If there's smoke, there's a liar

(not even crickets chirping, 05something)

It's one of those days where I feel like I went on heroin the night before because the day after feels chemically wrong. You see something funny and it's funny but it's just not funny. You talk to people hoping they won't figure you're on the fritz but all you can manage is a sentence out of context here and maybe there.You gnaw your teeth and your hand often reaches for the lighter. But you say no. Nicotine isn't bad but things aren't working between us anymore. It's time to part. A hug? One last time. A goodbye kiss? Couldn't hurt. A sordid five minutes later, you realize you're having your post-smoke smoke.
But not today. No cigarettes until I do my paper. No dinner even. Stomach grumbles. Maybe dinner. I'm tired. Mosquitoes love the legs. Half is done. Fuck half. Slave some more. Complete it. Grin widely and head towards the roof. But what of the cigarettes? Where are my cigarettes?
Then like a Meatloaf song, it all started coming back to me now.
Class was over and I'd gone to sit on the bench. I did pull out one deathstick. I did smoke one. And then I did leave the packet and my favourite lighter. and Forgot. Couldn't be worse. Wait, what the fuck is Celine Dion doing in my mind?
Come back down from the roof! Late? Very. Frustrated too. Very. Temper running low. Tempted to knock and ask the progenitor? Bad idea. Still tempting.
6 now. Bright idea. Car. Pack of 10. Sanity. Off I go. I shouldn't publish. I should. Smoking kills.

Ten Ten Ten

Almost There by Opus Orange playing, 0201 hours:

I've just returned from my rendezvous with the world's largest fort and it's completely wrung out the adventurous spirit from my exhausted body and then, to insult me, the incident robbed me of my will to go to class that starts less than six hours from now. I pretend to be upset now.
We were supposed to come back at 8 p.m. but somehow that didn't translate well with the shit fate had planned. The day starts out searingly hot (you do NOT want to sit in a car that's parked in the Clifton heat until you've airconditioned the car for five minutes prior) but it was going to get better. We were going to Ranikot.

Now Ranikot itself is very interesting. Wiki confirms that it IS indeed the largest "unexplored" fort, whatever that's supposed to mean. Students took to that description defiantly and couples insisted on exploring the nether regions of the fort. So they could explore nether regions elsewhere. But what's really a mystery is why the fort was built where it was built in the interior of Sindh. Nobody can answer who exactly built it and when and most importantly, what was it defending. It's desert on both sides! I'm sure it wasn't for the making out. That secret is now buried in these literal sands of time along with other such great secrets as "What is the Interior?", "Hyderabad: I'm not in the Interior!" and "Why is the Interior always so fucking hot?".

All this was great but..

One bus broke down. Then another. The AC broke in then another (mine, unfortunately). Half the food turned from the heat. No spoons or forks for the other half. Drivers refusing to drive. And last but definitely not the least: stupid kids. But that happens so often it's more of an accepted evil now.

Of the 17 hours I was away from home, 2 were spent at Ranikot. The rest were in hell. A hell without a bathroom. As imagined, the leak right after couldn't have been more cathartic.

It's late and I'm sleepy. A goodnight to you all and a fuck you, hit the road now please to 10/10/10.

Old School and the Devil's Tool

0126 hours, (Supa Scoopa and the Mighty Scoop from Desert Sessions playing):
I was watching the new Dexter episode and it got me thinking that I skip the opening credits to every show (except for the few that have a new gag every time) but I always end up going through the Dexter one, episode after episode. The accompanying eery score fits in to contextual perfection and everything about the sequence, from the shaving to the frying of eggs to the slices of orange to the tying the laces, whispers a dark intent to the audience. Dexter makes psychosis look easy. I love the show. I have it paused just so I could "blog" about loving the show. In fact I love it so much I'm going to go back to it.

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(useless dashes I made to signify the passing of time)

Speaking of blogging, a friend of mine just recently chanced upon phkd and decided that I was insane. Not for the flattering reasons of content but because, indignantly saying, of the fact that I just blog. Let's get some facts straight. I don't blog. I bog. And that too not often. Mentioned friend added I'm likely to kill myself because of this "bogging". He was convinced I'll find some tangible evidence of this correlation between suicide and blogging if I google hard enough. And I'm going to blog my suicide note. Apparently every literate person is suicidal because they are able to write a suicide note. And I'm crazy?

I've been bogging before blogging even came into play. The earliest entry on my now mutilated site is dated July 16th, 2002. Geek pride was on a high those days. I had a site with its very own cool address, no blogger blogspot wordpress bullshit. Gunsareblazing.com lasted for about a year before a man in Florida realized he did not pay $100 for internet registration and bandwidth. Going on it right now just sent me down a nostalgic hole, full of emo writings and high school. It's funny how the old site's called stimuli for insanity, which is exactly what my friend accused this blog of being. The site did have cryptic text all over and it was made in my A level days at Pats, a very defining time that set the tone for my actions and behaviour to this day. It felt like somebody tried to turn a very rusty switch on (or off, from a perspective) for a excruciating period of a year and then...then there was light. I learnt that sex and drugs and rock (not so much roll) are the Devil's tools. And should be used wisely. It was an adjustment that I dealt with with different hands and writing was found to be an effective way to rid teenage angsty shit. Writing words just seem to even out the flow. It introduces a little coherency to the wild. Talking is chaos and writing is order. But hardly in order. It's frustrating when the words don't come but so calming when they do. I'm never more comfortable than when in self-expression. Much contrary to allegations of insanity and suicide. Maybe crazy's comfortable too.

(a quick wiki told me I was wrong, the concept of blogging beat my "bogging" by three years)