Ok, let’s try writing.
I know I have something embarrassing to reveal. Technically two embarrassing things because I forgot to mention last time about my hiatus on the jogging out of respect for my unwillingness to get up at 6 AM. But the internal monologue hasn’t been particularly chirpy this last week, so I’m postponing coming up with something embarrassing that I can afford to let people know about till next week. Nothing in the rules prohibit me from such postponement under special circumstances.
Le’s ge’ to it, sha’ we?
I remember countless times in the past when I would cheesily point out November rain for being November Rain. It’s not unusual to have a light drizzle in November in Delhi. However, I don’t remember cheesily reminiscing about December rain. Except this time it’s happened. The only time I saw the sun today was once I left the office, when it was a rather weak orange ball of powerful nuclear reactions behind some clouds around the dome of the Supreme Court. On a completely unrelated note, I’m going to start pretending to be British, that I don’t like rain, and write an ode to weather and how it affects our mood. I’m sure it has never been done before.
But today has been one of those weird days when you start out in a pretty bad mood, owed partly to hormones and partly to circumstances, but things conspire to try and get you in a better mood. None of them work completely, but by the end of the day when you’re walking home in the rain with your Kindle (The Great Gatsby), your stomach digesting delicious food, with a purple umbrella, you’re not entirely angry at life. Every now and then, just to keep with the cliché and the weather, you play Singin’ in the Rain in your head and click your heels in mid air. You are not happy, but people will think you’re a crazy person. Some might argue that’s nearly the same thing.
But once you get out of the rain, into the metro station and in the hurry to catch the train, brace yourself and enter the men’s compartment. Brace yourself not because you will get raped. Oh no. Brace yourself because even if there are very few people, so few that there are actually seats to sit on, the place will stink like the depths of a Neanderthal’s asshole. Then all the tiny little details about people that piss you off come right back.
There are people in the world you just cannot like. While in my case, the people who fill this category may be more than with other people, I think it’s safe to say that everyone has a few things they instantly hate, constantly and irrationally hate to the point where you unceasingly fantasize about shooting someone’s face off, quite literally. Personally, in my killing fantasies, especially with people I really dislike, I don’t shoot. I get up close and personal, with poisonous darts or samurai swords. This may seem like a joke, but I assure you I’m not exaggerating. I have very high definition and intense fantasy sequences in my head about killing people. If Tarantino or Nolan or someone could get into my head, I’m sure they would pay me for the rights. I know it’s a surprise to people who are well acquainted with my charming personality but I do dislike some/ most people I come in contact with when around lawyers.
I hate it when someone doesn’t enunciate. When you’re trying to say “proclaimed” and all I hear is “prolvved”, that is not my fault, it’s yours; especially if you’re a full grown human being. And when I ask you to repeat yourself, you are not allowed to be annoyed. Because so help me god, if I am too scared and everyone else around you has been too much of a sycophant to tell you that you sound worse sober than what I sound like when I sleep talk; I will ask you again what on earth you mean by saying “grirrnal prussezur core, prolvved offendr”, and you will reply. Slowly and enunciating at least every other syllable. If you passed the bar, and you talk professionally, you can do that much. You will not tut under your breath and say the same thing again, at the same speed and expect me to just go to the shittiest law library in the world and take a wild guess about what you were saying. Though that is what I did. But my lack of gumption does not make it right. So there.
I hate it when people look earnest. And I wish I meant when people look like Colin Firth (He was Not Earnest in the movie of The Importance of Being Earnest) but I mean I hate it when someone mixes innocence or lack of experience or awkwardness with being completely dull and witless. I understand innocence or inexperience or awkwardness. I don’t understand having nothing to say. I don’t understand when over the course of a month, you are unable to say or do anything to me that makes me think that you understand anything, be it some small phenomenon, a tiny piece of information, something about yourself, something you like, anything.
The people I don’t consider friends are not divided into people I like and people I dislike. If I like them enough I would be friends with them. No, my non-friends are divided into interesting and boring. One kind of boring is when you say a lot about stuff but I couldn’t care less about any of that stuff. That I understand. But when you’re unable to say anything at all except a few terribly delivered cliché one liners, then I start imagining wearing gloves, pulling your head back, plunging a knife into your neck and just slitting your head off. The blood would be everywhere.
I hate it when people have an accent from a certain part of India. Sure, I have a few friends from there. One of my best friends in my first school was from there. But they didn’t have that accent; or those words. I know it’s not really excusable, but it is just a fact – if you call the number one “ikthhu”, I will find it very, very hard to not imagine stabbing your face. I will grit my teeth every time I hear you talk. I’m not proud. And I don’t know where this stems from. Ok I know. Our maid is from there. And she is one of those maids about whom your parents have actually had the following cliché conversations about –
Mom: Oh my god. I can’t take it anymore. I told her not to add the *random food ingredients I can’t even think of* for the fourth time. She wants to kill us. WHY is she so stupid? Why? I have to fire her!
Dad: Well, you know, if she wasn’t stupid, she would probably be doing something else, so don’t complain.
Again, I’m not proud. Also, as I mentioned to someone I recently met, I try to be aware of m prejudices and not let them affect my manner or behavior if I can’t get rid of them. Except when I’m drunk. So please don’t come near me with your You Know Where accent when I’m drunk.
I hate when people tell me to reconsider my decisions. Especially when they don’t know that I made those decisions after months and years of self-doubt, weighing options, looking at myself in the mirror wondering about a career in before picture modeling (I would be the before picture. Someone fairer, thinner, straighter and with longer hair would be the after picture) and actually trying things out. And then you come and tell me about what you think I should do, acting as if I haven’t spent a significantly large amount of time worrying and thinking about all the arguments and insights you put to me as if you’re the first one to ever consider it. I would get it if you bothered to ask me if I thought about a particular argument. I really want to punch your kidneys to death when you tell me.
When you look like you think you’re laying down some hard core bad-ass knowledge, but it’s actually a reiteration of a very old and oft used adage, I imagine peeling off your face with a samurai sword. The sword would be held horizontally at your forehead and with one precise slash, your face would no longer have to be a burden to people with eyes. Then I would hit your faceless head with a hammer as you try to make some noise with what you have left of your tongue and mouth.
In other news, I have rediscovered Dean Martin. As my cousin put it – that was back when men were men. I have also rediscovered my love for men with beards because of the Man of Steel trailer. Also, I have been watching Homeland recently. I have wanted to marry Mandy Patinkin since I saw Criminal Minds, and then realized it was him in The Princess Bride and heard him singing on Youtube. But its not just Superman and Mandy whose beards have gotten me hot and bothered. There are scenes in Homeland where Brody is a POW in Iraq and he has a scraggly unkept beard. And while I find him hot anyway (I have had a thing for redhead ever since Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge) I really, really wanted him when I saw that. Conversation with myself.
ME: Oh yeah! Please, please don’t shave it off. Just give it a trim while you’re cleaning him up, but don’t shave it off. I don’t care if you don’t stop torturing him, just don’t take off the beard. He looks like a red-headed Jesus, and there’s nothing hotter than that.
me: My god, what is wrong with me? The guy’s a POW. He’s dirty and tortured and wounded and raped and peed on and what not. This is not healthy. He looks fine without the beard.
ME: Shut up. He’s not a POW, he’s an actor playing a POW, and I want to fuck him like a trapeze artist.
me: Yeah… yeah.
I will be drawing people I like in show business and putting them up here afterwards, along with all the other pictures because I just discovered tagging on blogs. This will be in between drawing faces of my friends if they ever actually bother to send me the pictures they want drawn.
I haven’t read as much as I would like to. I read Romeo and Juliet again for Crash Course. This has always been my favorite line from the play –
“Young men’s love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.”
Really telling of my optimism and joie de vivre.
I also read Life of Pi, which I liked better than the movie though the latter wasn’t so bad. I have no lines from it because… I don’t know. It was excellent though.
I also read Interesting Times by Terry Pratchett –
“_____ had a language of twenty-six unexpressive, ugly, crude letters, suitable only for peasants and artisans… and had produced poems and plays that left white-hot trails across the soul. And you could also use it to write the bloody minutes of a five minute meeting in less than a day.”
I can’t imagine what culture which has a famous curse about Interesting Times and its script this could be a comic take on.
I also read The Great Gatsby, which is just heartbreakingly beautiful. It makes me want to read more and more books, and there are no better stories than the ones that make you want to read more.
“So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.”
“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter – tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther… And on fine morning —– So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
Seriously, this book made me think, has some touchingly sad moments that makes your heart ache but doesn’t make you cry, and it affords you a smirk or two in the subtle idiocies of everyone in it. And it makes you want to read more. What more could one want?