The Magic Dragon

I’m a complete blank. Therefore I shall ramble on and on and on.

My calluses are itching.

I pulled a muscle working out. I won’t say which muscle, but think Home Improvement when it was funny.

I’ve discovered this passable imitation of an Indian Bakery a few miles from where I live. Plum Cake!

However to make up for the guilt that accompanies my eating the cake, I need to work out. And the muscle pull does not help matters.

So I am vacillating between overwhelming guilt and excruciating pain. Yes. Pleasant.

And keeping with my recent home-sickness, I’ve developed an all consuming longing for sweet buns, the kind you get at Wariar’s or Thom’s bakery. It’s gotten to the point where the people at work hare off in the opposite direction when they hear me mention the word "bun". It was in the course of the hunt that I uncovered the Indian bakery facsimile.

They do not make sweet buns, but the puffs are excellent. And coincidentally the second time I was there I ran into their Vice President of Marketing. I spent the better part of a half hour trying to convince him that his sole hope of redemption lay in convincing his higher ups that sweet buns were the way to go. At around the twentieth minute his eyes glazed over. But I persevered. I’ll picket the place if I have to.

A few weeks ago, an old friend (By old I mean a friend I have known since kindergarten, and not someone old, for instance someone in their thirties.) asked me why I wrote nothing about what was happening in my life on this blog.

The reason for that is simple. It’s called a private life for a reason. It’s private. Private: From the Latin word Privaticus, which roughly translates to none of anyone's fucking business but my own. And I’m a private person. Not traded on the open market. Ergo I do not air my clean linen (I'm a bit of a clean freak, I clean the dirty linen) in public.

But dipwad, if you still read this, you now know about my obesession with baked products.