Tuesday, April 03, 2007

SHWARMA ANKITA MISS.

I must have gone crazy or maybe I'm my own worst nightmare, but my playlist has Justin Timberlake and Ne-Yo giving The Killers and Snow Patrol company. It's not my fault if Justin managed to hire the best songwriters, composers, designers and Scarlett Johansson!!! I am as vulnerable to pop culture as I am to influenza.

I spent the previous week marooned in a Middle Eastern desert sleeping and eating and pondering and musing, which is where the problem really lies. But I learnt some basic truths of life and humanity and junk food, the most important one being that eventhough this blog is about my notions -- they hardly find a mention.

My experiment with manual focus

So the unfortunate internet surfer who has navigated himself to reach here will now know why I started writing this blog?

And the perfectly boring answer is, "I gotta write somewhere since there is no more journalism school left to attend". It was a stupid experiment meant to cure my insomnia and seasonal unemployment. And today, I have realised that there better be some notions peculiar to the narcissist author of this webpage, or else put on adsense and make 5 cents every year.

It turns out I have slightly dented my dislike for personal posts and I will enlighten strangers with the ethereal and enigmatic view of the world I acquired lying on several beds and this one was conjured floating on an oil bed.

Bush's experiment with exported democracy

Popular culture manages to invade you without prejudice or offence and I so I have decided to blame the recent addition of subcutaneous lipid cells to my baa-deee, on my misled sympathy for dethroned pop princesses aka Miss Spears. I have resolved to not watch movies without subtitles as Syriana felt like it felt when the Egyptian carpet seller was talking to me over tea or shaeee! Anyway I got a fake crystal Egyptian artefact to show for my multicultural experience.

Also that the pack of potato chips will bloat up to the size of a pillow at 37,000 meters above mother Earth and there is no way you can burst it open without risking a bomb scare. I realised I should not tamper with bloated potato chips or fate and let the friendly airline crew assign me any seat they want; else you end up sitting behind two extremely gorgeous masterpieces sculpted by the creator and not between them. However, next I realised that gorgeous Arabian hot-boys are masters at the art of flirting through the gaps between seats and seducing girls off airplanes into their city without that stupid little piece of paper called a visa. And soon enough I realised the absence of that piece of stamped paper, but not without inviting everyone behind us in the aisle to give me the dirtiest look previously reserved for George Bush, so much so that one fine gentleman tripped on his robe during the designated dirty look exercise. And the thing that everyone knows but denies, has finally hit me -- money buys happiness. But it comes with a disclaimer: ignorance has to be added to the recipe and there is no end to your joys. Shucks, once again I am resigned to a lifetime of discontent.

My notion of freedom

So I am way off the point here (wasn't this about Justin?), but its my first attempt at writing something that is not prose or poetry, fiction or fact, but then again this place was always an experiment and here is another one for no one to judge or disregard.

I might get better at it since I still have my viciousness intact as sometimes I revisit my real self, the one that I proudly claim to be a sold-out pathetic shadow of, and so I will write what was meant for this place and not my thoughts.

My view from the window