Terribly Tiny Tales are the best thing in the world. Period.
I know, I suck. I haven't written anything for two entire days. I had so many funny things crammed into my mind about which I was totally going to blog, but then I listened to Hips don't lie and Evolution of bollywood music about twenty seven thousand times non-stop, so I've kind of forgotten what I was going to say.
For those of you who care, (i.e., none) I have decided to not get a pixie cut. I asked one of my friends, let's call him Breezy, whether I should get it, and he said yes, and then I was all yaar I'm not thin enough for it and he didn't say something like WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT YOU TOTALLY ARE!!! so I have decided to not get it for the time being. I know, I fish for compliments, I deserve to not progress further in Candy Crush Saga. On an unrelated note, if you like my blog, follow it. I have about, um, one follower. He/she feels lonely. Join him/her. I will give you a lollipop. (But I ate half of it).
Anyway. Do you know what else sucks? Getting your eyebrows done. (Oh get over yourselves, boys.) It's the most excruciatingly painful thing in the entire world. I don't know why we choose to subject ourselves to such physical torture. One of my best friends, let's call her Marshmallow, is obsessed with getting eyebrows done. I'm not kidding. We go for dates to the parlour together, and sometimes she cheats on me and goes alone too. If you're reading this Marshmallow, which I know you are, since I'm going to call you and tell you that I blogged about you in a moment, you should know that I love you even though you're obsessed with getting your eyebrows done.When I usually get them done, I scream and/or cry a lot, but I was in a different city when I had them done recently, so I had to behave myself. Which is not fun. Or painless. I had to continuously dig my nails into the palm of my hand (which is what I did in Social Studies class to prevent myself from falling asleep) to keep myself from crying out/shouting abuses. I managed to keep my tears in (somehow). I also kept repeating the names of all cute boys I knew, plus Andrew Garfield, and tell myself that I was doing this for them.
Basically, getting eyebrows done = ouchie.
My suffering paid off though. When we went to Vero Moda the next day, the salesperson would not stop flirting with me. My sister reckons he was doing his job, and not hitting on someone ten times younger than him, but I say she's just jealous. My mother was pretty angry about the whole thing but frankly I couldn't stop laughing the entire time. I tried on like seven different dresses, and looked like a very pretty pregnant woman in all of them. Anyway, the salesperson, let's call him Mr. C, (C for Creepo) wouldn't stop hanging around us. I mean we were rejecting all the clothes he offered me, and yet he would stand beside my mother, and whenever I would come show her how hideous I looked in the dresses, Mr. C would be all Ohhh madam, whatta fitting, whatta fitting, you look great! My mother was extremely annoyed and in her state of her annoyance she bought me a really cute pink skirt without any argument, just to get out of the shop, so for me it was pretty much a win-win situation.
Alas, our encounter with Mr. C did not end there. I was wearing four rings that day (shut up, four rings is not that many) each with the letter L, O, V and E on them, hence spelling, er, love. Anyway, I kept singing LO-LO-LO-LO-VE by Ashley Simpson the entire day when I was wearing the rings, and waggling my fingers in mumma's face. When I was repeating this routine as usual, I noticed that my rings spelt ove not love. I had dropped the L somewhere. I realized the only place I could have dropped it would be when I was trying clothes on. I ran to Vero Moda, and thankfully found the ring. Mr. C emerged from nowhere, and gave me my hairclip, which I had apparently dropped as well. All in all, Mr.C was a generous soul after all, and that was the last we saw of him.
I mean he didn't die, we just didn't go to that store again.
So anyway, my life is full of sadness but at least I'm finally going home tomorrow and I will finally play badminton after approximately eight thousand days. I mean I have a ton of homework to complete and a LOT of studying to do.
But you know what they say. He who procrastinates is awesome. And sexy.
I know, I suck. I haven't written anything for two entire days. I had so many funny things crammed into my mind about which I was totally going to blog, but then I listened to Hips don't lie and Evolution of bollywood music about twenty seven thousand times non-stop, so I've kind of forgotten what I was going to say.
For those of you who care, (i.e., none) I have decided to not get a pixie cut. I asked one of my friends, let's call him Breezy, whether I should get it, and he said yes, and then I was all yaar I'm not thin enough for it and he didn't say something like WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT YOU TOTALLY ARE!!! so I have decided to not get it for the time being. I know, I fish for compliments, I deserve to not progress further in Candy Crush Saga. On an unrelated note, if you like my blog, follow it. I have about, um, one follower. He/she feels lonely. Join him/her. I will give you a lollipop. (But I ate half of it).
Anyway. Do you know what else sucks? Getting your eyebrows done. (Oh get over yourselves, boys.) It's the most excruciatingly painful thing in the entire world. I don't know why we choose to subject ourselves to such physical torture. One of my best friends, let's call her Marshmallow, is obsessed with getting eyebrows done. I'm not kidding. We go for dates to the parlour together, and sometimes she cheats on me and goes alone too. If you're reading this Marshmallow, which I know you are, since I'm going to call you and tell you that I blogged about you in a moment, you should know that I love you even though you're obsessed with getting your eyebrows done.When I usually get them done, I scream and/or cry a lot, but I was in a different city when I had them done recently, so I had to behave myself. Which is not fun. Or painless. I had to continuously dig my nails into the palm of my hand (which is what I did in Social Studies class to prevent myself from falling asleep) to keep myself from crying out/shouting abuses. I managed to keep my tears in (somehow). I also kept repeating the names of all cute boys I knew, plus Andrew Garfield, and tell myself that I was doing this for them.
Basically, getting eyebrows done = ouchie.
My suffering paid off though. When we went to Vero Moda the next day, the salesperson would not stop flirting with me. My sister reckons he was doing his job, and not hitting on someone ten times younger than him, but I say she's just jealous. My mother was pretty angry about the whole thing but frankly I couldn't stop laughing the entire time. I tried on like seven different dresses, and looked like a very pretty pregnant woman in all of them. Anyway, the salesperson, let's call him Mr. C, (C for Creepo) wouldn't stop hanging around us. I mean we were rejecting all the clothes he offered me, and yet he would stand beside my mother, and whenever I would come show her how hideous I looked in the dresses, Mr. C would be all Ohhh madam, whatta fitting, whatta fitting, you look great! My mother was extremely annoyed and in her state of her annoyance she bought me a really cute pink skirt without any argument, just to get out of the shop, so for me it was pretty much a win-win situation.
Alas, our encounter with Mr. C did not end there. I was wearing four rings that day (shut up, four rings is not that many) each with the letter L, O, V and E on them, hence spelling, er, love. Anyway, I kept singing LO-LO-LO-LO-VE by Ashley Simpson the entire day when I was wearing the rings, and waggling my fingers in mumma's face. When I was repeating this routine as usual, I noticed that my rings spelt ove not love. I had dropped the L somewhere. I realized the only place I could have dropped it would be when I was trying clothes on. I ran to Vero Moda, and thankfully found the ring. Mr. C emerged from nowhere, and gave me my hairclip, which I had apparently dropped as well. All in all, Mr.C was a generous soul after all, and that was the last we saw of him.
I mean he didn't die, we just didn't go to that store again.
So anyway, my life is full of sadness but at least I'm finally going home tomorrow and I will finally play badminton after approximately eight thousand days. I mean I have a ton of homework to complete and a LOT of studying to do.
But you know what they say. He who procrastinates is awesome. And sexy.
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