My new apartment comes equipped with a pigeon coop: fresh pigeon eggs for breakfast every morning, straight from my balcony…
Note to the genius realtors who spruced-up the place before I moved in: enclosing the entire balcony in a metallic net to protect it from these flying rats, was a very good idea with laudable intent.
It would have been considerably more effective, had it not resulted in trapping an entire pigeon family on my balcony, inside that net.
Never congratulate yourself too much on where you are in life.
More often than not, where you are, has more to do with where you come from than who you are.
This morning, I tried to convince my advisor that I was the son of the Sun god and was going to prove it any minute now. He just laughed and said I still had to hand in my report by the end of the week.
Damn internet age.
It is the year 2009, and the Guardian’s front page features prominently an article entitled:
Nothing to add.
Today, at a lecture centered on SNPs, the wonderful world of statistical genetics and the myriad holy wars waged amongst its main proponents, the lecturer brought up the work of Karl Pearson (of eponymous correlation coefficient’s fame).
Under all the math formulae, the slide featured a small box with Pearson’s full name, photography, dates and, in an even smaller font, this sole additional comment:
He was a marxist.
Only in Japan.
… I will ensure that any artist who describes their work as “exploring the relationship between art and time/space/etc.” (or some insipid variation thereof) is put to a slow and painful death.
In case you were also wondering, I confirm: whip cream does not make an adequate substitute for milk in your breakfast cereals. No matter how desperate and in a hurry you are.
Large load of laundry + Forgotten pack of tissues = EPIC FAIL
My shirts look like they’ve been gang-raped by a pack of fluffy teddy bears.
Mother, should I run for President? Roger Waters
Hearing this album for perhaps the billionth time since I turned 12, I just realised tonight that this particular piece of lyrics just doesn’t make any sense, being sung by an Englishman.
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Class president, maybe?
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I have way too much free time (not really).
