So I skipped my dinner last night, and spent the whole time writing assignments. I had some distant ambitions about kicking the sleep-aids (lavender oil, Marshmallow powder and Chamomile tea) , and getting back to un-drugged sleep, to let my body take back control of my activities and rests, like it is supposed to. A far-fetched hope, but something I strongly willed on working upon.
I had forgotten what my luck had been upto recently.
It's 5.30 in the morning now.
Sometime in the night, I was casually reading up on the number '13' , and why it's unlucky and all the legends and theories around it. I was planning on writing a proper, informative, skeptical blog about it, to entertain you a little . Yes, I'm a big planner .
Anyway, I read on and on and on, and turns out almost every major religious sect in the world, ancient and otherwise, considers 13 to be an anathema. And now, my ever gullible brain has taken it upon itself to believe in this whole thing- this thing that had started out to be research on a story about how ridiculous that very belief was.
So, what am I doing now ? I've dropped all the plans for the day. I'm going to take my painkiller now and hope to sleep through most of the day . Fortunately, the fear of 13 being a western concept follows the am-pm rule, and the 13th will end at mid night tomorrow , by which time I hope to have successfully wiled away my few waking hours in watching the brilliant Doctor Who. No, I'm not going to read Inkheart on the 13th. I don't want to ruin the serious, it's too splendid to risk that.
Sigh. Talk about superstition, it's going to be the death of me someday.