So my brother got a piano. Or to be more specific, his parents bought a piano for him. Huh. My parents wouldn't have bought me a piano at six. Considering we share one of these parents, this causes me considerable distress.

But that's a different story.

Anyway, a piano. Yeah. It's a real fucking piano. You know what that means? It has no power button. You can't shut it off. You can't turn it down. Hello, migraine. So nice to see you again. Glad you could make it.

Of course my brother loves the blasted thing. He repeatedly plunks out the three ten-second songs he knows with the greatest dedication and zeal. My best bet at this point is that he gets his finger caught in the hinge of the cover and declares enmity (the young are so impetuous).

But of course I love my brother too much to wish such misfortune on him. Continue, my little artiste. I have plenty of painkillers, after all.

The best thing about Chace Crawford is his face. Which is saying something, considering his abs. Or his arms. Or those pectorals...

I won't bore you. We all know how yummy he is. Which is why I am deeply disturbed by this...thing I found on the internet today. While I entertain the idea that the internet can be misleading, in this case I am inclined to ignore the voices in my head.

For those of you who haven't figured it out, this is Chace Crawford in high school. So not delicious.

I can't even tell you how disturbed I am by this image. You mean Chace wasn't always his mysterious sexy self? I for one never questioned that. Raise your hand if you're with me.

Okay, whatever. Moving on. I read somewhere that all your passwords should be different. And that you should change them every month. Right, okay. Because I would remember, lets see... fourteen different passwords. Don't even start on usernames. And that's just for one month. Who can do that? Noone. This notion of having different passwords is just sadistic, a cruel trick created by those who still use snail mail and keep their money under their beds. People like that don't need passwords. Let's get rid of them.

Always, always: my blog is my last friend. You don't catch me writing when I'm having fun, do you? No. Because when I'm freakishly happy, it doesn't occur to me to complain. Of course that happens rarely, but when I want to complain my first choice is Alishmish, being that she is my roommate; she generally has the same issue as me, and misery isn't really misery unless it has company. But Alishmish, unfortunately, is in America. How unreasonable of her, don't you think? She refused to fly without a passport. The nerve, leaving me alone here. So knock her off the list.
I suppose my next would be Niranjan, being that he is my boyfriend, and is therefore bound to love me unconditionally no matter how unreasonable I sound. But Niranjan has exams (what does he think of himself?) so once again, I have come up short. And so on and so forth for all possible candidates.
And I don't really feel comfortable discussing my issues with the way life goes with the people who are currently available.
I don't however have a problem spilling my guts to the internet, so here goes my repetitive string of complaints:
I have decided, after much contemplation, that I am in a rut. Again. Why do I feel thus, you ask? Such a simple question, my comrade. And yet I don't really have the answer, which is in fact the tip of the iceberg at hand. Confused? So am I. But I deign to explain.
My theory is, over the past few weeks, my brain has slowly leaked out of my head. This is a direct result of not having anything to use it on. Bereft of the many contenders for attention my brain normally has to deal with, it has melted in this Indian summer and slipped out of my reach.
As we all know, the brain contains neurons which, to put it simply, enable us to live. They absorb external data, make sense of it, and trigger appropriate responses. Now I, lacking these neurons, not only fail to properly understand the condition of the world around me, I also fail to respond appropriately.
Which means, concisely, that I'm acting like a very drunk, very stoned, or very hormonal person. Take your pick.