Fue the Flu!

Man! Even I want to go and watch Kaminey and then brog (brag on the blog :P) in full kaminey iftyle about its brilliance and the way I got all its twists and turns and the portrayal and go ooh! and aah! all over the famed charlie lingo! I've read at least 3 complete reviews on blogworld in the 15 minutes of internet access I've gotten today till now. Everyone around doing that and me stuck at home is so not fair! Grr! Bloody airborne pigs. Made me go around to 3 cinema houses today, only to see them all deserted. Someone just go sue(r) the fwine flu, will you? :(

To all ye sloths - The queen is here

They always ask me how do I manage to make through the tiny gangway sandwiched between the park and the society hall with my bike (Scooty Pep+), when better riders refrain from doing so, for fear of ramming into one of the walls.

Though attributing it to my miraculous sense of balance would've been more dignified, the actual answer is extremely less so.
I just am too lazy to leave hold of the throttle.

How three misplaced screws can screw you up equally well...

One long canvas bag.

Three forgotten screws.

Biting cold.

Saturn.

Murphy's Law.

:|

The insomniac author, for once, has all of the time (because of the insomnia), but no inclination to elaborate. Wildly formulated theories are welcome; persistent grilling is not.

Yours threadbarely,

me.

Why do I DON'T?

Pre-read note: The over thinking syndrome that the author keeps catching/that keeps catching the author at intervals, followed by frustrated, flimsy reproductions in Microsoft's Office. Don't bother to bear with it.

It's a question asked out of a pure, overwhelming feeling of unable to perform. A loser feeling. Out of a desperate need to be accepted and acknowledged and admired and taken notice of. Of being 'wanted', if I dare to sound cliche.

It's a shameless emotion. As if you are allowing yourself to be relegated to just what others think and understand or can think and understand about you. It's utterly shameless, but still everyone gets that, somewhere, sometime. Some, many times, in this world where you try so many times to live only for yourself, by yourself, but don't succeed. Y'know, just like, sort of victimising yourself in your own imagination, and then braving it out to a glorious end.

A guy who knows equally well as his colleagues, probably even more, but doesn't have the confidence to place it in the open. 'Confidence comes from knowledge', somehow, falls out of place in this case. Language problems. Or intimidating friends. Encouraging group, but crushed, buried deep within self-confidence. Inferiority complexes galore, whatever little he speaks gets stubbed too, in time. Psychological inertia. Keep on moving into the dumps.

I've always thought that emotions are more potentially lethal weapons than Gold AK 47s, just like the mind is stronger than the physique. If you lose control, the 47s at least leave remnants.

The worst has passed, you think?

No.

Contentment in that very state.

A person who says main aisa hi hoon, and not main aisa kyon hoon? (Heartfelt apologies, if anyone actually managed to read to this point. Couldn't bear leaving that line out :D)

A person who thinks I don't, but not Why do I don't?

Life

Beautifully wrapped up in the one line:

Men may come and men may go, but I go on for ever.

That’s your life for you. My life for me.

Because I am my life. And my life is me.

Errrrrr. That sounds quite lame, and weird, and a desperate attempt at poetry. But I just discovered the quaint analogy the line [from “The Brook” by Alfred Lord Tennyson] has with life and I’m reeling from the idea itself. And I turn extremely philosophical at such times. And at most of such times, I’m in no mood to elaborate. I expect my thoughts to jump out and plant themselves in others’ minds by telepathy. And at such times, if they don’t, then it’s incorrigibly irritating and I’m rock-convinced it’s just their unbelievable lack of insight and my inexpressible gain of logic. Those are the few times when I pity them. And glorify myself. And this is just such a time.

Another lame attempt, to my second year of whatever-I-came-to-do-and-whatever-I-am-doing :

Cheers to my first year,

Gone by in a pee,

Lows and lows (not highs and lows),

Bringing near-death to ME*.

Cheers to my second year

Come forth in glee,

I hope to god it’s lows and lows

But lows that get high on me**.

Here,

*ME = my academic life

**me=myself

Cheers

la folie

I just found out that the Anunnaki are any of a group of powerful Babylonian earth spirits or genii; more generally, servitors of the gods.

And queerly, very queerly, the next site I randomly hit upon is The Cyborg Name Decoder!

Which one's more incongruous, do you think? :P

Get Your Cyborg Name

And yeah! This verse actually takes the cake.

for they fade away ! then you won't be able to run and play!

knock knock! who's there? Anu ! Anu who? Anu come out and play?

Jesus! [c]racks me up everytime! :D

Ahem! Can Mr. Psychiatrist please take note ? :|

Run-time Error

For the past one-and-a-crescent hour, I've been idling around the comp, waiting and waiting aaaand waiting for blogworld-shattering thoughts to present themselves to my overtly over-saturated mind, with an occasional I-am-s'posed-to-be-studying-!-what-the-hell-am-I-doing-drooling-over-the-comp floating across it. None turn up. What instead turns up is: Tomorrow comes with a beautiful physics test. 10 marks. Whipping up nuclear delights topped up with semiconducting sauce. Next week comes with a still more stunning midterm exam. And the only purpose these thoughts serve are to fill me with a still more unshakeable determination to drool still more over the comp. My mind jumps from orkut to facebook to google to Aarewah to roof-turbine no-power ventilators to H2GO to "The Butterfly Effect" faster than the pace of mind*lightning combined![for want of a FASTER pace! :D] There's absolutely no logical reason why outta the blue my mind boomeranged from orkut to Ashton Kutcher, and there shouldn't be too, considering tis MY mind.

There's a cold draught coming up. Very queer of the Poona winter to come up in mid-February, and come up so cold! Really queer. Pretty Miss Winter's turning out as sadly unpredictable as me.

Still nothing. I check my mail. Google a bit. Learn that the Aussies thrashed Sri Lanka in the World Cup rerun. So much for Ponting; so little for me. I walk up to the window. Watch a fresh couple walking up to the nearest gate and walk back again. Walk back again. The Backstreet Boys rock and rap away in my ears. Crude disturbance in the transmission. Cruder of me when I realize its mom shouting her lungs away at me to stuff my blog and transfer my electrons from ground to the excited. Mom's B.Sc in physics. I sigh. Continue.

As in continue to unsuccessfully try filling up this kind-of prussian blue polka-dotted space. Check my mail again. Google a bit more. Stand up purposefully. Firmly deciding I wanna do something other than the stupid nincompoopity I am doing right now. Don't even realize for a full minute WHEN I sat back down wondering about for WHAT was the irresistible fetish for purposefulness that set me standing in the first place.

Mom shouts her larynx away.

STILL nothing! Man alive! Why is it that when u sit down to do something, all panned out to the minute, it never comes out the way u wanted it to; and the same thing turns out a zillion times better than expected[rather, unexpectedly, coz u didn't expect it to happen in the first place] when it just happens in tandem?!?! Why is my typing speed so slow? Darn! An inexplicable loss of the ability to express myself when I am desperate enough to kick away (even) THAT ability is one of the worst emotions I have experienced.

Am I turning slave to hyperboles??

As if on cue, Howie deserts me too.

I guess I should give up, as of now.

Before mom shouts her trachea and alveoli and thoracic diaphragm away.