So you know how your mum would always give you that glass of milk before you go to sleep? In the American household, it’s usually tradition to give that tall glass, with an insert of “la la la, you’re my number one” song at the background. I used to keep wondering whether “milk teeth” was that milky teeth residue you have as a kid which I thought was due to that habit, not knowing it just might be early signs of plaque. But I thought it was ironic, how mums give you a glass of usually warm milk before you sleep for your growth, but would give nary a care about your molars.

Someone would later on call me stupid and introduce me to the wonders of film editing. They said it just “seemed” like the glass was given before the kids sleep. In real life, kids still had to pull themselves up and brush their teeth. Well how was I to know, seeing Nido kept showing tucked-in kids after that glass? Apparently not everything is what they seem on TV. On the same light, my biology teacher also called me stupid when I asked why people die immediately after suicide, but not after being run over by trains. She said, of course, you die due to loss of blood on both instances. Again, TV showed me they cut themselves, and die later. How was I to know it’s HOURS and GALLONS of blood after? Sheesh.

I’m rambling about this because I can’t sleep, and I feel stuffed. I need to go to the loo but I need a natural laxative, and I can’t drink coffee because I might not be able to sleep, and I’m sure at one point, TV would point out “decaf” to me. And being gullible, I would prolly buy one, only to find out the psychological impact would keep me awake upon the smell of a cup. And I would know. Cass and I took coffee to warm up one night and we were up till about 4am like giddy parrots which won’t stop talking.

The psychology of assumption. You assume everything is true or applicable till you grow wary and jaded. And then, they call you negative once you become one. The world is fucked up that way.

Anyway. I’m still drinking the milk. It’s not really my type of milk, but then again, who am I to complain, it’s just in the ref anyway. I’m still the powdered mix type. There’s a creamier feel to it, without being actually creamy. I’m bringing it to bed with me. To hell with plaque.

No, I was kidding.

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Sometimes, I wish my blog comes with an actual auto-push function for small thoughts. Like, auto-publish without an internet. I know I have twitter for that but I can’t help but feel my site’s becoming some sort of a neglected girlfriend. Worse, a priest you come to once in a blue moon to confess something really wrong, sometimes even about some things you did two months ago which you can barely remember but you’re sure there’s a sin you committed somewhere and you need to tell about it. Often, I look at some scrap papers I tried compiling, promising to myself I’d work on a better layout, or better graphics, but I just can’t bear to work on it. It’s not that I don’t have the time. Maybe the inspiration is lost again somewhere.

I feel guilty. Sometimes, there’s a feeling in me which wants to have a tryst with my blog and be done in a few minutes. Quickie, yes; hell, minds also need a quick fuck. But sometimes, you think it might ruin the layout, or it might overcrowd with all these bastard thoughts running loose everywhere. And then, you forget. Or you tweet about it in 140 characters. But my mind’s so talkative, it doesn’t even know what small talk means.

Wait, wait. NOW my stomach’s rumbling. Excuse me.