I wish someone I know dies. That way I can write an obituary. I really would like to write an obituary. Maybe I should write one for Mr.Normalcy.
Women smell absolutely wonderful in the morning. But not immediately in the morning. More after they have done the bathing thing. Before that, they stink as much as men do. Or so I would guess.
I think I would make an awesome stand up comedian. Though one with an extremely short shelf life. There are only so many times you can get a laugh by pissing your pants.
The beauty of living on the very periphery of a pretty “hep” neighbourhood is that you can sorta squeeze your address into the cool area. It’s kinda like living in bandra (east).
People can earn about three lakh rupees (plus 10% clerkage) for ten minutes of talk. I am not making this up. But what few realise is that for those ten minutes, they would have probably put in about 20 years of back breaking work. Not all of them, but most of them.
I quite like dark skin. There is something very comforting about it, like earth. And I don’t mean the planet but earth as in mud-earth type.
Had a short chat with this real spunky woman. I like that word, spunky. It has so much pep. I guess it would become tiring eventually. Like that new golden retriever. All fun and energetic initially, but after the zillionth time it breaks something, you just feel like poking your eyes out.
I think I will become an armchair judger. Yes I know the appropriate word would be “judge” but somehow “judger” conveys a more accurate picture. So I would sit on my arm chair (with electronic massaging seats) and judge people. Poke holes in their personalities.
There is that line in Fight Club where he’s like “I just wanted to destroy something beautiful”. I feel like that some times.
When you are lightly buzzed, the music just tastes so good in your head. You know, it enters into your mind and you can feel the beats jumping and thumping inside your brain and all is good. And the cold glass is swaying slowly in your hand and you are walking through the crowd. It is dark and bright and the beats are still jumping in your head and your whole body is swaying along. And the crowds all part and you are dancing and moving quicker and quicker. And the music stops but you could not give a fuck coz in your head, the music ain’t ever gonna stop.
I rarely edit. Which kinda explains all the typos.
The IPL saga is totally getting on my nerves. Isn’t it amazing how everyone is avoiding asking the tough questions? Who cares about a fucking cricket match when children are dying of starvation. Oh yeah, that fancy house you went to in Alibagh for the weekend? Some dead kid’s mother made that. If you believe the newspapers.
Saw this old, ancient man on the street in the morning. He did not have any legs and was hopping on his hands. He looked like he was seventy. The stubs of his “feet” were covered in plastic sheets and his hands held two wooden planks for support.
I felt like throwing up.
Not that it made me do anything. Not like I am going to sacrifice my life for the betterment of mankind or whatever. Fuck everyone else, I want that gallardo and I want it now.
The disparity of reality still knocks me in the ‘nads once in a while.