Wednesday, June 13, 2007



I want to kill myself for eating sushi. I knew it was supposed to be raw fish, but it really is fuckin' raw. If I were Churchill and co. I would have nuked Japan again just for feeding me raw squid. It's pale translucent flesh with rice that stinks of vinegar. And then they complain that all these Japanese kids are committing suicide and Murakami ran off to France. They call the French lazy when they at least bother to deep fry their potatoes. I am all for prawns and squids and salmon and even tuna, but even in a cocaine-snorted Lindsay Lohan drunk state will I not take out frozen chicken from the refrigerator, scoop off some uncooked flesh and serve with boiled rice. It's supposed to be an acquired taste they say. I would agree too, had there been any taste.

This heat is quite an absurd thing. It makes Tang a better friend than PP and Shelly put together. It is playing mind games with my poor little doggie, whose fur refuses to shed. I woke up yesterday to find Candy sitting on my face at 5 am, swishing her tail all over. I have an inkling that she was trying to fan me for reasons known only to Dr Doelittle. Also, she enjoys to stare at her food and not eat it ever. Her hunger strike was however, forcibly ended when Venkapatty Gopala Krishnan came and forced cucumbers down her throat. I think Greenpeace was quite impressed and Candy is up for some free whale bones, (plastic one's duh!)

And the flow of unknown relatives in and out of Anki's abode continues uninterrupted. Today she woke up to find two new faces cooking French toast which was then promptly served to dahling Anki. I am not even sure if these people are related to me, but then again I got breakfast. No reason to complain. Really.

Lastly, this clubbin' thing is no longer fun. Justin and Furtado together with Timbaland failed to make my feet carry me beyond 2 am and me a pathetic twenty-one year old, was left craving for peace and tranquility and sleep. Besides, these Delhi chics are getting hotter by the day and I am not while the men are getting Punjab-ier by the minute and I am not. It's really no fun without the girlie friends as there is no one to tell me which belt to wear and I can't take the boys to the loo to bitch and gossip and giggle over the hottie at the bar. All I had was a heavily-accented Canadian hippie chic cribbing about a frost-bite in the middle of Indian summer!

this is perfectly absurd

smelling of raw tuna

red as the sun

bland as her smile

goodbye for her summer time