The Death of Creativity and How a Trip to India Can Make Your Life Miserable

Gee, let me think, two months off the face of the earth (buried inside someone's cleave or a book) and I feel like I've committed a crime. For which I should be punished (spank me yeah!!). And the saddest part is that creativity has ebbed in me. Writing is like using chopsticks, you see other people doing it with such dexterity that it looks easy, but when you get down to it, the dinner lands in someone else's inner wear. Quite a disgusting feeling, I must warn you.

Anyway, so I decided I absolutely MUST write something. If not for myself, for my millions of fans [a bow and flying kiss for all the folks ] and of course, for my very own ... my darling ego.

The SIA flight to India was at its shiny worst. The pretty airhostesses made me fidgety, and the hunky stewards made me feel like a blob of fat with five appendages, not counting my head, of course. To make things worse, the legspace was probably designed for a midget with amputed lower extremities. I scrunched up into a ball, thanking the lord for his foresight in endowing me with stubby legs. There was no sleep, however. The woman next to me had a bundle that she later explained was her baby. She had stowed it in the cabin compartment because the airlines charged full fare for babies. Personally I disagreed with her philosophy, she should have put it along with the checked in luggage, it would have had a much better flight. But I dared no argue. It was her baby, not mine. It didnt let me sleep, the raucus baby. Apparently, he didnt like the warm comfort of the overhead cabin.

... to be contd since I need to go get drunk on Friday night ... be back!!