Start. Restart. Coming out of hermit-land slowly.
It always leaves me sort of flummoxed when a guy believes that squeezing the lady’s nipples can in any possible way be appealing during the heat of a spontaneous, yet just as meaningful, one-night jollification. Could he, please, at least read my non-verbal response or do I really need to hiss it out for him to stop? There’s no room for polite manners now. Thank you. Too late, but yeah. What’s the fun in pain? Three days in and perhaps, finally, I can stop consoling them. Perhaps next time I’ll pinch in some time to talk about our interpretation of the biblical sense. Beforehand.
Now on to channeling my energies to restore another twin-spot: my tonsils are rebelling again so wildly as if there was no tomorrow. My doctor told me a year ago that I should get surgery asap but no thanks as on normal days, yes, on less neurotic days, I manage to keep them under control. Bueno, I guess it didn’t help either that last week, on the way home from work, on one balmy but just as high-strung, afternoon, I suddenly surprised myself with a bottle of Chivas. I politely refused the plastic bag at the counter then watched the shiny bottle dangle gently in my bicycle basket in front of me. I know it’s probably time I stopped peeking into its eye for the time being.
I’m so sick it feels my body is actually proud of it. I wonder if it’s the backlash of my little ones’ earlier twinge or I’m knocked out by that petty row I’d performed with my boss earlier this week. Well, it fits I guess, we really were at each other’s throats. “I’m a woman but I’m used to being allowed to have an opinion, ha!” I called him evil. I spelt it out for him even! There’s some weird-great energy in articulating this word. The letter “e”. Like Old Major, no? All the animals are eeeequal! Followed by the vibrant “v”, then that selfish “i”. Of course. The final “l” just lingers there at the end of the conversation, with my mouth open, tongue hanging on my palate, and the whole thing is making my jaw drop and my eyes droop. I’m flailing a minute longer. And here go my tonsils. It’s clearly a reaction, the body answers to a fret. What’s the point in causing pain? Why is it that bosses, chiefly my Mr. Mousy Puissance-freak , think it is in any way a good management strategy to bully their staff?
So, this is the way a new chapter begins for Hotpottimemachine. What I want is to tell you now is my Shanghai story; a journal, a journey, of impressions that never cease to escape me in this vertical maze, blended with the fiction that breathes in between the lines of my urban routine.