.

Adrian Brody is fit.
Miyavi is too hot.
And I realised today that I don't like Haido as much, not because he's getting old, no. But because he reminds me of Ryo. This is not to say Ryo is remotely as good looking. It's just the way his jaw is set sometimes, and his lips. And most importantly that increadibly self concious lack of confidence that used to creep up on Ryo often.

On a different note, I've noticed that I have been wishing more and more recently that I was a guy. Free to do guy things, to hang out with the guys without people sniggerring behind their hands, to take off my top without being oggled...you know. Boys are so much more fun then girls :( But also, their more dumb. (shruggs shoulders)
In any case if I was a guy, I reckon I'd be well fit. I know this because of two reasons.
Reason 1: Because I'm already kinda androgenous and if I was a guy I would be too, and the androgenous types are always the enigmatic hot ones.
Reason 2: I said this to Faaria, and she said 'Yeah, you would be.' ...I also told Faaria that if she was a guy, I'd fancy her, coz she's oriental looking.

Cheap thrill of the week:
Raz thought I was 21. This makes me real happy, and tells me the universe is working in my favour. When I told him the truth though I think he was a bit shaken to find out I'm actually a year older than him. Calls me 'grandma' now...stupid foo'!

Sarahmon: a nokturnal pokemon. Drawn to sugar and shiny things. Weaknesses include fear of the colour yellow.
Elestimon: also nocturnal. drawn to the dark and pierced, Japanese, spastic musicians. Weaknesses include shitake mushrooms.
Misbemon: the most sensible of the three.

-courtesy of Sarah bunny :)

Office Drama
Waiting for a print out infront of Saif uncle's office, Syed (also known as 'comsi comsa' or 'the Italian') makes the mistake of addressing Saif uncle at random as he passes by.
Syed: You alright?
Saif uncle: What?
Syed (a bit nervously): Is everything ok?
Saif uncle (suspicious): What do you want?
Syed: Nothing, I'm just asking if you're ok.
Sif uncle (eyes him): Where are you from?
Syed (who is Bengali): Milan.
Saif uncle: Good. don't let any Bengali's in here.

I couldn't decide between the following 3 titles for this blog entry...

Sufi is fat

a state of affairs, by Elest Ali

or

Does Sufi eat more than me?

A reflection on things, by Elest Ali

or

My laptop is pissing me off!

A thorough bitching, by Elest Ali

Yesterday, Pixy got to see Tutankhamun's pectoral up close and personal. 'Is it called a pectoral coz it sits on your pecs?' --she asked Shaheen, whisperringly. 'Tis a mystery now why the blond lady standing next to them in front of the exhibit, smiled at her naivety. Becasue that is indeed what a pectoral is. An amulet or jewlery that rests on a mans pecs. -says sheikh google.
Hah! to you, blond lady!

Asside from Tutankhamun's pectoral, Pixy met in person, all the people she spent her freaky adolescent years staring at pictures of in Egyptology books. Conclusion: Those ancient egyptians were so beautiful they had issues! Issues like elongated skulls and severe vanity.
Pixy came out wonderring: Is it perhaps that line between a masculine woman and a feminine man...that look which merges the sexes, which is the height of human beauty?

What's that? Tell you the story of a cock up in our tickets? Well...there aint really one. Only that the manager happened to be this tall, fit Korean/Chinese guy. Shaheen (who sneek peeked his name tag) says his name was Baldwin Ho. When you're done laughing at his first name. And then your done laughing at his surname. And then you're done laughing at them both put together...I'd just like to say that Dayyyym, that guy was sooooo hot, I wudn't mind being stuck with a shiKKt surname like Ho if it meant I could wake up to that face every morning.

And then what happened? Ho looked at the tickets for a bit and went: 'You know what, don't worry about it, just go on through.'
I tell you it was the chemisty and all those baby lightning sparks going off arround us.

Epilogue: When Pixy runs out of steam there are no words, no thoughts, no feelings...just a deep bottomless well silence.

Searching for SoHigh lead Pixy down the seedy, back streets of Soho, frequented by perverts and Japanese. At one point she was on the verge of turning into a narrow side street, made narrower by jutting shop signs from either side, advertising with neon lights, those things that the multiple 'x's were supposed leave to your titilated imagination. At the sigt of it and a scary man who was slinking in her direction, she turned into the other street. When things eventually started looking more familiar and less preverse, she realised she'd made the right choice and breathed a sigh of reliefe.
She decided she would have to take someone with her next time, because there was still a Marjuana mag to be bought.

Meanwhile, Pixy has a black wine glass. This is more practical than a champagne flute or a cocktale glass, and it's useful to make ailien-sound music with, when you want to be spooky.
Sufi, on the other hand, is obsessed with the dish sponge. She keeps nicking it from beside the sink and running off with it all sliping-arround-like in the trail of water it leaves behind. Pixy tried hiding it in the vase near the kitchen window. But Sufi managed even to get it out of that. So now it sits in the cupboard under the sink, where it is dark.

It's sad how everything is so alone. The sponge. Sufi. Pixy. It's sad how everything is so sad and God damned hard to heal. Pixy's friends and Pixy's guest and Pixy's heart. It's sadest though, how everything loses meaning, like some thief came and took it all away. And Pixy wonders what is good, what is right, what is wrong. Pixy wonders why and how someone can love a person who is so selfish, and cruel and quite frankly stupid. And if this is possible, then how can that person be selfish and cruel and quite frankly stupid? That person must be kind, and caring and appreciative. Is something wrong with Pixy? Or is something wrong with the order of things in the world?

Kara kolda Ayna var...ayna var
Kiz kolunda damga var...damga var
Gozlerinden bellidir Cevriyem
Sende kara sevda var

Denizlerin kumuyum...kumuyum
Baliklarin puluyum...puluyum
Ac koynunu ben geldim Cevriyem
Bende Allah kuluyum

Translation:

There is a mirror on the jail house wall
There is a stamp on your arm, girl
Your eyes say it all, my Jevriye
You're love sick

I'm the sand of the seas
I'm the scales of the fish
Open your arms, I've come my Jevriye
I too am another servant of God

The above Turkish song is about a prostitue. Charming.

Today is the beginning of a new, more professional in the workplace, Elest. Complete with a taste for tea. Yep thats right, ordinary, black tea. Albiet, one watered down by lots of milk.
It's all about multiple personalities. I need to go shoe shopping too. Now one side of me whispers: Red Patent Grinders!!! Yes Yes Yes! ...and the other more sensible side says, without whispering: Get something sensible for work you fool. We'll know by Monday who wins.

Meanwhile: I am tired of having my mind messed with.