Run-time Error

For the past one-and-a-crescent hour, I've been idling around the comp, waiting and waiting aaaand waiting for blogworld-shattering thoughts to present themselves to my overtly over-saturated mind, with an occasional I-am-s'posed-to-be-studying-!-what-the-hell-am-I-doing-drooling-over-the-comp floating across it. None turn up. What instead turns up is: Tomorrow comes with a beautiful physics test. 10 marks. Whipping up nuclear delights topped up with semiconducting sauce. Next week comes with a still more stunning midterm exam. And the only purpose these thoughts serve are to fill me with a still more unshakeable determination to drool still more over the comp. My mind jumps from orkut to facebook to google to Aarewah to roof-turbine no-power ventilators to H2GO to "The Butterfly Effect" faster than the pace of mind*lightning combined![for want of a FASTER pace! :D] There's absolutely no logical reason why outta the blue my mind boomeranged from orkut to Ashton Kutcher, and there shouldn't be too, considering tis MY mind.

There's a cold draught coming up. Very queer of the Poona winter to come up in mid-February, and come up so cold! Really queer. Pretty Miss Winter's turning out as sadly unpredictable as me.

Still nothing. I check my mail. Google a bit. Learn that the Aussies thrashed Sri Lanka in the World Cup rerun. So much for Ponting; so little for me. I walk up to the window. Watch a fresh couple walking up to the nearest gate and walk back again. Walk back again. The Backstreet Boys rock and rap away in my ears. Crude disturbance in the transmission. Cruder of me when I realize its mom shouting her lungs away at me to stuff my blog and transfer my electrons from ground to the excited. Mom's B.Sc in physics. I sigh. Continue.

As in continue to unsuccessfully try filling up this kind-of prussian blue polka-dotted space. Check my mail again. Google a bit more. Stand up purposefully. Firmly deciding I wanna do something other than the stupid nincompoopity I am doing right now. Don't even realize for a full minute WHEN I sat back down wondering about for WHAT was the irresistible fetish for purposefulness that set me standing in the first place.

Mom shouts her larynx away.

STILL nothing! Man alive! Why is it that when u sit down to do something, all panned out to the minute, it never comes out the way u wanted it to; and the same thing turns out a zillion times better than expected[rather, unexpectedly, coz u didn't expect it to happen in the first place] when it just happens in tandem?!?! Why is my typing speed so slow? Darn! An inexplicable loss of the ability to express myself when I am desperate enough to kick away (even) THAT ability is one of the worst emotions I have experienced.

Am I turning slave to hyperboles??

As if on cue, Howie deserts me too.

I guess I should give up, as of now.

Before mom shouts her trachea and alveoli and thoracic diaphragm away.