I'm reading The Sound and the Fury, and there's this part where Quentin starts laughing uncontrollably when things are really really fucked for him, and it's crazy, but I know, I know, I know. No book has depressed me this much ever. And I hate using words like depressed and whatnot, but that's just what it is. It's a feeling of utter hopelessness. When you're too tired to argue or explain or fight.
Sometimes I wish I didn't understand anything.
R has dirty ears. Or is that too Bathos?
But R seems happy. In his sweet little bubble. I envy that sort of a rhino-hide (paradox?). I don't respect it, but I certainly do envy it (paradox?).
I love it when people think I could have an opinion. They are wrong, I don't. But it feels so incredibly nice.
Oh dubloo tee eff, it's not working. Will probably delete later.

A year ago things were easier. 2005 was a very very nice year. One of the nicest really. I had three of my most memorable trips ever, I had lost a fair amount of weight sometime in May (I cannot believe I wore that pair of jeans so easily!), I had a part-time job, studies were less demanding, heck, life was less demanding, I could count with my fingers how many cigarettes I had had in my entire life, weed was still taboo, I was so bloody in control of my life. Or maybe it just seems that way, but still...so so much better than what this year's been. I miss being 19.

See my new gallery blog, see see!

Okay Okay all the marks are out. And well, sufficiently screwed up, but not hanging down my head and Tom Doolying. Just feel like being on my own a bit more.
I have a new interest. I like the Zeeba Neighba guys the best.
I'm a little tired of this blog. I miss being anonymous. Now I'm just, well, this -

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

And not just blog-wise. Honestly, I think I'm unsocial, 'cause I'm worried about becoming an antisocial. I'm taciturn, because if I was otherwise, I'd have no friends. Stripped off everything, I'm just kind of scary. Hurtful, revengeful, brutal and even a little crass. I guess people are luckier to have me as someone meek, dispassionate, politically correct and cautious. Hypocritical, but peaceful, unobtrusive, forgettable, hassle-free and occassionally entertaining. It's tiring, but safer. Much.

I got a chocolate in a Sex ed class (don'task!) for defining an orgasm. Now that's a first.

I'm just happy when I'm addicted. Otherwise there's just no point. Bored to death by everything and everyone except for William Faulkner. I wish I could get stoned right now, but it's such a bloody bloody effort.

See anything out there?

I sure don't. Not of late, anyway.

Not a pretty boy this

But beautiful, oh yes, Bond is. Bowled over by Casino Royale, really.

I've always been a huge Bond fan, despite the cheesy jokes et al. And well, I've loved Pierce Brosnan ever since I was seven (although, yes, Connery was the best). But but but (and what a butt, if I may add - just a tribute to the older Bond fondness for puns, my apologies!) this Bond is unique.

As a film, probably the best - more Jason Bournish than James Bondish. Great great action sequences and a pretty cool storyline (although, there were some sketchy and inexplicable moments). The one-liners (what's Bond without his one-liners?) are surprisingly witty. Daniel Craig is also probably the luckiest Bond (Paul Haggis wrote the screenplay and he gets to be a lot more faceted than any other Bond) and he does well...really well. Yay, so happy and also drooling a little (ugly-hot is the coolest).

I just got off the phone with an old para friend, who has also shifted like I have, but we keep in touch every once in a while, because we used to be great chums and also very good badminton partners. Well, it was her birthday, and we had a very dissatisfactory conversation, because she was "giving tuitions" and seemed a little weary and angry at the same time, because I called her up so late in the day. I could not get over the "giving tuition" bit and kept repeating it like a moron, because giving tuitions means that you're all grown up, and going to be married in a couple of years time, with love-life problems and synthetic salwaar kameezes- all seem to match her to a tee. And I still roam about in shorts and tees thinking about the next TV programme or something equally inane and occassionally wonder, shit, I have to score before I'm 21.
Yes, 21 in a month and few days, and I am, as the chick-flick goes, Clueless. Only, I'm 21, not 16, with a dodgy Post Graduate plan ahead of me, weight - that I shall never lose (I have finally convinced myself, this is how it will be, Discovery will never nominate me for their makeover shows), sociopathic tendencies, and long distance friends, even if they live a couple of blocks away. It all gets like that eventually. And this badminton partner of mine, who blushed at the thought of a love marriage, is carrying on with some boy she probably cannot marry and is "giving tuitions" and studying something serious. God, why is everybody so bloody un-flippant these days.
I really don't know what I want. I like literature, but it worries me that, I'll be one of those women in cream-coloured ethnic saris, tribal jewelry, gigantic bindis, with her panties in a bunch, talking about post modernism at a wine and cheese party through the corner of her mouth. Unmarried of course, with just a hint of being somebody's mistress. Arrgh. That could so happen. What would I be doing, even then? Working at some library and pretending to be important? Oh my god, I'll be the sad librarian lady (who reccomends Simone de Beauvoir and secretly reads Mills and Boon). Wait...I'll be...PIGGY (who is some of the above, and an ex-librarian and elocution teacher....Miss, she insited emphatically through the corner of her lips, not Mrs - with the air of a woman unlucky and unlaid, educated, but not brilliant, ever). Horrors. Let me just die before 30.

So our little project died a restless death today. Pity, 'cause we loved it a lot. Sudusen's brainchild expired today in the presence of brainmom, ragimashi and shortymashi. Anyway, won't over-dramatize the death of a drama, but we're all sad about it, yes.
Oh well, back to being inactive and non-thinking. Even ER is repeating it's season, terrible, 'cause the Luka-Carter crush is so going to disappear right now. Still reading English August. Savouring it really, and identifying as we stupidtypes do with everything and everyone. Suddenly craving for some ganja. Again, stupidtype thing to say. Ooh got some weed? Shut up, fool.
I'm done with being nice to people who don't deserve it. Including myself. After all, what have I got to lose? I scolded a junior today. I am capable of it.
I missed Esplanade Mansions this time, a lo-hot. Just lying back and having pepsi in huge frosted green glasses with loads of ice and playing with Kochu and doing all kinds of crazy things with Dee. But, issokay. It'll all happen again very soon.

I was coming home from the festival today (yay, first show) when I did something rather awkward. It was this crowded metro, and I'm too short to be comfortably holding onto the rod-things. So I'm doing my chi-balance thing (which I obviously can't) and also staring at this girl's back (who looks like someone from class, but isn't), and I'm like wasshername-wasshername? when the train pulls into the station and I go toppling sideways grabbing this girl's...ahem...neck. And then I'm all like sorrysorrysooosorry and literally jump off the train and run-trot away. And then I can't stop laughing (it's the latest thing...I get these giggle attacks when I'm walking all by myself in some place very very public, and I know how mad it is, and the more I think how mad it is, the more I have to laugh) and then I'm in two minds whether to take the bus or an auto, when I see a bus speeding away, and the action hero in me is all pumped and running after speedingbusguy and s-prrrings into the bus into the arms of sweatyconductorguy. And then goes sits on a woman's sari, which is promptly pulled away quite unceremoniously from under her gigantic behind.
Anyway, saw a film called Santa Clause is a Louse, which is the French (original) version of Mixed Nuts - which is a not-so-hilarious adaptation (with Steve Martin and Juliet Lewis). I went with Niloshree, and it turned out to be pretty good fun. Bizziare, but so so funny. I quite liked N. She reads interesting stuff, and used to ride cycles like me.

I think when everyone's asleep tonight, I'll smoke that cigarette I've been saving for all these days. In the loo of course. It will mean of course that, I'll bomb my Part I. That was the pact. But it's too late for all that anyway innit?

I hate Oly Pub.

I'm reading English August. I quite like it. It's my kind of book. Sometimes I wish I could be like that. Lie. Just. You know, cause I want to.
What's your name?
Angie.
Angie what?
Angie Ray.
That's a strange name.
That's because my mother is half-American and half Mick Jagger and my father is half-Mick Jagger and half Satyajit. Also David Bowie.

You know like that. Or not. I don't know. Today I paid attention in the Keats class for a change. I love Keats. I kept reading and re-reading the 3rd stanza of Nightingale.

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

I keep thinking I'm above angsty poetry. But not when it's like this. Because it's so true. It's like when you suddenly get an electric shock. And you're forced to react. Today I was taking a walk and I was talking to this mutt. I always talk to dogs. And this white dog followed me along. And then suddenly it started to sneeze and looked a little wild. And I stopped being friendly and became a bhitu and said look, look, I have no food, so go away. And it was so stupid, and even the dog knew I was being unreasonable as hell. But I just scurried away, and it looked at me, with a what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you-woman eyes and walked away, a little disgusted by my sudden change of attitude. Dogs and babies can always see through you. And this mutt knew immediately that I was a phoney. I got scared of it's sneeze. Jeez. But then again I was savagely attacked by a dog when I was four. And sub-consciously perhaps I'm terrified of them. But then I always thought I was over it. And most dogs and I have gotten along well since then. And I like them. They like me back. I guess, I was just scared of being rejected by a dog as well. I don't know. This is a weird post. But then again blog has bipolar. So who cares who cares who cares?

Blog has terminal cancer. Also bipolar disease. Does not see the point of going on.

Gin in the gin-soaked boy?

I don't get. I mean I do. But. I am not too passionate about too many things. Or maybe one thing, at one time. But very rarely two or three together. And, according to people, some people, I (now lessee here) " Have the same expression all the time", "Need to loosen up", "Think too much" and am "quite" (read:Q-U-I-E-T), "stiff", "weird" and oh yeah, not to forget the perrenial favourite "nice" - which doesn't really mean anything - except maybe that I "have the same expression all the time".
Honestly? I do care what people think. Mostly because I'm curious. I just want to KNOW. But WHAT they think is secondary. I like to lie back, put my feet up, cradle the phone next to my ear and go "Oh? Really? Is that what he/she thinks of me? Hmm..." Or just hear people out. I mean I've heard all kinds of crazy things. Good things as well (which we all know feels great, especially when you least expect it)...but but but...I wonder how close, or far they are from the truth. I mean, it's really weird, because nobody really knows what he or she is like. We judge ourselves from other people's points of view. It's not a sweeping statement. I know very few people who know what they are all about. They're usually much much older and live in the Himalayas or something.
I have my likes and dislikes. But then I'm not passionately in love or in hate with anything. I'm just ho-hum. Do ho-hum people go anywhere? Do they do anything? Other than be mistaken for a mosquito in a fly suit? Heh.

Aaargh. I hate Saturdays. I'd like Saturdays, but I just can't. I used to like Saturdays. But that was a long time ago. I'm so incredibly lazy it's making me nauseous. Like I'm drowning in oodles of fat and cholesterol, rancid and spoilt. Yuck. I feel yuck is what I feel. Yuckityyuckyuck.

I saw Houseboat today. I want one. I want a body and accent like Sophia Loren's and a man like Cary Grant. Then it'll all be okay, I know. If my man ever left me for someone like Sophia Loren, I'd totally understand. Some women are hot. And then there's So-phia. He can leave me for So-phia. But not for someone like Jennifer Love Hewitt. You know those thin, moral types. Or whatever. I just don't like Jennifer Love Hewitt. He should understand too if I left him for a Cary Grant. Men are just not gentlemen anymore.

I cannot conclude this. I'm thinking of too many things now. I'm incredibly upset about missing somebody very soon. It's even spilling into my dreams. *sigh*. Why can't I stop being 13 just for a little bit?

To everybody. Click. http://www.lightamillioncandles.com. It's not like you're dissecting an atom or anything. So just click.