S is a very nice woman. She is. She makes allu posto, opens rum bottles with nail cutters AND has red curtains. I mean really, what else do you want? But there is a thorn between us now. And its a pack of Will's Silk Cuts.
But I get ahead of myself. A little backtracking will help. I am broke and thus it falls on her to buy the pack of smokes. She goes for the aforementioned Silk Cuts. I pout and demand my regular Gold Flakes instead. She pats me with the air of the very wise and says, "this has got a white filter."
I am unimpressed.
"The tobacco smells better."
I am sold. Anything that smells better does it for me in most instances. So here I am, being unfaithful to my blonde originals, sucking at their pale cousins instead. These pathetic, sissy excuses for cigarettes that do their tribe an injustice by even existing.
S shall pay ofcourse. Someday I shall switch the allu in her posto with kochu.

Cover Story Massacre

This is how all good stories begin, no? A day dawned when Smita’s almost still born, refusing to kick, cover story idea suddenly jerked back to life.
Tiny tendrils of information that confirmed the hotness of the idea snaked in and zapped The Powers That Be. “We must, we must, we must/ before the story does rust/ In words do fetter/ The quicker the better/ without too much of a fuss.”
They comandeth, I followeth. Since the deadline was now fixed firmly and unassailably "for next week," it was used like Mowgli's thaba. Charming but deadly emails were sent out asking for inputs or else. They came. There was mad scramble for pictures and much hand wringing, begging on bended knees was done in person and on phone. They came. It was all coming together in one blindingly beautiful blaze of doingness.
Then My Specs Broke. I get contact lenses. Then My Story Is Swept Off Cover. I end day by drinking massive amount of rum. The End. The End.

there is in this thriving metrapolis a woman who shares my taste in men. tender with onions, lightly fried.
But on every other sphere, we differ completely. And if I throw away the fig leaf of modesty, (there...off it flutters) I feel snottily superior.
The sole similarity disturbs me however. Why? because I took to heart what Francisco D'Anconia (the only Rand character I liked) said. Something to the effect that the person you love is a reflection of your deepest, most secret self.
In short, you might scream from the rooftops that you hate metrosexual men and secretly be drawn to clean nails and freshly scrubbed skin.
So I wither at the thought, peel away, froth at the mouth...you get the idea...of being attracted to the same men she is.
P.S: I shall pay for this post. I shall fall irreversibly in love with someone blatantly unsuitable. Given the time I spend in autos, it will probably be a rickshawala.

Curiously all ex-es are reduced to initials. They all become "those who cannot be named," for fear of invoking the Memory bogeyman. Till now I have collected A and G. Now I just need an H to succinctly describe smug present self's revulsion towards pitiable former self's choices...AGH!

The brat (refer to post below) actually deserves special mention. Think of The Hulk with a very dark complexion, reduce him to around three feet and change his gender and you come close to imagining the monstrosity.

first, the essentials. I am now installed in "my own place" that is essentially one of those horribly de classe back-portion-of the-house joints that abound in CR Park.
i've been concretely hankering after this since september 04 and dreaming of it since I was 15 (or was it 13? the amoebic years are so hard to keep track of) when I drew a fully functional one room flat on graph paper.
However there are practicalities. By and by I realise how inconvenient it is to shit in a bathroom without a sink, wash dishes in kitchen with a sink but without running water and smile charmingly at the brat of the household who steals my phone when my back is turned.
On the upside I have peace, no guilt-wrenching moments, and time to read without interruptions to "discuss my day." Thus I have swimingly progressed though 'Paperweight,'a collection of essays, by Stephen Fry, which compares favourably to 'Moab Is My Washpot,' his frankly frank autobiography. Why? Because while I appreciate the fact that it is Fry's demons that inspire his best writing (The Liar), I'd rather not have front row seats to watch him mucking about with them. I am content with the shawdowy twin I meet in his fiction that draws the ever-so-slight veil over his vulnerabilities, his inadequacies and his guilt for being the archtypal outsider on the inside.

According to the site http://www.blogshares.com/, my blog is worth much money. $1000 to be precise. despite the initial oooooh reaction, I am kind of peeved about anonymous people selling shares of my blog — which no one is buying. So to quote higgins, "Hah!" to them.
PS: what do u know...the site trades in 'fictional blog shares.' *feeling a bit stupid about earlier outrage.*