Tuesday, 2 February 2010

Random literally

I don't know about you. I hardly know about myself. 
I get confused when someone talks about showing humanity. Are they telling you to be kind or cruel?  
I like to snoop on people's lives but I could hardly care whether Big B is having a not-so clandestine affair with beauty queen daughter-in-law. 
I respect people who can tell the difference between lettuce and cabbage. Housewives are an underestimated, under-appreciated lot. And one major reason why is that they secretly think less of themselves.
A compliment on how well I have swept the house makes me feel better than when I received a salary hike. 
Whenever I write something, I notice the many I's in it. And I feel guilty. Should I apologise? Then again, isn't it better that I talk inane things about myself, than bitch about you?



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