Confessions of a Rambunctious WhipperSnapper

It’s that sort of a day when you continue to listen to a song on repeat. Not just because you are too lazy to do something about it, but because you want to wrap yourself in the familiarity.

It’s that sort of a week in which you wonder how things you never imagined could happen to you actually happen.

It’s that sort of month which fills you with both excitement and anticipation.

It’s that sort of a year which feels like you are living someone else’s life and any minute now you will  snap out of it and then everything will go back to as it were before.

You still cannot really fathom what is going on in your life.

So you sit there and wonder, is this really you?

I wanted a breather from the 'hectic' life I have at home so I went back to my favourite hilly town again. I was expecting great weather, good food, a small number of people and a bookstore which I could spend hours at.

Either nothing was as I left it last time or my memory is hazier than the storylines of Lost.

The weather was like Drew Barrymore's career, good in some parts but really crappy overall.

The food was worse than Julia Robert's choice in men. The espresso bar I used to frequent earlier was dead and gone, replaced by a shop for some stupid clothing chain. God-damn capitalists with their need for maximum profit!

There were more people there than the number of Jennifer Aniston's ex-boyfriends. I went there because it was March and I thought people would be busy with their stupid children's stupid exams and that people would be busy in doing one of those job things which though sound really awful, seem to be the in thing these days. However, apparently, everyone had their stupid exams in February and those job things come with something called 'vacation time' now. Whatever happened to exploiting your workforce? Everyone seems to have turned into a god-damn socialist!

And don't even get me started on the bookstore. The probability of me going back to that bookstore is even smaller than the chance of J. Lo having a successful comeback. All the books were stacked together like common pieces of merchandise. How can anyone enjoy shopping for books when they are presented to you like they present a large number of probable child brides to rich, horny old men in small Indian villages? Where is the romance in that?

On top of that, the owner of the bookshop had the temerity to recommend to me a book whose exact tag line was "It's like the Da Vince Code . . . only better!!!" [sic]. He didn't notice, but I ended up putting a curse on him. Read all about it in the new thrilling future bestseller The dreaded curse of the combustible Homo, in a book store near you  early May 2035 - It's like the Da Vince Code and The Secret got together and had a baby!!!

Another thing which bothered me was that since it was the off-season for the hilly town, everyone was using this opportunity to get their shitty hell holes re-painted which made all my allergies act up.

To make it worse, the one route I loved to walk on, because of it's solitary nature, was now dotted with more hotels and those infernal tea-shops for the poors, who seem to find their way into every place. If they really have no money, what are they doing at a hilly town?

If I said anything to anyone, they would tell me that it's nice of me to get out of my 'comfort zone' and I should give it a couple of days. What does that even mean? Why would anyone like to get out of their 'comfort zone'? Don't people spend their whole life trying to find a freaking comfort zone? So why fix something which ain't broke? I think it's just one of those things that people say which they really do not mean. Like "Of course this plus-sized t-shirt doesn't make you look fat" or "Just because you slept with him on the first date doesn't mean he thinks you're a slut".

I felt the same mixture of anger and disappointment which people feel when they realize that they have a crush on John Mayer.

I wondered what happened to this hilly-town? It was supposed to be my happy place (before I discovered Ryan Carnes). Nothing felt right. It seemed to be a metaphor for my life, where nothing felt right too. Just like me, the hilly town seemed to have lost it's mojo! It was also probably spending it's time brooding in it's room, listening to Speechless while eating chicken from it's nearest KFC.

So I stood there one day, on the balcony of my room, high on benadryl and paint fumes, thinking of packing up and leaving the next day. Just then, a family friend who sort of lives nearby the hotel I was staying in, came knocking. He had heard about the terrible time I was having and he promised me that he would make it up to me. Since I was not in my senses (more than usual), I agreed to join him for a ride after lunch. Mostly because he did not use the words "comfort" and "zone". Smart man.

And it turned out to be one of my better decisions! Even better than the time when as a five year old, I kicked a stranger offering me ice cream right in the cajones. Yes, I am smart like that, sometimes. Very rare times, in fact.

So the family friend took to me to a part of the hilly town that I haven't ever seen, even though I had been visiting the place for almost two decades. And that place had the most amazing view ever! It was one of the best scenes I have ever laid my eyes on. I had begun to think that just like a straight Jonas brother, such a view would be impossible to find! But I was wrong! (Still right about the Jonas brothers though! They're probably gayer than a Saturday night at Elton John's house!)

Then we went to a bookshop where I found the book that I had been wanting to read since a long time. We ended our sojourn at a place which serves the most amazing waffles I've ever had, which were accompanied by a delectable cup of coffee.

I did everything I wanted to do in a span of two hours! And then, just like Chris Brown before the grammy's, it hit me. At about 8000 feet above the sea level I realized that life was trying to send me a message in it's own effed up way. That even if you get old & derelict like Madonna and end up losing your way every now and then, somehow, someway you will find something new and surprising inside of you. Even if it is a guy whose name is pronounced as Haysoos.

Maybe it was imaginary, like Sarah Palin's high school diploma, and maybe it's a little to self-helpy when I think about it, but at least I got out of my comfort zone!

Shouldn't that count for something?

. . . but fuck blog protocol (I really need to start using another profanity. I'm not Kathy Griffin at NYE, for crying out loud).

I finally sat through When Harry met Sally and saw it at one go. *Spoiler Alert* - They do end up together. Whoopti-fucking-do. Damn straight people. They have it so easy. All they need to is to start hating someone and voila!, they end up spending the rest of their life with that person. Why in the blue hell do gay people love this movie? I guess that's because all of us need some sort of myth to believe in. Like Brangelina. Or the secret of the universe hidden inside Lady Gaga's magic peen.

* * *

Speaking of stupid things people believe in, is it me or everyone is getting married this season? About four different sets people I went to school with choose to spend eternity with each other's cooties. Some were even younger than I am.

I usually try to avoid weddings like the plague that they are, but since a few of these people were my drinking buddies and a few of them might be useful for a few (future) cheap laughs, I sorta went along.

Everybody had an average of four large dinner parties. I can never understand why people have so many do's when they are getting married. It's like their telling the world, We're going to spend the rest of our forlorn miserable existence together. We would like you and everybody else we know to believe that we are good, monogamous people, even though one of us looks like a whore. So come celebrate with us and stuff yourself with so much food that you need to loosen your belt buckle. Also, we make so much money that we can afford to feed a thousand people some pseudo-exotic fruit which, let's pretend, came from some exotic country. Now shut your pie hole and eat something.

If I were straight, I would have actually run off and got married in Vegas or something. But hey, it's your money. If you want to spend it feeding more than a thousand ungrateful souls, half of whom are jealous and the other half just pretending to like you, then please go ahead. Who am I to judge?

Although, I did get to meet some people I went to school with and laugh at their sad little existence. One of them had a really nice and interesting wife. If I wasn't so gay, I would've hit that. Too bad she's married to that insufferable old coot. I'm pretty sure she's going to become a cougar in twenty years.

* * *

I think I might have a small crush on the Baskin Robbins delivery guy. Well, at least that explains the freezer full of uneaten tubs of ice-cream in this arctic winter we've been having. They really DO have 31 flavours, ya know? Pretty neat. Coming back to the guy, he's smart, educated and does not take any tips. It's against "company policy". Geez. What a dork! Just take the money and drop your pants, you fool.

Sigh. Porn movies make it look so easy. (Not that I would know. I heard it from one of my ..ummm.. friends.)

Why does the sort-of-romantic part of my life always involve food in one way or the other? I think I have issues. Freud would have a field day. Thankfully, that mofo is dead.

No, I don't know anything about psychology. I accidentally read up on him a few years ago on wikipedia while I was aimlessly surfing the interwebs.

I was at work at that time. What else was I supposed to do?

* * *

A week after I came out to my Dad, guess who calls me up?

S-Girl.

Remember her?

Yup.

She called me.

Again.

I had already ignored 9,999 of her previous calls, therefore I decided to pick this one up. What can I say? I'm nice like that, sometimes.

So we chat for five minutes, ignoring the literal elephant in the room (hey, I was looking into the mirror).

She then declared that she wanted to meet.

I immediately regretted picking up her call. I just spoke to her after a long time of ignoring her calls, and now she wanted to meet? I then realized that this is a woman who has no sense of boundaries at all. The memory of all the really horrible things she had told me about herself a few years ago came puking back.

She clearly told me that if I did not meet her she would stand outside my house and shout out cuss words in victorian english, so I was left with no choice but to meet her.  Although, to be safe, I asked her to meet me in my family home, so that there would be witnesses just in case things got a little bit out of hand. I'm smart like that, sometimes.

Anyways, time passes too fast, the metaphorical clock ticks away to five, and I ask my Mom to make sure that my precious books are distributed according to the list I have prepared, just in case I am unable to "survive" this meeting. Of course, my Mom thought I was just being a tad melodramatic. I guess I can't blame her for that. I am the same person, who, a few months ago forced her get rid of half the plants in her garden because I felt like they were too judgemental. It might sound a little crazy, but under circumstances will I be judged in my own home. At least not by those green, freeloading basteds.

Right. Moving on.

The bell rings, I pray to the almost empty bottle of Vodka on the table to keep me out of harm's way, and then I go to open the door to meet her.

Okay, fine. I didn't exactly open the door myself, I might have 'politely' asked someone from the household help to do it, just in case she was carrying a weapon. Hey, they're poor and they live in a third world country. Their lives are probably less valuable.

So let's not lose focus here, people. 

After the door is opened, S-Girl enters the house. She has the aura of a lame serial killer from a Dan Brown novel. We sit down, she makes small talk. I continue to nod constantly, while also trying to be alert enough to watch out for any sudden movements.

The conversation keeps moving while my pea sized heart tries to exit via my mouth.

S Girl: You know, we really should finish what we started a few years ago.
Me: What?
S Girl: *head tilt* You know what I'm talking about . . .
Me: No, I have no idea. I have trouble remembering things. I drink a lot, remember?
S Girl: (Moving closer) Let me remind you then . . .
Me: (getting up) I'M mmmmmm GAYYYYYY . . . VERY GAY . . . . GAYER THAN A HUGH GRANT MOVIE . . .
S Girl: What?????????
Me: Yes. I'm gay. I like boys. Not girls. Don't like girls. I mean, I like girls, but just not in that way.
S Girl: But . . . how can you be gay? . . .
S Girl: Look at you . . . you're wearing Reeboks with corduroy jeans? What's up with that?
Me: Well, I haven't entered the being fabulous phase yet.
Me: Still working on that.
S Girl: Seriously? I hope so, for your sake.
S Girl: Only redneck farmers and 90 year old Belgian grandmothers are allowed to have so much facial hair.  
S Girl: Also, that tub of lard needs to go.
Me: Hey, I just haven't shaved in a while.
Me: And that's not a tub of lard, bitch. That's my stomach.
S Girl: Just letting you know stuff, buddy.
Me: Might I remind you that you were the one who was about to KISS ME a few minutes ago?
S Girl: Yeah, but I'm a married Indian woman. I take whatever I can get.
Me: I hate you, you know!
S Girl: Ha. Fine. Tell me something I don't know.
S Girl: So, since when have you known that you're a pole smoker?
Me: Offensive, bitch.
Me: And I guess I've known since as long as I can remember.  
S Girl: Ummmm, were you gay when we were going out? 
Me: We were never 'going out', per se. 
S Girl: Well, you know what I mean!
Me: Yeah, okay.
Me: Well, I did know, I guess, but I was deep in denial at that time. 
Me: Although, now that I think about it, you probably might have helped me confirm it.
Me: I might have been confused, but after our whole thing, I was pretty damn sure I was a 'mo.
Me: Don't wanna be rude, but you might have even turned me . . . hahaha
S Girl: *Looks like a piñata got stuck up her cervix*
S Girl: WHAT. DID. YOU. MEAN. BY. THAT?
Me: Just a joke. Kidding. I had a drink during lunch. Lighten up. Take a deep breath.
Me: Cookie?
S Girl: So you're definitely gay?
Me: Yup. I am. Thankfully.
S Girl: Yeah. Sure. What a "loss" to straight woman. Boo fucking hoo.
Me: Yeah, that's rich, coming from a desperate housewife.
S Girl: Touché.
Me: Thank you, madam.
S Girl: So you like boys, huh?
Me: Yeah.
S Girl: Then stay away from my husband. *stupid grin* hahahaha
Me: Please, even if he is the last man on earth, I'd never hit on that sad little fucker.
S Girl: WHY? what's wrong with him?
Me: Errrrr, nothing.
S Girl: Is it the hair? Or the moustache? Or the mole?
Me: NOTHING. He seems like a nice guy.
S Girl: It's the hair isn't it?
S Girl: Or is the way he talks?
Me: Okayyyyy. Let's just leave it at that, please? Great. Thank you.
Me: So the weather is being such a bitch, isn't it?
S Girl: Is it because of the way he laughs? Does it makes you want to join a cult, too?
Me: So have you read Wolf Hall yet? I'm hearing good things about it.
S Girl: Why wouldn't you want to do my husband?
Me: Cause he is your frikin husband!! Does that mean anything to YOU?
S Girl: Meh. He's probably gay, anyway.
Me: EXCUSE ME??
Me: WHAT??
S Girl: Nothing.
S Girl: I think I'd better leave.
Me: Yeah. That would be for the best.

(Then I went to see her off, so as to make sure she doesn't come back)

Me: So this was fun.
S Girl: *Silence*
Me: Nice catching up with you.
S Girl: (gets into car)
Me: We should do this again sometime.
S Girl: (closes door, starts engine)
Me: Give my best to your husband.
S Girl: (speeds away, hopefully never to be seen again!)

 

Do you think I might have touched a nerve, somewhere?

Even if I did, well, she started it.

Today, early in the morning: (okay, really early in the morning)

*Ring* *Ring* (not actually a ring, but the theme from Mad Men)

Me: Hello

Caller: Hey, watsup . . .

Me: Nothing much really. Long time, eh?

Caller: Yeah, I know . . .

Me: So how's the wife doing?

Caller: She's doing good . . .

Me: . . . When is the baby due?

Caller: What baby?

Me: Er. . . Aren't you guys pregnant?

Caller: No . . .

Me: . . . WHAT HAPPENED?

Caller: We HAD the baby, idiot! That's WHAT happened!

Me: CONGRATULATIONS! When? And why didn't you tell me?

Caller: Last month . . .

Me: LAST MONTH? . . .

Caller: Stop shouting.

Caller: I DID tell you . . .

Caller: . . . And YOU came to visit us in the hospital!!

Me: I did?

Caller: Yes. Twice.

Me: Are you sure?

Caller: Of course I'm sure. It's pretty hard to . . . forget the day your child is born . . .

Me: Yeah, of course.

Caller: . . . . specially because on the first day one of the guards got fired because you wandered in during non-visiting hours . . .

Me: That does sound like something I would do, yeah . . .

Me: . . . however, are you sure that you aren't pulling a prank on me?

Caller: Dude, for the past month I've been knee deep in dirty diapers, I have been dozing off during meetings because I barely get to sleep at night and if I see one more relative wanting to give "good wishes" to my child, I'm going to jump from the terrace.

Caller: So I am hardly in a mood to kid around and pull pranks on someone . . .

Me: Aright . . . chill, don't get so emotional, man . . .

Caller: And since you don't remember, you also gave us a nice gift . . .

Me: Really? I'm so glad you liked whatever I gave you. 

Caller: Yeah, even  ______ likes it. He plays with it all the time.  

Me: You HAD a boy????

Caller: *Click*

 

What'd I say?

Recently, the most common question that I ask everyone is "What day is it today? No, seriously". I actually do lose track of what day, date, month or even what year it is. In fact, I have been using my own personal time standard, in hours are defined by the time left until the next meal and sometimes two, or three "normal" days are clubbed together because I really don't remember them as separate entities anyway.

Not that I am to blame. It happens when one is not gainfully employed. Everyday seems like a Sunday. And not a Sunday in which you know that the next day the grind starts again. No, a Sunday which is followed by another Sunday, which is followed by another Sunday, which in turn is followed by, no prizes for guessing, another Sunday.

So, to me, the past year and a half have been like an extended weekend. (Actually, some people I know would like to call it by a different name, but this is what I've decided upon. An extended weekend. Has a nice ring to it doesn't it? Hi, I'm on an extended weekend. What? Oh, that's part of my work actually. Yes, I specialize in extending weekends. It's a inborn talent, really. No, I don't have any branches. Yet.)

However, there is one thing that even someone as clueless & as intoxicated as me can notice.

I've come to realize that people treat those who are gainfully employed and those who take extended weekends which last more than a year, a tad bit differently. I know. Outrageous, isn't it?

I vividly remember the days when I used to work. By work, I mean laughing at every stupid forward people send and exploring wikipedia for useless trivia (Did you know Mata Hari was actually not a really good spy? Yup. Surprising isn't it? There is so much useless trivia out there, and so little time. Sigh. Also, it only sounds interesting when you are being paid to do something else. Otherwise, who really cares. Pshaw!)

It turns out that a job is like an ass. Everyone seems to have them.

So when you answer the question "So, what are you doing these days?" with the ominous word "Nothing", most people react in a very predictable way.

First, comes the indignation.

"What do you mean by nothing? So you actually aren't doing anything? Nothing AT ALL? Are you crazy?!"

Then comes the surprise.

"Why? What happened? You were doing so well! Are you crazy?"

Then, the weight of the information they have been provided with begins to settle in and a pattern seems to emerge.

"So you're sitting at home? Voluntarily? Why? Are you crazy?"

Then comes the search for plausible excuses.

"Are you sick? No?"

"Are you trying to lose weight? No?"

"Are you studying? No?"

"Are you helping out your family with the business? No?"

Then comes the slight tilt of the head and the first step towards the road of acceptance.

"Awwww. Oh! I'm sure you deserve it. I remember you used to be working so hard".

"Good for you".

"I would never have the guts to do something like this".

Then come the suggestions.

"If you're not busy, you should help out your family with the business".

"If you're not busy, you should study more and add to your resume".

"If you're not busy, you should try losing weight".

"If you're not busy, you should try writing a blog".

"If you're not busy, you should help my son get his wife pregnant".

Then comes the show of fake support along with a huge effort made in trying to encapsulate the overwhelming feeling of jealousy along with a naked attempt to try to make me feel like a loser.

"So you're staying home for the past year doing nothing? So you're doing NOTHING? How do you pass your day?"

"I would go bananas if I had to spend even a day doing nothing! Haha! How do you do it?"

"Aren't you yearning to go back to work?"

"You would have been an ________ by now if you hadn't left your job!"

"What's a blog?"

Then comes what I lovingly call the insane reasoning portion of the evening.

"This is not an age to take a break at. One should only take a break when one's sixty".

"Don't you want to get married?"

"You have to do something. Everyone does something or the other. You can't just sit at home".

"Don't you want to get married and give your parents a few grandchildren to play with?"

"You'll start losing the use of your mental faculties if you keep doing nothing for a long period of time. Stop laughing. It's true. I've seen it happen".

"No one does what they really want to do. So go back to work and get married. It's high time you got settled".

That sums up the conversation with 95% of the people.

One of the things about being jobless is that the "different" treatment you get from people. Suddenly, people find it really awkward to talk to me. And my opinion just does not hold the same value for them as it used to before. People really don't know how to start a conversation with me anymore. And there are so many topics they try to steer clear from. Things they presume that I would get offended by.

We are so used to identifying and associating people with what kind of work they do that it's really hard for us to look beyond that. Even when we introduce ourselves to other people, in most cases, the first thing that really comes out after our names is our occupation or whatever we do for a living. Because even personally, that's our yardstick for defining who we are. I used to do that too. But my "extended weekend" has made me realize that whatever job or line of work you do doesn't have to define who you are. We are so obsessed with titles, positions, the whole concept of "making a name for yourself" that we let it take over our lives. People define success not by how happy they are but by how many weekends they spend replying to work emails on their blackberry. It's in trying to "be somebody" that we lose track of who we really are. I know that because I did.

I'm not trying to knock anyone here. As they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

I, for one, love being treated like a pariah. A few of my friends and some assorted family friends have tried to "turn me around" and "talk some sense into me" but most of the time, they end up projecting. It's funny how the same people who used to tell my parents that they were "so proud" of me, now avoid me like the bubonic plague, even using me as an example of explaining to their children on how not to do things. The general consensus seems to be that I've lost it and that this is more evidence that I am a "spoiled" brat. Well, not that there is anything wrong with that. However, as always, I'm too drunk too care. I don't give a flying f@ck about what these people think anyway!

Yeah, almost everyone treats me differently. Even God. He answers all my prayers with "I'll get to you in a minute, asshole". To be fair, all of my prayers revolve around food and sex. And I guess God thinks that you can only have one of them at a time.

*Chomp Chomp*

Is he trying to tell me something?

Recently, a few people I sort of knew have been visited by the grim reaper.

I only attended the funeral of one of them. Because I only go to funerals of people with whom I have some sort of emotional attachment.  Or if people I know have some sort of emotional attachment to the deceased. If I wanted to see people pretend to cry for no reason I would watch a woman-oriented film.

It's really revealing to see human nature at one of these things. The ability of the human race to be self-involved does not seem to surprise me.

At the funeral I attended, one of the "mourners" thought it was appropriate to inform me that obesity will kill me one day and tell me that she had recently completed a course and was now a practicing dietician. It's good she did not do a course in reading faces otherwise she would have known that at that very moment, I wanted her to drop dead.

The velocity at which people tend to move on is surprising. The speed at which they can turn their conversation from politics to how attached they are to the deceased and then to how the new pocket car from the TATA's is going to clog the already clogged streets of Delhi is mind boggling.

Not that I am above the fray. When the first of the deaths happened, the first question that came into my mind was, "Do I make fun of him anymore?".  Just because someone has passed away does not mean that they suddenly turn into a saint? We can still laugh at their expense, can't we? Nobody turns around and remembers Hitler fondly just because he's dead? No one really wants to build temples dedicated to Attila the Hun, do they? Has anyone tried to bring Lenin back to life have they? Well, actually, after they bought Dick Cheney back to life, they kind of ended the research on trying to bring back monsters to life.

I was also appalled by all the customs that need to be followed when someone dies. I find them really perverse. Our ancestors must have been crazy & heartless sumbitches to come up with such crazy shit.

Strangely, one thing common to all those people who have passed away is that they were sort of senile. Now,  personally, I would not want to live that long. And I would not want to die like that.

My death should be sudden. Like one minute I'm insulting somebody and the next minute I fall down on the floor while hitting my head on some piece of furniture which is modern & edgy. Also, I don't want any blood cause I hate to spill anything on my shirt. And red kind of clashes with black.

I imagine that when they carry my fat carcass to cremate, I might break the edifice and fall down and go rolling down the cliff. Note to self: Stay away from places which are near a cliff. That's one of the reasons I would prefer to be electronically cremated. That and because I'm allergic to smoke. I wouldn't want to add to global warming. I believe once you're dead, it's a good time to think about the environment.

And instead of having a priest read out some mumbo-jumbo in a language no one really understands, I would like a stand-up comedian to perform. Preferably someone who is funny. And has appeared on The Tonight Show at least twice.

That's because I might be dead, but I still got standards to maintain, you know?

Sometimes one feels so insignificant. You know, somedays you realize that there is so much happening out there. That there is so much more to life than random snarky observations about pop-culture.

A few hours ago, I got the feeling that I am not the center of the universe. Of course, then I come to my senses and realize that it can't be true. Everyone knows that's not even possible. Silly me!!

Sometimes I feel that I am missing out. That I should go out and see the world. Travel or something. But then, if I have to go somewhere I kind of need to pack my whole room and take it with me. I absolutely cannot sleep without my favorite pillow. And I can never decide which books to take along. it's so difficult. It's like choosing between your children. Hell, I think it's tougher. Choosing between children is easy. You choose the one who has the most potential for making money. Ignore the others. Or put those losers up for adoption. I'm sure Angelina Jolie or the Octo-Mom would want them.


Then I feel that I should try to do something for other people.


Yeah, I know. I can't even type that with a straight face.


No, seriously. I feel that I have so much to give, specially free advice. I think that I should join an NGO or something and lobby for political change. Although, when I think about it, I would never know what to wear to such a shindig. I'll be left wondering whether I need to color coordinate? Or do I go with black? Or should go ethnic or try the whole retro reporter look? I can never answer such questions. Dammit. There should be a course for such stuff. Or at least a wikipedia entry.


Then I thought I should teach the illiterate. Try to educate them. Teach them something and make a difference in their lives. However, I nipped this plan in the bud. Cause as I remember from my time in school when we were forced by our goody-two-shoes Headmaster er... lightly persuaded to teach poor children, illiterate people have a tendency to stink. Although I still don't understand why the other volunteers were flabbergasted when I kept using a room freshener during my class.


But then I realized that I already do too much volunteering. For example, I have joined over two groups on facebook which purport to bring like-minded people together so that they can post on each other's wall. What more can one do, really?

So I then thought that I should try to give back to my family. Although I strongly feel that my presence is blessing enough. Still, I thought I would help my Dad or Bro with their business. So I asked them if any of them needed an intelligent and hard working person to come work for them. They said sure and they also told me that if I knew such a person I should introduce him or her to either of them. When I said I was talking about me, there was complete shock, followed by awkward silence while everyone exchanged glances, and then after a break of a few seconds there was loud, uncontrollable, bringing-down-the-roof laughter.

This is what I get for trying to be helpful. And just because last time I went to their office and I mistook one of their managers for the driver and told him to get my car doesn't mean I would do that again. You only make a mistake like that twice. And in my defense, he was wearing a safari suit. How good a manger would he be?

Anyhoo, of they don't want me, I will take my talents elsewhere. Somewhere I am wanted and appreciated.

There has got to be someone who would pay top dollar/euro/rupee/monopoly money for someone like me. I have so much to give. And so much to share.

I can tell people exactly what's wrong with their life, just by looking at their face. Even if they didn't ask for my advice. So what if I may get it wrong sometimes, or I might have inadvertently started a family feud which might last a generation or two. You win some, you lose some.

I can also identify both the Simpson sisters. Jessica is the one who looks like a cow and was married to that gay boyband singer and Ashlee is the one who looks like a cross between Nicole Richie and Amy Winehouse and is currently married to that gay emo band singer.

Also, I once judged a book by it's cover. And I was right.

Maybe I should get one of those gigs in which I can buy nice looking stationary and get a really cool business card and tell people that I'm a "consultant". Or maybe a "freelance brain trust". Something which sounds new economy-ish and does not incite any questions.


Or maybe I should chill for a while. I've just started to think about it and I'm already tired. I think the best way to go about it would be in small steps.

It worked for Neil Armstrong, dunnit?

So I leisurely sipping my morning coffee and trying to stop brooding so as to try to be in a good mood because I woke up early for once. Well, early as per my standards. Other people refer to it as 3 p.m. in the afternoon. Well, you say potato I say pohtato. Anyways, so the bell rings and none of the help or other members of the family are around and I suddenly have to answer it. (Don't worry. Everyone was very regretful later on. They solemnly swear not to abandon me like that again. I was still sleepy. There was so much that could have happened. What if I had hit my head somewhere and died? No one would have been there to hear and chronicle my last words. Which reminds me, I need to add a clause to my will which specifies that no body parts of mine are to be donated after I die. I don't want my eyes to see how poor people live and my liver is so drunk that it has hangovers of it's own. My heart is so tired from working that it wants to retire to the Bahamas and if they cut up and cook my stomach it could feed three small African nations for a week. As for my brain, most of it is just like my love life. Hypothetical.)

So I open the door and it's someone claiming to be the guy who checks the meter for all the water we consume. Now, I presume he's faker because as far as I know, water is a natural resource and one does not need to pay for it unless it's made by Evian and why would we have a meter for something we don't need to pay for?

As I was still in a bad mood and needed to take it out on somebody, I let him enter, made him close the gate behind him and then set my family's dogs after him. Since I am a fair person, (have I ever mentioned that?), I called the dogs back after a few minutes and let this guy him explain himself.

He simply refused to tell me the truth.

Or so I thought.

Turns out, he was telling the truth. I called and checked with my parents. We do pay for water which is not made by Evian.

Who wuda thunk it?

Also, we even have a water meter. Go figure.


So shit happens. Get over it.


After conforming the location with my parents, I took the guy to where the water meter was.

So far so good, right?

Suddenly, this guy turns to me and passes a snide remark about how "my generation" has no idea about a lot of things in the real world.

I was enraged. How dare he accuse me of not knowing how the real world works? Me??

So I lived in a house for quarter of a century and had no idea that we had a water meter. Or that we paid for our water. That does not imply that I am clueless. Not by a long shot.

I know how this world works. I watch Oprah. And once, during a school vacation, I read a back issue of Reader's Digest. What else does one need to run through life, really?

Anyways, at that time, right after he said those words, not only was I furious, I was seething with righteous anger. I was more angry than that poor kid from Vietnam who found out that he was being adopted by Angelina Jolie. To me, this jackass from the water department represented everything that was wrong with this world (fundamentalism, lack of tolerance, bad sitcoms).

So I did what any responsible and mature adult would do in my situation.

I "erroneously" pushed the stool behind him, he fell, and then I "accidentally" let go of dog's leashes, and they "sort of" mauled him. A "little".


Relax. Nothing happened to that guy.

Well, nothing-ish.

He got some bruises and a torn shirt. Serves him right, though.

Since I'm all about being fair and balanced, I had the driver take him to a doctor to get the bruise(s?) checked and I gave him money to buy a new shirt.

See, I did him a favor. The shirt he was wearing looked like it hadn't met any detergent grains in years. Thanks to my timely intervention, the shirt got to have a dignified end.

Of course, then the guy from the water department threatened litigation and my Dad had to send someone to bribe him to keep his mouth shut.


But hey, look on the bright side.




At least now I know where the water meter is.

For fat people, the whole world is nothing like an oyster. It's more like a banquet hall filled with people who offer unwanted, patronizing advise.

If I had a nickel for every time someone has counseled me or advised me or given me tips on how to lose weight or warned me that I'm dying, I'd have enough money to have my own 21 storey library.

We all know that most people have this dellusional, self-fufilling prophecy that they know how this world works and that they need to impart this knowledge to other, lesser intelligent life forms. So that fact that I need to lose weight has been pointed out to me by a thousand candidates applying for the post of Field Marshal Obvious. In return, I give them a gift of information. I let them know that they are ugly or that their daughter's a whore or that their fifteen year old son just stole my Dad's favorite Ming vase to finance his cocaine addiction.

Of course, my Dad does not have a favorite ming vase, I never consider anyone a whore and I'll probably have a cocaine addiction when I'm forty because that's considered like dying in gay years. But it's fun to watch people drop their jaw and have a nice, warm, hazelnut flavored cup of shut the fuck up.

The advise to lose weight is often accompanied by a collorary which states that unless I lose weight I would never be able to find a thin life partner (which in 15 Indian languages means a subservient Indian housewife). Yes, because that's what the world revolves around. Thin, "fair" husband worshiping, pseudo-slave wives whose primary destiny of existence is to keep having daughters until she manages to produce a male child.

The mere thought makes me lose my lunch. Or the very least my after lunch super meal.

This remindes me of an incident. A few weeks ago, one of our family friends was visiting our house with a so called "holy" guru. Now, my family has a lot of family friends and they keep visiting. I tried to educate them about being mean and petty but they don't care about values which are important to me. Then they accuse me of not trying to bond. The nerve.

So I usually don't go to meet these family "friends" unless food items from my favorite bakery are involved. So, unfortunately for everybody except me, on that particular day, my sixth sense told me that there was choclate truffle being served and I happen to enter the room where everyone was sitting.

So this schizophrenic (not actually diagnosed, but that's what I call people who claim to speak with God. Or claim to have met Clint Eastwood.) woman serves me the usual you-must-lose-weight meal along with a side order of thin-girl-logic. So as she broke the rule of not speaking to me when I am eating, which everyone knows is sacrosanct and must be followed even during earthquakes and hurricanes, I told her to get stuffed. I called her bigoted, short sighted and said that even the statue of the laughing buddha in our drawing room is closer to God than she is.

The woman ended up putting a curse on me. Well, pick a number, medusa.

Another irritating habit that people have is to make really bad fat jokes. The only thing people say about fat people is that they eat too much. All their jokes are based on that. The other day this school acquaintance pinged me on facebook and he cracked the same joke he did on the last day of school when I poured beer on his head. I mean, c'mon chuckles, if you can't make up a good joke then at least google for one. If you want to make fun of someone, at least have the decency to use jokes which are funny. Otherwise you're just a Jay Leno wannabe.

My point is (do I EVER have one? Are you surprised?) is that fat people got the memo on being classified as ugly and not desirable when they started using swimsuit models for adverts for tobacco companies. I believe that if I have to change who I am (a glorified food whore) to get someone to like me, then it's not worth it. At least that's what I read in the best selling book "The Monk who ate his Ferrari" (It's a good read, btw). Sometimes a tiny sliver of insecurity does creep in, but then on those days I simply order a ceaser salad.

I know I do have to lose weight someday because it's not good for one's health. And maybe someday I will. When they find a way to make diet fried chicken which tastes as good as the one made using the Colonel's secret recipe.

Until then, can you please pass the coleslaw?

You spend your whole life trying to build a reputation. Then, one wrong move and everything you worked hard for is taken away from you.

My whole life I have worked hard towards achieving certain goals. And one mistake, one stupid, silly mistake and all that is no more.

Ever since I was a kid, I have worked and worked to have my family accept me as a no good neanderthal who cannot be trusted to do a day's hard work and who is constantly on acid or some other substance.

Now, a few months ago I my family asked for my help for something. Now when they ask me to do something, I'm usually the LAST possible person they could turn to. So, I obliged. No, not out of any guilt. That's because guilt is mostly for religious people.

Anyways, before this incident, my family was well programmed to ask me for a favor only every six to eight months. And they didn't even trust me enough to walk the dogs. Not that I am a big fan of walking the dogs. I mean, it involves three of my least favorite things. Walking, dogs and helping out my family.

Now ever since I unselfishly granted them that favor, without even debiting the six monthly account, things have started to change.

Suddenly, my opinion is being sought on something. My opinion. You know how dangerous that can be. Last time someone sought my opinion, there were tears, broken bones and the threat of bloodshed. However, certain members of my family have started treating me like some insider. They act like I am part of this social group.

How rude is that?

Just yesterday, my sister asked me to watch one of my nephews. Me. You know, l thought she knew better.

Years ago, a cousin of mine who was not privy to my reputation had asked me to watch her kid. She belonged to a family which believed in the evil practice of vegetarianism. By the time I was done watching the kid, his favorite breakfast was sausage and he started eating Pepperoni pizza every alternate day. Needless to say, I was never asked to watch anybody else's kids again.

Even though, all I did was give the boy a real taste of freedom, no one ever asked me to watch their kids again. I wonder why.

Am I not a good role model or something?

Then there's Dad. Who expects me to help out a little with the business. He thinks that it's okay to ask me to help him with my tax return just because he is preoccupied with something urgent. He thinks I have no life.

I don't. But that's not the point. It's the spirit of the thing, really.

And my Mom. Just because I forced her to fire some of the domestic help because I was allergic to their face, she expects me to help around the house. Do impossible things like making my own cup of coffee.

Ha!! Fat chance of that happening!

I simply order out. Hmph.

This is why I used to have that six month rule. All that is in the crapper now.

Although, now when I think about this, maybe this is a good thing.

Now that my family treats me like I belong, it must translate into more money. Maybe a bigger expense account or something?

Look. I'm all about the silver lining in the dark cloud. Cause when life hands you a couple of lemons, you slice them up and add them to your cocktail.

Isn't that what they teach you in business school?

So I got an email a few days ago from "that" site. It said that I haven't used it for about four months and they were wondering if I forgot my password. I know, I know. I am to blame for not trying and blah blah. That's not the point right now. It's that I wonder if I can ever get over myself long enough to actually try to find someone, and if by some divine miracle I do, I just wish I don't get turned off because he starts every second sentence with the word basically or thinks that being a vegetarian will slow down global warming.

Yes, I have issues. Lots of them. Duh.

Which, by the way, is another fear. That when I actually let someone in, he'll find out how neurotic and fucked up I am and run as fast a gay person used to run in biblical times when he was being chased by a congregation of catholics waiting to stone him.

In fact, my life right now is like a Merchant-Ivory film. Everybody is in their own self-imposed misery and the fat guy never gets laid.

****

I'm really going to print out a big sign which says "I don't work right now. Ask me why and I'll kill you and get an alibi". People need to stop thinking their Oprah. Some people just don't get it. I mean, if looking through a person while they are almost choking to death on a piece of sushi doesn't get the message through, I don't know what will.

****

Remember when I was in a funk and had nothing to say? The voices in my head have still not returned. I kind of miss a few of them. Specially Victor. He always made me feel that there is something on my shirt which is making me look funny which in turn is causing everybody to point and laugh at me.

Again, Issues. Clusterfucked brain. Crazy.


Run, baby, run.

So the past few weeks have been kind of surreal. Mostly because I have not felt like talking to anyone. For the first time in my life, it's like I have nothing to say.

I don't know what it is but it's like been very quite in these here parts. Which is very unusual because I even talk when I'm sleeping. Maybe the alcohol is wearing off or my brain has gone into a coma and forgotten to inform me or something like that. Hell, I can't even hear the voices in my head. It's like all of them got together and decided to go for a road drip leaving me behind.

Usually I am very anti-social and talk to a very selected few (mainly because not a lot of people cannot stand understand me), but this is even strange for me. I mean me not wanting to talk is like Paris Hilton refusing to have sex or Sarah Palin not horrifying people with every word that comes out of her mouth. Hell, I haven't even clogged the interwebs with my moronic opinion for quite a while.

I have this uncanny urge to put my head in the sand. Metaphorically, of course. As I said, it's quite strange for me. I ALWAYS have something to say. About everything. Even about things I don't know shit about. Like that time when I gave an advanced discourse about "the birds and the bees" to one of my straight friends who was about to get married. (I had to tell him what goes where and how. By far, one of the worst nights of my life. I still shiver and puke when I think about it.)

I hope this "phase" or whatever ends soon. Cause I don't want to turn into one of those people who speak very little and always think and weigh their words before they say anything.

I just want to go back to being the village idiot, with a ton of suppressed issues, who says everything that comes to his mind because he does not have a filter. The person we all know and want to always keep a little drunk because if he is sober, he might be tempted to take over the world.

So I ran into this old school friend of mine. Actually, I shouldn't really say friend. More of an acquaintance. I mean I don't even have him listed as a friend in facebook. How much of a friend would he be?

Anyways, we got to talking, and by talking I mean he was saying something while I was nodding along trying to remember his name. Which, by the way, I couldn't. So the words "dude", "buddy" and "bro" were used a lot.

Anyways, when I finally gave up trying to remember his name, (to be fair I even tried word association but all I came up with was Freckles, which I think is self-explanatory), he told me he was getting married. I looked at him with the same expression of shock and disgust that is usually reserved for when I hear Sarah Palin talk. Anyways, after a few minutes of silence, I asked him why he is getting married and wondered aloud if I should congratulate him or feel sorry for him.

So, my old buddy, whatishisname, told me that he was getting married because, and I quote, "All his friends are getting married too". He applied the same excuse I gave my parents when I got bored of my atari and wanted a Nintendo (that's pre-playstation gaming consoles for those young fucks who don't know) to marriage.

After I fake numbered him and sent him packing, I realized he is like most people. Those who take major life decisions because everybody else is. For them, life is like walking into a resturant, sitting down, looking at the table on the right, and telling the waiter "I'll have what he's having."

These sort of people spend their whole life keeping up appearances. You know, people who just want to be like everyone else. People, who if you look at from far away, will all look the same, right down to the bad haircut and the mass-market trousers, because all they want in life is to be normal.

This is why i think being gay is like a blessing in disguise. The mind numbingly painful teenage years and social ostracisation aside, part of the reason why I can see things from a refreshingly different angle, is because I am gay. Hey, my point of view may not be plausible and might have resulted from too many blows to the head and a little extra vodka in my orange juice, but it's still my own.

As Jodie Foster once said, Normal is not something to aspire too, it's something to get away from. Boy, I always knew good ol 'Jodie was a lesbian.

Lastly, for those who are wondering, I did congratulate him. And I asked him to offer my condolences to his fiance

He thought I was kidding.

So due to some unforeseen circumstances, I was sitting with my family, while they were having a conversation and I was nodding my head to assure them that I haven't slipped into coma. At least on the outside anyway.

Then suddenly this bit about me getting married comes up. Now, my family knows that this subject is not broached with me. But it was a joke, and everyone was having tea, so I let it pass. Another nail in the coffin of my happiness. Why bother, really? Anyways, it was something about building a separate apartment for me in a few years/whenever I get married whatever comes first.

It was assumed that I would actually be staying with my family whence I go back to wasting my life again.

Now don't get me wrong, I wouldn't like anything better than living at a place where the food is good and there is ample parking, but really I don't see this scenario happening.

This is because, well, all the members of my family who are not my mom don't know for sure that I am gay. Of course, they might suspect and hope and pray that it's just a phase and one of those things that boys do like install a basketball board in their yard and never use it or get a weird haircut.

I figure that when I do tell the rest of my family that I am gay, I do intend to move out of this place I currently call home. No, it's not because anyone would say things to me. They know better than that. If I had really cared for their opinion and advice, I would've lost weight ten years ago. That's not the point.

It's that I don't want my family to suffer a smear campaign because of me. I mean I'm used to people looking at me and whispering (Oh, that's his third helping, you know or who the hell wears reeboks with corduroy trousers?). So it's fine by me. I am immune to other people's opinion. That happens when you consider yourself know that you are a superior life form. Anyways, this is not about me. It's about how I don't want my parents to go through all that because of me. Because they have always been respected and spoken about fondly. Even though they have a son like me.

And secondly, when that mob comes to kill me, I just want them to focus on me. Nothing major, I just love the attention.

Hey, turns out I do care about my family. And here I was thinking of selling their secrets for short-term personal gain. Damn you, Oprah.

No, Oprah's got nothing to do with this. I've just always wanted to say that.

So yesterday, I did something completely out of character and did a task that had been pending for the past two and a half years. No, I did not suddenly wake up and become a do-er of things, it was the absolute last day I could do the task. The final extension had already been granted. I checked. So I pulled up my sleeves (metaphorically only, mind you) and actually finished it.

My parents, who really expected the time limit to lapse and were resigned to another disappointment from me, were surprised to know that I did it a few hours before the clock said that it was midnight.

Strangely, this got their hopes up and they are counting on me to do another thing that has been pending for the past six months.

Six months only? Ha! It's too early and not urgent enough for me to even think about starting to work on it. Hell, I am tired right now and need a break of a few weeks/months.

I mean, parents never learn do they? They always expect their children to come through for them. Even someone like me.

Really, when will they realize that it's not about what I can do for them, it's all about how I can get through life by doing the minimum amount of work whilst getting maximum gains. No, I'm not lazy. That's simple economics. Maximum utilization of minimum resources. Or something like that.

Seriously, aren't I a catch?

So I heard some lady on CNN talk about glass ceilings and being what you want to be and so I thought it would be great to have a career, once again, even if it is for a week or two. Don't wanna try too hard, too soon, y'know.

I thought I'd be a politician but then I realized that it involves being nice and telling ugly people that "Beauty is skin deep" and doing other crappy things like kissing babies and shaking hands. That's really not any fun. Plus if you're in the system, it's pretty hard to criticize it and blame it for your unwillingness to do something about all the shit floating around in the world.

I wondered if I could be an activist working to change society and uplifting the poor and the downtrodden. Then I realized that it would mean that I would need to go to places which don't have air conditioning or bottled water or an espresso bar. Without these things, it's really impossible for me to exist. And I'm allergic to fresh air anyway. Also people who look like they haven't had to eat in ages freak me out.

So I thought that maybe I can try to be a lawyer. While I was reading article 1 of the constitution, I realized that why try to change things which already have a system? Poor people vote rich people into office. That's democracy. Poor people come into office and rob other poor people. That's socialism. And when poor people come into office and become rich by killing all the rich people, that's a revolution.

Then thought I'd become an actor. However, there's not enough money in the world to make me pretend to be a straight guy again. Unless it's straight guy who does other straight guys on the side. Then I'm up for it. Alas, to my utter disappointment, I found out that in the reel world, fat people don't have sex. So that ended all my silver screen dreams.

So on a bright, sunny day, I thought I'd take up a gig as a motivational speaker. Then, when I was getting ready to write my first speech, it dawned on me that telling unsuccessful people that there is still hope in their life and giving them a reason to live is really not my cup of decaf mocha. I mean with one stupid speech, I can't change their destiny, right? There is a reason lethal prescription drugs are sold at most pharmacies. I'm not suggesting anything, just pointing out some facts. Don't shoot the messenger.

Then I thought I'd become a psychologist. Why the fuck not, eh? But something made me realize that if I hear one more person bitch about how fucked up their life is I will go ahead and beat them with their own arm after I tear it out from it's socket. And then shave them bald and write "this mind is clusterfucked" on their big, bald head. Finally, just when they think it's over, I'll make them watch John McCain speeches in an endless loop. Nothing can be a more fitting punishment for such people.

Afterwards, when I was flipping through CNBC, I thought that I can try to be a successful Investment Banker. However, good sense prevailed over me. It's not that I won't enjoy wiping out the life savings of unsuspecting shareholders right when they need it. I just don't see myself spending the rest of my life copy/pasting things into a Microsoft Excel speadsheet. And all this talk of bulls and bears puts me to sleep. It also turns me off for some reason. Maybe because it's so unsexy.

So I came to the conclusion that I should stick to my current career path. It's the only thing I'm good at. And the only thing I want to do, really. Being fat man passed out on bar stool.

Sounds like a perfect profession for me.

*hic*

- all the eateries around your house have installed a special private line just for your calls

- a restaurant introduces an "all-you-can-eat" offer for it's regular patrons, it sends you a notarized letter informing you that the offer does not apply to you

- in a time of crisis, your family turns to you after they have exhausted ALL their options

- you don't want to have children and/or pets because taking care of them will be "too much work"

- you receive an award and you phone in your acceptance speech

- when you show someone your photograph, you tell them that "the camera adds 1800 pounds"

- at your favorite restaurant, when you ask the waiter to bring "the usual", it actually refers to everything on the menu

- your t-shirt size is "oh my god! what the fuck"

- the reason you got late for the meeting? the escalator got stuck

- you classify dialing a phone number as exercise

- your daily intake of food could feed three countries in Africa, for a month

- your doctor privately refers to you as "my house-in-the-Bahamas fund"

- when a car bangs into you, you barely notice while the car is damaged beyond repair

- you are legally required not to jump because the last time you did, it cause an earthquake which was measured at 7.5 on the richter scale

- you have your own postal code

- your blood group is sugar

- you supersize you burger and fries and order a diet coke

- you'd rather die of thirst then go to the kitchen 5 feet away from your room to get a glass of water

- you get invited for an event, your first thought is "how can i get out of it?"

- your insurance company pays you in tubs of your favorite ice cream instead of money

- you haven't watched tv in ages because you can't find the damn remote

So I was half asleep, lying on my bed, out of sheer exhaustion, having been working the whole day. And then ...

Fine. I know you folks wouldn't believe me anyway. So let me rephrase that.

So I was lying on my couch, almost passed out from having had a little extra to drink than usual, when suddenly I found myself privy to some strange conversation.

I have always suspected that animals speak to each other and just pretend to be dumb in front of us. Yesterday, I got proof. I heard my family's pets talking amongst themselves. Coincidentally, it was about me.

So let's call these pets M, D and S.

Here's whatever part of their conversation I could remember:

M: So he's passed out again on the couch.
D: I'm getting sick of this shit, ya know. This guy has no life.
D: I mean, I'm not trying to judge here, but get a job, buddy.
S: I know!! He just lies around all day doing nothing. What a bum.
M: What are you guys talkin about? Don't you see him typing away on his notebook most of the time?
D: He's probabaly seing some porn again. What a fuckerhead.
D: That's the good thing about being a dog. You don't need porn. You're always naked.
M: You're such a dweeb, you know.
S: Shut up both of you, you'll wake him up.
D: Oh, don't worry. He's not going to wake up for another few hours.
D: Even a bazooka wont be able to wake him up right now.
M: That was funny, *giggle*
D: I'm funny like that, sometimes.
S: Oh, shut the fuck up asshole. I already hear him say that the whole day long.
S: Now you don't start. If I hear it one more time, someone's going to need a rabies injection.
M: I know. He thinks it's funny. Someone needs to tell him that it's the best seller at the lame-o-rama.
M: Lamer than his joke about calling us "Sons-of-Bitches" the whole day long.
M: I mean, for the love of the big woof in the sky, get a new joke. It's been two years, jackass.
D: Oh, he thinks he has a sense of humour.
S: Well, I don't know where he gets such weird ideas from.
S: And he's really been unstopable the last few weeks.
S: Someone's been giving him the wrong idea that he's funny.
M: You know, sometimes, when I hear him talk, I want to kill myself, just to feel a little better.
M: I agree. It's just not worth it.
D: You guys, you should start meditating.
M: Where do you get such weird ideas from?
D: Well, I was hungry and got one of his books to eat, but it was this new age spiritual book and it got interesting.
D: I now know three types of meditation. Yay for me.
D: And, I started my second bok already. I'm currently half-way through something called The Secret.
S: What's it about?
D: It's about positive thinking and shit like that.
D: You need to tell the universe what you exactly want and it ends up giving it to you.
M: Like a drive-in McDonalds?
D: No, not exactly.
S: Then?
D: Well, it's complicated. Too deep for your primitive minds.
M: Who died and made you a neo-guru, huh?
D: You know M, you can be such a bitch sometimes. Bow.
M: Yeah, like totally.
S: You dogs are crazy, you know that.
S: You're stealing and eating too many of his "special cakes".
S: I think you're getting delerious.
M: Oh, man, fuck, those cakes are delicious. They take me to a place I never even new existed.
M: Like a higher ground or something.
D: Forget that. I was talking to you about catharsis.
D: Whenever you get angry at him, just go and pee on his car.
D: He hates that.
D: And I love it when he gets a panic attack everytime I leave my man-juice on his car tires. The expression on his face when he discovers that is priceless.
D: It just makes all his bad one-liners worth listening to.
M: D, stop licking you own balls. You should know how to behave in front of a lady.
S: Like you're a lady. Ha!
M: Well, I'll have you know, that I pee sitting down. Hmph.
S: Oh yeah, that's the most important thing for a lady. You're right. My bad.
D: I'm hungry. I need some chow.
M: Well, I think he got a new batch of his special cakes made today. It's on the table in his room.
S: Let's go.

Read this before you read anything else: I know most of you are going to ignore this anyway, but let me warn you that the following post may contain language and or euphemisms which might offend you if you are any of the following: God, Women, Men, Gay people, Straight people, Bi people (wtf), Sad people, Happy people, People with big wankers, people with small wankers, people without wankers, anybody who can read. It also compares the so called sacred institution of life with male genitalia. It also equates happiness with having a big wanker and a bubble butt. Wat the hell didja expect? I'm gay after all. D-uh.

Don't tell me you haven't been warned. Read at your own risk.

(Why is the disclaimer bigger than the whole fucking post?)

Since almost everyone in our blogging clique (are we a clique? possibly) is getting serious and profound, and because I cannot offer them individual sessions, I think everyone needs a dose of the world famous, universally renowned, tried & tested (mostly by me), WhipperSnapper Wisdom.

Firstly, all of us have questions. Questions about life. About why we are who we are. About our purpose on earth.

To tell you the truth, no one really knows the answers to these questions. Everybody just wings it. Even God. Or any other fairytale you believe in.

You see with all the shit that has been hitting the fan lately, I think G-d's been dialing it in for a few centuries. Or maybe he's getting laid in the Bahamas. It just depends which particular issue of Satan Times one is reading.

Anyways, I grappled with these questions too. For almost a week. And considering how short my attention span is, that is the equivalent of ten light years in whippersnapper time. What i found was deep and disturbing.

Basically, God was having fun one day and decided to create the earth. He made men who loved men and women who loved women and kids who could be ordered on Amazon dot com. So almost everyone on earth was living happily. Then God's wife saw how everything was going so well and decided to fix it. Typical woman. She made men who begun to like women and women who begun to like men. And people talked about feelings and monogamy. Pffft. Not that there is anything wrong with that. However, there were some original inhabitants who were too powerful even for Mrs. God. So she made priests whose only job was to condemn the original inhabitants. Soon the printing press was invented and everyone started believing this crap. Because people believed that everything that is published has to be true. So after a few centuries the original inhabitants were marginalized. Why? Because most people are stupid. Stupid people believe anything. That is why China does not want democracy and fifty million people voted for George W Bush. Holy Mother of God.

Now, a lot of people think that life is cool and shit and that positive thinking will cure anything. Fuck that. Life is supposed to be one long foreplay before the sweet orgasm of death. That is why alcohol was made. So that you can delude yourself that you're actually enjoying the foreplay and also fasttrack towards the orgasm. That's called killing two birds with one stone. Or licking two nuts with one mouth. Depends on which team you play on.

What I'm trying to say is that people will always find a way to be unhappy. Even if someone has the biggest wanker on earth or the best bubble butt ever, they will find some way to fucking fell sorry about themselves. It's natural. it's human nature. Happens to the best of us. That's how God intended it to be.

That's because if people start thinking that life is one constant blow job after another, who the fuck will pray?

People also wonder where they will be in a few years time. Let me break this one for ya. In a few years time, this beautiful, flawed race will be gone from the face of this earth. Yup. All of us. That's because we'll either choke ourselves to death or we'll nuke everything that breathes. Meanwhile, the best idea is to stop worrying about the future and concentrate on getting laid. Or getting high. What I'm sayin is pick a fucking hobby.

That's all.

Edit: By the way, I hope it shows that I'm an optimistic person. It does, right?