Some people think writing is easy, the hard truth is; it actually is. And the people who know this are the people who end up writing. You don't have to spew quality material everytime, because every word written down a lesson in self improvement, along with truckloads of self loathing and disgust. I've come to find that pretty much everyone who writes hates mostly every bit of their works. Every write up is a ridiculous one, only better than the one it precedes. The only hard thing at writing is finding your own style at it, one that doesn't make you want to puke all over once you read what you've written. The rest, that's easy. It's never difficult finding something to write, every person on the street, everyone you know, everyone you care about and everyone you ever wanted to punch in the face, they're all volumes of stories waiting to be told, all bursting at the seams, waiting to be written. What matters is, how you make it connect, how you make it intrinsically independent and yet carry on a theme forward, something that I am yet to figure. Turns out now I know why I haven't ever written in the serious sense of writing, now only if I would do something about it.

Work hard,
Eat right,
Don't smoke,
Sleep early,
Exercise,
Stay sober,



Die anyway.

I hate having to think what to write, as much as I hate what I have written, every time, every single one of my posts. Everyone of them looks like my worst work yet. I rarely like anything that’s written by me.

Most of what I write is private, and considering that most of it is online, let’s just add it to the list of paradoxes. As far as subject matter is concerned, most personal details never get jotted down; call me paranoid, possessive or protective. Adjectives don’t matter, not putting your loved ones in a tight spot do matter.

In even my saddest, angriest or most serious writings, if there is a cheesy joke I think I can put in, it’ll be there.

Most of what I write starts out as a self-awareness post, but a few words down the line, going through all that I might probably end up writing makes me feel sick to my stomach. I do not need to immortalize ugly memories. The world doesn’t need more dark corners and weepy eyes, just a shade more of sunlight and a laugh.

This is my most self aware post as yet. * staring creepily over-and-over again! *

Goals of a 23-year-old idiot:

• Be mature enough to have a semblance of a ‘medicine cabinet.’ Every time I get sick I just roll down to my roommates door and moan Cetrizine at them until they shove it under the door so I can shut up. I also get a lot of papercuts and do nothing but scream FUCK at them. It’d be nice to have access to some bandaids and little medicines and be a functioning human being who is prepared for some small disasters.
• Maybe not be on Facebook so much. Not in that smug way people who have ‘gotten off Facebook’ tell you when you meet them at a party and they announce to the whole party ‘well I’ve just DELETED my facebook I don’t NEED THAT CLUTTER IN MY LIFE’ and then stare at everybody with a fucking grin on their face like they deserve a medal. Just maybe I shouldn’t slowly drool onto the keyboard as I click through some random profile pictures for the 90,000 time.
• Be vaguely aware of the things I am piling into my mouth like I am a bulldozer on a construction site. 
• Be vaguely aware of the money I am throwing into a fiery garbage can of coke and rent and orange juice.
• Gain some wine knowledge. Whenever I go to a slightly nice restaurant (okay, with my parents or that ONE FRIEND who has a real job) and they go ‘would you like to see the wine menu’ I stare at the wine menu and go ‘well, which one will get me the DRUNKEST at the fastest pace?’ No, no. I need to start knowing what oaky backwash or plum notes or whatever the fuck I’m supposed to know about wine, and at least decide what kind of wine is the best (and not shiraz because it’s usually 13.5%). And then I need to be able to order that before  I decide "fuck this shit ,I need to get high."
• And in the spirit of wine, maybe I will only drink wine out of wine glasses from now on.
• Fuck that, only in PUBLIC.
• Start doing adult things before I go to bed at night like not having pre-dinner and post-dinner.
• Start doing adult things in the morning like getting up early and eating breakfast while reading the paper. Even if the breakfast is old cornflakes that was lying around and I’m reading the paper online, I swear I will be one of those people that is so caught up on current events, nobody wants to play Jeopardy with me.
• Maybe I’m making my goals too big. I was going to say ‘keep a plant alive’ but I know that’s impossible, that plant is as good as fucking dead. How about cleaning my bed sheets once a month or at least doing laundry. How about I just start DOING MY LAUNDRY?  I’m going to start doing more laundry or just buying more underwear. 
• Organize my computer. Wait, your desktop is filled with ridiculous amounts of pictures and documents too, right? And your gmail is like, 7,000 emails in? Please tell me I am not the only idiot who forgets to erase all his e-mails in case I really DID care who posted what to me and when.
• No more purchases of: random T-shirts and other shit I never use. Oh, you bet your ASS I will keep the ones I have, but maybe I should invest in purchasing some clothing item that doesn’t cost a few thousand bucks and continues to make me look like a fourteen-year-old. Not that it doesn’t work for Brad Pitt, but I bought so many clothes last year I couldn’t afford the one cool pair of shoes I really want. And I didn’t even get the TagHuer in the end. 
• Lose only one ATM card this year, keep my vehicle insurance card with me, and stop stepping on my headphones.
• Stop wiping my hands on my pants.
• Instead of staring at foodgawker all the time, perhaps now is the time to actually cook in my kitchen. Like, go to the store and buy fresh vegetables and make something other than stir fry or ‘roast thing with garlic powder’ or stick to boiled eggs. And try to do that more than once a month. More importantly, ask my mom how to make all my childhood recipes I loved as a kid so I can make them for somebody else, one day, too.
• Ask somebody on a date.
• Go on a date.
• Eat pizza for breakfast. Never done it, and this tortures me.
• Continue to not hear my selfish streak whine.
• Do something that takes some courage. Man up. Not because I’m getting older, but because I guess now I need to have cool stories to tell people when I’m old someday. This is not a ‘I should travel thing’ even though I want to travel. I just refuse to still be the guy who says ‘I’m going to travel’ as a way of saying ‘no I haven’t fucking travelled" this does not make me a PHILISTINE THIS MAKES ME POOR.’
• Start doing that whole 'save money in my savings account thing’ HAHHAHA MAYBE IF THE WORLD SOLD EVERYTHING FOR FREE! okay maybe just 10000 RUPEES in my savings. In case I lose an eye or something!
• Stop complaining so much, stop "DON'T GIVE A FUCKING DAMN" so much, stop rolling my eyes, stop watching so much television, and just generally have a good fucking time.
• Never stop drinking coffee, watching Disney Movies, getting excited on weekend mornings, having crushes, and every other thing that isn’t just for kids any more because its ME AS AN ADULT.
• Maybe find out what being responsible is. MAYBE.

To sound like the spam that rained exactly 7 days ago from today on your e-mails and sms, Happy New Year. To be honest, writing has been reduced from an activity that I did approximately every lecture hour/day/week during boring college hours to something that I hope to do now-a-days. Maybe it's because now-a-days, I'm inclined to think before I write anything (which is a complete rarity by itself, I never think before I do anything. I usually do something and then think about why, but even that doesn't help because half way through the thinking, the sky just turned a shade blue darker and my head is whizzing away right there, among the clouds. Only thunderclaps around.) and blogging has gone from being enjoyable to something like writing an exam, mostly. Now-a-days, every time I have an itch to write, a huge placard pops out of nowhere saying "Warning! This is going to get seriously boring/depressing". Contrary to popular opinion, Life AIN'T a bitch. Sweet, sour, absurd, pointless, lessons, mistakes, love, hate, bliss, depression, but never a bitch. Guess life is something that happens between "before you were" and "after you ceased to be". Sometimes, I'm amazed how smart I am. Like my 12th std zoology teacher loved shouting at me, "Eeeeeediot fellow only you, nitthin!". With that very zingy south indian accent fully thrown in. I hate admitting it, but I loved listening to that. Making somebody shout out stuff that sounded thoroughly funny, in-spite of the content, is a very full-filling feeling, atleast in 11th and 12th grade school. And yes, I have reached the point where there's a buzz in my head screaming at 200+ decibels, "boring/depressing". I need a pill that'll help me totally blur out my school days. That way, I won't flood my blog with useless musings about it. But considering how much useful content this blog has ever produced, DUH!

I need to get a life. And soup. Soon. Maybe Lanba was right. Maybe I'm at times a  retard who's more concerned with caring about how random people would react to me shouting BURP at their faces than sorting out what I really need to do. The irony of the whole thing is Lanba never said it in the first place. He did tell me to get a life, but he's been doing that for years now. I hope his preserverence pays. At least for my sake. My own, freaking sake. Does that make selfish? I don't know. Retarded? Maybe. Right now , I need to finish making that video. I need ideas, and very clearly, I'm not helping myself. Until I do get a brainwave, which better be soon, "ahoy,( I sooo want to spell out "good bye" in Spanish, but I forgot.)''.

The south asian band festival.

Apparently there is a rock band in Nepal. And they can play too. Some music. But I still don't get the rock part. And the old grandpa singing is so unnerving. His moves are disturbing. And totally out of sync with any remote trace of music. i'm afraid he'll end up impaling his spine in his own rib cage. He keeps shreiking out "and the next number is?..."....I guess the demented old man is hallucinating that he is in line for a liver transplant. Very cold gig. And all the momo makers seem to love it. Pretty sure delhi is having a momo-drought tonight. I have a cold, dry cough and I still manage to shreik better than him. The guitar is good, but the old man is killing that too. Finally, after a little more eons of incomprehensible music that was aping bollywood in the worst possible way and tagging itself rock, the anchor decides that maybe its time the majority of the crowd got back to making momos. Finally, the grandpa's band were gone for food, sorry; good, Thermal and A Quarter (and KANDISA, kailash kher's band)waiting to get and stage and the smell of momos back in the delhi airspace. What an evening.