My drifting, dubious, time-wasting space-taking, supercilious existence.

Nothing terribly worthy of being put down, other than the blog itself maybe. One shot of air bubble injected. Like into two of my then not so old dogs. Cynicism reaching new heights, if that were possible. An M.A degree that will for sure NOT, and shouldn't even be mine. Can't. Like no way Jose. Two years, wasted time. Perspective dependent perhaps, for like a friend said itna time bacha ke karna kya hai; sounds too good to be true.

Light of the tunnel neareth. One big lethargic stretch. Long lost school friend back in town. Fun, guilt ridden pre-world cup final beer induced sluggishness. Great weather to win the cup in though. Barbados. Where sometime back , school time, Brooke Logan "Forrestor forrestor forrestor" had run off to "get away". TV kills, its been doing that to me; dulls senses, numbs instinct. Well maybe not Oprah. Long exhaling days. Focus less. I don't know what I'm going to do with my life. I don't feel driven enough to, and I don't want to look at the insides of an office for too long. I might want to write, but what the hell about?! Could and perhaps should seriously consider that environment; larger purpose etc.

Perhaps must be my favourite word. Diane Lane's is Soul. Reiterating TV point. More whiny angst because I think I'm sick of my friends. And I don't seem to care enough, even if they are sick of me. And such a super idea it is to blare it out on a two and a half reader blog; still maybe it's all justified in the name of therapy. I could've just earned myself 500 bucks for my own self conducted session. Bored to tears. And my dear blogo, if u are reading this -- is just one of the reasons why it isn't 'time for another'. It should not be time for another till something changes for the better, and not just a depressing mood. I think it was some Helen Hunt movie, the "anger is depression with nowhere to go". Phbt. Raspberry.

Priya in the drain, so far down.

For everything that is wrong with Orkut -- the intrusiveness, and too much freedom sanctioned to (pardon me) the buffoon Monty-Vicki types to issue "testimonials" made up entirely of abused asterisks in forming cockeyed hearts, ugly bears, oddly winged angels, and big bold wordy declarations of FRIEND, COOL, and SEXY -- there is also something pretty bad happening at that once yo-so-hep, now degenerate dump that is Priya.

Where on Orkut there are too many 'cool dudes' with cool cell phone-camera snapped pictures -- of their own protruding jaw lines, wearing cool black sun-shades -- on the one common be all end all quest: of having more women than men on their 'friends' list, Priya is equally cluttered with cows, cow dung, parking corruption, and gum chewing coloured-hair coolio vermin of both sexes. So much for Pirsig's Metaphysic's of Quality. Obviously the MCD, and Google giants have some reading and introspection to catch up on.

Priya has magically transformed from Yuppie in 2001 to Present Day Shady. Ten years ago, going to Modern Bazaar in the pre-pre-PRE fire gut days, was an outing part enjoyed. Of course I was little then, but not nearly minute enough to not remember that Nirula's used to be in the front, and the Hot Chocolate Fudge was then not overrated, not overpriced; their pineapple pastries used to have a more generous wedge of the tinned fruit -- broadly sliced and seated atop the fluffy white gorge.

All that is now a thing of the past. Under saving graces besides TGIF, and the book basement OM, comes Chocloat, the cute little (no longer new) eatery with nice lighting and pleasant interiors. Although their menu needs a slight revamp, and the staff uniforms most definitely so; any man made to wear Peach day in and day out is my target of sympathy

The crowd in the complex is creepy, especially towards the rear; men in wolf packs park their bikes in shady gullies close to the poorly maintained park, and exchange little zipped bags. The wheeling dealing gets worse at night. The place turns into an easy pick-up spot, while street lighting remains uneven. It's a pity. The place has potential. One way traffic, more cops, more greenery, cow control, and age regulations clamped on pubs to not let the baccha party gyrate to loud punju music in the middle of the afternoon, and stumble down high and zonked by late afternoon, would be a great start.