Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Livinghigh was here at 3:34 PM /

I probably need medication

I'm popping pills today with divine vengeance. Burning up with fever within and plumb irritation without at dictatorial bosses and stuttering guests who start off on one sentence without finishing the other. In case you didn't know, it's hard being a stenographer - Sainath didn't have a clue.

By and by, I've come to realise that I'm not really the Chemical Brother of Powdered Substance and Glittering Capsule that my once-upon-a-time flat mates referred to me as. My current roomie has a box bigger than mine - and it packs a more potent stuff. He's got more oils and potions and elixirs on the bathroom stand than I could register at first glance. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to sample some of that wondrous goop that he applies on his hair, and then I have strangely grotesque thoughts about being murdered by bald pharoahs. Some would say I'm a troubled child.

But I enjoy the response I get when I neatly flick a paracetamol out from my shirt pocket and declare that a Calpol a day keeps the doctor away. When you come to think of it, it's a maxim not too far from the truth - after all, isn't that what doctors do themselves all the time?

Pill-pop their way through hassles at work, stormy editors who can't fit into tea-cups, crafty commentators who employ more accents than a sheikh has concubines in his harem, and once in a while, quirky little terms popping up and down, like CASA (credit accounts, savings accounts) and T-Bills (Treasury bills), and strangely inverse things called bonds and their yields.

I'm raving now, so please pass me a pill. The bitter one.


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