Some shooting-from-the-lip and other memorabilia.

Don’t rationalize everything you say, bubblehead. I mean, whoever thought of saving your ass when you were getting picked on by the neighbourhood bully was being pretty obtuse (or a tad insouciant). Then, you’d extricate your machismo from your ranting-hat and then with a deft flick of the wrist, demonstrate how Exhibit A was perfectly in line with Exhibit B, and how Exhibit B trumped Exhibit C’s ass although Exhibit C was busy sleeping with Exhibit A’s older brother and rattling off names of movie stars before you could say ‘I’m a harangued man with a prescription’. That’s called ‘being tough on talking’; do not prove to me that nothing defeats the male ego – the minute you get confrontational, that’s the end of the line for your hypocrisy. I do not have a hedonistic beef with you, I do not like to pick on your insecurities, it’s just that it’s always that I had a hard time getting around with people who didn’t notice that every day the world turns a little, and that if you refuse to budge from your spot under the sun, you get left behind. Or worse, you don’t get Grandma’s crab-apples for supper. Which, as it goes, is profitable optioneering.

Genuflect, Ayan.

It’s heartening to know that my friends think I’m a spin doctor, although I think I never give them any reason to think so. I’ve had a cocktail of problems come my way after I decided I’m going to quit my current job, but I’m not quite sure whether my handling of them was in any way professional, because fundamentally, the ethic behind a successful work-routine is building rapport and since I’ve failed in that respect quite visibly, I will have to address these areas from the beginning. Suddenly, I’m at that phase of my life where I’ve found myself becoming more of a saturnine character than I would have liked to - it would have been a disturbing snag if not for the fact that I’m taking hits more easily than I did earlier and I’m finding that the previously-allowed-to-run-amok kangaroo temper is more easier to control these days (what with the ‘spring-in-my-step’ and ‘post-punk rock music’ schedules). So, good for me. Till then, I hope this climate of karmic good holds up ostensibly.

Buy me another.

I have my hands in too many cookie jars. And whenever I extract my hands from these jars, I find there never were any cookies there in the first place.

It begins. Now.

Yes. I am the Buddha, the Godhead, the Virtuous Being. But, I do not know why I have blood on my hands.