The last time I left my blog alone for this long, I got to the point where I found all my entries embarrassing, and after the one year it took me to figure out what my password was, I deleted the damn thing.
This time, I decided not to. No, not because I'm more shameless than I was four years ago - I more shameless than I used to be four years ago, but that's not it. It's not that I don't find the posts embarrassing. Nope, I do. Sometimes. But not as embarrassed as I should be had I been the director of "Ghost Rider", watching which Shrik and I laughed our heads off a few hours ago. And I haven't suddenly thought of anything earth-shattering to post, either. In fact, this post won't even rattle my own laptop screen, which finds itself mounted on a slightly loose hinge, and will have a natural frequency of about a tenth of the other laptops my colleagues have. I have not marinated in the bath, thinking about gold crowns, and therefore am not in a position to say "Eureka" like Shakespeare, or Archimedes, depending on whether you're a Bertie Wooster or a Reginald Jeeves fan.
The thing is, I have nothing better to do right now.
There. I've said it, and I hope it makes you feel better about yourself. Anyways, to fill in the gap since November, I still continue to have no life, my bike continues to be my significant other, my camera continues to be my mistress (I don't care what Freud thinks of my zoom lens), I continue to have accidents, meet weird people, have strange conversations with my weirder friends- often lubricated by alcohol - and when I find time from all this, try to pretend I'm working so I get paid at the end of the month so I can fill up my bike's tank and load film in my camera. In fact, nothing has changed, except that I'd become too lazy to write. I'd become too lazy to wash my clothes, too, but you don't have to wear your smelly blog to work.
Anyways, since I'm trying to revive this blog, I shall try to write about something. Now what shall I think of... hang on, I shall just ask Shrik.
This is what just happened:
I leaned over to Shrik and jogged his brain a bit.
"What's the weirdest thing you can think of? Quick! One word!"
"All right, a phrase, then. Quick!"
Shrik looks at the wall for a while, and brightens.
"Martians hate pink."
See? Bad idea. But in the words of the immortal Adolf Hitler, "es muss gemacht werden", which, in a less ominous-sounding language, translates to "it has to be done".
Why would martians hate pink? According to Dr. John Gray, Ph.D, we would. From when we were babies, we were clothed in blue, and our sisters in pink. Unless you were brought up by a mom like mine, who, though she assures me that she did want a boy and all, still used to amuse herself by dressing me up in frocks and doing my hair into what she claimed was a ponytail, but what, from photographic evidence, looked suspiciously like a bonsai coconut tree. I was three. Ha ha, mom, you almost had me going there for a while. Twenty-five years, to be exact.
But we digress. Why do men, even the funny green ones from our neighbouring planet, hate pink? I'll tell you a secret - we don't. We love pink. We just don't like it on ourselves. There was this girl in college who used to wear these plain, pastel-coloured salwar-kameez in the lightest shades of pretty much all the colours, and she looked breathtakingly like a cool afternoon breeze. Now a cool afternoon breeze is not much if you're in Haridwar in December, but this was Trichy. In the summer. Not that cool afternoon breezes can be seen, but if they could, they would probably look like this girl. And pink looked lovely on her. My favourite was lime-green, though. See, there's another colour. I, for one, would not want to be seen dead in a lime-green salwar-kameez, but I don't hate it. The same as pink.
So there, Shrikman.