Yes so I have a Renaissance test tomorrow which I will almost certainly fail, having progressed to just a little beyond the second act, the reason being that I cannot stop thinking of how Hamlet rhymes with Omelette.

So,For posterity, I like eggs.

Also, I think I'd die if anyone from college found this blog.

Ate a monster salami sandwich for breakfast and lay about in a stupid daze all morning. Now it turns out that the mater has cooked a monster lunch, and while something in me refuses to lie about in a stupid daze till six pm again, I know I'll still eat it it all. Sometimes I am certain that this cycle of eating and then staring glassily at the ceiling fan every Sunday must cease, I am certain of it to the point where I decide I shall go to the gym or dance the Macarena or climb up and down the building like Spiderman just to defy the eat-and-become-meat routine, but then, but then, what else can you possibly do on a Sunday?

Fubh Fwatantrata Diwaf, Faathiyon.

Sunny Deol decides to avenge the dead father of his neurotic wife or vice versa and therefore beats up a horde of goondas on TV while I am eating my dinner. There is no reason the TV should be on, but since I am eating with my back to it I can hear every dishoom and the occasional biff, emanating in Daaku Daddy-style comic blurbs out of the screen. It suddenly strikes me that the sounds made by real fighting are quieter and uglier, and then I move on to how I have no idea of real violence at all. I mean, dishooms happen on TV. Real people aren't subjugated to all this, they have enough trouble boarding buses and trying to live with pandemics and power cuts and things. And yet there are facts to the contrary. But I'm somehow used to nastiness more than violence, in everyday life at any rate, so maybe I should... no, truth is, I don't know how to end this. It's rather amazing in itself that there are other people in the world who can think lucidly enough to be able to grapple with things like these. Things of Immense Magnitude and Importance. I mean, violence. I'm better off making a movie on it than tackling it, which is why I'm a Bollywood fan. I see why the dishoom must be, really I do. Dishoom. The Dishoom over the goli ka awaaj anyday.

Now say el oh el?

Frankly speaking, I think I'm dead. While it's not exactly full system shutdown, it's something more incisive, like a test I have no inclination to study for or a holiday I can't believe I'm not looking forward to. If only the world would let me eat a plate of momos, spicy tear-bottom-apart sauce and everything, and be happy.

Dhyat.

On how emo poetry writes itself

Somewhere down the line I
shall be able to tell
the world that this was a week without
headaches, but no such luck now. Everything
is a headache.
Life itself is a hugeass
headache
with zero visibility attached. And if it only
weren't so humid
I would call life Life
and not a tropical disease, but no such
luck there either.
Life
is this hugeass tropical disease
and right now I suffer.
I suffer,
I suffer.
I wonder if this post will get
published in some strange online
magazine
if I hit the enter
button after every four or five words and
I'm feeling cheered up
at the very thought
of it so here goes, I'm going
to start any moment
now. But
just so we all
remember, Life is a tropical
disease
with a runny stomach and a cold sweat
and right now, I suffer.

When I was seven
We went for a picnic
Up to a magic
Foresty place
I knew there were tigers
Behind every boulder
Though I didn't meet one
Face to face.

When I was older
We went for a picnic
Up to the very same
Place as before
And all of the trees
And the rocks were so little
They couldn't hide tigers
Or me anymore.

I still remember this poem from class two, I can't remember who wrote it though. I looked it up last year but the name was so innocuous I'm convinced it wrote itself.

You know what, it's the tiger imagery that's responsible.

It is an essentially feminine trait perhaps, but I like owning things. I like keeping yellowed photographs and porcupine quills and other things that people have given me, just like I like appropriating t-shirts and stealing my mother's salwars and my friends' pens and walking around the house in my father's slippers. I usually do it with Panache and Swagger so that it seems like a daredevil act, ergo it's hugely annoying and hugely fun at the same time. I am aware it's stupid and needy but I do it anyway because I like the fact that there are inanimate objects I can touch which have been touched by people I care for, and this is the reason why I shall probably be found dead in a junk-filled apartment someday with a huge casket under my bed full of pointless things like chocolate wrappers and earbuds and god knows what else.

Ask me in person, however, and I will tell you very convincingly that I hate ownership, which goes to show I have feminine traits (the world had better reserve its comments on this one) in addition to an addled brain and a propensity to start emo blogs so that I can write little confessions on them. Happens to the worst of us.

Too much rain today. Hello world. Eager wave.

I want a worm in my brain. I want it baad. I want a worm in my brain so bad I'm willing to eat a roast boar to make it happen.

The point of this being, I want a roast boar so baad.

It is lamentable, absolutely lamentable, but I am a hypocrite of the largest order. I walk into a shop selling the fanciest perfumes and after ten minutes of being sprayed with indescribably strong smelly things and being made to inhale coffee beans between intervals till I feel nauseous, I end up liking only one smell. Fragrance. Whatever.

It happens to be called Love of Pink by Lacoste.

Le sigh.