Days like these

When you have memories of a place where you could hear music when there was nothing playing, when you realize that the only social circle you had existed there, when you start believing that those 5.5 hours were the only real fun in your life, when you start thinking that 'you can handle it' and use that place for everything other that what it was meant to be...

When you begin enjoying something that most other kids would rather stay away from, then, and only then, do you fill yourself with the bravery to walk up to the calendar and count the number of days remaining till the summer vacation gets over and you hit school doors again.

Drops of it

How tall is tall, anyway?

Mercury has gone where no skyscraper has gone before. Electricity is being used at a rate faster than the man who flew faster than the speeding bullet. Power outages occur at a rate more frequent that that, and the bill shows up with digits that couldn't have been printed.

At this time of the year, the time when heat has become capable of melting heat, a glass of water provides the satisfaction that washes away all other desires.
You no longer wish to eat food, you just want a glass of water, topped with ice. Audiophiles are willing to forget their headphones to the relief that a glass of moisture throws at them. Kids forget who's what and the where he is, just to dip their heads in the swimming pool. Perverts kick their letching habit, even, all for a perennial source of hydrogen dioxide, preferably close to freezing point.

Now back at the FHW, we understand your problems, and just to tell you how much we love you, we're going to hand out a recipe that even Sprite can't beat.

1. Take a glass of water and squash half a lemon on top of it. Gravity will do the rest.
2. Take spoon and stir.
3. Add sugar to taste.
4. Take spoon and stir. Again.
5. Stare at glass for a couple of seconds.
6. Drink.

I did it right, and it came out tasting pretty good. If a science student can do it, you can definitely do better.

13 is unlucky for some

Lbh pbhyq'ir tbggra njnl jvgu zheqre lrfgreqnl. Guvf jbeyq jnf gbb bofrffrq jvgu gur 'jrqqvat bs n qrpnqr'.
Fpubby vf pbzvat gb n tenqhny naq hajnagrq ohg arprffnel raq.
Vaqvn arrqf orggre cbyvgvpvnaf. Enuhy Tnaquv vf bhgfcbxra.
Vf vg bire sbe Fnavn?
Jurer vf zl yvsr tbvat, naljnl. V qba'g fghql ng nyy. Qb V rira jnag gb nalzber?
Jung vf gur VVG ernyyl?
Fb jung vs V yvxr n pbhcyr bs tveyf?!
Jung? JUNG?

Using a little known technique that Sat is well versed with, the amoeba spits out a minute percentage of his understandable feelings.

The year sans successors

The first day of the last year started off without much of a celebration, and I didn't even realize any sort of difference between this and its predecessor, apart from the set of stairs I have to climb now. And with that said, the seventh day, without much need to mention, is kind of boring. Especially chemistry.

I found my mind in a brown paper bag, within.
I walk down the hallway in this newfound floor after I change the tense. For some reason, purple smoke and odor fill the north-west corner, the place that perfectly opposes the laboratory. I chuck grammar and meaning out the window, and then, the alarm screams "Wake up!" in my face.
The air conditioner tries its very best, yet I still wake up to face the Fahrenheit touching the Hawaiian temperature.

This is the XII, people, the ex-aye-eye.