I tend to make bad decisions. And yeah, hindsight is 20/20, I get it, but aren't you supposed to learn from your past as well? Like, even though I really, truly wish that logic behind, "alcohol kills germs; drink while you're sick" was sound, shouldn't I, after unsuccessfully administering this advice on both myself and countless easily-peer-pressured-people on the verge of incapacitating illness, realize that it's simply not true?
Nah.
First: Maybe this time it'll work. Maybe last time, I just didn't drink enough. Yeah, that's gotta be it. At the very least, it'll take away this aching body pain and make me forget about my sore throat, right? By the way, give me a drag of that. Maybe I can smoke out the germs.
And later: Well, I'm better now. It's been a good two hours since I've been lying on my back, writhing in pain, coughing up a lung. I can totally go out. No drinks, though. Really. Do I want anything? Yeah, a beer. Whoa, did I say that out loud? Shit. Well, now I have to drink it. What if they're running one of those secret, whoever-is-drinking-a-Kingfisher-pint-at-this-moment-gets-a-free-keg campaigns RIGHT NOW? By the way, give me a drag of that. Second hand smoke kills, you know.
And the next day: Yeah, I'll go see Pirates of the Caribbean 3. And give me an order of the Manchow Soup. Sounds exotic! By the way, give me a drag of that. I almost got a smoke ring last night.
Eh, I never really understood that hindsight thing anyway. When I stare at my ass, it's just as blurry as the rest of the world.
June 11, 2007
11:44-12:04
Bangalore, India
Due to a string of bad decisions, back at work after 4 days
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Friday, June 1, 2007
Raul
Do you ever try to construct the life stories of people based on inconsequential details? It's a good way to the pass the time on your commute when the impossible has happened and you've gotten sick of the entire 20GB contents of your music library or when you decide to take in the mundane sights around you instead of obsessively watching the meter for cheats.
For example, as I glanced at the many bikes furiously competing for roadspace with my auto today, one in particular caught my interest. It wasn't one of your run-of-the-mill leopard-print, lime-green eye-catchers. If I actually had the slightest interest in cars and motorcycles, I would tell you the make and model, and you would probably respond by saying, "really? that caught your eye? what, did dust fly in or something?" But the interesting thing about it was not its sick engine or rad tires, but the fact that on the side of this wholly unimpressive bike, "RAUL" was inscribed. I quickly took a glance at the rider in question. He was young enough, yes, but with pants too short, mismatching socks, a shirt too small; this was not a man who cared for appearances, let alone one who would take the time and effort to personally brand his bike.
So what was the reason for the brazen "RAUL," I wondered? As he sped past, another clue emerged. On the rear flap, "REST IN PEACE." Aha! Maybe this was Raul's bike. Maybe he had died tragically, leaving his most prized possession, his bike, to his friend. And, overcome in a fit of emotion at this gesture, maybe his friend not only kept the "RAUL" he had once found stupid and out of place, but also added a "REST IN PEACE" to forever remember his friend's untimely demise.
This starts a elaborate story, with offshoots and the like. Maybe this man, the sole confidante of Raul, was just putting his life back together after dealing with the loss of his death. After Raul died, he drank himself into oblivion, shunning work, family, anything that used to give him joy. Instead, after downing a pint of whiskey, he would ride. Ride to Nandi Hills, and stare at the sun until it descended. After many days of mourning, he finally emerged from his cocoon of grief, to find he had no job, no girlfriend, nothing.
"Is this what Raul would have wanted?" he thinks.
So he gets his life back in order, and on this very day, is on his way to his very first, post-Raul interview. He trudges out his worn interview clothes and hops on his bike, finally ready to re-enter the world.
And that's two minutes.
June 1, 2007
12:15-12:35pm
Bangalore, India
Attempting to take my mind off my impending presentation.
For example, as I glanced at the many bikes furiously competing for roadspace with my auto today, one in particular caught my interest. It wasn't one of your run-of-the-mill leopard-print, lime-green eye-catchers. If I actually had the slightest interest in cars and motorcycles, I would tell you the make and model, and you would probably respond by saying, "really? that caught your eye? what, did dust fly in or something?" But the interesting thing about it was not its sick engine or rad tires, but the fact that on the side of this wholly unimpressive bike, "RAUL" was inscribed. I quickly took a glance at the rider in question. He was young enough, yes, but with pants too short, mismatching socks, a shirt too small; this was not a man who cared for appearances, let alone one who would take the time and effort to personally brand his bike.
So what was the reason for the brazen "RAUL," I wondered? As he sped past, another clue emerged. On the rear flap, "REST IN PEACE." Aha! Maybe this was Raul's bike. Maybe he had died tragically, leaving his most prized possession, his bike, to his friend. And, overcome in a fit of emotion at this gesture, maybe his friend not only kept the "RAUL" he had once found stupid and out of place, but also added a "REST IN PEACE" to forever remember his friend's untimely demise.
This starts a elaborate story, with offshoots and the like. Maybe this man, the sole confidante of Raul, was just putting his life back together after dealing with the loss of his death. After Raul died, he drank himself into oblivion, shunning work, family, anything that used to give him joy. Instead, after downing a pint of whiskey, he would ride. Ride to Nandi Hills, and stare at the sun until it descended. After many days of mourning, he finally emerged from his cocoon of grief, to find he had no job, no girlfriend, nothing.
"Is this what Raul would have wanted?" he thinks.
So he gets his life back in order, and on this very day, is on his way to his very first, post-Raul interview. He trudges out his worn interview clothes and hops on his bike, finally ready to re-enter the world.
And that's two minutes.
June 1, 2007
12:15-12:35pm
Bangalore, India
Attempting to take my mind off my impending presentation.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
I should be committed
Commitment and I aren't really friends. I can't really say that we're enemies, since I flirt with it and let it buy me drinks from time to time, but we're no Laverne and Shirley, no Bert and Ernie, no Oscar and Felix. Which is not to imply that commitment and I are an ambiguously gay duo. It's just that commitment and I are never in the same place at the same time. Either it's ready to take the leap while I'm ready to hop on a plane, or I'm rearing to go, and it's lost interest with anything but my rear.
True story: I broke up with my very first boyfriend after only three days. Quick preface: I had been pursuing this kid for about three and a half months prior. Granted, I was in ninth grade, and yes, he did call me about 13 times in a span of two hours even after our first conversation reached a lull approximately 3 and a half minutes into it, but what was I doing? Commitment showed its face, and when it looked more like Britney Spears (an ever present force that is so irritating you wonder how you ever liked it) than Shakira (a refreshing little number that never gets tired with the ass of a god), I slapped it like the cheap whore it was.
So commitment, what's the deal now? Did you check the right box in the "do you like me? Yes No Maybe" note I sent? Ready to have that awkward "where are we now" conversation? No?
Well, let me buy you a beer, and we'll go from there.
May 30, 2007
Bangalore, India
2:29-2:49pm
Cleverly leaving a ten minute buffer between the end of this story and when the boss is due.
True story: I broke up with my very first boyfriend after only three days. Quick preface: I had been pursuing this kid for about three and a half months prior. Granted, I was in ninth grade, and yes, he did call me about 13 times in a span of two hours even after our first conversation reached a lull approximately 3 and a half minutes into it, but what was I doing? Commitment showed its face, and when it looked more like Britney Spears (an ever present force that is so irritating you wonder how you ever liked it) than Shakira (a refreshing little number that never gets tired with the ass of a god), I slapped it like the cheap whore it was.
So commitment, what's the deal now? Did you check the right box in the "do you like me? Yes No Maybe" note I sent? Ready to have that awkward "where are we now" conversation? No?
Well, let me buy you a beer, and we'll go from there.
May 30, 2007
Bangalore, India
2:29-2:49pm
Cleverly leaving a ten minute buffer between the end of this story and when the boss is due.
Good intentions only go so far
I try to start this story happily. Maybe there's a park; maybe there are children. Picnics come to mind, reminiscent of that pointillist painting, the one by the river. The fact that this picture is the one that comes to mind is particularly interesting, considering the two contexts in which I have come across this painting are decidedly discomforting. The first, the one that will most likely stay wedged in my mind until I lose it, is the scene from Ferris Bueller's Day Off, in which the depressed, pre-epiphany Cameron stares at the Seurat, zooming in repeatedly to get more detail. Sadly, like all his other efforts, Cameron receives the exact opposite effect, and the image descends into a meaningless blur of dots.
The second context, the one that I can barely remember though it was introduced barely a year ago, was in art history class. From what I can recall, the consensus among us was that Seurat had good intentions, but bad execution. He strived to create a utopic method of painting, one that anyone could execute. He wanted a world where everyone could be an artist. It was a warm, comforting thought, but the result of his endeavors always came off as cold, and off-putting. There was a sense of detachment, of disillusion.
So, the fact that my mind is conjuring up this particular painting when I am trying to think happy thoughts is telling. If I was back in any one of the few bullshit literature analyses classes I took in college, I would probably say my mind is telling me that happy thoughts don't always translate to happiness. Forcing the issue probably only reminds my mind of the exact thing I am trying to avoid. But that's only probably.
Bangalore, India
May 30, 2007
12:31-12:51pm
Avoiding work like it's my job. Man, what an awesome job that would be.
The second context, the one that I can barely remember though it was introduced barely a year ago, was in art history class. From what I can recall, the consensus among us was that Seurat had good intentions, but bad execution. He strived to create a utopic method of painting, one that anyone could execute. He wanted a world where everyone could be an artist. It was a warm, comforting thought, but the result of his endeavors always came off as cold, and off-putting. There was a sense of detachment, of disillusion.
So, the fact that my mind is conjuring up this particular painting when I am trying to think happy thoughts is telling. If I was back in any one of the few bullshit literature analyses classes I took in college, I would probably say my mind is telling me that happy thoughts don't always translate to happiness. Forcing the issue probably only reminds my mind of the exact thing I am trying to avoid. But that's only probably.
Bangalore, India
May 30, 2007
12:31-12:51pm
Avoiding work like it's my job. Man, what an awesome job that would be.
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