Because the internet is an awkward place.

How do you blog your life?

I dont quite get it. Should I write down notes on my day to day activities and then re-iterate them to the audience in piece by piece meals?

Should I tell you that I started to watch season 7 of Entourage today? Well I did. And it looks like Ari Gold is hooped with the NFL.
What about the avocado sandwiches that made their way into my mouth? They were delicious.
Or how about time where I walked shirtless through Save-on because I forgot to put a shirt on? The counter lady yelled at me.

Sigh.

I dunno. Maybe I should just stick to the TV.

Famous. Famous. I want to be famous.

I  want to be a Hollywood star living within some silicone bubble wrap of fame and misfortune. It would be an interesting existence I suppose. Paparazzi click tapping their cameras while Gucci suits give way to the brilliance of neon light.

The grey goose martini begins to overflow while the red lipsticks beside me chatter their incessant talk. A scandal it seems, has brewed its final juice. What will my many friends ever say?

The autographs begin to appear un-mistaken within the folds of a restaurant napkin. The jittery 19 year old nearby jumps up and down in harried excitement. An eternal love fashioned, courtesy of MTV.

The life of a celebrity, oh what a life indeed.

One calculating sum sets an agenda.

Hidden under the alcove of a tree set in his chair, rocks the story of one man. It is there, amid the sounds of the many taped fingertips, that he designs the one calculating sum. An agenda riddled in void set to the date of infinity.

Tick one.
Tick two.
Tick three.

The pestulant clock begins to chimes its throne as the hurried black ravens flutter their antagonized protest. Once more a wrench turns its silent turn. And while the smokey whispers curdle their way into the frantic sound, the led mice begin their march towards the plains of a one lost paradise.

A rocked cadence found in the footsteps of a one calculated sum.

Da Police. Whoop Whoop.

Listen Mr. Officer, you don't have be a complete jerk about what happened ok? Yes, I did run the red and YES it's true I don't have a license, but must you be such a twat about the whole situation? Does my humiliation have to be received in such cordial and professional tones? This is nothing but a disgusting administration of just law and I will have none of it!

How can a simple badge institute such audacity? The respect of law, which you officers seem to administer, flabbergasts even the most sane of my senses and it is with great animosity that I write such scathing notes. Respecting traffic laws...BAH.

How do you stop me, a Husain motherfucking Vahanvaty, for something so inconsequentially illegal? How do you think you are huh? Sitting there fancy, half pint smile on your face judging every passer by. Turn your sirens on for all I care and watch my apparent disregard of the law.

So here is to you, Mr. Officer and your unreasonable tickets...*middle finger*

Simplistic Explanations, a short story by Husain Vahanvaty

Stop Talking, drink water and breath some air.

The End.  

You've never fucked a goat?