Don’t tell my mother…

..that I want to bone this guy really bad.

There are these confusing moments in which I don’t quite understand whether I really want to be with Diego Bunuel or just be him.

In my mostly iconoclastic sort of life, this man has had maximum influence on choosing what I do with my time and education. Really.

On the side, I thought I’d write about how blogging will be negligible given my travel plans but the day you have to write a blog post on how you won’t be writing more blog posts, man, that is when you should use the ugly sweater that Aunt Constant Chin Wag gave you, to strangle yourself and cut your losses.

Don’t tell my mother.
Warning: Terrible voiceovers.

UPDATE!

I was flipping through some TV channels now that the old whipping cane (my mother) is getting her BP normalized at my aunt’s place many hundred miles away and I found some interesting stuff.

On a channel dedicated to bringing “world movies” to our cramped Indian living rooms, the subtitles exclude offensive words like “sex” and “booty” but have no problems showing “cunt” (I will wash my keypad with soap and water, I promise) with multiple exclamation points following it’s trail. Wah!

I am dearly hoping for Kris Allen to record a duet with Gabriella Cilmi because I have been singing his version of “Heartless” forever. It’s replaced “Nothing Sweet About Me” as my commute song.