I think in my past life, I was a juggler in the circus.
I used to do my routines just after the bears did their little bicycle stint around the ring - and then it my turn. It was more for the kids really, I noticed the adults taking their time out to visit the loo.
My special was juggling with fire sticks. I'd light them up, all five at a time, and you could just hear the kids suck in their breathe. A morbid kind of fascination, "Is he gonna make it, Mom?", but it kept them glued nonetheless.
It was simple really, once you could do it with the clubs everything else was pretty much dandy. Just had to remind myself to hold it further front in case the lighter fluid dripped on me. It's not the face that you worry about when you're up there - it's your clothes. When they start burning, oh holy the show would end.
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Which is why perhaps I have some sort of insane need to handle so many things now. I should just stick to playing with fire.
A procrastinating workaholic.
Altogether now, people!
P-A-T-H-E-T-I-C (to the tune of the mickey mouse club, as best as you can).
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Which is also why I'm secretly frightened by Joce's tarot card readings. I was hoping for some mystical sign that i need to stop procrastinating and pull up my socks - but the cards kept telling me to RELAX!
I AM RELAXED!
Or maybe not, I don't know.
I'm tired, that's for sure. Burnt out. I can't wait for the exams now. Just one focus. JUST ONE.
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I don't understand Martin Amis's Night-train.
This is what happens when you read a postmodern novella with a throbbing headache from a hangover at 3 a.m. in the morning.
Did Mike kill herself? Why did Jenniffer die? WHYWHYWHYWHYWHY?
Damn you Amis! Damn you!
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