It was this strange Saturday morning, those kind of mornings when you wake up before anyone expects you to, when an unfamiliar tint of sunlight falls on your face and makes you pull the sheet over your eyes expecting to catch the next reel of that dream you were going through, but sleep simply doesn't oblige. When you close your eyes and make an almighty effort to cajole your brain to go back to sleep. Your brain is all hazy, insanely random, almost as if you caught your haloed agenda-setter up there off guard. Yeah, you get the drift now don't you? This post dwells on the happenings of such a time.
Usually I get over such days by subjecting myself to steaming coffee, the newspaper and sometimes the buzzing sound that emanates from the telly when the channels are switched far too fast. This is to ensure that the angel (who handles my file) , miffed but aware of my early day, gets some time to cram in a few engagements and save her day and mine. But on this particular day, it was not to be. The newspaper was conspicuously absent and the telly signal died inexplicably. Coffee was had on the veranda, precautionary measure just in a case an alien attack occurred, every omen of which was currently prevalent. Even the coffee eddies were casting eerie UFO shadows on the brick wall. Dirty black clouds ambled by and every peep of blue sky promised 'em saucers firing massive missiles and reducing everything to rubbish. However the much anticipated attack did not happen and I, much pissed by the agenda maker's delay and the absence of aliens, decided to take a detour to the loo.
Two kinds of people populate this world of ours, those who read in the loo and those who don't. I belong to the former with a few huge gray areas. But the absence of a good read in the near vicinity and lack of cohesive thinking made me decide that I could make do without one. Habitually I pass time on such non-reading days by thinking of mundane issues like how Carmen Electra and Gemma Atkinson would look without the silicone, who is the inspiration behind Savita Bhabhi, trying to anagram the latest crush's name et al. Logical conclusions from such thoughts had the unerringly same probability of 1/infinity every single time. But then this day we are talking about is different, is it not?
It soon became obvious that I hadn't had enough fibres (Constipated. Yes.), which grant me even more time to think. I began thinking about what I do all day long and the purpose of it all. The lion's share of my day is devoted to movies, music, counter strike,random reads, the internet and college. Movies, music,books and counter strike are mere means of pleasure, things that serve no purpose other than keep me occupied. What do I gain from reading a good book or seeing a good movie? Nothing other than sheer joy and sometimes a confusing-apparently enlightening message. And of course the bragging rights ("God-awesome movie me' brother! You didn't see it yet? The shame!"). Social networking is really "too many people doing things that they don't necessarily love to win the attention and admiration of people they don't really give a shit about." (I have this 'you ripped it off' feeling about that line. So).
College is an entirely different story altogether. There are friends, there is the meaningless fun, the momentary madness-es, the mindless ogling but at the end of the day its boring, drab, ridiculously overrated and unsatisfactory ('Go get a girlfriend' suggestions are not welcome. Thank you!). And I really don't understand the point of studying a curriculum that is a light year behind what is in vogue. It is akin to tweeting depending on a year-old trending list. Makes you look like the fool that you probably are. And what is after college? I cannot think of one thing that I would enjoy doing for 30,000 hours (Roughly 5 hours a day, 200 days a year, 30 years). Except, maybe if I could land Hugh Hefner's job. That is a ridiculously long shot, almost like Tiger Woods playing with only 18 holes.
While I was thinking all this the angel up there (she is 36-24-36, intelligent, pretty, sensible and has beautiful hair and Katie Melua's eyes) filled my file and hit refresh. The constipated feeling fled and the pleasant feeling of having an intentionally-empty stomach dawned. The much rejuvenated me thereafter logically concluded that everything I thought up was when I was high on shit anyway, flushed (my mind and the toilet) and got the hell out of there. The day was now quite ordinary now. The kind when you let your brain dictate the ways and block out your mind. When you squint at the sunlight and not feel its pleasant warmth on your skin. When you cuss at the tramp for wasting your time and not think about how lucky you are.
I might not have posted this, had it been another day. But it was this strange day....
Usually I get over such days by subjecting myself to steaming coffee, the newspaper and sometimes the buzzing sound that emanates from the telly when the channels are switched far too fast. This is to ensure that the angel (who handles my file) , miffed but aware of my early day, gets some time to cram in a few engagements and save her day and mine. But on this particular day, it was not to be. The newspaper was conspicuously absent and the telly signal died inexplicably. Coffee was had on the veranda, precautionary measure just in a case an alien attack occurred, every omen of which was currently prevalent. Even the coffee eddies were casting eerie UFO shadows on the brick wall. Dirty black clouds ambled by and every peep of blue sky promised 'em saucers firing massive missiles and reducing everything to rubbish. However the much anticipated attack did not happen and I, much pissed by the agenda maker's delay and the absence of aliens, decided to take a detour to the loo.
Two kinds of people populate this world of ours, those who read in the loo and those who don't. I belong to the former with a few huge gray areas. But the absence of a good read in the near vicinity and lack of cohesive thinking made me decide that I could make do without one. Habitually I pass time on such non-reading days by thinking of mundane issues like how Carmen Electra and Gemma Atkinson would look without the silicone, who is the inspiration behind Savita Bhabhi, trying to anagram the latest crush's name et al. Logical conclusions from such thoughts had the unerringly same probability of 1/infinity every single time. But then this day we are talking about is different, is it not?
It soon became obvious that I hadn't had enough fibres (Constipated. Yes.), which grant me even more time to think. I began thinking about what I do all day long and the purpose of it all. The lion's share of my day is devoted to movies, music, counter strike,random reads, the internet and college. Movies, music,books and counter strike are mere means of pleasure, things that serve no purpose other than keep me occupied. What do I gain from reading a good book or seeing a good movie? Nothing other than sheer joy and sometimes a confusing-apparently enlightening message. And of course the bragging rights ("God-awesome movie me' brother! You didn't see it yet? The shame!"). Social networking is really "too many people doing things that they don't necessarily love to win the attention and admiration of people they don't really give a shit about." (I have this 'you ripped it off' feeling about that line. So
College is an entirely different story altogether. There are friends, there is the meaningless fun, the momentary madness-es, the mindless ogling but at the end of the day its boring, drab, ridiculously overrated and unsatisfactory ('Go get a girlfriend' suggestions are not welcome. Thank you!). And I really don't understand the point of studying a curriculum that is a light year behind what is in vogue. It is akin to tweeting depending on a year-old trending list. Makes you look like the fool that you probably are. And what is after college? I cannot think of one thing that I would enjoy doing for 30,000 hours (Roughly 5 hours a day, 200 days a year, 30 years). Except, maybe if I could land Hugh Hefner's job. That is a ridiculously long shot, almost like Tiger Woods playing with only 18 holes.
While I was thinking all this the angel up there (she is 36-24-36, intelligent, pretty, sensible and has beautiful hair and Katie Melua's eyes) filled my file and hit refresh. The constipated feeling fled and the pleasant feeling of having an intentionally-empty stomach dawned. The much rejuvenated me thereafter logically concluded that everything I thought up was when I was high on shit anyway, flushed (my mind and the toilet) and got the hell out of there. The day was now quite ordinary now. The kind when you let your brain dictate the ways and block out your mind. When you squint at the sunlight and not feel its pleasant warmth on your skin. When you cuss at the tramp for wasting your time and not think about how lucky you are.
I might not have posted this, had it been another day. But it was this strange day....