Bu-bye, yak cheese and other landmarks

Lots of pictures. Keep scrolling.

My mother, her sister and both their husbands are leaving for Bhutan tomorrow. It's a ten day trip via Siliguri, Gangtok, and sundry army stations. Holiday time. I wanted to go. My camera could take some very upload-able photos. My ticket was blocked. Then I changed my mind. Now I feel bad about the obscure cantonments I won't see. Bhutan, I tell my sour grape self, is like any Tibetan market with a mountain range as wallpaper. As if I've tick marked many of those.

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Late discovery. Forgive me. But for the last few weeks, I have been taken in by Post Secret (full posts turn up on reader)- an ongoing community mail art project, created by Frank Warren, in which people mail their secrets anonymously on a homemade postcard.

I told my gay bff about it a few weeks ago. Sounds good, send link was what we left it at.

I didn't send him the link. In true impersonal fashion, he'll see it here.

I wonder what it says about me that I left out the suicide, prison, and incest-related confessions. That heartbreak is more catchy for me, duh-uh?

Still on the bff

Monday, on our impromptu brisk walk around the colony (me in slippers and a swimming costume (under my casual tatters) that I didn't get to use because the pool was closed, and he in his Hush Puppy Loafers -- that's how impromptu), I was telling him about something else; about this documentary I had seen just that afternoon, Children of the Master Race -- the secret breeding program, Lebensborn, of this vile Himmler guy to have blue-eyed, blonde-haired peeps take over the world, and how the surviving children (now old people) 'have lived their lives in the knowledge that they were bred to rule the world'. He's nodding and going "right, right, hmm hmm, sure.. yea". But after a polite five-second gap of me having stopped sounding semi-passionate about "those poor people!", he says, Yea...very sad; now what is going on with you and your depressive postcards and your non-fiction and these nazis?!

That's the good thing about friends. They tell you when to shut up.

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Like every good, self-absorbed blogger, I check my stats often -- once, twice a week, maybe more when I'm lonely. I especially like to tickle myself with the 'keyword analysis'. It is an education for me that 3.64% land up here by searching for cheesy studio portrait of couple and another 3.64% percent by searching for bib she's my ba.

Fascination with all that apart, my archives tell me that as of April 24, my relationship with blogging would have outlasted my relationships with some boys. This was my first post. For someone who didn't collect a masters degree even after toiling, if just commute wise, for 2 years and who left a perfectly decent job because she couldn't deal with a bitchy boss past the bitch's second month, who also couldn't cope with moving to Bombay past the fourth month, I think I outdid myself with this blogging thing. This week is 5 years since I've unabashedly been responding to Nimpipi.

Just e-mage.