Dreams and Despair

The first week of the New Year is the most depressing time. Its actually one week that has six Mondays in one row. You wake up with a feeling of a hangover knowing that you didn't even drink last evening. You seem lost and most of the people around you sound boring -- which happens otherwise as well -- its just that your toleration doesn't seem to last.
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So where was I? I was actually in a farmhouse near the end of town -- Chattarpur, with a South Delhi accent -- where some four-hundred-and-twenty-six half-undressed women were sipping their stirred Martinis and refusing to believe that a word 'humility' actually exists. There was enough fog in the empty swimming pool to swim with them. But of course, when things were getting on a terrific wavelength -- I rise from this sweet sleep by someone nudging me asking: so what's the exact scene for this evening (New Year's Eve)?
I was in North Delhi, Delhi University, in a Baskin Robbins outlet where they have plush sofas, the one's where you have dreams like these. I'm not very adventurous, and so an evening with long lost friends seemed like a good idea. The Boxer was with a friend of his, Boxer II. The American Boy Brothers were coming as well. Others random as well. The Boxer's girlfriend, I realised: I was in love with her.
The evening was pretty cool. I was playing the fool well. Which is making people think that I'm completely wasted; at the same time not being at all but yes being slightly (recommended). I was poured whisky for my first drink and there was some vodka and beer that followed, as that got over. I was being overtly expressive as I ripped apart almost everybody with my sarcasm and twisted points of view -- the Boxer II looked at me in disbelief. He seemed unhappy I was there. It seemed I had violated his not-drinking, talking loudly about steroids, cursing women world. He would have beaten the shit out of me, its just that I didn't feel like being beaten on a New Year's Eve.
After years and years of misery-inflicted by the American boys; I think I got the feeling, they knew I was finally bored of their humour and I could counter if I wished. I was a bit distressed of The Boxer, I feared to even look at him while speaking. Fearing that my eyes would give away the love I had found for his girlfriend.
She looked familiar, she had the Keira Knightley-Snow White-Desdemona beauty. She of course liked me, and I bowed to have my thoughts be caught to be caught in her lashes. The American Boy I wanted Mary, and I was explaining him the way from Roop Nagar to Amsterdam but he rushed off to some dhobi ghaat. So he returned after an hour, with some shit-shit, and spent the exact 12 am with some unfriendly and unreasonable peddlar. It was all good.
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"When you decide to be something, you can be it. That's what they don't tell you in the church. When I was your age they would say we can become cops, or criminals. Today, what I'm saying to you is this: when you're facing a loaded gun, what's the difference?"

Watched The Departed, fucking mind-blowing. Scorsese's is a bloody mind-fucking genius. The movie starts with Stones' Gimme Shelter, and you know how it goes. The movie does get Tarantinoish in the end; fucking cool.
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Felt bad that Saddam Hussein was done with. As I watched the string of sequences of a video clipping on TV, I felt something was so hugely incorrect. There was this unspoken-message reflecting: "We'll fuck you anyway now!" Wwas wondering: why watch Desperate Housewives when you can watch Bush-Blair on CNN and BBC.
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What makes everything crap: The Noida sick-bastard that kills, rapes and sells organs (allegedly) mostly children (both sex). It horrfies me!