What would be better if you changed its color? If you succeed in trying to fail, did you fail or succeed? What does your dream bathroom look like?
Pardon me- Greetings, future bunkmate! I’ll be your guide as we rove through living with me 101.
Akin to the above questions, I am quirky, paradoxical, and fixated with bathrooms (read cleanliness; extrapolate that to clean eating, i.e., no pizza nights or 3 am donut runs).
I cannot survive a single day without wistfully pining for peanut butter(aka my kryptonite). One spoon precipitates a domino of several spoonfuls culminating in an empty jar so thoroughly licked that it reflects sunlight. I consider you sufficiently forewarned, and henceforth leaving your peanut butter jar out in the open is a venture you undertake at your own risk.
I specialize in giving unsolicited advice, so always scamper me with your worries.
I have a strong affinity for a slew of philia; logophilia, bibliophilia, pluviophile, the list witters on
I’ve adopted a cognitively distorted dichotomous perceptual paradigm that appraises affairs as all or nothing. That, coupled with my impulsivity, makes me a bundle of contradictions.
I cultivate a dry sense of humor with a robust cynical accent (Bridget Jones being my partes exemplum), all while proclaiming myself a fierce romanticist.
In the vicinity of lizards, I feel compelled to demonstrate my dancing skills. My Olympic-worthy high jumps along with my spectacularly macabre attempts at recreating Mariah Carey’s high notes have long led strangers passing by to surmise that a fearful murder was in the works and later rehash the brutal curses of the murderer and dying gurgle of the victim they overheard.
A brief inquest will reveal me to be the heiress of an assortment of words of myriad ancestry amassed as souvenirs, which I unceremoniously fling upon people to flabbergast them.
The only social media I use is Tumblr, where I vigorously campaign for Erik’s redemption.
I am reckless. You can deduce that from my insistence on sleeping with my head under the blanket disregarding sundry researches that prophesize dementia, brain damage, and sleep apnea as dangers of said enterprise.
I have a journal christened Iris, on whom I religiously scribble a few words. A fair warning, she is off bounds.
Sadly, owing to the dearth of space, we’ve to adjourn our tryst at this juncture.
Yours till butter flies,
P.S. You’ve just been privy to classified information. You’re advised not to broadcast it.
Burn after reading!