Which Famous Homosexual Are You?
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

Which Genocidal Maniac Are You?
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

Which Historical Lunatic Are You?

From the fecund loins of Rum and Monkey.

Electronically thappor mere debo kintu bole dilam.

Ab bas sanyaas. Thubbity thubbity thwub. It's a sickening sound but pull harder, buy new clothes, seek new friends, sift through possibilities, the works. Deal is, however, that it's always at the reddest hour of dawn that the swiftest stamp of realisation comes, bang on target and vicious vicious, twice vicious, a wet thwub on the forehead with nothing to answer for and nothing to retrieve from. Wipeout. It's a legitimate issue, at least to me, but the good part is distraction. For the first time in my life I have lots of incentive, which is a novelty considering it's Wednesday and all. A weekend of being non-communicative, perhaps without camera, and I should be sorted. Cooker cake tomorrow.

Playlist:

Bjork: Hyperballad

The Middle East: Blood

Beirut: Prenzlauerberg

Gnarls Barkley: The Boogie Man

Nouvelle Vague: Heart of Glass

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds: Hiding All Away

Blind Melon: No Rain

Reading list:

Defoe: Robinson Crusoe

Evelyn Waugh: Brideshead Revisited

Thomas Pynchon: Gravity's Rainbow

China Mieville: Perdido Street Station

To-do list:

Clean room (to playlist)

Clean pink off face

Waste

Sleep

I mostly go about my day thinking of it as a here's-what-happened, Monk style. I'm really a very shady person, I'd die if I had to spend all my life with someone waking up going to sleep beside brushing teeth with cooking eggs next to me, unimaginable. Or, cue motherly voice, you just haven't met that - Bollocks. I didn't want to write very much about this last semester because I'm bloody tired of college and bloody tired of home and I just want to drift for a bit but that's not really an option if there's no distance involved. This is why I hate keeping in touch. You call me at eight this morning from halfway across the world, what are the chances I'll want to talk at all? I think I've accumulated a fair share of haters for never picking up my phone but I'm just not a phone person. I spelt accumulate with two ems before Blogger corrected me. Anyway, I was talking about this semester. Everyone's getting old and this is typical. It's also therefore typical that I should want to stay at home and ruminate or whine in solitude because I can't be arsed to do it on worldview or on the ledge, people just seem so far away, all solid fuzzy blocks of heads and limbs and coloured clothes. I don't think it's the love that's disappeared, just the wavelengths. I forget birthdays but I feel myself wanting to make all the gifts I ever thought of for all the people I ever wanted to give things to, it's like a sombre funeral all over the place.

I also can't be arsed to gripe to myself so I'll probably rant here and be relieved at the zero comment trend, works for me. The faster I write the less time I have to chuck things into the save-as-draft cycle. No fear of that now, I'm pretty sure I'll be reminiscing anyway for the next three months, writing things down before I forget them, doesn't matter if they end up as drafts. Mellow gold, world. You can smile now.

Afterthoughtwise, I just read the most beautiful story.

I gnaw and gnaw on bones the way I pick and pick at scabs and scratch and scratch my head. As if something will, must, has to eventually give way and lead me forth into another frame. If I lived in a cave I'd be hitting my head against the stone repeatedly. If I lived on a tree I'd be clawing at its bark. On a boat I'd be mostly drowsy or staring soulfully at something or the other, boats make me act that way. Living as I do in my room, the only thing I have is walls and must therefore make do with propping my legs up against them, head on floor, eyes on window, mind on other things, and listen to whatever. At this moment and in this temper I am willing to bet more than my life on the conviction that going out into the world is overrated. Tomorrow, though. We'll get to that when we get to that.

When 4nombor ejected a mass of lurching human effluent out onto Jadavpur at eleven last night I was thinking of Jhini. I was wondering why they didn't play it. Doesn't matter. Right through the noise and the smoke from the last two stairs of the OAT, I heard you clear and true except where I couldn't. That, in retrospect, matters some more. No matter, a little late is never too late.

It's March already? Arnab's paper yesterday was accompanied by a cartoon which I thought was nothing short of inspired. Fancy that, I'm a bug. Hm. I miss my Kafka days. I feel exactly like a bug right now, clack clack. Goddamn, how I wish I knew.