Category: General

Before there was light, there was darkness. And after light, there will be darkness again. In between spells of darkness, is light. Got it? Good. Darkness. Then light. Then darkness. Perfect. Does not take rocket science to understand that. That part is clear. Let's move on.

There is no way you can determine how long the darkness existed for. You need light to determine time. There may have been periods of perpetual darkness for an eternity. Then this little window of light opened up. So there. Darkness. Small window. Darkness. Kapish? Good.

I read somewhere that speaking in short simple sentences is usually the most effective way to get your point across. Since I have been vehemently accused of never making a point on any of my posts, I thought I shall carry on with the legacy. But again, that really is not the point of this post. In fact, I do not know if this post will have a point by the time we get to the end of it because I normally do not know how my posts will end. I don't even know what the next sentence is going to be. So this may, in fact, turn out to be a completely pointless post.

Anyway. I do have a point to get across in this post. All men and women belong to the species homo sapiens of the genus homo of the family hominidae of the order primates of the class mammalia of the phylum chordata of the kingdom animalia. Phew, one complex sentence that! Gisting it, it means all men and women are mammals, and mammals are animals.

Mammals are known to have certain common characteristics, the paramount one being that the mothers suckle the young. This is why whales are mammals but sea horses which also give birth to live young are not mammals. So here is the story. Humans are mammals. Women suckle young. Fairly simple and straightforward.

There are other characteristics too that are common across mammals. Mammals have a digestive tract. The digestive tract digests food and assimilates it for the body to burn for energy. Digestive acids break the food down into smaller units, some of it breaking down enough to be in the gaseous form. A properly functioning digestive tract produces gas. Again. Humans are mammals. Mammals have digestive tract. Digestive tract breaks food down. Food breaking down produces gas.

So yes. Humans produce gas. An average human passes wind about 30 times a day. Not to mention burps a few times too. Now here is the deal. Humans produce gas. Unless women are not human (let's not talk about this from the perspective of being humane - we want to play fair here) they are supposed to pass wind too. Then, why in the name of the devil, do women staunchly maintain that they don't fart?

Women are human beings (speaking strictly biologically). Human beings pass wind. Women pass wind. Case closed.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Kaante - Maahive
As we go through the various motions (to borrow a phrase from ESPN commentators - unlike a certain author (name not really required - she (used purely for making the language non-sexist) could not manage to hide her sources, thereby making the cardinal sin of breaking the now legendary law proposed by Albert Einstein) - I am in the habit of citing sources when I know I cannot pass something off as my own) of life, we come across phrases that are infinitely precious (to borrow a phrase from my dear Aran).

A few nights (Aran and I are in the habit of spending many a night with each other, and lest people's active imaginations should become over-active all that night-spending is done over messenger) ago, we had a small discord and I decided that enough was finally enough. And I wanted to lay it easy on the poor girl. After all, she has been through a lot for/with me over the last two and some years.

If there is anything that I appreciate about the software industry (seriously, can anything about it be appealing at all?) it is the absolute shamelessness with which components are re-used and re-purposed, how stuff is templatised. Being as it is that I happen to be a part of this industry, it was only a matter of time before I applied industry practices to my personal life. I am not happy about it but then even the best among us sometimes have bad hair days. This one, though, was especially bad.

Anyway, I intended to use the standard break-up template. What did I say? Quote:

"It is not me, it is you".

May be it was a Freudian slip. I don't know. But what I do know is that we ended up laughing our respective asses off. And Aran accorded it a place in the hall of the infinitely precious phrases.

PS: Feels good to finally be back to writing nonsense.
PPS: Using a PS in one's writing usually signifies bad writing skills.
PPPS: Sometimes, though, a PS adds to the effect.
PPPPS: Aran and I have not parted ways yet.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: David Bowie - The Man Who Sold The World
This one time I am going to speak for something that I truly believe in. I have never let out the person on this blog who people get to see outside the realm of online space. Frankly, I did not, and I still don't, consider it an ethical practice. The issue, however, is above what I consider ethical. It is about rights - the Right to Free Speech.

Unlike countries that pretend to grant rights to their citizens under the garb of democracy, we are a Nation that actually does it. No, not pretend. In fact, we pretend to have no rights at all in this Nation. As a race, we humans have always connected with adversity. And perhaps Indians lead the pack when it comes to making that connection. But the fact remains that in India someone can call the Deputy Prime Minister a murderer (as an aggrieved father did to Mr. LK Advani after the Gujarat riots) and not be sent to jail for it - a contrast to the scene that unfolded during a press conference in the White House post 9/11 where a scribe was arrested under the Patriot Act simply because he asked the President a question he had no answer to.

You take this right away - this right to free speech - and you signal the death of democracy. Drat, I shall not use the term 'democracy' again. I have seen it mutilated and abused so often that it has sadly lost the ability to generate the ethos and the fervour it once could. It has become a buzzword, something you use when you want to impress a gathering of 'socialites'.

All that humanity has so fervently worked for, all that we have done so far has been made possible because of speech (written or oral). You take speech away from man and you might as well put him next to a Chimpanzee on the evolutionary scale.

And that is why it makes the act of banning any medium of free speech ghastly, more so when it has the sanction of a government elected by the people. Like most of us, I am not going to go up in arms against the government for banning blog sites. Honestly, I don't have it in me to do that and I make no bones about it. But I can write out against it, hoping that I reach out to someone who can make a difference. I can't even appeal to the consciousness of the people to galvanise themselves into action because I have done nothing to do that either.

But I can do one thing. I can feverishly pray that people exercise their rights to vote. Only 58% of India's eligible voters cast their ballots. Put loosely, this means that we get people to rule us who are only 58% competent to do their jobs. Then we complain of the sad state of affairs we are in. Let's stop whining.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Music-less
It is no secret that Twigrl is our favourite commenter. By our, I mean Aran's and mine. We find her not only adorable, but her idealism is quite endearing too. So, when Twigrl leaves a comment on my previous post it had to spur me on to write sooner rather than later. Not only because not writing would be highly disapproved of by Twigrl but also because not doing so would invite the ire of Aran, who I have grown quite fond of in the last two years.

This fine evening, and yes the evening was very fine despite the summer being a bitch this year the same way it has been a bitch each year prior to the year when we say in the months of winter that summer last season was a bitch, Aran and I decided to meet up over a cup of coffee. We do this once every one hundred and fifty six years, just as a reminder that there is flesh and blood too behind our virtual selves.

We were at what used to be my favourite coffee place till a couple of years ago, that is before everyone in Hyderabad wanted to be in it every Sunday afternoon thereby depriving me of my much needed scrabble time. What transpired there, though, might get the place back on my radar of favourite watering holes. Oh, no. Lest you all should start thinking of a HEA kind of a scenario between Aran and I, nothing of that sort transpired between us.

The transpiration in question concerns two women who decide to use the unisex loo of the place at the same time. This loo is only meant to be used by one person at a time. Now I am not one to jump to conclusions, and it is perfectly fine for two people to want to use the loo at the same time in moments of desperation. But when the duration of the use exceeds fifteen minutes, then it does not take rocket science to draw conclusions. More so, if you happen to be a hormonally active heterosexual male. Such things come easily to this kind.

And, puhlease! I am not going to rat on about the kind of images that my mind conjured up. That would be sickening. Why? 'Cause imagination is not dead, damnit!

I am publishing this post without the express written consent of Aran. I also realise that Twigrl may not be very approving of this post. But I thought for the benefit of the other blog reading junta (read hormonally active heterosexual males), incidents like these must never be kept under wraps.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Def Leppard - Hysteria
Note: This post is a take on MAD (Making Americans Dumber). If the only images that MAD conjures up in your head are those of a certain Mrs. Nene, then congratulations. You are a hormonally active heterosexual male or a hormonally active homosexual female. Either way, you are not frigid.

You know what I hate? The bit of skin that chafes off the sides of my thumb! I pull and pull at it, hoping it will go away till I have no skin left right up to my shoulders. You know what I hate? Country music! I don't know what country it is from, but it sure is not mine. You know what I hate? Multiple posts made on the same blog in a day! Especially, when I make a post on mine, and the multi-post blog displaces mine from the home page, not even giving me prime real estate space for 3 hours.

You know what I hate? The toilet seat left down! Woman, putting it back up is not rocket science - it is just good manners. You know what I hate? Friends on messenger when I have loads to do! If friends in need are friends indeed, they should be around when I have nothing to do. You know what I hate? Trying too hard for anything! If human beings were supposed to work hard then they would be the one pulling the carts while bullocks rode in them.

You know what I hate? That token stutterer in all low-budget movies! Merely looking at a stutterer is not funny anymore. You know what I hate? Remix albums! At this rate, they will be remixing the National Anthem next. You know what I hate? The hot chick at the airport that frisks the man who uses any 'macho' product! The hands that frisk me always belong to some pot-bellied officer.

You know what I hate? Waking up with a stubble! I sure did not go to bed with one. You know what I hate? TV shopping ads that make you lose half-an-inch in two hours! If I use the product for half a week then I should disappear altogether. You know what I hate? When my underwear rides really really really high up my ass! Oh wait, may be I like that.

You know what I love? This blog! Need I say more?

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Hemant Kumar - Na Tum Humein Jaano
There is something about a heartbreak, something so grotesquely inane about it that it defies all known logic. Even the unknown ones, I am sure, would be blatantly defied by it. For the sole reason that those logical reasoning sequences have remained unknown, is sheerly because they were meant to be defied anyway. Why theorise (Nothing wrong with the spelling here. Just that I have not become yank yet.) something that you know is going to be refuted?

About heartbreaks. They are supposed to be extremely difficult to get over. Like they say, "Yeh ishq nahi aasaan, itna hi samajh lije. Ek aag ka dariyaa hai aur doob ke jaana hai." Translated verbatim this means, "This love is not easy, understand only this. One river of fire it is, and drown you have to." Basically, this tells you how difficult the whole thing is. No, not heartbreak. But to express something in English that has no business being expressed in anything but Urdu. Aha, two buts in my sentence. Purists would fret. I would too, if someone else had done it.

For some reason, as human beings, we tend to lose connect with ourselves if we do not constantly challenge the boundaries of our capabilities. Even if that means copy writing those ads for BPOs and call centres (Again, the spelling is right. I have not become yank yet.) that read something like, "Do you constantly feel the urge to work in a challenging environment? Do deadlines bring out the best in you? Would you like to work in a dynamic team that gives you a sense of purpose?" And other such yadda yadda. Basically, that means, "We have peanuts to offer you to make you work like a dog but if we said that we would not be able to get you hook, line and sinker."

Perhaps it is that urge, that need which people tend to call the need to attain self-actualisation (Again, the spelling is right. I have not become yank yet) or, if you have it in you to call a spade a spade, that trait of masochism that gets us to fall head over heels for someone without realising what suckers we are becoming in the process. Oh, there are phrases like, "It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all" that make us feel all goose-pimply and philosophical about the whole thing. Only as long as the going is good though.

Ardent readers of my blog (hah, like that species exists!) would question the veracity of this post, the same way they would question the veracity of any of the posts on this blog. As if I ever needed to have any experience/knowledge to write about something! It is not whether you know anything about what you are writing. It is about if others believe that you do.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Foo Fighters - Kungfu Fighting
When I woke up this afternoon (it is Sunday for the sake of God!), the world did not make sense to me, the same way it does not makes sense to me every weekday morning. Mondays are the worst, however. I wake up with the worst case of Monday morning blues ever recorded in the history of mankind. I get to work with the most disgruntled feeling. As the day wears on, the blues start to disappear and by 3 pm I start looking forward to Friday again.

Fridays are happy days. They are days meant for wrapping work up early, days meant for doing your thing. Put differently, they are days meant for living whatever pathetic little excuse we have for a life. Now I am not the partying kind. Officially because I don't like the noise and the hustle-bustle. Honestly because no one ever invites me to those cool parties. Either way, I do not know what a hangover feels like because I have never had one.

Thus my Saturday mornings start reasonably early and are meant to take care of the routine things like payment of bills, visit to the bank, and other mundane things that we regularly have to do to prevent our lives from becoming a living hell. Come Sunday and from about 6 pm onwards depression starts to set in, the intensity of which goes up and up till I hit the sack.

Anyway, these three paragraphs above can easily be skipped for they convey nothing that anyone with a head on their shoulders would not know or would want to be told. All except the first six words 'When I woke up this afternoon' because after my head had cleared up sufficiently enough for me to identify promos of those shows on television that I really really really hate, I wondered why I had not ever spewed my venom.

As soon as the thought flashed, the answer came too. As they say in showbiz, no publicity is bad publicity. Why should the shows I really really really hate have another platform where they are being talked about? But that does not mean I should not talk about them. I need to. I read this in someone's mail's signature line, 'If I am not for myself, then who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, then what am I? And if not now, when?'. I have absolutely no idea what it means (come on, can anyone understand it?) but this seemed like a pretty good place to use it.

Sadly, it still does not settle the matter. That brings up another point. When sayings, proverbs, idioms, similies, metaphors, oxymorons, etc. fail to settle the matter should they be stripped off their status? And if they are stripped off their status should those painfully inane shows be pulled off the air too? And if they were pulled off the air then how would I have made my 34th post on this blog?

Damn, I almost wrote that in the same style as that thing I read in someone's signature. Is this a sign?

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: David Bowie - The Man Who Sold The World
Do I believe in something strongly enough to give my life to the cause? Would I choose a hell now or a hell hereafter? Would I fight my battle today or run away to run away another day? In other words, have I already utilised my brain capacity for the year by contemplating such profound matters of my existence?

I am not one of those men who think. I believe we can, as a race, spend our time far more productively if we do not exercise that all important muscle - the one between our ears, I mean. All that should have been thought of has already been. What good would come of colliding protons in the Large Hadron Collider? Why would I want to know that electricity can cause cancer when there is no way in hell I am going to ever want to live without it?

Ever since I came across "Ambition is just a ruse for those who are incapable of being lazy" I have been enamoured by the sheer brilliance of the statement. There are layers to it that go deep, real deep, so deep in fact that it takes someone with a very stubborn shovel to dig it all up. The real beauty, however, lies in the whole exercise being oxymoronic. To learn to appreciate the statement you need to have some serious drive in you to explore the cavernous depths and unearth its true meaning. Once you do that, you will begin to marvel at the extreme futility of the trouble you went through to understand what should have been pretty obvious.

You might even begin to hate yourself a little, which is not such a bad thing when seen in light of the other extreme of the situation - being completely self-absorbed. Actually, being self-absorbed is not a bad thing at all. I would consider that to be the closest one can come to self-actualisation. So, yeah. May be you are an apathetic loser if you hate yourself. How can you expect anyone else to love you if you don't? Don't they say that God helps those who help themselves?

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: The Beatles - Let it be...
Mera chain wain sab ujda, zaalim nazar hata le. Barbaad ho gaye hain ji tere apne sheher waale. Oh meri angadaayi na toote tu aaja. Kajara re Kajara re...

So goes the song. That it goes this way is not something I hold against it. But that it should go this way the whole day in my head is not something I take very kindly to. And why? Just because I happen to come across it first thing in the morning while surfing channels? Was that this big an indiscretion?

It is not only this song. There have been many before it, and there will be many to follow I am certain, that have had this effect on me. I think I have what can be medically termed Obsessive Song Listening Disorder. It creeps in very innocuously at an impressionable age. I was 19, I think, when it first happened - all innocent and ignorant of the ways of this world when it came to songs taking their hold on people.

It was a seemingly harmless song called 'This Kiss' by Faith Hill. I was not even a fourteen year old girl at that point of time in my life. Hell, I have never been a fourteen year old girl at any point of time in my life. But this song! Like tits and ass make the world go round (as Harold Robbins had once written in one of his books), this song just kept making my head spin. I could not listen to it, and I could not not listen to it. There was a stage when I listened to it over and over again for up to two hours - basically till the other inhabitants of my house thumped me on my head.

I got over it. At least I thought I did. Until a few weeks ago when it came back. And this time it was worse because I did not have the song with me anymore. And I had to listen to it on launchcast that does not have a repeat feature. This basically meant I had to manually restart the song each time! It was as bad as watching television without the remote control. May be worse, if anything can be worse than that.

I have never been the same man ever since. And I am not sure if it was the song or Faith Hill. But something has held its sway. I started off bitching about kajara re and I ended up totally smitted with Faith Hill. Perhaps an International alert should be sounded. This disorder is deadly.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: The whirr of my CPU fan...
Courtesy a fellow blogger (Why am I using a phrase as hackneyed as this? Sigh!), my perspective on all things pornographic has undergone a slight metamorphosis. I have started to perceive them as more than means of healthy recreation.

Make no mistake. I have always held porn in the highest regard and have always believed the likes of Sindee Coxx, Sylvia Saint, Asia Carrerra, Dolly Golden, Lita Chase, Coral Sands, Tabatha Cash, Gina La Marca, Anna Nicole Smith, Brande Rodericks, Sally Layd, Jay Sweet, and Vanessa to be women with some serious substance (no pun inadvertently intended - it was intentional) in them. And even if it makes people doubt my lifestyle choice, for the women who read my blog I thought I should name a few men too - Peter North, Vince Voyeur, Drago, and Rocko, in no particular order.

Having seen enough moving pictures of this genre to have reached a stage where I can detach myself completely when the 'mechanical motion' is on in full swing, I can safely say that I have begun to appreciate the nuances of making movies that would have any four of these stories:
  1. Delivery man knocks on the door of a lonely woman whose husband is away on a business trip
  2. Aspiring actress pleases producer (could be male or female)
  3. Small town bloke exploited in the city by a wealthy woman
  4. Secretary and boss (do I need to say more?)
  5. Hapless woman with a broken down car in the middle of nowhere is given a, umm, ride by a good Samaritan
  6. Man/woman is given a demo of the 'toys' by the lady behind the counter of a sex shop
  7. Horny woman realises self help is the best help
  8. Coach/teacher instructs on more than math/science/tennis/it does not matter
  9. Cop strip searches a man/woman
  10. Bride makes it with the best men (could number between 1 and 3) when she discovers the groom and the bridesmaids (could number between 1 and 4) together
  11. Hot couples' therapist (always female) infuses life into dead marriage
  12. Businesswoman goes all the way to broker deals
Why four combinations? Simple. It is like an act in a play with each act lasting anywhere between 15 and 25 minutes. And voila, you have an hour and a half of what can be termed a movie. This sells, and how!

But it is not as easy as it looks. In my time (this is not to say that I was ever a part of the industry (somehow to me the phrase just sounds classy) or that I am now old (what if I am balding and half my teeth are gone?)), I learnt through what I choose to describe as informational reading material that you need stunt doubles for these movies too. No, there is no jumping off a building or racing through a freeway here. The stunt doubles are used for those pressing times of need when the actor's pecker just refuses to rise to the occasion. A whole legion of men has been gainfully employed by this industry to render this specific service. Nifty camerawork ensures that we only see what they are doubling up for.

Sometimes the ease with which the actors get into impossible positions leaves one with their jaws touching the floor. As if it was not enough hard work, did they have to make it harder by doing it underwater? Or with the woman's legs spread so wide you could drive an eighteen-wheeler through? What's the idea? To tell us that sex takes superhuman effort? Yeah, that is why we are a nation of one billion. Just imagine if it was any easier!

So what was the change in perspective that I gloated over? That I have started to perceive them as more than means of healthy recreation. But I already said that. Why did I write so much more then? Because it is my blog and I can write whatever I want to.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: I am too sexy...
At the peril of undoing all that I hoped I had managed to do with my previous post, I thought I should touch upon something that the few remaining veterans of this gasping blog section would be able to savour. Before I get there, let's delve on this thought that has just struck me. The phrase I used to kick this post off is one of my most favourite ones, perhaps second only to 'you are suffering from peer pressure'. Pity, I never used either on my blog until now. This is as good a time as any to make up.

At the peril of being nostalgic, I thought we should take a trip down memory lane to a time when men were real men, women were real women and small posts made on blogs were real small posts made on blogs. It was a time when good writing was given the credit it deserved, a time when the bloggers appreciated intellectual balderdash (an oxymoron?), and a time when writers did not write for the sake of it. Sometimes serious attempts were made (none by me though) to say for others what they could not say properly for themselves.

At the peril of sounding blase, or even of the ofay (my definition for all those who behave like Simi Garewal did/does/will do on that show of hers called Rendezvous) society class, blogging had a refreshing feel to it which is not to say that it does not have so today but the fragrance seems to have dulled just a little bit. As blogger upon blogger decided to move on (I am still foxed why, especially in the cases of Neurotron, Aran, Aloque and Patch), they took away with them some of the life that they themselves had infused. The old rang out but the young never really rang in. Now what would Tennyson say to that? I wonder.

At the peril of coming through as obnoxious, and not just because I have used this phrase four times in as many paragraphs, sometimes it is almost painful when youth does not take over from where age left off. I do not know the point behind this post, the same way I do not know the point behind any of my posts. But this one seems a little closer to heart than most.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: A deafening silence...
Damn a fellow blogger for shattering my illusion! Why can't some people let other people be? Here I was, all blissful in my little world, believing that nothing could ever get to me. Then she says something very innoccuously (at this moment, I don't really care if that is the right word to be used here or even if it is spelled right), something that those among us of lesser flesh and blood would simply have let pass right through them feeling as much pinch as they do when the zillions of neutrinos pass through them every day of their miserably despicable existence. Of all things that she could ever have said (sue me for using a cliche), she says that I am goodie-goodie, that I have had no 'action' worth the mention.

And she does this on messenger. Why? Because (what if a sentence should not begin with 'because'?) she knew as well as I did that saying this on a public forum would not only demean her in the eyes of the blog reading junta it would demean her in her own eyes. Those like me have have no qualms over sinking to lower lows. But those like a fellow blogger have just not evolved enough.

Not evolving enough is not such a bad thing. Cockroaches, unchanged for the last 100 million years or so, have shown that by surviving whatever it was that wiped out those mind-bogglingly big lizards that are for some reason assumed to have been cute by all those who lay great value on being politically correct. What a rat's ass! If only they knew that there are far more captivating asses, like those of the likes of Cindy Crawford and Karolina Kurkova, as a race we would not have shied away from calling a spade a spade, or in this case calling a lizard a barf-inducing specimen. Imagine waking up to a T-Rex slithering on your ceiling!

Perhaps my fellow-blogger has the stomach for folderol, in which case she can digest a lot more than what most can. That and the fact that she loves me so much that her vision is blurred and she sees me the way she wants me to be perceived. Yes, she has religiously followed the happennings on my blog for a year and a half. Somewhere down the line, she had to snap.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Eminem - Lose Yourself
Being me, I am cynical. Being me, I am sarcastic. Being me, I am vain. Being me, I am grotesque. Being me, I am superfluous. Being me, I am self-righteous. Being me, I am satanic. Being me, I am verbose. Being me, I am gloomy. Most of all, though, being me, I am me. It goes with the territory of being me.

What I realised, though, right about now, is that I may have set the record for the most occurrences of 'I' and 'me' in one paragraph. This is no mean feat, even for me who always puts 'I' before anyone else. Anyone except my blog audience though. See, just how much I care about them? I actually managed to use 'though' three times in my post already. Never before have I put myself to this level of decadence and depravity. I may re-use words of my previous posts, but I never ever do that for the current post.

It is for that very reason that I use cheaper substitutes like 'however', 'but', 'nevertheless', 'notwithstanding', 'although', and any of the million more that a quick search through throws up. That I did not search this time is attributed solely to a certain blog audience of mine who had vowed never to comment on my blog again. That and the fact that the vow was broken within two hours of it being taken.

Somehow, I like it when people go back on their words. It may seem to be the easiest thing to do. How difficult would it be to say something and then not do it? This is where most of us err. For all that we may have become, there are still those among us who find it extremely difficult to part with their integrity. Even those that already have done so, have gotten there with tremendous dedication and commitment. I lucked out here. I had none to begin with. So there arose no question of my ever having to part with it.

That did raise a much more serious concern. The bar had been set really low. Could I ever hope to slither from right underneath it? And, voila! I not only managed to do that but I continue doing it - setting the bar lower and still snaking my way across.

All that I have said now, I already have many a time. But it was important that I did it again. For even if it may not be apparent, I do care about those who choose to comment on my blog. And I did not wish that a certain someone put herself (I am guessing the gender here, and even if I am not I would be using non-sexist language) through the enormous effort of sifting through archives of my posts to decpiher all that this one post managed to capture.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Garbage - The world is not enough...
There is something about a kiss, something so inherently gooey about it that there is no way you would think of it otherwise unless you have put yourself through the travesty. Well, at least I am hoping it is more fun than it looks for anything that involves the transfer of bodily fluids is either painful as in the case of a blood transfusion or yuck as in the case of nasal mucus residues on your shirt courtesy a very satisfying rip-roaring sneeze of this colleague who sits somewhere in your vicinity.

Whatever the case may be, and I do not think it is either of the former or the latter, the point of interest here is not the act of transfer or even the fluid. I am not quite sure what the point is anymore. It is quite lost in the rattan-like rigmarole that I have woven. I am certain, however, that it is much more profound than the question of life, the universe, everything. Not surprising then that it has been lost, perhaps never to be found again the same way the question in question was lost when the planet earth was destroyed by the Vogon constructor fleet to make way for a hyperspace bypass.

As I sit here in front of my 'puter spewing out enough non-sense to power Somalia for a few centuries, if ever a power plant could be built that ran on pure non-sense, while listening to Meatloaf I cannot help but think if Goo Goo Dolls would have been a better choice at this time of the day. Or even if there is such a thing as 'this time of the day'. Wouldn't 'this day in time' be a much more accurate description of a temporal unit since a day is a subset of time? But I never did understand set theory well enough to take sides here. Pity!

From time immemorial, or at least since I have been in grade 7 when I first used this phrase, I never dreamt that there will be a moment in my life so supremely self-actualising that I would simply be sucked into the vortex of it all. Good that I never dreamt for it never happened. So I take leave of you of my sorry existence only to return stronger and sorrier, if such a word even exists.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Meatloaf - I would do anything for love
Ever since I read James Joyce's Ulysses, which is funny because I never actually read it, I have been enamoured by the man's enchantment with making up his own words - such words that describe the sound made by a human body when it hits a still body of water though whether the water-body is fresh or not is left to one's imagination, which in my opinion is one of those things that should never be left for the neurons of anyone other than the person who came up with the concept in the first place to figure out - to constitute sentences that span the length of one complete James Hadley Chase novel, which, by the way, does not imply that I am trying to put the men who are being spoken of on one pedestal since the world has as many pedestals as there are people to be put on them but it does make you kind of question the very basis of the sales pitch made by BPOs hiring people with IQs of chimpanzees to do the work of parameciums for if there is a place and time made for everyone then there should not be any need for any of us, rather all of us, to constantly push the limits that a challenging work environment compels us to do, unless, of course, my theory does not hold water but that is not something that has ever happened since I do not propound theories in pig-skin bags that are inherently water-proof as I tend to prefer the delicate properties of Shahtoosh, it being banned by the government to appease the environmentalists be damned more so because any term that has the word 'mental' as an intrinsic part of it to an extent that without it the word just becomes 'environists' which makes as much sense as Demi Moore's dating Ashton Kutcher does to any average hormonally active male with a self-esteem slightly greater than the amount of water in the Musi, and with the word 'mental' in it, it only evokes as much trust as the government it can be stated, without reasonable and sufficent doubt, that anyone who can make anything of what I have written so far, without actually saying anything, is either from a universe where gibberish is accorded a status much above that of the influenza virus or an out of work bloke who has nothing better to do than reading as many words as those thus far and those to follow since I really am in no mood to run a word count to tell you how many, partly because I am not using MS Word but mostly because I am a klutz.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Evanescence - Bring me to life...
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