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.