How many roads must a girl walk down
Before it’s a role she need not fake?
How many lives must she dip her toes into
Before her soul’s not at stake?
How many glasses of cabernet must she drink
Before it’s time to summon a shrink?

The answer, my friend, is lost between the bytes,
The answer has snipped off like precisely-geometried-multi-hued kites.

If they take away my cyst, how will I explain the insatiable sugar cravings, pendulum moods and an abdomen with attitude problems? Say what? It’s not the cyst, it’s me? That’s too absurd. Might as well contemplate embracing religion instead.

Or worse – if they rob me of my cyst, what if I crave nothing, feel nothing and sleep uninterrupted on a lifeless uterus? What if I feel a sudden gush of happiness and collapse as my system coredumps because it fails to understand it?

I’ve often felt there are days when the cyst is more than a part of me – it is me. Of course, I didn’t know that it existed till Nibbles was a wee embryo. But it was the explanation I’d been waiting for, a pattern midst the chaos that lent substance – 6.5 cm spread of sebaceous dermoid substance – to the madness. And now they want to take it away and leave me crippled like a fish without a bicycle.

*hunts feverishly for stash of Toblerone hidden by Big Byte*

Help! I can’t stop humming that Obama Girl song. Perhaps it would be ok it my hotness quotient matched hers, but really, nobody wants to see a short, frumpy geek with a blueberry Yo Baby in one hand and annoyed Nibbles in the other, singing, “I’ve got a cursh on Obamaaaa…”

The Byte household is under the weather and Nibbles was tired of my usual chorus of Wee Willie Winkie who ran all around town dressed in his nightgown. A quick memory scan fetched this absurd rhyme from back in the day (the way I remember it):
Rub a dub-dub,
Three men in a tub,
And how do you think they got there?
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker,
They all jumped out of a rotten potato,
‘Twas enough to make a man stare.

Say wha…? I have nothing against homoerotic fantasies. Threesomes? Well, I’m a monogamist prude and all, but it’s all good – as long as it’s not in a fuckin’ nursery rhyme book (surely the ol’ nuns weren’t that naive).

I know there was a thread on strange rhymes a while ago, but not sure if this made the cut. Anyways. What exactly were those 3 men upto in that tub? Rubbing a dub-dub of course. Not sure about the rotten potato reference (vodka hangover?) And I refuse to believe the professions were randomly selected for the suffix (butcher –> meat, baker –> cooks in oven, candlestick maker –> moulds phallic objects).

So it’s back to Mary and that silly lil’ lamb of hers. Gah!

Took Nibbles out for a stroll today and bumped into an old neighbour.
He: “Ah, so this is lil’ Big Byte, eh?”.
NP: “Yup, sure is”
He: *does a quick scan* “Six months?”
NP: “uh…Eight actually”
He: “Oh!”

What? What? Is Nibbles too skinny? Maybe I should invest in some desi ghee after all. Damn carrot-apple mish-mashes. He’s not drinking enough milk. Maybe because I’m feeding him too many solids? Or maybe he needs more. I mumbled along and bumped into an old Filipino nanny that began the whole cooing+monkey face routine for Nibbles, so I stopped.

She: “Cute baby. How many months?”
NP: *nervously* “Eight”
She: “Laaa! He’s pretty big for eight months!”

Fuck ‘em. I give up.