At Sixes and Sevens

My friends are back from Delhi. While I sat at home and held heated internal debates over which portion of my anatomy to scratch, they held heated debates over whether to go paragliding or white water rafting. *headdesk* Being a stoic, uncomplaining and dutiful daughter, I did not sit around moping, so my parents took me to our home town in the interest of their sanity as a reward. It had been months since my last visit, and I spent a few days dropping in on my relatives. Really, I don’t have a family tree, I have a family jungle. I won’t go into the family scandals of the last 100 years; my head is still spinning. The highlights of trip include three new pairs of shoes, my aunt’s world famous crab curry, and the train journey. A couple of Italian ladies sat next to us on the train, and they wanted to take my picture because I was “very beautiful.” I swear I am not making this up. And then they proceeded to snap pictures of my hair. Just the hair. So much for my stunning beauty. *sigh*

Since the excitement of excoriation is more than I can handle, I thought I would do a meme. Two, actually. Ziah wanted seven random and/or weird things, and ~nm asked for six non-important quirks. The rules state that I’m supposed to tag other unassuming souls, but I'm feeling rebellious. If you want to take it up, I won’t stop you. Being the Maths genius that I am, you get 6.5 non-important weird things about me. I can see you rubbing your hands in glee. I know I am going to bore you to tears. *muahahaha*

Sunshine.
Unlike John Denver, sunshine almost never makes me high. What it does is, make me seriously mad at the world, and give me a raging headache. Two minutes of exposure and my migraine kicks in for the rest of the day. I would live in Noah’s times if I could. I am one of the loons who actually sing in the rain. And dance. And then catch a cold and spend the rest of the day in bed watching the rain from my window. The only season (Kerala has two seasons- hot, and wet) I look forward to is the monsoon.

Touched. Not.
This was discovered by my mother, while she was giving her precious, precious second born a bath. My laughter was not due to the pleasurable sensation of having the grime scrubbed away. Let’s just say my cutaneous nerve endings are hypersensitive to tactile stimuli. Currently this trait is so well developed that it is unnecessary to touch me to make me giggle hysterically. Perhaps because of my ticklish nature, I do not like being touched deliberately, and thus, I refuse to have my eyebrows plucked. (Also: straitjackets are not standard equipment in most places that practice this form of torture.)

Obligate carnivore.
My mother prudently decided to raise me as a vegetarian, and kept me away from meat for months after I was weaned. Unfortunately for her, my ayah was unaware of her intentions and proceeded to feed me fish with my rice, at the tender age of eleven months. And the rest, as they say, is history. Hell would be a place that serves idli and sambar for eternity. The ironic part is that I am mildly allergic to seafood.

Chocolatophobia.
We have a strained relationship, at best. My mother introduced us when I was about 4 years old. I took this to be a sign of parental approval, and fell for his pretty golden skin. I was young and innocent, and was captivated by his sweet words. We retired to my room, where he proceeded to show me the wonders of sinning. I did not pay much attention when the swelling began, but soon it got really bad, with me gasping for breath. That put a quick end to any designs he might have had on making me a poster child for childhood obesity. (Yeah, right.) We reconciled after a few years, but he proved that he was indeed as dark as his heart. I was deceived again, and spent the day in bed, vomiting and screaming in pain. These days, the smell of chocolate can induce migraine. Don’t you wish you were me? I still eat lots of chocolate, though.

The Highwayman.

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding-
Riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

I cannot emphasise this enough. I. Hate. Poetry. The sight of a verse is guaranteed to make me run faster than a Ferrari on steroids. That bald guy shaking his spears can beg all he wants, I will not read his ‘stories’ unless he rewrites them in prose. The same goes for that albatross guy. And even the funny guys. Sorry, Ogden.

The Idiot Box.
I am not a big fan of the TV. In fact, I don’t even like the TV. But don’t tell my parents this unless you want to see people die laughing. And I warn you, this can, and has, happened. Remember that episode of South- Uh, never mind.

The Blue Umbrella.
I hate black umbrellas and refuse to use one. They are ugly. Mine is blue- it's pretty! And it weighs next to nothing.

That should make 6.5 points. This is just the tip of the iceberg that the SPM creeps are constantly telling us about. I actually like Apocalyptica. See?

All you Famous Five fans (alliteration!) can now rejoice (not the shampoo). It used to make me angry even then I was a crazy 8 year old who couldn’t get enough of Enid Blyton. Come to think of it, I still like Enid Blyton. Arrested development?

Now all of you head over to humor-blogs.com and… Just sort of look around. You know, so I can be famous and all.