and then our exile

...for years Muntaka's been going on and on about how i'm a crazy mofo; i've usually told him to be quiet or else i'd hit him o'er the head. It was months ago that Lara declared i'd absolutely lost it, but i just made fascist fun at her. Mustafa has called me insane, at which i've generally punched him in arm or something. They're all only half wrong, as at this moment WE GET THE TRUTHOUT [click]: MY NAME IS KKKAFKA. In a humourous mood i am. Today i have learned that contrary to popular belief one cannot actually walk a gazillion kilometres in half an hour, that getting to events about ten minutes after everyone else has left means one does not after all get to take pictures with DM&LC (TWO TOKENS AND MENTORRR) or meet EED, that it is better to wear socks with one's sandles (to save from OOZING BLISTER RUBBED-RAW HAPPINESS), and that the distances between places need to be reappreciated at all times. Oh, and that oulde ladies who smoke and mumble to themselves as they walk are very sad, and that wearing what Ph-R-D will insist on calling a PLO scarf makes some look twice.

Barrag'd ECAW*R this morning: i'm betting no one replies, ever. Or no, Muslims don't gamble--i predict no one responds in a serious way. But meh: i'll call it catharsis. [Read that here.]

Best part of day: half an hour alone in the MCE after everyone else had left. Masajid are beautiful places.

Ok, enough posting for today.