My left wrist guides my life

I really want to write something, but I think my muscles are cramped, just the littlest bit. And there's two hours to go until the bell rings, and I've finished all my classwork, and I can't do the prep until I meet my tutor and he tells me how.

I bought the first two episodes of Saber Rider and the Star Sherrifs very recently. Approx Rs.100, so not bad really. Just the memory is worth so much. I'll choke as I write it, but they just don't make cartoons like they used to. I'd stick my tongue out but feel fairly dehydrated. The water cooler is bubbling away, so far, so far.

Came up with two WoT builds for Guild Wars, in those spare moments of thinking that I have too often. Perrin Abayra would probably be a Hammer weilding Warrior/Ranger with a pet wolf. And an Ashaman would be an Elementalist/Warrior. Because they have swords and never seem to use them. Would be a waste of a weapon, but the look is ever so important. I suppose you could hold something magical in the other hand, to double as a Terangreal. Oh dear I've forgotten how it's spelt.

Shame
On
Me

Programs seem to be so much more satisfying if they flood your screen with a string of numbers once they're finished. A bit of flair, very impressive. For someone who couldn't decide between econ and comp.science three years ago, I must confess to being in a most intriguing position between the two. A dab of this, a swash of that.

There's a never-ending show in my head, as the music plays. And when it stops, I tell myself the story of my life. Occassional bouts of extreme exhaustion are thus easily, if embarassingly, explicable.

As I leant against the plastic-that-looks-like-glass (maybe twas flexiglass), in the tube, rumbling towards the comfort and relative warmth of home, I encountered a poor soul fighting desparately for survival. With my head bowed, the grape came darting towards me, rolling out from the grasp of the one that would have made short work of it. Leaving a glistening trail of juice, slime, as it rolled ever closer. Vascillating for a moment, looking for security, reassurance. And then taking those last steps to the relative safety provided by my personal zone. Stopping, right at the tip of my shoe, obligingly keeping its shine to itself. I would provide protection of course, for the grape had touched my heart. Truly. And social norms doth dictate that none may come so close as to crush it. But even as I thought these thoughts, and my love grew from a seed, calamity came rushing in. As the train pulled into a station, and one I may call a lady only if I hiss through my teeth, came clammering in, squashing my darling beneath her heavy boot. Were it not for a dramatic turn of events whereby a much more cheerful and infinitely less gooey song came on my mp3 player, I might truly have been scarred. For life.

There are of course other things. Deeper things, more sentimental things. Things that dreams are made of. Dreams where everyone has the same pair of shoes I do, and that is truly sad. The effects of absorbing a tv show too deeply. I would be willing to bet on that. If I could.

Why I feel comfortable enough to play stick cricket and not use msn, I do not know. But that is the path I must now follow. My topical reserves and fictional desires are drying up, growing too narrow. Though how a thing could actually grow to become narrow would be an interesting event to observe, if only it did not take so long to transpire. But now before I lose my own drift, some online game playing of the mediocre kind calls. At least, until the bell rings.