Corrective experiences, diagnosed clinically stupid.

My last post was terrible.
I know. I know.
I felt a sort of self imposed pressure to blog about having been away. I shouldn't have, the post below is testimony to that.

I've been on my tip toes since I've been back.
Contrary to the popular belief that I spend half my life on tip toes because of my height, I actually don't.
My meetings with heels are fleeting these days and living in Asia has meant that shelves are so much more accessible than they were in Europe.
Truth is, I'm excited.

Yes, excited.

Red Button

So of course being excited is this uber good thing right? Makes you feel good, makes your head full of nice things and all that Vaseline covered lens goodness that I have already covered in a previous post. You know what I also covered in that post? Sentimentality, and how I was disposing of it.

The dreaded bastard repeats on me in a constant stream of unimaginable indigestion like burps. The ones that come up your throat just long enough for you to be able to taste the acid before swallowing it back down and brushing your teeth. Yuck right? Well, that's just how I feel about it.

Damn excitement, the sentimental derp, and the immovable feeling that disappointment will shortly follow. Damn them all to hell.

Done.


Taichung's been kicking my ass with fried food since I got back.
How can a city, kick ass, and do it with food you ask? I'm asking the same question.
Actually, I've been asking a bunch of questions.
How can a gravy boat be full of gin?
How has time passed so quickly? This time last year I was pulling 12hour shifts at the library writing my dissertation.
Why is it that I cannot make any decisions?
Why do I need to make any decisions?
Why are my nail beds so short?
Why does Opel poop twice only when I forget to take two poop bags? Actually, why does he have to poop at all?!
How can I consistently write such banal blog posts that have absolutely no point? 

This is just a peek into the stupid questions that are haunting me this week, there are so many more, that I am so much more embarrassed to ask publicly.


S and I decided that I should be diagnosed clinically stupid, I mean, it was a self diagnosis and I took S's silence as agreement.

Here are some pictures, and pictures of pictures.

Ha!

A monk on a scooter. And E's huge shoulders in the mirror? How do people even grow that big?

And I'll end with that gravy boat. Bam.