Friday, September 28, 2012

Coffee and early hours

Coffee is a scam, I'm pretty convinced now. Now wonder why I've adopted it as a comfort beverage, often in the hours preceding sleep. Don't jump on me, "but you're talking about milk coffee, it doesn't count" coz I've tried the black one as well (from time to time, with great hope), and besides causing facial distortion - that resembles the look when one is trying to ward off an Indian beggar, - it didn't help with the sleep. Its coffee that I had trying to fend off a sleepy morning, which then escalated into total sleep (on the desk itself) for almost an hour. Productivity must be sneering at me from some corner right now.

The day didn't begin so bad as I entered the complex really early - early enough to justify my continued possession of the sole set of office keys. No, really, past few days of past coupla weeks, my routine resonated with Dylan Moran's (see: Black Books S1E02): "Half ten! I've never been up at half ten. What happens?" - I, too, know that nothing happens. Nobody does anything productive, this time is filled with mundane stuff.

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

My Monthly Zeitgeist

Just for keeping a track on recent past...

I had Google do a report on my Account Activity (use this link)

Let the world know that my top search query was: Ranjeet - the rape god of Bollywood cinema! To think of it, I can't imagine how or why I'd be into him so much. I should open a fanclub, if there's none on facebook, or if doesn't exist.

Happy to see me accessing from all 3 widely available platforms: Windows, Android, iPad. Is something missing... um, probably not. LINUX!

Of the browsers, I count for 3: Chrome, Safari, MSIE (ugh). I dunno where Firefox is - I'm probably using it for too much anonymous browsing. Gone are the days when experimental browsers would've shown activity from my account.

Of the "most contacted", one name debuts, and debuts straight at the top! The M is milking my time and my statistics.
Its lousy to find that Airtel helpdesk appears as my third most contacted contact, which isn't a good indicator of my social life.

I had no activity on Picasa or Google Latitude, which is a shame, and also a reminder that I must adopt the concept of 3g-enabled travel all the more.

But I'd have to say this report is sketchy. I don't know which all devices I have tracking enabled on, or if Google uses browser-specific cookies or something on their side.

Trust me, it's palatable

Would you trust if I tell you this is on the menu? What if I let you know its one of the best concoction mixes?

Since "2 girls 1 cup", the world will never be the same. How we see a certain texture will never be the same. But that is no ground to question my concoctions, that has a new secret ingredient so healthy and nutritious that I've adopted it into my lifestyle.
The secret ingredient is S - it won't be familiar to those outside the North Indian context or the bourgeoisie. I should write more about it later.

So, the chef-at-large in me is back sharing the good stuff.

coming undone - नाड़ा सूत्र

I miss my mom right now - the utility of having a mother, that is. I'm stuck in a situation outside my guy's experience, one that only my mom has a proven record of fixing. I guess all moms do.

So it was, that after 8 months of abuse, the elastic thread (its called - नाड़ा - in my geography) on my tracksuit came undone. It was an army tracksuit bought from the Indian Army store in Leh in January during the Chadar Trek. I had my days of wearing the tracksuit as it was meant to be, then wearing it with a slack thread that was slightly embarrassing and had the phrase "wardrobe malfunction" linger in my head, then wearing it with a thread so close to being undone (and well beyond embarrassing) that I had to dangle it down the insides of my tracksuit, where it'd be tickling my ankles. From that last stage it only took a careless tug to have it come out completely.

Being kids, we could always run to our respective moms, holding our slack pajamas with one hand (lessons in keeping modesty) and the elastic thread in other, and go (to the effect of) "मम्मी! नाड़ा लगा दो". They'd be prepared for it. Furnishing out their tools - a hair clip, and a coupla' knitting needles, or sometimes a thin ruler - our moms would fix it in no time. Indian pajamas come in two varieties - the regular ones with a vanilla thread hole, and a special one where the thread hole is a sadistic crumpled affair. It was a general expectation for our Moms to be educated for either.

Living a bachelor, I could only stare at the undone thread of my tracksuit, and miss Ma. That I had a thread hole of the sadistic variety made it all the more daunting. I had neither the skill not the toolset to get this done. Then I thought to improvise. Scissors failed, so did a pencil and a very thin-bodied Staedtler roller ball pen. So what was the closest equivalent of a knitting needle I could think of - porcupine quills (collected over the past few years in traversing through Indian jungles). So far, they only served for novelty; now was a time for application. After a dodgy start, I got a hang of doing it right, and in a single neat stroke had the thread all the way to my right waistpocket. Having no hair clip was a clear disadvantage beyond this point. But determination wins over a lotta handicaps, and soon I had it all the way to my left backpocket. After that, a dirty stitch line couldn't let me go any further with the quill. So I got to using hands - a slow, laborious, hit-or-miss effort. But I had my string out the other side, finally. HIGH FIVE!

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Steve worship

This guy, Steve, the other one, is a real enigma. You understand some people who go on ambition, you understand some who go by trends, but rarely the ones who does something so zany that they might just become trends.

Steve Wozniak is now going for an Australian citizenship. One of his cited reasons was a "$35.9 billion National Broadband Network (NBN) [that] aims to connect all Australians to superfast Internet by 2021 in a move the government hopes will transform the country's economy". Endorsing a country for the reasons of its features is futuristic. Imagine a time when human efficiency would be driven to such levels, that each specimen is a goldmine of talent, in hunt of which, countries would be scouting the whole solar system (yes, we'd have expanded to multiple planets by then) and giving a pitch for their land, after which the specimen would make his choice of citizenship. [then these countries grow resources to a specific level and upon that fulfillment engage in a bloody international combat until they deplete all their forces and then start again]

Also note that he was a rare nerd to come on Dancing With the Stars. Damn, I wish Stephen Hawking would've come on that show.

Maxing out on sleep

Oh boy, sure am having the best of sleeps in this new place that I've moved into (and that I'm now supposed to move out of - but that's for another narrative). I've occupied the innermost room, or the "pimp room" as I call it 1. This room sees no light, which is fabulous for my purpose. I could not tell day from night unless I steal a peek at the watch on the Windows 7 dashboard; I could not even tell whether it was 12:58PM (with a coupla' hours either side) without having performed the aforementioned. It is this kind of place I find myself comfy in, and the body is as the body does - it makes the best of everything. No wonder why I'm rousing into wakefulness at 12:58PM writing this blogpost, while I should be out there either working or pwning CISF jawans.

The sleep is so good that I'm not dreaming anymore. That kinda worries me, as I've always found my dreams - as weird as they get - to give me really fun analysis to do through the day. There have been no french girls piggybacking me lately, no dogs with oversized jaws chasing, no murders to investigate, no hanging out with dead friends, no sorceresses making out, no deaths, no snakes. If Freud had me under observation, he'd pull me out on the grounds of sleeping too peacefully. Maybe the weird part of me stems from this interface between my conscious and subconscious, breaking which might just make me less abnormal, which I dread! Freaky is good sometimes.

At a more worldly evaluation, I've already expressed how it affects my professional life (which I'm expecting to terminate soon - but that's for another narrative as well). Besides that, now my "regimen" also bears a fractured look - I didn't go out this morn as well, much like yesterday, which means that my sub-90-minute half-marathon ambitions will not be realized this Sunday; I'll probably be running like the other gazillion who show up in the name of validation.

*1 with an ulterior vision to convert it into a base for the debauched (okay, exaggerated word usage), so that friends come expecting a death, and really do find it here. Death, here, means an overnight re-appropriation of one's worldly (and otherworldly) concerns - and the modes of death being an assortment of alco, (evil) music, (evil) conversations, flavored hookah, tobacco, cannabis indica, bob hope, and Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche readings. Note the emphasis on evil - yes, it has to be, so none of your Justin Bieber, or Arcade Fire, or Coldplay, or T20 cricket get involved.

Sunday, September 23, 2012

So it goes


I miss u :( :*
At times my heart sinks.! :(
I really really really miss u.!
Really really a lot :’(
I love u like crazy <3

Oh, you don't know how much I miss you TODAY. I need you, more than ever. My day sucked. My life probably sucks, too, in your void. You were right - that life's too easy, when alive, to make perfectly horrible mistakes. I do not hate people, but I hate people who - twice or thrice my age - fuck up (i.e. make these perfectly horrible mistakes), and drag others into it. I had a day with this certain somebody, and it didn't end with me keeping my cool.

:* :*
:* :* :* :* :* :* :*
:* :* :* :* :* :* :*
Thinking about you, and thanking you, I compulsively ended up getting this. I hope we're meeting around the weekend - but Friday seems to far :’( I miss u like crazy.!!!
:* :* :* :* :* :* :*
:* :* :* :* :* :* :*
:* :* :* :* :* :* :*
:* :*


That something is something that

Something that is born always dies. To prove the otherwise, finding something that never dies would obviously satisfy.

But what about something that never gets born - wouldn't that be satisfactory, too? "Something that is never born, never dies." But if that something is never born, how can we give it an existence? - the mere conception of that something will be the process of its creation. Hence it always has to be born, and yet not necessarily die.

Saturday, September 22, 2012


Its been a while that I've written about myself, or written at all. Almost two weeks, now. Its funny to see how our modes of validation and identity expression could go an overnight reversal. Its also funny to notice how identities change, and that its a game we are playing actively. Eating Snickers has given me enough courage to, presently, root myself at my desktop and go snapping at the keys about how my days have been.

Let me start with today. We'll go in reverse. Its been intensely crappy. I haven't seen sunlight, so to say, if not for the paranoid glances outside from the balcony. I'm in a state where I never want to forget yesterday and all but remember today. Besides a culinary detour - of finding the secret taste of roasted rajmah beans - I haven't been anywhere. I managed to notice the chrome reversal (aka fresh coat of paint) on my apartment stairs. I've kept myself reasonably-fed.

I don't know what I'm lacking and I don't know what I have. Sometimes I feel so small and sometimes I'm the big bad wolf.

Youtube discovery route

aka the efficient timepass trail
- Little Miss Philippines eps
- Reactions to '2 girls 1 cup'
- What's Trending uploads
- The Two Ronnies sketches

Thursday, September 20, 2012

10k deserves sleep?

Sometimes things feel like perfect, until some aspect - so blatantly ignored - knocks at your consciousness, and then you find yourself consumed in that. For me, it was sleep. And sleep is one thing that inspiring performances cannot evade, but rather only ask for more of. A sleep of 5 hours clearly didn't cut it.
A 10k run clearly didn't help either - no matter how inspired I was to have dragged myself out from my 'pimp room' (which sees no light) at breaking dawn of 0530AM, taken on the mongrels running the streets in the hours of the night, skirting the bad patches and the garbage dumps (that shrivel the nose and spoil the S. Delhi experience), and made it to Yogi's to finish my run, and in its aftermath get my motorbike back home, zipping at 90kmph with my beanie helmet and tears streaming from my eyes.
I reach home tired, and despite that, take an appropriate shower, was clothes, make myself a great omelette, and get ready for a solid professional routine by 0810. All that, until I take to the bed, and wake up 3 hours later with the guilt of mismanagement.

The sleep was much-needed, so I can't curse myself. But I sure could've slept a coupla' hours earlier than I did - modern communication marvels are more like personal doomsday devices, and as much as I love staying close to my gadgets, I loathe them all the same. [did wake up dreaming about someone's tits, but dreams are not to be trusted, those untimely puzzles to the subconscious]

Things couldn't have gone worse, with my motorbike picking a puncture enroute, which made an hour vanish from my day like magic.
[While at the repair shop, however, I was fascinated by the local fauna - a black bee (what we call भँवरा bhanwra), a red wasp (not the yellow ones), and two sneaky spiders]

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Monkey bite

It was painful. He had never been bit by a rabid monkey before. He couldn't be sure if it was a monkey or not, for it just - seemingly - glided in from the Neem tree outside and had him in the grip of its jaws. Were we to allow this to be passed into folklore, it could end up being interpreted as a spirit, too - they loved batmanning from Neem in our mythology, anyways. Calling something what its not - especially calling something the unknown - lends it a longevity that'd surpass some of the greater achievements of our generation, such are human tendencies. Exaggeration is another; soon we'd have a whole tale in our hands that relies on (reversed) experiences and ends with something blasting into a million pieces with the destruction of evil.

But lets just for once focus on the fact that he had been bit, and bit like never before. All he was doing was trying to do was inquire of the rain outside, just poking his head out for a while. He didn't get wet (as it had stopped raining), but got much more.

Now he's blank about what to do. Sure, administering 'jections and other drugs is okay, but not any less embarrassing than anything else. Embarrassment lies at every step ahead. That is the consternation. He was a fool enough to do what he did, and no less a fool in how he's handling it at the moment by not consulting a professional. No outside involvement, you see. The bite is gaining its own character now; everyday there's a ring of new color around the tiny little bite mark, swelling so fast that soon it might not be hidden anymore. The pain is fluctuating, receding around the evenings but prominently felt around the sleep cycles. Dreams, he hopes won't be too influenced by it. Last night he dreamed of defecating; for a fact we know that monkeys defecate in resolving territorial disputes.
If he were to have a kingdom, that monkey-thing would be the most wanted criminal today.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

One Mere Rotation

The storm growing brighter
The frames getting lighter
The planes fanning wider
The riders going sprighter
The doom's gate appearing whiter
The sunset bloom receding tighter
The blinkers choking a fighter
The ghosts scaring a biker

On the 22" IPS LCD the Spiti memories of a mere month back seem so nostalgic (and courageous, too). I sometimes find myself lost of where I'm to start finding myself.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Romeo fail

This was the line I used on a (female) friend a day back, before we were to catch up on lives, in the company of the Agave bomb aka tequila.
me: romeo and juliet and tequila
friend: i aint any juliet :D

Sure I scared her. But it turned out to be a day for Romeo and Juliet, indeed - the cigar brand, let me clarify, in case someone had assumed something else. Romeo Y Julieta Puritos, to be specific, a lot purchased from that sole cigar store in GIP, Noida that now seems to be on the course of bankruptcy (their main stall shut down and they stack a narrowing variety now).

I'd tried one on the Mukteshwar trip, and besides the novelty factor it didn't impart much flavor to the evening. I tried one yesterday, and it was the same dull experience. One clearly doesn't make friends on these Cubans - the draw is light, the flavor is just that of smoke, and the lingering aroma is negligible for any occasion. This was after I changed my choices, being promised a fresh stock of these against an older stock of what I was gonna purchase earlier.

My cigar spree was at its peak around the same time last year (blame it on the Monsoons?). The Cohibas were much better. Even the Monte Cristo cigarillos (which people say are of residual tobacco, and not a 'cigar' anyways) got more likes. On the level of phony, the Phillies chocolate cigars were also okay and had a dense draw.
R&J are just a disappointment. I've got three cigars left, and unless somebody asks for it right now, I'll be spending them on evenings with wannabe-cigar-aficionados who will smoke anything that burns and looks like a cigar - the taste of good alco shall probably mask the cigar experience, as it did yesterday.
[yesterday... yesterday... yesterday...
no don't cut to yesterday, i just got here
[see: BFM 9]

Reader subculture

"Is that a book on computers?" this guy standing behind me in the queue (a mile-long queue for the subway train) poked his head out front and asked. I was fascinated to learn of his ignorance, as he had no clue from the author's name on the cover, Camus, in size matching that of the book's title.
"No, its fiction," I replied, curtly.
"Oh, science fiction"
"No, just fiction"
I was already imagining some techie seeing others in his skin, until he clarified...
"Rebel was a supercomputer that played chess. I thought it was about that." [wiki-wisdom: the Rebel had probably stayed in his head since it beat vishwanathan anand (the Indian chess genius) in 1998]
Now it was me who was short on clue. I just put pretended being a complete media illiterate instead of a half-geek.
"I only know about that.. IBM one"
"Oh, yeah, Deep Blue, that is one, too"
I spotted a book in his hands as well, which turned out to be some Russian spy thriller. I'm sure it was a horrible one.

When we finally got in, this guy, much like me, hadn't boarded the first of the trains for it being too crowded, and hopped on to the next one, and again much like me, whipped out his book as soon. There was a third guy in a short radius busy in his own book in a spacious corner. Its nice identifying a sub-culture of readers.

What the third guy was reading had my eyes wide for a moment: "Tommy Boys, Lesbian Men, and Ancestral Wives". [googling tells its a book on the lesbian culture prevalent under the hood throughout Africa]. You don't find many into this kinda stuff.

PS: im almost about to be done with the introduction to The Rebel after a week of reading

Sunday, September 09, 2012

Breaking Bad

"No duplicates!" the old man living downstairs had said with a Major's authority, as he handed me a key to the lobby entrance of the new dwelling I've shifted my base to. Here I am, a few days later, at this prominent Delhi intersection, getting the duplicates done, having snuck out the lock right under his nose and against the reigning authority And it wasn't like an in-out job, too - I had to pilfer the humble lobby lock thrice over the course of the day; the first two times were a miss, as the keymaker - one hella unreliable fella, whom I learnt was more frequent to the bar than to his roadside shack - was missing from his... shack; the third time was enough for me to drive out to the more trusted of keymakers a bit far, where I am right now at this prominent Delhi intersection. I will deceive the old man twice his unexpectation, as I have asked for two duplicates to be done. Enough of disturbed chains of logic.

In the meantime I can occupy myself at the sight of imbecilic antics of these two kids - a boy and a girl of about the same (6-ish) age - whose guardian apparently thought it a good idea to give these kids fresh air at this polluted and dangerous venue (not to forget the filthy uncovered runnels). There's also a derelict girl (selling balls made of motley bright patches) sitting exhausted and tearing apart one such defective ball, a girl of ~16, whom I imagine could fare better than many women of high standing after a mere bath and wardrobe upgrade. Its a sad thought, but I don't lament her condition for too long. I have some other kick.

In the next few minutes, chaos ensues at the intersection, as the traffic lights, which were dead this far, suddenly come to life, and that too in a maniacal fashion - first they blink orange in harmony, and then abruptly go red (yes, all of them, at once), and then turn green (all at once, again), and then abruptly begin to function responsibly. All this happens before your average Dilliwala could realize some mischief or malfunction involved. Then arrives a confused traffic cop to investigate into the chaos whose origin seems at this hub of keymakers (and their clients), mischievous kids and fatigued bystanders - the lazy arm of authority finally manifesting; he fiddles with a small dashboard with several buttons, then irritably announces foul play, then walks away in anguish - and probably under the assumption of teaching a lesson to one of the kids the next time. The evil smile (one that a friend, S, had perceived in the remoteness of Jispa with the Intrepid 4) briefly appears. I love kids.

Friday, September 07, 2012

Foodie's Night Out with HD

Me: now featuring with an added 2.2 kCals, after the dinner - comprising of a variety of meats, in a variety of preparations, and 4 kind of desserts (served twice). As irresponsible towards my manliness is to be consuming meat, equally irresponsible towards my health is to be turning my tummy into a industrial processing unit. I can now imagine my body machinery dedicating itself to assimilating nutrition from all the unprocessed stuff for the next few days, which doesn't fit with the workout ambitions. She must be really mad at me, at this repeated promise of me taking her out, but being unable to, on the account of a tragic state of my valve. For a moment jerking off in the comforts of my espacio grande seems more beneficial than such social commitments; there's Camus to read as well. But being me, I'm overcommitted in these last days in Lko, as a result of which I should be prepared to suffer my being for the entire day tomorrow as well.

Thursday, September 06, 2012

Dem gayl h8 my taste

Read this. A shared link (and no, not someone making her preference known).
By end of the first para, my thoughts went... "i have a hairy chest and geeky antics!"
By end of the article... "oh shit, why didnt i wait till the second para"
Since surveys are an average, am I supposed to fucken hate Indian girls now, on an average? On the other hand I could just trash the article, both for the trifling concerns it promotes, as well as the media source that puts it out there (reminder: ToI is a blot on journalism). No I'm not "groovy" for an Indian girl, but - in all likelihood - neither is wisdom too attractive for that person.

But why am I cribbing about trifling fornication prospects when I could be bragging about my 16 inches of penis foodie delight in this city of Lucknow, about that Achari Gosht and Biryani at Lalbagh that I'm gonna be returning back to again and again. With the addition of the T, alone, into my social nexus, hangouts and street cruising have been transformed into wiser (albeit sometimes illegal) affairs. [there's also the S and his new Wagon R to thank, but nothing beats what the T brings] The T is one who will always be available for that need of wasting an evening in general. It was that, today.
The S picked me up from my place, then we picked up the T from his place, then drove around, until settling in a shady nook, with shady intents. The T, the S, and I, each found a role, which went towards making that final roll. Once the roll was enrolled did we roll out to have a scrumptious meal, then follow up with our 'kulhad' of lassi (that cost the same as our meal earlier). I wanted more of everything we'd had this far, but sadly these guys were done for the day.
Tomorrow it'll be beer and Rogan Josh (some outlet near Novelty Cinema) on our itinerary. I'm looking into medical procedures for removal of my entire food tract, after all the masala of this city that has featured in my tummy lately.

Dil Aisa...

लल्ले [nutjobs] - why couldn't they rather be snorkeling, or flying RC planes, or trying to locate the Susu? I dont get this song - he's on a boat, amidst beautiful scenery, with the Katrina Kaif equivalent of those days (Sharmila Tagore), and still wasting his time singing that. Unless Ms. Tagore is playing a robot in that movie, he should be jumping on her on that boat.

Self-loathing is annoying. Its also, however, addictive - I could sing that song about the pathetic programming paradigm Javascript has exposed me to, for somebody coming from a world of C++.

Cat's Existentialism

This to preface my start with Camus' "The Rebel", that I located on Pa's bookshelves just this morning. Its strange why I hadn't laid my hands on it earlier, when I was on my unmatched reading streak, coming across some very formative gems of writing in succession. Frankly, I don't know what the book would be about, to have tagged it outright "existential". Whatever it is, I'm hopeful it gets me some nice booty.

Tuesday, September 04, 2012

Darkness and dreams

From catching a brief glimpse in to the discrete charm of the bourgeoisie on my media-box through much of the night, I take a break now that my own discreteness can manifest, as it nears daybreak - just another coupla' hours to go. I step outside. Outside, I cozy myself against a dark corner on the rooftop, in all abandon (except a funny feeling of being beheaded by a violent lightning strike, as I sit right under an iron rod, in the month of the monsoonal rage that might whip up any moment and send thunderbolts screaming towards the terra firma). Here, I am among the shadows, of zero existence as far as this scene of this night is concerned, a mere observer, a pure detachment - and I like that. A dark grin first comes on my face, merging well with my dark place, a grin about all that we can do to take ourselves far and high, to drive away from the ordinary, to give us an identity, to save us some satisfactory thought for our last moments to have us die with a peaceful expression on the face despite fighting a biological reality. And I chuckle at that thought. Then I proceed into 'waking my big toe' - to spur myself into action (however I interpreted that scene in Tarantino's Kill Bill) - and try to look 'ahead'.

I get no delusions. My head is blank, if not for inspiration from my senses that give it processing to do and accidentally triggering some thought chain or two, or scanning some slice in our memory - what we call being pensive [see: pensee]. Such sensory input does come - through my vision, of the high wall of the neighbour's adjoining plot - and in the next second I see myself high up there... way high up than the wall itself, atop a fancy summit, bearing deep pink cheeks and a wide smile and a pink tongue rolled out dripping with saliva - in greed for life. I'm perturbed as well, mulling over two things: the time I have to build my dreams, and that which I have to chase those. Not all dreams can come true, as the aphorism goes, but I guess this is one single fact that drives me closer to being a fool, because I'm never gonna heed it in all my wisdom.

The cool air erases these images from my mind, and brings with it an image from a more certain future - one where I'm to start on the bananas to fuel myself on the morning run with S, to the stadium and thereon to that street where nice girls come out in the mornings, and back home to load on a scrumptious breakfast, to drift into sleep while worrying about shirking work yet again.

Monday, September 03, 2012

jalebi guy

Indian kickstart food had me pinned down for the day. After having liberal servings of jalebi, kachori, dhokla, matar poori - and also to include tea, and milkshake, - I went into an alternate reality (of dreams) that I only returned from around noon. And guess what, more food followed soon as I stepped down from the cushy bed since it was already lunch. Pamper is the right word here.

Only now that the sun nears the horizon does my day seem to have started. The gears finally feel like shifting now that I've solved the annoying issue of getting BSNL to work on the new modem, which calls for a celebration as I now get to use the Belkin with the crappy Rocknet connection. Following the resurrection of the internet, D pinged me on gtalk and reminded of some professional stuff, which I could easily shirk but will take up for a change (for a change in the past year and a half, that is). [so far I had 'smoking pot' on the itinerary, but seems like plans need be revised]

In other news, I was dreaming like it was a disease. There were people I knew, but not like that; there were buses trapped in floods, with me making my last minute exit; there were lakes and huge aquatic creatures out to get me. I guess sleeping too sound all this while in my dark chamber (aka pimp room) has left me with a backlog, or maybe sleep processing isn't a transparent process outside my dark chamber which is why I'm seeing all the more.

[PS: title of this post is supposed to be a pun on 'jalebi bai']

Saturday, September 01, 2012

Nasty Hurt

I worry about my phone. It offends me that the device, which had once produced some of the most beautiful voices and frank admissions in my life, could now sink so low as to become a mere receptacle for the futile and perhaps angry remonstrances of my friends.
Some of them call up to say they hate me; some of them call up to say they hate me even more. Collectively, they share the responsibility for the present condition of my pyloric valve, which I need not elaborate upon. Oh how they forget that soon, they will hate all change, much like they hate me - me, who intends no hurt.

Speaking of hurting... featuring me, twice in the past week.
First to come was my leg, banged against a cliff (in an attempt to scale it). Left me with a deep bruise.

Next to come was my left toenail, in a moment's excitement of indoor football with my bro. Its probably uprooted, and hurt a lot. I'm gonna wait till it falls off, then keep it in my uprooted nail index.