Why exploding balloons? I’ve always been frightfully terrified of balloons. My balloon-o-phobia is so intense that I can’t sit in a room if someone’s been assholistic enough to let float balloons in it. I can’t count the number of times I’ve had to forgo awesome pie-in-the-sky or hobnob birthday cakes just because of the journey that was required of me in reaching that cake (to trudge through a room full of balloons AND teenagers; the kind that revel in popping balloons in each others’ faces. *shudder*)
I don’t know why it is so, though. Even the sight of balloons makes me cringe, makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up and I find myself leaning away from them.
It’s sad how my friends started picking on me as soon as they found out about my … ‘condition’. Yes. They’re partially responsible too; for my fucked up-ness and and my sheer disillusionment with… *fail at sounding uber-pseudo-emo-intellectual*
But yes. THIS^ is/was the mystery behind the title. In case you were wondering. Although this is kind of like talking to myself. Since I know that I’m the only one reading this right now. Hm. I shall think of this as a shout out to the future. Some day, someone wandering aimlessly through cyber-space will stumble upon this and will learn of the life-changing story behind ‘exploding balloons’.
PS: If I wasn’t such a ‘loon’, I would be ‘Exploding Balls’ right now. Or ‘bals’ ( which is what they called ‘balls’ in ancient babylon). Oh yeah.
PPS: I don’t remember the last time I wrote something. My writing skills are being very rusty. Combine that with my non-existent (of recent) reading habit and I’m sure ‘Imma come up with some serious shit, yo’. Yeah. Ignore the grammatical and jo bhi errors. Bitch.