I am getting a little angsty about this whole blogging thing. I have no thoughts whatsoever, zero, zilch. And this whole shpiel of putting all my two-pence thoughts out there and having people come back and tell me how fucking brilliant and “original” my thoughts are, and what a perfectly perfect and complex neural workshop my brain is, and all that jazz, is nothing other than a feel-good factor of a self-designed ego boosting plot. Well, as we all know, my ego needs no boost, I was born snooty and arrogant, I plan to stay that way. With or without your assistance.

So lets all agree upon this fact. Why do we blog? Why the fuck can’t we be writing journals for our own selves for our own consumption, like it used to be in the good old days? Yeah yeah, some of you will come back and say that it is because a singular thought gets more refined when others get to add their inputs into it and it invites “multiple” points of view and “animated discussions”. Blah blah blah…..yeah right. You my friends are all wrong. We do it because we are all full of gas and we need to occasionally have the world come back to us and tell us in an exaggerated act of bending-over obsequiousness what a brilliant piece of shit we are. That’s why. We, vain little God’s creatures, we, need constant self-assurance that we are all there is, that I am IT, that YOU are IT, that we, each one of us are singularly unique with a set of talents really uncommon. So, come into my cranium and watch your step please as the nuts and bolts grind themselves away  into happy oblivion, and please don’t forget to appreciate what a fine piece of work I am! My brain tour is done, folks, the exhibits will now be packed up for the day, so deposit your passes in the drop-box outside and don’t forget to stop by at the souvenir shop on your way out. Thank you mucho.

Or perhaps I am just really pissed off today because I couldn’t get into a really pretty little turquoise colored short kurta (or a frock that suffered from a case of mistaken identity and thought itself to be a short kurta) that came back from the seamstress’ last evening. When I eventually did manage it (and guys, I am NOT fat, FAAAAAAAR from it!!), I couldn’t breathe and looked like a fucking freak! It looked like a fucking ballet frock for a five-year old, I am NOT kidding you on this – all scrunched up at my bosom and then flaring out stupidly, and ending at my upper thighs! There was no way in hell I’d be seen dead in it!! Then, with the clock ticking past eight (and my morning commute is at least 45 mins and I am usually at work by 8:30), Miss Frazzled couldn’t make her way out of it, so she went scissor-happy, snipping her way out of the dress! That broke my heart – the pretty turquoise thing and I didn’t even get one day’s worth of anything out of it, forget one day, not even five minutes’ worth of anything. I mean, I haven’t even worn those kind of frocks even when I was five, for Pete’s sake and I ain’t about to start now! Then I get into the car and the radio is telling me that the lucky color for Aquarius for the week is turquoise, yeah, fuck you.

Okay, perhaps my seamstress was trying to flatter me subtly by suggesting that I have a body like Elle Macpherson or Kate Moss, but sorry guys, not there yet! Two more months of running and tennis and I could be pushing it.

Add to that my weekend story. Aaaaah, yes, my weekend. Sorry-assed city this. Almost drove myself straight to the airport from work on Friday evening so that I could get into Mumbai for the weekend and come back feeling good about my life, even marginally better would be nice.

But didn’t, for whatever reason. I was expecting to catch up with a couple of people who were in town. Biiiig mistake that.

I have this thing in life, having lived alone for considerable periods of time in my life, I tell myself that I’ll be darned if I let something as inconsequential as the lack of company stop me from enjoying the things I like to do. So Saturday saw me trudging off to go see the Jazz Yatra all by myself, only to be told at the gate that it was an invite-only event. Yeah all those Gucci and Armani flaunting baby boomers and even those Benetton-clad and whatever-trimmed teenagers whose vocab doesn’t go beyond “And I’m like, you know?....” with not a clue in the world about what an arpeggio or an overture is, standing there in their fake pashminas yapping and mouthing ten thousand three hundred and ninety nine “likes” every five minutes on their “latest Nokia” mobiles get to go!! And I don’t?? Fuck you. Just because I don’t have a fucking pass?? Just because this is a goddamn city of diplomats and political big-wigs and the “have-it-will-flaunt-it” crowd where genuine music enthusiasts are given the Passover?

Oh well, not to be disappointed, I checked myself into a movie theatre on my way back and watched Jogger’s Park all by myself and went home. The ONLY thing I cannot do alone is have a sit-down dinner alone or drink alone, that’s all. I can have an occasional glass of wine alone at home as well as beer, I can also manage a sit-down Sunday morning brunch/breakfast alone but that’s about it. Sunday was marginally better – met up with an old friend from Bombay who was in town, went home and cooked Thai chicken in green curry (which came out fantastic by the way) and read some trash and went to bed. What can I say – one more month in this city and my cup wunneth over. That was intentional.