Why don't you realize?

Today's the day when I figured that I'm not too far from being a half-decent driver. It's also the day when I found out that I'm no where close to being a decent driver. Today, I also saw a bike named after, and inspired by Marla Singer from Fight Club, and thanks to the tug of war between cause and effect, also realized that the producer of the namesake bike either had his shit together, or was completely bonkers, or both. 

Marla. Crazy female. Feisty female. And why is it never strange that all women I have interacted with closely thus far, have in one way or another, told me that they are off in the head? I like women who are off in the head. 

By the way, I shouldn't have started on women. What trouble, these creatures; whether they are or not around. Today is also the day when the cute female who sits next to me at work didn't turn up.... Again. Not that I noticed though. I stuck to my work like a good little lad, hoping that this girl, with all her wavy hair wouldn't turn up in the seat RIGHT in front of me. And with that, I find lying a little easier. What??

On the whole, today was a day of realizations. Remember Kumar Sanu? Saason ki zarurat hai jaise...

Toda, I realized that Mr. Ankit Tiwari is the 2015 replacement for the ever....green Mr. Sanu. All his songs sound the same. He pretty much sounds the same in all his songs, and all modern day romeos wail to death listening to the chap's songs, just like all modern day romeos, back in the day, wailed to death listening to Kumar Sanu and his sing-song ancestors. Is it just me or is the concept of lovelorn chaps mulling over their misfortune utterly ludicrous?

A bit more on mainstream Indian music, a.k.a filmy music. Does anyone realize that almost all of our lyricists are men? So all the romantic words that came out of the most melodious female voices were all figments of some very horny bugger's imagination who had a piece of paper and a pen in his hand?  Am I taking things too far? Maybe, But mostly not. Another thing! The best of our songs have very brazen sexual connotations. No sensor board here. 

Switching tracks now, when does a wound heal? How about you having gotten hurt a long time ago? And now, you don't have a concrete memory, reason or evidence to link yourself to the oftentimes debilitating flashbacks of a certain nothing from days of present past. Aha! Of what use is Marvel Comics jargon if you can't incorporate it into day-to-day lingo?

One more realization before I talk about life on Mars, which is, truth be told, as awesome as a fight between a T-Rex and a sea-horse. The realization.... Isn't it a bit upsetting that our parents faced the same talking-down from their elders as most of us, do and shall face? And isn't it more so upsetting that many of our fellow mates, contemporaries, and most importantly ourselves will very likely subject younger blokes around us to our pessimistic nay saying? Just so that we're clear, I wasn't actually going to yak about life on Mars. Only Elon Musk does that sort of a thing.

What's truly sad is that jobless folks write about Marla Singer, raunchy music, star-fish, semen, (Oh hell! I meant Sea Men) and unhappy elderly people when there are others, distressed due to loss of their dear ones in an earthquake that shook the ground beneath them, just a day ago.

And "Moby Dick" is about a sperm whale. Why? 

To find out, get your copy today!

Here's something for everyone who can't figure out lyrics of a song. It's called Afgan Jalebi. Strictly not for those who can't make sense of Urdu. 

My father's guys

Dad's school friends came over yesterday. I was hoping for some scandalous scoop from the time, before, my mom, let alone I, came into the picture. Why does the last sentence sound a bit off? 

Anyway, nothing much came out, at least not the kind of beans you'd expect to be spilled from your father's school days. Rather, one particularly cringe-worthy line came from one of the friends.... "Your dad was a good guy.", which in my opinion, means "Kid, your dad didn't do much." 

Now, I hope my father really never reads this, or for that matter, anything I write. 

The group that came over, wasn't a tight one, back in 1979, when they parted ways. Over 30 years down, nostalgia and Facebook just happened to bring the gang together. Strangely touching. I can't even imagine my close chaps and myself, what we'd look like , or talk about, 30 years from now. And to be honest, imagination has better uses, I suppose. 

There were upsides to the whole get-together though. The gang had a lady. And I can only begin to imagine how gorgeous the woman would have looked, when she was younger. See? I told you. Imagination has better uses! I'm pretty sure that my dad had the hots for her, but never mustered the nerve to tell her anything. How I know if my dad had his hots for this female, you ask? It's kind of in the genes. Like father, like son, you see?

Actually, the woman would have looked just a bit more than good, when she left school. She played basketball. Ladies who play basketball..... I love ladies who play basketball. I love ladies in general, but that's completely besides the point. And here's yours truly falling flat for a 54 year-old woman. Hell! I should have been in place of my dad in 1979. Yes, it would have been a decade after Woodstock. But no one would have noticed. I hope. Nah! Now's better. But what a lovely lady! She's a teacher. And she chugs beer. Just like the principal, Ms.Mullins from School of Rock!

"If you wanna be a teacher's pet,(Oohh.. la la la la)

Maybe you should better forget it! (Oohh.. la la la la)

Rock got no reason, rock got no rhyme! (Oohh.. la la la la)

You better get me to school on time!!!"

Almost forgot, "She's the Man!"

If you are wondering what the last paragraph or so was all about, I've got one word for you. DIE!

Having said that, I have missed out on a big chunk of modern pop culture myself. I haven't read, nor watched the Lord of the Rings, Chronicles of Narnia, or even Game of Thrones series. That, I feel, is a bit of a bummer. I am neither a big fan of Star Wars, or Star Trek, again something I regret a bit. Not that they are going anywhere. And thankfully, I also have skipped out on F.R.I.E.N.D.S and "How I met your mother", the latter in which, apparently no one gets to know how anyone ever gets to meet anyone's mother. 

The last bit, that of not having watched the two insanely popular shows, is very lightening to the soul. Every English talking yuppie boasts about having watched both of them. To them, I say, get a life!

Oh crap! I was talking about the gorgeous lady from my dad's school. Also part of the gang was one of the coolest 50+ year old chap I've met so far. He was so smart, that no body, except for his wife and I could even understand his jokes. That sucked a little. He shot a joke at my dad. My dad didn't grasp it. The bugger condescendingly patted my dad on the shoulder. I wanted to sock him in the face, right there. The fellow is a stock broker. His now-wife, distributed his wedding cards during his first marriage. He smokes, reads, and goofs around like he knows no tomorrow. He listens to Frank Zappa. And yes, he does pot! And he doesn't mind making it public. He at least revealed to me that my dad never smoked pot, something I'd understood a long time ago, but wasn't sure of. The lack of misadventures in my dad's life is a bit of a concern for me. Or maybe, I've met none of his close chappies.   

The only other chap in the gang, to remain so far unmentioned, is a rather uninspiring fellow. He's a scientist at the Bhabha Atomic Research Centre. He looks the part. He also looked like the guy who'd secretly jerk off to the photo of the girl he likes; the photo he clicked while stalking the female in question. Needless to say that the girl doesn't even know that he exists. The fellow had an obnoxiously tight handshake, acquired from seemingly years of relentlessly clearing his pipes. Damn! I should apply for the role of Sherlock Holmes in the BBC TV series.

Besides, this friend of my father had an orange bush for a mustache, and a complete irreverence to any topic that the gang was discussing throughout the evening. Worst of all, he wore shiny black, pointy, crocodile leather shoes. That's plain fucking ugly.

That was my version of "Close encounters of the third kind". And I'm just about to watch the movie. Another reason for happiness is that the guests did not finish all the ice-cream. There's two family-packs worth of it left in the freezer. Oh Yeah!

Why you such a chutiya, bro?

Yes! Its that time of the day, that day of the week, that week of the month, goodness knows which one, and that month of the year, when I get to finally sit in front of my computer screen, with only 6 tabs open, unlike a gazillion on usual days. Mind you, I work with two screens. And now, I am completely at sea about what it is that I wanted to write about in the first place.  By the way, the job's great, the girl isn't yet repelled by my overtures, and I get to daydream about cars all day long. And my dad's not pushing me to master any Business Administration. Amazing! 

Anyway, it's time for "The word of the day". Today's word is 'Eponymous'. The word means that a cocky bastard made something and named his made thing after himself. So much in a desperation to leave behind a legacy! I would totally not bother with any eponymous creations of my own, which mind you, is a complete lie. But I just abhor it when some bugger goes about engraving or embossing his name on a beautiful looking pen, or ring. 

As I write this, my dad's ordering a crate of beer... In front of me. Now that's something new. I'm looking at him as he's placing his order, and he gives me this "Kid, you're not getting any of that beer" smile. I'm not big on drinking, or so I like to say. Pot, anyone?

Huh? What??

My phone doesn't catch network at my workplace. Which is in a way, a good thing. Mom doesn't call all the time now. Poor thing. I said this to a friend, who was, to my chagrin, looking for a new service provider. He asked me "Dude, how's Idea?". I said "No idea.". I don't know the buffoon who walked up from behind and said "Get Idea, Sirjee", but I had better things to do than mull over utter buffoonery. By the way, I just gave Idea Cellular an ad idea. Looks like Idea lacks ideas. Okay, too many ideas. 

I belong to a middle-class household. Well, upper-ish middle class home. Nevertheless, the freezer is always stocked with condiments of all kind, rather than chocolates, ice-creams, or anything, that is actually supposed to be mainstay in an ideal refrigerator's freezer compartment. But, BUT, BUT, as you know, middle-class people scurry to the nearest shop to get the good stuff (read ice-creams), the moment guests are expected. I love ice-cream. More so, when I have an opportunity to avenge myself in front of guests. I know, I'm awesome. I feel elated by the very thoughts of watching the expression on my parents' faces when they discover that the ice-cream they bought yesterday, for the guests, passed through my guts, into the commode, just today morning. I let my kid sister in on my grand plans of finishing off all the ice-cream before the guests arrive. You know what my sister told me?

"Why you such a chutiya, bro?"

Kids, nowadays, I tell you. No respect for older siblings.

There are a few more things that come to mind. The other day, I was staring at two coins, a one rupee, and a two rupee coin. Now you know how jobless I am. Mind you, no one dropped these coins in my hand because they felt how pitiful my condition was. Back to the coins, the two rupee coin is the latest in circulation. The one-rupee coin is the last one that got replaced with new punier ones. And both of them, the one and two rupee coins, are dimensionally the same.  Isn't it slightly weird? We go about, carrying these coins, which are given some value by a seemingly insurmountable, all-governing body; not to forget all the pieces of paper(Read money) we have grown so fond of. Chaps may rant about a need for standardization of exchange of commodities. Bollocks! Okay, maybe I'm wrong. But who gives a hoot? Two coins of the same size, with some minor difference in their fancy designs, not even made out of different materials, are surprisingly different in value. Thumbs up to that!

Anyone listens to radio anymore? It may sound a bit old-school, specially with Gaana.com, and a gazillion more 'apps'(Goodness, I hate the word 'apps') like it playing everything you'd ever listen to. But that said, even radio is a pain in the arse, ear actually. three-fourths of the time, you hear random ads. The remaining time, you hear Honey Singh. If my dad's playing the radio, I do hear melodious Mr. Kishore Kumar. But oftentimes, the experience is ruined by the perpetually saccharine Ms. Lata Mangeshkar. She should replace the 'L' in her name with a 'T'. If you know what I mean. Coming back to radio channels, the way the ads play out on the radio, each brand squeezing every second of available air-time, all of them sound like,,,,

"Mutual funds are subject to market risks. Please read the offer document carefully before investing" played at the rate of 2000 words per minute. No one hears it, and it is maddeningly irritating. 

Jeremy Clarkson is a superbly bright man. I know, I sound too opinionated, and yes, I am talking about the 7-foot, octogenarian-looking, erstwhile host of BBC Top Gear. In his book "Clarkson on Cars", in which the Brit goes about beating up everything on the road, the bugger made a very astute observation. It goes this way.  If someone uses the bus to get to work, the chap would mostly make use a bus to get back. In that vein, if some "X" number of people use the bus in a day, it wouldn't be far from truth that actually, the number of people using buses on an average day are actually "X/2". Or maybe, I find that to be an astute observation because I am a huge Clarkson fan. He looks bloody ugly, though. 

The Curious case of Bugger #3

It had been the three of us for a big chunk of the time, at least for the last two years. The big all-encompassing brainy hulk on top, the ever so unflinching mid-section, and the ballsy base with thunder-thighs. That was three of us. I wonder what would have happened, had we rolled into one human. Whatever be the case, the end result would have been a disaster. But nevertheless. It's been what, four months? And we are already one-third down. A hit to the back from Bane, and even Batman went down for good; and for quite long. 

I am a little oblivious to friendship, to be very frank. Haven't had many in life. But the ones I've had, have held me in good stead, and shall do so for a long time to come. So when someone, who I've spent so much time with, suddenly goes absconding, I feel a little jittery. I'm sure I don't have bloopers to show, of the craziness my two chaps and I have gone through. But our mothers used to call the other two, in case her own son was out of reach. 

Nowadays, you know that someone is not entirely alive if he/she abstains from phone calls, text messages, whatsapp, facebook, and most strangely, even emails. The only thing left to do is to go around with pamphlets containing photos of the missing friend from door to door on the streets of Delhi. On the streets of Delhi, because that was where our 3rd bugger was apparently seen last. Not that I am afraid that the chap can't defend himself. Goodness, the bloke holds a black-belt in Karate. What's more troubling is that he is behaving like those annoying, and oftentimes annoyed girls, who do not respond to any forms of the above mentioned means of communication. Maybe, he shall respond to letters. I don't know. Or I'm just over-reacting. Or maybe the chap has decided to turn into a hermit, or an ascetic, as the fellow's cousin suggests. 

I am only afraid that the guy got killed by his relatives, and everybody is just pretending about him being alive by picking up his phone and saying that the chap's busy, or something on those lines. Scandalous, the mind is. Perhaps, if this friend of mine, if he reads all of this nonsense, might just as well bother to get in touch with me. He would surely have a few choicest words that he would throw at me. But that's fine. It will be target practice for him, just as this is writing practice for me. 

By the way, the guy's name is Nayan. Yeah, that's the guy. Isn't he innocent looking? If someone spots him, please contact 9037696969! ASAP!

HE IS MISSING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Why, darling? Why?

It's raining outside at the time I write this. And a few fond memories from not very long ago, are coming back to my mind. But just as they do, I warn myself of the frivolity of these memories. I know for a fact that they meant little now, as much as they did then, back in time. Blah, blah, blah.... Sentimentality, I tell you, completely sucks!

You can get your dream job, follow your passions, watch Narendra Modi travel the world, see Volkswagen drown in its own diesel fumes, and also feel bad about a girl you like sounding iffy upon being asked to buy you coffee. But only two words come to mind when you realize that there's no water in the bathroom, specially just after having taken a dump. The words are "Oh" and "Shit". Needless to say that "!!!!" follows too. But again, let's not focus on excretion.

I was sitting on my commode, and wondering about emoticons. Yeah, I do stuff like that. Can you imagine, it all started with this?.....

It did have the "sad" smiley face for a companion. But then again, the number of options we have now, to express how we feel, is honestly unimaginable.  More importantly, I am still trying to figure out what the hell the one below means.

Anyway, moving on. It's worth wondering what over 7.2 billion people on the planet think while taking a dump. Okay, maybe it's not that much worth thinking what human minds can conjure up while smelling their own turd, or that of those who came and did their business before. That said, however, relieving your bowels is surely a constructive period, at least as far as creativity goes. You can think and do as you please, without a giving a shit, while actually dishing out all your shit. Wow! That was some line!

I'm wondering whether I'd be writing these words, had it not been a nagging female running after my life with a dagger! Goodness, I want to get rid of her! Oh yes, by the way, talking about women, I realized that if you ever so much so as  give them a little leeway, they WILL make you feel like you owe them something. I know, it kind of sucks. I say this despite not having a complete understanding of female psychology. And honestly, anyone, let alone ladies themselves, claiming to have understood how the female mind works, is lying, is a female, or both. Actually, anyone claiming to have understood anything completely is a liar. And if the liar gets away with the lie long enough, the liar is definitely a female!

That brings me to understanding of things. Actually, that does not bring me to anything. Yeah, but there's something that's been bothering me for a while. I went to a mall the other day. The entry to the mall is such that the first area you enter is the food place; a jam packed place where giant firms with fancy logos shovel their crap into your bellies. Agreed, that's a pessimistic take on things. But the "choices" we all pride ourselves on for having, are mostly part of a big.................. fat............. farce. 

I saw the huge crowd in that food-court area, with all these people doing their thing, and something struck me. We are all living mass-produced realities. That statement is still far from clear in my own head. But it strangely rings a bell somewhere inside. Or maybe it's just me. 

Another thing being that there is a good chance that we are living in the past. Not like "There is some force in the future that is playing out our present the way we see it.". Okay, that too may be a possibility. But just the way we live, technologically, there is something very backward about our present. Yes, we have smartphones that would work in space just as well as they do on earth. Now some smart-ass will comment on how there is no network, or plug-points in outer space, or some crap like that. Not that sort of stuff. I am talking about uploading-your-mind-into-the-cloud kind of stuff. Imagine, all these minds, not being separate from one another, sharing each other's streams of thought, and then being able to project it on the planet into some human, or maybe even into a holographic form. So even the flesh is out of picture. No, I'm not talking about artificial intelligence, mind you. Only problem in the picture is that the whole concept of sex goes straight out of our windows. You see, the Cloud spells the end for Windows. Goo(dness)gle knows the use of Apples then. Maybe they'll only remain in the tales of the Eden Garden. Bad trip. Sorry.

Cascade

There is a persistent search for the ethereal. As one of the Bond movies suggest, "The world is not enough." Well, for all anyone knows, it probably isn't. Do you know how easy it is to think, when the mind is ephemerally ridden from thoughts of the flesh, copulation, if I may put it articulately, or fucking, if I allow myself to sound crass. 

The tension in the strings that hold the mind together seems to ease off a little. It feels like those pot-highs when you end up over-analyzing things in your surroundings, with all that excess analysis actually making a lot of sense in some outworldly manner. Jolts of epiphanies hit you like waves crashing on the shores, and sometimes, it all gets too much to handle. But sometimes, that's exactly what's required to clear the pipes of creativity, just to keep creation flowing.

Sometimes, all its needs is a sound, or a syllable, or the glimpse of a part of something that can lead to a song, a book, a painting or the next revolution in technology. What we see is only the tip of the iceberg in most cases, the flashy bits, so to say. Later, when the dust settles, we like to see a biopic on the struggles that lead to the Magnum Opus. But rarely are the toils noticed beforehand. 

You know what's stranger? It's when your dad asks what it is you want from the state of Kerala, to where he is headed for the next week. You do want him to get you something from the place. But you also know in all entirety that he shall never in this lifetime, be able to get you what you truly want from there. And so, you keep to yourself about what you want from the place in question and say "What would I want from Kerala?"

That last bit happened to be a tad too random, I believe. Randomness aside, creativity is actually random. So is the order of numbers and alphabets. That may be taking things too far. But our obsession with order is a farce. Ever seen all these queues that line up at ticket booths? Specially with the person behind you always trying to get ahead of you by standing as possibly adjacent to you as he/she possibly can, mystically believing that you'd let him/her ahead?

The funniest part is the chaos that steps in when a new window opens up for tickets. This mad frenzy unleashes itself in the mind of every member of the queue, making them leap towards the newly opened window. All order is lost, replaced by this urge to push and trample every human in one's path. As a matter of fact, the whole idea of getting men to conduct themselves in an orderly manner is anything more than a joke. Our armies, who seemingly succeed at doing so, do so only to channel the testosterone fueled, sex-craved animals upon a beast facing the same challenges as our men. Strange. It works though, doesn't it? Brilliantly so. You see, there's always an angle to organisation. An ulterior motive, if one may. 

That aside, there rarely is spontaneity in organisation, unless you talk about nanoparticles, of course, that arrange themselves in fancy patterns, that some really intelligent, but usually jobless person observes, and wins a Nobel Prize in the process. There's nothing organised about the jobless person being in the correct time, place and state of mind to observe the particles organising themselves into their organisation.  Complete randomness! It could happen to someone who toiled away for decades without any success. It would happen to the first chap who walks through the lab-doors in the morning after an amazing cup of coffee, for all anyone knows. 

What just struck me is that you need not create anything special if you set out to create something special in the first place. As in you could get the best pair of eyes, the best nose, the best looking head of hair, best mouth, teeth, boobs, arse and all the other parts, put them together still not arrive at anything beautiful looking. You'll actually end up making a female companion to the monster Dr. Frankenstein made. Frankenstein is not the name of a monster, for those illiterates who haven't read the book. Goodness alone knows who came up with the name Franklinstein. Sounds like the zombie of  Benjamin Franklin. Phew!

A little on 'shit' here. Yeah, that's necessary. That reminds me of two things. One is "Shit hitting the fan". The second being "Stepping on shit". Needless to say, either situations are highly unpleasant to find yourselves in. 

For situation #1, even momentary visualization of shit hitting the fan should suffice in destroying the appetites of the most voracious eaters around the table. And given the situation, you can't exactly do much, you know? Running ain't necessarily be very helpful. The best one can do is hope that you are spared the soiling. Or at least, you could hope for not being the last one to be hit by shit. Else, after everyone is done with their share, there's this one piece that comes hurtling your way and....

The last one is usually the worst hit. 

That brings us to situation #2.... Stepping on shit. 

This one happens to those who read the book 'The Alchemist', and started thinking of themselves as the protagonist, who is told to go around a beautiful castle with a spoon of oil in his hand. The protagonist goes about marveling at the castle's beauty, and drops all the oil in the spoon while walking. I'm sure the chap wouldn't have noticed had a piece of shit been dropped in his path. I know I wouldn't have. And besides, who names "Melchizedek" as the protagonist of a book? As a matter of fact, who names  "Melchizedek" the protagonist of ANYTHING? How do you pronounce the hero's name?  Melchizedek?? What? You're going to tell me to break the word up to make the pronunciation easier?

I am sure that Paulo Coelho wanted to play a prank on all those who sent him to a nut-house, who he was sure of, would read his book. He must have thought to himself...

"Those chaps who thought I was mad, when they get to know that I have become a published author, will flock to read my book. And I'll drive them mad by diving them a hero whose name they cannot pronounce, however hard they try! That shall be my REVENGE!!!"

Yeah, I just lost it 5 minutes ago. So much for stepping on shit. Besides, everyone knows who it is that stepped on the poop. And they will all give those "I know you stepped on shit" look. And all you can do is get out of the situation meekly. Or else, if you're good at bluffing, you could just point fingers at the next person. That should convince everyone. 

The lion, the kid and the woman

It's a bit of a disappointment when you realize that nothing really matters in the long run. Despite that "India wants to know on the news hour tonight", about what actually happened to Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose, we all know deep down inside that despite us knowing what ACTUALLY happened, no part of the real history is going to change. By the way, we don't even need to know that deep down. Just in case anyone thinks that the disclosure of a few files is going to change over half a century of history, the person needs to, well do nothing. Not like he/she can do anything about his hapless thoughts anyway, But political conspiracies aside, there is so much we don't know, that if brought to light, we shall all be subjected to sever existential angst. Besides, all the shouting that usually takes place is an attempt to divert the public mind from much more pressing issues.

Yes, since not much actually matters, when one looks at the larger picture, apart from the disappointing bit, it is actually a relief. Basically, you can do anything you please, and mostly get away with it. Unless you get involved in some sort of a big crime of sorts, or that sort of a thing. Even after which one usually gets away at the end of everything. You see, exercise, eat healthy, meditate, and die anyway. That's a bit pessimistic, if you look at it, but anyway. 

I was walking down the road. It was all decorated everywhere, given the festive time of Ganesh Chaturthi. There was this kid walking, running, hopping around, doing her own thing behind her parents. The entrance to one of the buildings on the street was decorated with a lion's statue; the ones made from Plaster of Paris. This kid in front of me went berserk upon seeing this dumb looking lion. She went and touched this so called lion, and got so psyched to feel the animal figurine, almost as though it would jump out and start playing with her. And here I was, wondering if the kid was on acid. What, I mean WHAT could be exciting about a bum looking PoP lion statue that gets a little kid so happy? Honestly, at that moment, I wanted a real lion to jump out at the kid, only to see the kid shit in her pants, and probably get killed by the lion. But  was nearby, and if the lion was hungry, my own dear life would have been in trouble. So I kept that thought aside; of the real lion popping out from the statue, and kept walking, part amused by the kid's antics, and part guilty of wanting to watch the kid shit in her pants. Brilliant!

I walked on a little, and just realized that not too long ago, the kid-me would have gotten pretty psyched himself to see a lion statue. That would have been about two decades ago, but yeah, at 3, a lion statue would have looked exciting. Specially since at the time, my dad would have had to tell me that the creature I was looking at, is supposed to be a lion. This is when I could barely spell mu own name, let alone know the spelling of 'Lion'. But thus little girl looked more like she was 6. Damn, the girl must have really been a bum! The smile on her parents' faces were priceless though. 

"Awww... how cute! That's our kid, you know? And we are so proud of her!"

I never understood why parents are so bloody proud of their kids. Specially when they are more like 10 years old. For goodness sake, they can barely go to the loo by themselves. Except for those precocious little overachieving pricks who end up finishing their college degrees by the time they are 15, there is nothing remarkable about kids. The smaller ones are purely a pain in the arse. And yet, "I am so proud of you, my child!"

Every time my mom has said that, I've always said to myself, and to her(on a few occasions), "Damn right, you're proud of me, woman! I'm the most awesomest thing the planet has seen till date."

Huh, what? I was talking about the little bum girl, yes. 

I don't know what it is about parents, the way they feel for their children. The man and woman have sex without a condom; sometimes with one, the female gets pregnant. Relatives, few of them, never seen before, snoop around, asking for the "Good news", basically enquiring whether the couple have had sex yet. Just in case the two in question haven't gotten married, and the condom tears by mistake, or the guy is bum enough to not use one, the whole world castigates the chap and the female, needless to say that the girl faces severe persecution; let alone the humiliation, that is actually completely unnecessary. Why does the world have to bother about two random people trying to have a good time, specially when their doings have no bearings on the society at large? Not like no one else is sticking their boner into someone else. 

I almost forgot. I was talking about why parents are proud of their kids. So the kid is part of the sex, for usual people with sane minds, unless no one told them what happens after copulation, besides the sudden urge to fall asleep, specially when the woman stays wide awake till a lot later(about which you find out much later. Oops!)

The kid comes out. The parents feel like they have created something that will take on the world, make them proud, and all of that. One second. Let me get this right. Just to that the kid makes the parents proud, the parents become proud of the kids beforehand? Technically speaking, that is a logical fallacy. But meh, who cares if we can get away with what we usually do, just because our parents are delusional. 

I was sitting in the rickshaw the other day, when this woman walked by; really voluptuous female. Not that the woman was walking at speeds faster than the rickshaw's. The rickshaw was waiting for another passenger for some reason. Back to the voluptuous woman, I saw her walking by, and she suddenly turned around, got into the rickshaw, and sat next to me. Yeah. My awesomeness has that effect om people. By the way, a big disappointment. The face was inconsistent with the body. Goodness! Why does this happen? Before she turned around, besides I noticing the woman, I also saw the rickshaw driver noticing her. I wondered to myself as to what would happen if some collective conscious unleashed upon the woman, the imaginations of all the men in the woman's immediate vicinity. That aside, I wondered what the woman's fantasies would look like, were she allowed to have things he own way. Weird shit the mind can conjure up. Damn!