Burnt toast

Mom's never worried about my food. That's the one area in life she thinks I am pretty self sufficient. The problem is that's the ONLY area in life my mom thinks I'm self sufficient in. A part of my subconscious is cursing me right now for using self-depreciation as an aid to my writing. And I'm telling that part of my mind to shut up. At least till I get someone else to make a scapegoat out of. I bet that someone will be some female against whom, I secretly bear a grudge, and simultaneously admire her. Wow! That makes me sound like a stalker. And after that last line, I sound like a self-proclaimed stalker. It doesn't even sound funny anymore. There I was, moments ago, thinking about writing how I burned my toast this morning.

I love to cook. Brains are my specialty. Those who know me well will understand. I also love to drive. Specially when it comes to driving people crazy. I guess I just used up all my lines. Crap! Where was I again?

Oh yes! Cooking! Almost forgot. I can cook up an omelet better than most humans can. I heat the pan up, drop a knob of butter that melts away hissing and bubbling like that is exactly what it was supposed to do. Like that knob of butter's sole purpose in life was to look sexy while melting away on that pan I just heated. Narcissism makes you sound like an ass. I know. Anyway, I've always had a thing for cracking eggs with one hand. It's pretty easy actually. You take an egg, and.... you throw it at a wall. The egg cracked! Hurray! Only trouble with this techniques is the "Cleaning up" part. The egg's all scrambled, you see?

It took me some time to get a good control of the amount of force that was required to jusssst about crack the shell, after which it was only a matter of squeezing the egg between your thumb and middle finger. And the insides of the shell would pour itself out for you like MAGIC! So long as you had a bowl to catch hold of all that magic before it hits the floor. Without the bowl, cleaning up is a mess again. So let's get cracking! I bet that's the etymology of the phrase.

Give the eggs a good whipping. Beat in all that air. That way, the eggs look sexier when they're done.

My eggs turned out to be fine. So did the chocolate cake I tried yesterday. I knew that when my sister actually liked the extra cocoa I'd added, a slight deviation from the prescribed amounts. I'd read somewhere that ladies completely dig chaps who can cook. After reading that article, I almost went to my terrace and shouted "Yeah, bitches! I can cook!". Okay, I did not say that. But in my head, I was Bruce Almighty, the part where Jim Carrey stood on the top of a skyscraper in a storm saying...

"I am Bruce Almighty! My will be done!"

 A friend tapped me on my shoulders saying "Dude, there's a whole set of procedures you need to go through before you get anywhere close to cooking for the lady. And as far as you are concerned, you completely suck at paperwork and procedures." Brilliant! The guy had a point.

The place where I mess up is the toast. I leave it on the pan for a tad bit longer than required. By the time I am struck by the realization that I'm supposed to flip the toast, this song is already playing in full swing, and Mick Jagger is in his elements. Using a toaster would be a good suggestion. But then you'll have to buy me one.

Eurotrip #1- Things left behind

It's been a while since my mom told me to write about the Europe trip my family went on a few weeks ago. I kept refraining from doing that as somewhere, I felt it would sound show-offy. "OH! YOU KNOW WHAT! I WENT TO EUROPE!." And the rest of the world would be like "LIKE WE GIVE A FART!" Come to think of it, most of the time, almost no one gives a fart about anything, except for yourself. And yet, we go about documenting our lives in one way or another. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it does. As I said, who gives a fart! Well, just in case if you do give a fart, please make sure you haven't eaten legumes, or any flatulence-inducing food recently. 

June 5th. That was the day of the trip. Two days hence was my parents' 24th anniversary. Mom had a dream of going to Paris. Dad wanted to see Switzerland. My sister and I were born to parents who were rich enough to splurge on a trip that could pay for travel, accommodation, food and "other unnecessary expenditures" for a family of four. So off we were, shouting in our own heads "Europe, here we come!"

I was right out of college, after some amount of avoidable grinding. Friends gone, end of campus life (at least for some time), heart crushed into uncountable number of pieces, but yet filled with lust, and blatantly so. Just that I hadn't told mom and dad about it. I haven't come off the hormonal surge that started sometime when I turned 15. I somehow like it this way. All this squirting testosterone. Okay, screw that. boarding the flight now!

The plane was the usual kind, the one that flew to countries abroad. bigger than domestic flights. Swiss Air, if I remember correctly, A friend of mine had told me that the chaps distribute chocolate towards the end of the journey. I was like "YESS!" Not like cheap domestic flights, that have stopped distributing candy to sort out the closed ears. Candy on planes. Wow! That was along time ago. I've seen kids grab onto fists full of candy from the tray when the hostess offered it to them. I've seen ADULTS grab onto fistfuls of candy on the tray, when offered some. Oh my goodness would I NEVER do that! Okay, I've done that. Mummaayyy! *Sob*

The flight took a good 25 minutes to move an inch. As usual, I wasn't sitting next to a beautiful woman. IT NEVER HAPPENS! NEVVERRR! I bet there's some dude who changes the seat of the beautiful woman SUPPOSED to sit next to me to someplace not within a 20-seat radius. I bet that dude got the beautiful lady's flight changed! So I was sitting next to this arsehole. And again, as usual, we were both fighting for the arm-rest. That was till the time the bugger slept, and I got to take over the arm-rest. Yeah, bitch! I win!

I can't sleep on overnight flights. Look at how surely I can say this after being on two overnight flights in my entire life. Okay, three overnight flights. What a presumptuous arsehole I am. Now am I not?

Three movies down, I was still wondering what the hell was it that the movie Inherent Vice was all about. Inherent Vice was the first movie I'd watched in the flight. All I could hear during the entire movie was "You're losing! You're losing! You're losing! You're losing your Vitamin C." But I got to say, that's one sexy song! The lyrics are a little off. But sexy song. I guess I'll have to watch Inherent Vice stoned to understand what happened in the movie. That review, some other time!

At this time in the flight, from nowhere, I started missing this female I'd had a hard time letting go. And I was like "Oh, shit! Leave my head, female!" Maybe, I was losing my Vitamin C. Crap! This female is making her way back to my head as I write this right now. Go! Shoo! That's the extent of my problems. Graduation sorted. Job sorted. But this bitch refuses to leave my mind. NOOOOOOOO!!!!

Yeah, so I was moving onto my fourth movie for the night. The Theory of Everything! Decent movie. How much more can you scandalize the life of a great mind, who miraculously happens to be alive still? Albeit barely so.

But there's a reason why this movie is special, and shall stay so for me forever. The end of the movie felt choreographed with the landing of my flight. I looked out of the window. It was the morning sun opening its eyes through the clouds, its rays seeping into the plane's fuselage. 

Ain't even close to what I saw!

I looked below, only to see vast expanses of European countryside, of what was parts of Zurich. This sight coupled with ending soundtrack of this movie "The Theory of Everything", and all of this coming together as my plane began banking into Zurich  for landing. Pure sensory overload! The woman's face that had been lingering in my mind for months now, never looked this beautiful. But you know what? The best part is that this convergence event, the sun, the land, the song, and it all made me realize something. The human mind is capable of emotions and feelings far beyond what words can so much so as dream of describing. 

And I knew somehow, that the week ahead of me was going to be one of the best things to happen to me yet.

Those moments, back in the plane, I understood that it is in the description of that which cannot be described, where one can truly test how good a storyteller one is.

Nowhere to go

You know how kids cough? Their tongues rolled into a tube, mouth opens wide, and they cough like that's the last thing they shall ever be capable of doing in their lives. And they completely forget to cover their mouths. COUGHHU! COUGHHU! I absolutely abhor any living soul who coughs like that. Okay, my mom coughs like that. I apparently don't abhor her. If I can tolerate one person coughing that way, I technically should be able to tolerate everyone who coughs that way. isn't it? Else, I should abhor my mother, strange as that sounds. But as I said, I don't abhor my mother. Neither can I tolerate another soul coughing that way. So that pretty much makes me a hypocrite. It also makes me sound like an idiot. Wow! What a start!

Because of my mom's coughing habits, my sister contracted cough too! Rains, bad weather, easy infections, we all know the drill. So now, my sister has the cough. brilliant. I'm slightly mad at mom for that. Since my sister has cough, she feels weak of sorts. I being the strongest human on the planet, and also the elder one at home, was told to take care of my cute little sister. Strange part is I can't even call my sister "little" anymore. She's taller than I am. From where I see, everyone seems to be taller than I am. Okay, no. My ex isn't. Err... I cannot remember anyone who's not taller than I am. Big deal! I'm supposed to take care of my sister. Let's stick to that. 

I was supposed to drop my frail little sister at the railway station as part of my duty of taking care of her. So off we were. We went and sat in a rickshaw, whose driver wouldn't budge without a third occupant. hence, we waited. For five minutes. FIVE MINUTES! Precious moments of my life, and those of my sister's, lost in waiting for some bugger. If you're wondering why the driver refused to move without the third occupant, STOP immediately. That's because that part of the story is far too long to explain, and at the moment, a complete waste of anyone's comprehension skills. Moving on. 

So the third bugger did arrive. And WOW did he arrive. He was the most hideous smelling creature I'd come across in my lifetime of 23 years, 2 months, and 22 days. Try figuring out my birthday if you're smart! Few extra birthday wishes wouldn't reduce my time on this planet, I suppose. Anyway, this third chap, who was the reason for our losing five precious minutes, was the human version of a skunk. I swear i won't talk about how my sister and I bore his stench. Okay, my sister covered her nose with her handkerchief. She told me to cover my nose with mine. But I thought I'd bear it like a man. Bad call. Besides, I had forgotten my handkerchief. Amazing!

So that happened. And finally, the rickshaw started moving. With a little bit of air circulation, the stench became a bit bearable. Or we just got used to it. It's like how you get used to the smell of your own shit when you take a dump, you see? Initially, you think you'll pass out. But after about 4-5 minutes, you think it is bearable after all. Stay in there long enough, and you'll barely even notice it. Even if there's no exhaust fan in the toilet. Crazy how one can think so much. 

Fine. Stench is bearable. The rickshaw is moving. Now......

Now, this bugger starts glancing at my sister's boobs. He also throws a glance at me, if I am noticing him glancing at my sister's boobs. And I AM noticing this stinky bugger glancing at my sister's boobs. My sister and I make a joke out of this chap's impotence, and everything becomes all right. But not for long. 

Four roads diverged from a place. 

That place was called a junction. 

And it didn't matter which road you took. 

Because the place I am talking about was in Bombay. 

And in Bombay, traffic comes into the junction from each one of the four roads that leads to the junction. The best part about all this is that there's is always, ALWAYS a traffic policeman standing at such a junction. And he has NO clue about whatever the hell it is that's happening. So, in his confusion, he goes about confusing every soul that enters the junction he is standing at. It all ends up being one big commotion, with vehicles entering from all four sides, heading in straight for a gridlock. The best one can do at such times is take out a book and start reading. By the time, one reaches the last few pages, one car would have barely managed to ebb itself out of the jam. Yummy! That is a situation completely independent of a person's reading speed. Besides, from no where, this one drunkard pops up, banging someone's bonnet, shouting how the world is so unfair. I'm still having to breathe in the stench of this ugly bugger. In his attempt at being emphatic, the drunkard pushes one of the bikers stuck in the gridlock, which starts a completely unnecessary, and absolutely avoidable fight. Suddenly, everyone, wants to know what happened, as if they can do something about the unknown situation by knowing about it. In the process, they totally forget that they are stuck in a traffic jam. Few of them, in their enthusiasm, jump into the fight, get whacked on their heads a few times before, out of thin air, cops blow a whistle, and everyone goes back to getting themselves out of the gridlock. By the way, the bugger is still glancing at my sister's boobs. And I SO want to bash his buggery skull into itself. My sister and I have decided not to waste our sense of humor on a stinky bugger. And hence, we both wait for the gridlock to unlock itself. Else, the stinky bugger is getting his skull bashed in. 

Thankfully for the stinky bugger, the jam clears up. And off we are to the railway station. I drop my sister, watch her dissolve into Bombay's crowd. Now, the city has her. Thinking that, I get sentimental. By the time I'm out of my clouded senses, my sister calls me to inform that she's gotten onto her train. I breathe a sigh of relief, thinking that now, my sister is safe in Bombay's bosoms.   

Ain't about answers

We're all looking. For something. Yes, it sounds vague, but that's what we all are doing. Some of us are looking forward to something. Some of us are looking not-so-forward to something. Few are looking to find something. It could be their keys, their cellphones, their lover, themselves, and apart from a gazillion more things, few of them are searching for answers. Answers to questions they have perhaps not framed correctly. It's not like they don't know what they want. Just that they know no way to put across what it is that they want exactly. This so called "They" includes this little "I" too. So that makes it "We".

Too much of our focus has gone away into 'answers'. "Answer me this". "Answer me that", "Answer the following", "Don't answer the following", "Why did it it happen(whatever 'it' is)", "Why did he/she leave?", and all those questions that confound us with their answers. Only thing being that all this ain't entertaining, this perpetual questioning. But there's a trick to all of this. On that, in a bit. but first, here's the deal.

Where does one go first, when confronted with an apparently unanswerable question? A friend, maybe a parent. Okay, parents may not give the answer you want to hear. Again, that said, the answer one wants to hear is not necessarily the solution to one's problem. And given the emotional state of a parent, over-brimming with all the concern for the questioning kid, the argument usually takes a wrong turn, and veers of into some unknown direction. And that was me digressing completely. Another person one puts up questions to is the teacher. Specially for those of us who are used to the classroom experience. Well, if you're a tad bit too curious, be prepared to listen to "You'll learn that in higher classes." That of course means that you're never going to learn that in higher classes (just kidding), or that you're never going to learn that in higher classes, because your curiosity has been beaten out of you. Sucks. But yes, there is a rare breed of teachers, who actually take a note of your doubts, and solve it. And just in case they can't, they send you off on a journey to some place inside you, where you may find what you're looking for. Mind you, a teacher needn't be the PhD holder in a subject, nor a "Master" at anything. He/she could be a friend, a stranger, the one you love, a loved one, or even for that matter, a teacher who ACTUALLY teaches.

It's strange how no  one knows the answers to everything, no matter how ever educated one may be. Maybe no one is supposed to know everything. And about the best of teachers, the most a good teacher can teach a student is to ask the right questions, or at least ask questions. He/she might end it with a "Go, figure it out yourself!" But hey! At least that's a start. Start to a journey out of a place called Blissful Ignorance.

And besides, the besides, given our generation's obsession with Multiple Choice questions, the best anyone can do about doing the best one can do, is as the late George Carlin says.... "Make an educated guess."

It could be four options. 

There could be more options.

If you are at the Arch of Triumph, Paris, you have 11 directions to choose from. 

How about that for multiple choice?

I'm still wondering if I said anything at all.

Fear, heartbreak, listicles and more

Quality.. It's one word that's been driving the bourgeois population, specially the folks in the upper spectrum of the bourgeois population, absolutely crazy. I know this for a fact, purely out of personal experience. 

It's like this. We almost fall into the category of the pseudo elite. We're "there", or so to say, but somehow, we still aren't there. We're somehow caught up between the struggles of the everyday man, and the apparent superiority of the chaps "sitting" above. None of this sounds, or is, funny. But well, it isn't supposed to be. Who gives a fart anyway!
The point here being that the quality that we are promised for the premium we're charged, is a farce. That goes for the food we eat, the clothes we wear, the entertainment we consume, etc., etc., etc. That's it about farce and farts.

Moving on to the topics for the day...

#1- Fear and loathing of "last dates'...

"Hurry! Offer valid till stocks last!!" Everyone's heard that one. 

"Last date for course registration/ institute procedures.." My dear college folks, and all the chaps who have ever attended college of any form.. How these last dates have kept us  and the administration on our toes! All the stress that builds up because of procedures that need not necessarily be there, apart from the unnecessary additional complications that ensue the paraphernalia. What a waste!

A big chunk of things that we hold in high regard, are held in high regard because of the fear they induce, if apparently disregarded. Strange how this all pervading "Big-brotherly" entity taps into our human psyche, keeping a big chunk of us in perpetual fear and darkness.

Besides, unless you're going to die in an hour, the idea of a "last date" shouldn't even come to you. Ever!

#2- On college education. I, like a big chunk of us, am not big on studies. I've done fine, screwed up more than my fair share, and did so rather shamelessly because my dad's been rather cool about it, or rather has been very successful at covering up his anger and frustrations over my screw-ups, at least in front of me. I'm not saying that I've been a problem child. But living long enough with anyone, let alone living with someone for over two decades,  is a pain in the arse, be it with anyone. I'm glad that it's not just me. Yay!

But in four years of college, I can distinctly remember the things I've learned best. And not a single one has been academic in nature. A close friend of mine and I were discussing movies. That's when we realized that in the time we spent in college, the one thing we did learn is to appreciate movies, understand what to look for in them, and that IMDB isn't that good an indicator of how truly good a movie is. That's true about being able to better appreciate books too. For some of us, this skill can be extended to music too. 

Another thing I figured out is "Never want something too badly." I got this line from a book called "Yes Please"... It goes this way.

"You can be the best at making contacts, and going after jobs, but then suddenly you want it too much. Suddenly everybody realizes how badly you want it and they don't want to give it to you."- Amy Poehler

 #3- A thing about heartbreaks. Heartbreaks are painful. And they are long lasting. And they make you restless. And they give you sleepless nights. Or maybe the weather where I stay now is just BAD at night, for I wake up far too often nowadays. That too with a startle. It feels like engaging the car into first gear and releasing the clutch too early. Bad analogy. Anyway.

Yeah, so a heartbreak is a bitch. So is the female who broke your heart. But all the pain, agony and discomfort that come as accompaniment to a heartbreak pales in front of two words...

PENILE FRACTURE. The words send a shudder through every human who has a wiener. For some very convincing, but intangible reason, "Penile fracture" inherently sounds more painful in comparison to "heartbreak". "Penile fracture" sounds manly. Probably because it can only happen to a man. Penile fracture is a reality! Heartbreak sounds like something that is never physically happen. It remains something purely proverbial. Besides, you can't break a heart. Can you? Unless you dip your heart in liquid nitrogen, and then throw it at a wall, or something.

One much rather take a little pain in the.... heart than risk losing one's chances at allowing his genes to see the future. That is unless of course you are Bruce Willis from the movie "Unbreakable". In that case, your penis is fracture-proof. What am I saying??

#4- One more thing before the end of today's rant. 2 brains working together on a labor intensive task is a pure waste of intellectual capacity of one/both the brains involved. This is despite the idea sounding contrary to common sense. Just let one of the two people, preferably the boss, jabber away with the instructions, and the other deal with the execution. Because in case both the brains try solving the problem, 

a) The problem won't be solved at the end of the day

b) The smarter one will take an unnecessary blow to the ego. More often than not, the boss is not the smarter one. 

c) One is always, ALWAYS better off without the uncomfortable vibe that lingers after an ugly argument regarding whose idea was better at solving the problem at hand. 

Straightforward, right?

#5- And about listicles... who makes these things?

Funny... Maybe

Sense of humor is a gift. You either have it, or you don't. I don't. Or maybe I do, in parts, and I have no clue that I do. That's a very strange situation to be in. It's like this usually. You utter something, and everyone erupts into a fit of laughter, and you are perpetually left to wonder whether it was what you said that got the chaps around you to laugh, or was it that you looked stupendously stupid while saying what you said. To make yourself feel a little less confused about your situation, you think to yourself that you are finally turning a little funny. A little maybe.

I go about watching stand-up comedians on Youtube. I do realize that a lot of people go about doing the same thing. So it wouldn't help my case if I were to say that I'm trying to understand what makes these people funny, at least the ones who are funny. They talk about politicians, weird government policies, apparently recent developments, about which I have not a clue. Not a big fan of the newspapers or news channels. Specially when you have this one character shouting at the top of his voice over irrelevant issues, that have absolutely no bearings to your existence. Dad says that I should read the newspaper everyday. It's important for giving interviews, apparently. Hehe.

I guess I have an idea of what's funny. Truth is funny. It has a way of becoming starkly, and darkly and darkerly serious. For instance, here's an irrefutable truth. Ladies aren't funny. That's completely besides the fact that they suck at driving. I know that for a fact, because I've seen my sister while she was trying to learn how to drive. And more so, half the traffic jams are caused by a woman with poor sense of direction, who forgot that the left she was to take was three lefts behind. Women and sense of direction never went hand in hand, as far as evolution goes, I suppose.  I'm turning into a misogynist. 

Five minutes ago, my sister said that she wanted to buy a Kindle because she likes the screen savers on my Kindle when it is in the stand-by mode. I told her to buy a photo frame instead. I have a bum sister. She read this line and shouted "Shut up, bitch" so loud that the lady from the floor above came running downstairs to ask what had happened. Not funny. 

Back to truths. There is a way to make truths sound funny. That's probably true for everything that can be said. But anyway...

You see, if I tell you that I put a lot of my time, effort and peace of mind into pursuing a woman, who eventually went and had sex with some douche bag, it would sound like I might start crying any moment. If I look in the mirror, I'd look like this...

That me? Shit!

 And the douche bag must look like...

Yeah, screw you too! Literally!

And guys aren't supposed to get emotional. Alas!

I'm still confused if I'm making fun of my predicament, or that I'm bitter about it. What a confusing predicament. And now, I'm losing my stream of thought.

Sometimes, it is rather disturbing to realize the pettiness of things that get to us. Let alone the pettiness of things that get to me. Let me stop behaving like the world revolves around me. I know it does. But so do your, his, her and their worlds revolve around yourself, himself, herself, and themselves, if any of that makes sense. 

Two chaps made me cry when college got over. One was a guy who, for some reason, could never stand straight. He's 22 and has a hunch. The second chap, I'm too close to. Not like we've had anal sex, but we are very close. And I have o clue why I mentioned these two chaps. Maybe it's because I wanted to tell the world that I haven't had anal sex. Not that I'm anywhere close to wanting to have anal sex. I don't like the idea of having my boner covered in shit. I know I'm getting too graphic. But there's more to my imagination than meets the eye, apparently. I wonder if it has ever happened that someone took a shit while having a dick up his/her/someone's arse. Now, my thoughts are getting disturbingly sexual. I wonder why.

But think of this. So much has happened on our planet. Things that are probably beyond our piddly imaginations. Or at least, 99.99 % of what we have imagined so far, has already happened, let alone some guy/girl shitting on a chap's penis. 

That could well be someone's idea of a fetish, for all anyone knows. Cringe worthy! Another thing. If you have an idea that belongs to that 0.001 % of our un-manifested imagination, and haven't made SHIT-LOADS of money out of that idea already, entrepreneurship ain't your thing, buddy.

Imagine. each moment is a Pandora's box of possibilities. A multitude of parallel universes stem from each nanosecond that is passing. So from some universe, where you or I, or both don't exist, there could be another universe where what we are, could be left purely to our imagination. Crazy, right? Point being... Well, there's no point to this. That's what happens to your thoughts when you read books like "Crisis on Infinite" earths and "Parallel worlds". From anal sex to parallel universes. What a jump! It's as if someone's arsehole was a wormhole into another dimension. Wow! Did I just say that? That's about all I can think of after each line I write.
I'm still coming to grasps with the ability of the human mind to conjure up so much of everything. I doubt any one of us shall ever completely come to terms with this ability of ours.
The most I can hope  for, right now, is that the 30-year old version of myself from the future doesn't dis-own me for what I write. And that's not the best situation to be in.

More epiphanies

There's a certain amount of satisfaction, a sense of peace and tranquility in being shameless. Break the word down. SHAME-LESS. The word inherently implies an avoidance of situations where one might need to lower one's head. Besides, more often than not, shamelessness is simply another adjective used by us in general for people who express the truest version of themselves uninhibitedly. Shamelessness is a superpower of sorts. Specially because things said without an ounce of shame are irrefutable, if one cares to notice. Enough on the superiority of shamelessness over other qualities exhibited by man.

Couple of reasons why this quality comes to mind. 

I was struck by this realization rather recently. I'd screwed up a presentation in class. I didn't screw it. I didn't turn up to give it in the first place. That's how bad I screwed it. So you know how it is. If you don't do your homework, the teacher takes it upon himself to set you back on the path of righteousness. In the process, he tries to put you into a corner and whoop your arse. Well, he won't say that he's doing so. But you know that's his end-game. Not his fault either. He was dealing with a shameless chap after all. The shameless chap that didn't know that he was shameless. What a shame! (Wow! I'm getting good with these lines!)

So, this teacher, poor person, out of helplessness, asked me what I think I should be punished with, for not doing what I was supposed to. The righteous, self conscious bum in me said something like...

 

"I thought that I would have to repeat the course, and hence pleading otherwise won't be of any use."

To that bum "myself" of Christmas past, I say "What a bum. For I knew that had I told him something on the lines of .......

"Sir, this degree of mine that I shall be handed at the end of this month, is nothing more than a piece of paper that my parents shall frame and keep in my home's living room, as their proof of having given birth to a genius son. So it doesn't make any sense to prolong my ordeal in this institute. Please let me pass the subject. I promise to never consider my field of specialization as a viable career option."

It wouldn't have made an ounce of difference to the professor in front, that one of their students was so blatantly telling them to take it easy on him, now that I think of it. Besides, in all probability, he would have admired my courage for stating things honestly, and for all I know, I'd have been allowed to pass, with Gandolf's permission, of course! But then again, i pussied out. and hence, the walk through hell. 

One can perhaps extend this philosophy to everything in life. Even asking ladies out, I suppose. It goes like this. You can't want to have sex, and be shy at the same time. That's pretty much of a no brainer. But no one wants to share this knowledge as a matter of fact. What a bummer! If I had to rephrase the message in a more fancy manner, I'd quote Oogway from Kung Fu Panda...

"If you sow the seed  from a peach, you'll get a peach tree. You may wish for an apple, or an orange. but you'll only get a peach."

 In short, you get exactly what you ask for. Each time, every time! And right now, there's exactly one thing i want. and exactly one person know what i want. now the trick is to get this person to read the last two lines. Wishful thinking.... What all it makes you write. phew!
Also, it is a time saving strategy to ask exactly what you want instead of beating about the bush. This way, you either get what you want quickly, or that you know that your precious energy will be wasted, if you are to stick around any longer. neat!

Moving on...

Maybe we should get more female song writers. This is in no way my suggestion to bring about gender equality. The deal is, most of our songs are male fantasies, written by men, disguised in fancy words to make them as tragic, romantic, warm and cuddly sounding as possible. A lady's perspective of life in a song would e a welcome change. Well, maybe. NEXT!!

I, and many of us, I'm sure are guilty of being too concerned about why people do what they do, why they do what they do, and how they go about why they do what they do. That was one hell of a convoluted sentence, I'm sure! Anyway, hope that didn't create a dent in your universe. Point being, the whys', hows' and the whats' of other people.... just doesn't matter. This too is a recent epiphany. It came after I saw this book titled "Why women have sex". The title intrigued me. I stared reading the book. Ten pages down, I was hit by a thunderbolt as usual. Why should I bother about WHY WOMEN HAVE SEX??? Why get into business which ain't mine? And honestly, I felt a little dumb for losing my 10 minutes reading the book. I've lost my mind. And more so, my father was around the corner in the next isle of the bookstore. YIKES!

You know what? All is okay. Bad days will come, they'll go, come, then go again. Vicissitudes of human life. you can only get such lines in your head after the peace and tranquility of taking a dump. Before that, there is all too much of a thing called pressure. if I'm writing this in reality, and if there words are actually hitting a set of retinas other than mine, your life is pretty sexy. Mine surely is. For if you are a guy reading this, your biggest problem so far is "Man! My girlfriend left me/ I don't have a girlfriend/ I flunked an exam (or three, or four)."

If you're a girl, well, the worst thing that could have happened is (I'm getting beaten up for this for sure)... the condom tore. 

Life's sexy, man! Life's sexy!

Another thing about us humans is the jargon we use. We use two-syllable words to name things we have absolutely no clue about. Look at the words "Love" and "God". If you're smart, you get it. else, NEXT!

I have fallen in love with the word "Shit-Storm". Besides, it  will let me end this post on a funny note. You see, we are tremendously capable of bringing shit-storms upon ourselves. Sounds like fun! And you needn't sound eloquent this way. If your life has been uneventful, start reading biographies of controversial people. You can define "Shit-storm" for yourself, then. For some reason, no one has suggested the word to the Oxford English Dictionary people. What a waste of pages! Try picturing a shit storm. It's lik a storm with shit in it for debri. Maybe, I didn't have to be that explicit. but who cares? As long as you maintain safe distance, you won't get the smell.

One more thing I learned is this. For a change, this one actually makes perfect sense. "Don't bother about whom you offend. Those who mind, don't matter, for those who matter, they don't mind."

And for now... SOMEBODAY STOP ME!