Work's been terribly hectic, strangely. In the sense, that it's become quite intense -- and I feel like I'm working for a salary package twice the amount I get. It's as the saying goes: not cool. Perhaps that's a reason why I haven't written much here.
So well where else have I been apart from the matter of fact that I've been working a lot?
Like all good asshole Delhiites, there comes a point in living in the city's miserable life when you go for a pool party. Now when we were kids a 'fun' pool party would be quite very different than how we have them now. The other thing is that although we have living room parties, and keep having them, not all of us have daddy's lovely perfect little home to own pools. So you have friends who have them -- which makes me sound like an asshole, but well, oh anyway.
So there came a Saturday, like all good Saturdays come. Where in the morning I spent a very nice time with Pale Green Eyes, had a hectic afternoon meeting (those one's that leave you craving for a smoke once they're over), and it was time for Champak and the Big Surd (with his hair open, looking as though he was straight out of a Paharganj hotel room after being locked there for a year).
The evening was muggy to begin with, the one's where a nice chilled beer would send you a straight dive brushing against the surface of the pool -- oh it was cool.
Pale Green Eyes failed to come, so it was a bit miserable, and which also meant that one had to be in the best perfect behaviour, which also meant swimming and being a bit away from the crowd. In the pool, let's just say, people get frisky.
They were few faces, and then there were Dr Vaz and pals -- besides someone rolled and someone poured -- and it was quite perfect when you can hear Velvet Underground and Led Zeppelin while you're doing what you're not meant to be doing.
There was a freaky vest wearing Ajay, who was a bit of a if-you-know-what-I-mean. He felt up the Scottish lad well, and which ensured one good reason of how it's not fun when you're basically having fun -- and there was Champak who was sorting out issues with whether the weed girl liked him. Humble PC made sure he drowned and bashed up people -- he even took up a challenge with the built-up dude. Humble sir succeeded in drowning him as well, murders and polite conversations are fun for the gentleman. But he's a nice guy whose basic worry is that his mother doesn't catch him drinking early in the mornings.
It was all settling till one chick started puking all over herself, the weird thing is that this Ajay jumped in the middle and gave her a mouth-to-mouth, in order to revive her. He obviously failed. She had come with absolutely no one, and she couldn't be left alone, plus with Ajay (acting like a nice guy and all concerned) feeling her up a bit more, so he had to be insisted out of the room, where we were then taken.
Things wound up around late, and I swear dear readers, I have not seen someone so struck out of her senses. It was a bit sad, she had to be taken home, and her folks were called.
On our way back, first a few cops stopped us hoping to pinch a bit of a money out of us. Then this auto guy stopped us, asking us if we wanted to pick the whores sitting on his auto. It was a bit surreal with all that being flushed in your mind.

Dr Filth had problems. They were the unusual kinds. He had headaches too. For every time in the world an evil child was born, his head would spin terribly. He had grown used to it, like you and I would treat waking up in the mornings like.
He had had a quiet dinner this evening with the devil, and the devil had nothing new to share. They had problems too, but they were unlike ours. They quietly carved the meat served to them, they drank their wine and parted ways -- without a single word. They weren't the sorts that would get along well, if the world was meant to review them, but somehow they managed well. They had grown attached as well, for Dr Filth couldn't possibly die, and he had been around since the very first day.
He remembered that evening when the first woman ate the apple, he remembered standing there while the man was crucified, with the devil whispering into his ears: "Wait, this is my story, and people will believe this bull."
He wasn't those that had fallen with the devil into the lake of fire or anything like that. He had just got into a terrible argument with God and he packed his suitcases and left, he actually wanted a smoke. The devil never wanted to overthrow God in the first place, he knew that, and it just so happened that the very next evening, he went and whispered something about boredom to God.
God was a bit startled in the beginning, then grew a bit weary and the fact was the he was a bit displeased for some reason best known to him, and he looked a bit helpless. The devil too packed his suitcases, gathered a party that would like drugs, sex and rock n' roll, when a lousy thing happened. The drugs landed him somewhere far and lonely.
But Dr Filth didn't care -- he looked into the mirror carefully. His fine white teeth that were black from the back. Four bottles of whiskey and 72 cigarettes, would make him feel wonderful, he thought.
He stepped out of the toilet, switched off the light, sat on his favourite armchair and whistled the loneliest tune, you and I have ever heard.

The coolest but slightly strangest thing happens when you perhaps perfectly least expect them. Truly. Now Pale Green Eyes has been on my mind since a terribly long time, of course. The trouble with her is that she has these really sweet set of eyes that you get lost in them if you look a bit more intently, she's also a brilliant artist, is extremely beautiful and has this intensity about her, oh she leaves little words to describe her. Dylan's perhaps right in, She Belongs to Me -- and she's evil and so am I, she knows the words to Sympathy for the Devil. She likes Cohen, Oasis, White Stripes and Stones.
So well, dear readers, what would you say now? Has your old friend, the cynic, the misanthropist, the sod, er will now start writing happy things here?
No. Of course not. And I'm quite thrilled, and a bit worried too that she may just turn this old sod into being a very happy person -- but I'm quite willing to do so. But to be honest, it's quite threatening and worrying -- me and The Dragon did talk about it. So what does the ole' misanthropist do? Well Pale Green Eyes has been a beautiful misanthropist all her life, she's also an artist, and as I said a swell one. So if all else fails, we'll smoke a j and blow the whole world down -- like we've planned.
So all those who want to get saved and not die in this blast, vote for Taj. No just kidding. But tell me about it, so I can review your life, act like God perhaps , and promise you a life that's not fucked up.
It's quite crazy, this love. It's very cool -- we aren't those corny sorts (just in case, some fucker like Exile may wonder), but we aren't those abuse each other sorts. That's not cool.
But if Pale Green Eyes is kind, I'll put up one of her artworks here. If you like it tell me, if you don't fuck off or well do whatever you do when you're stupid.

Exams are done, dear brothers. I've bought my life back with a receipt that had once been sold to hell, and for the past 3 years had fate play table tennis with my testicles. Its all cool now, I feel liberated in my underwear. So you know what I did?
I went and had a beer at Thank God It's Friday on the Saturday afternoon, winked at hell and gave an anti-feminist look to the memory of Virginia Woolf, got a bit drunk and sent a few SMSs to random people who I figured in the next 15 minutes didn't quite give a fuck about me. So if they don't reply I don't give fuck about them.
And then there comes a point in every man's life when decision making is a must, and there's a reason to be believed that everything will now change. Everything has changed, and then you turn and see the fuckedupness will never change.
"A 29-year old on a quarter life crisis?" Oh no, I better wash my dog eaten fashion now. So you see, quite very naturally, I've been a bit secretive and dull over the last few weeks. I went a bit ill as well, and 44 degrees in the city, the thought of work from tomorrow, man it was miserable. Besides if your throat is fucked, and you can't smoke a cigarette, while you know Pale Green Eyes is smoking nice js and beers, making you feel like kicking the ass of that fucker who called you before your English Honours final exam, and asks you what the word irony meant.
That is an irony my son.
So I was stupid in the company of miserable sods while I gave the papers. Where I saw some giving their critical assessment on literature by writing the summary plots of fabulous tales, man I felt I belonged to a very lonely planet other than Earth, and that I wasn't introduced very well here and maybe should check out.
So Delhi's gone very fashionable in the last few weeks, while I was (cliche) burning in the midnight oil. There's this new place called Tabula Rasa -- of course no one knows the meaning of the darn latin term -- where the social elite are crowding, nursing their drinks and not being dirty. This is Delhi, 9 months while you have a baby, you can watch a hyped club come and go down. And while you become a parent you have to be seen there. Crazy fucked up.
Look at it: Elevate, Aura, Orange Room, Climax, Ministry of Sound -- effing redundant after a couple of months, and now there's this new place.
Haven't been there -- of course. I'm quite bored with these silly pansy and frightfully expensive shit serving places where everyone you know in Delhi who can afford a thong or can borrow one will be there. And the dudes? Gel and loud effing Punjabi music and the same stupid cars will never fucking stand out of fashion.
Pirates I'm told is shit -- I'll still watch it for Keef. You know Keef right? Of course you know.
But to be honest, I'm bored. I'm bored of people. So I'm writing a couple of new emotions, lines and thoughts for the world. Otherwise I'm Captain Jacked Sparrow.
It's great to read a book I know I won't be tested on -- Burmese Days by Orwell, that goes well. I have to get a couple of things sorted out, I can't tell here, my blog's also read by people I don't wish to be read by. Who know who the fuck I am and will fuck my case.
So before that I'm now going to change things around. I'll blow this place down, which I hate. Create a reason, or else I'll have to wait for Godot. I also need a drink, I think.
Be the Street Fighting Man, I suppose.
I can't help it Exile to be so effing morose, if you look at things so very carefully you really see how fucked up people look. When you see them you realise how miserable existence actually is. That if they were all born on this planer, then the purpose to live is only futile. That no effing journalism or philosophy or literature or cool music will spring them out of their decaying minds to be cool. Oh crap. What crap.