Another Saturday returns, and yes I'm doing fine. No I got no stories to tell apart from the fact that I'm thoroughly pissed. Pissed with working for this while. The asshole has managed to piss me off so fucking well, I couldn't even begin to list out. What surprises me is the extend of how one ordinary human being can instil so much bitterness in another. The Brain says he feels hypocritical when he even says hi, or returns one.
Anyway, I should think better. So what did I do last evening? Was that better, well enough to make me think about some other thing.
Okay, I watched Sense and Sensibility, needless to say my sensibilities were insipid to the affairs of Victorians, the woman, Jane Austen, brought up on this world. I quite love the language though, but just the tales of seeing men and women centralising their lives on marriage and fuckin' drama gets my goat.
Although to be honest, I quite like the English actors as well (Emma Thomspon, Kate Winslet, Colin Firth and the others). I know people think Hugh Grant does the same role over and over again, but I think he's pretty good at what he's doing (remember: About a Boy). Would you then say the same thing about Shah Rukh Khan, the pin-up-thirtyish-metro-fag-something, doesn't he do the same roles over and over again? It's just Indian cinema's big facade that they don't have that many actors, and even if they are they don't do really well cause hey get half-worked scripts.
I can't even bring myself to watch Don reinvented with this panzy hanging around. How long, will this all take?
Anyway so where was I? Oh yes, madame Austen. Well she did one thing, and that is, she reminded me of love. Now if you've been hanging around this street regularly, you may as well know, that your writer here adores the fact of being midst women. But hey, love here becomes a touchy subject. Not that I have got any of it for a while, and not that I'm seriously looking out for it.
But then yes, would like it to come along. Now wouldn't you?
And then last night: slept at fuckin' 4, woke up at bloody 12. I had quite forgotten what it was like to wake up at 12. But then those were days when life was weird and wicked.
Oh yes, one more thing: the office-poet showed me the 'spirit-lane' where all the booze shops are lined up and down. We slipped out while the edition was heavy on us. Somewhere in the back-lanes of never-dying CP life, where the good and bad shake hands. It's always good to hang around with the Office Poet, he's so fuckin huge, he looks like as though he will kill ya (Luca Brassi-kind). And well, dear readers again, I don't have the courage to go to glittering-shady places alone for a drink.
But then, spoilt that I am of fancy of pubs and bars of the city, I completely forgot that a pint of good beer costs 20 bucks, as opposed to gettin ripped off at 150. (Its jus a fact, I'm not stingy.) Had three -- or wait a minute was that four? -- downing them as though there was no tomorrow. Gave the bottle to the chap hanging around us, on the street itself, and he lost it in his jhola and we marched back as though nothing at all happened between. Well, he went for a doze in the photo-section, while I released an error-free page. And things were settled.