Late nights again.

So this is my last tension-free Sunday. Next week I will be in complete stress and panic, hurriedly finishing my backlog. As I drop my bag and beloved wacom on my bed, I find space at its edge and sleep in a way that roomies like Radha and Polo will have to tell me not to fall off. Punk comes along my side, looking for my bottle.

"You have water?" she asks.
My butt and back facing her, I turn my head, wearily.
"Fill my bottle. Lock my cupboard. Bathe me, wash my feet. Give me a back and neck massage, and oil my hair. Change my bedsheet. Change my clothes. Switch off my lights, put my phone on charger. Make me a cup of good hot coffee. And yeah - kiss my wacom goodnight and place it carefully in my cupboard." I say.

I think at this point of time she would go out of her way to slap me, but her look was blank and lifeless. She turned and left.
Thats how tired juries make you.

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