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Thursdays, around 3pm, are so blah. It’s too late to go out anywhere far from home and too early for the weekend. It’s too early for a pedicure and definitely too early for the gym. I feel like selling off the car that I haven’t yet bought and signing up for driving lessons only if you give me the license in advance. Too hot for taking a stroll outside. And I can’t remember whether I took a bath. I know if I really want to find out about the Kerala Massage options here in Delhi, the information is a mouseclick away. But it’s too early for a cup of coffee to keep my eyes on the screen. My orange T shirt now smells like sardines soaked in sunflower oil because I spilled some on it while prying open the can. Time has slowed down so much that when I talk about a choice between pooping and getting off the pot, there are no metaphors in question. And I’m definitely not going to arrange the sentences in chronological order. My toenails are curling ominously and my wish to become a witch might be granted after all. The desert cooler makes it difficult to talk on the phone. The bedsheet with small mirrors on it pokes my feet and when I scratch the itch, I get reminded of TV commercials about dry skin. The first time ever that I sat with my chin in my hand, someone should have told me not to. I skinned my finger when I tried shredding cheese. I like poking the wound with my fingernails. It still threatens to bleed and I hope this is a case of barking dogs that seldom bite. Apologies, like love, should come accompanied with background music. How does one decide what to message, tweet, talk about on Orkut or Facebook or just know without talking about?