Eleanor put your boots on.

It feels so good not to be at work. If anything friggin' army has ever taught me, it is never get a job you so hate.

I feel so easily irritable lately. A small ant crawling on my skin is enough for me to bang my head against the wall, overturn the study table, tear up the Yellow Pages, hunt down the entire ant populace residing in the corner of my room and kill all of them and scream bloody murder. Fucking hell.

Anyway.

Fantastic kuehs and spicy food, Bollywood flicks, intelligent racial discussions (read: Russell Peters.) and endless chit-chat till the wee hours were what Hari Raya at Khadijah's made of. God knows when we last had conversations like these, and it was good. Two years ago when she invited us over, we were sitting at the same place, 'talking like we knew the world and what it's made of.' Or so her elder sister said. We don't. Two years later, we are still sitting here, wondering if we know this world, if at all.



But we set a date aside next week, discussing Life over shishas. Maybe we will get an answer.

I am heading for the Zoo now.

[earwax]: Lata Mangeshkar - Wada Na Tod