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.

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.