The following post is a depressing combination August Rush, Noah and the Whale, heartbreak, lingering love and low self-esteem.
Alive, I am. Sadly, yes. Weep if you must.
It is official. The country is now going to be individually wrapped in pretty (naat so much) Gucci wrapping paper, and then categorically stuffed in butt-ugly Louis Vuitton bags. Fashion houses. Come sue me. And on your way, KISS MY ASS.
I hate socialites. I really truly do. It mostly is because of the fact that I could actually end up snoring within five minutes of casual chit-chat with any of them (thank you mommy for being a stubborn down-to-earth mother who hates kitty parties, which is a good thing and reduces such social contact..woohoo!). I will listen to your bullcrap, but do not expect me to hear a word you're saying. Why the random outburst of hatred? It is because in today's world, they make their kids follow their footsteps, thus creating a brand new cloned generation. we're talking iPads, Macs and expensive make-up galore. Live up. Lift your heads from that plush bed in your high tower and take a look around. There exists a world that really makes more sense than yours.
I am going to die alone. Might as well prepare myself now, so that when the time actually comes, I'm all happy-screechy about it. Yay? Ya.
Why does the dry, tepid (again, probably not so much in Bombay) summer wind bring along with it absolutely no inspiration or motivation to do ANYTHING? It is a miracle that this is actually being written. Holy crap, I'm growing up.
The world dislikes you. Accept it. Embrace it. NOW. Because there will come a time when the fact hits you in the face like a stale, sour-cream dead pineapple pie and you're not going to be able to think up the optimum solution for this very problem. Brace yourselves, bitches. It is coming, look it in the eye and fight back. While you can.
I was plastic. I am plastic. WHAT in the name of all that's unholy and rotten AM I? Existence is such a vast term that deserves an explanation, while on the other hand, the fact that you're human covers the vast multitude of questions. 'Titles', 'tags', 'prejudices' seem like the ideal way to sub-categorize existence. or not. Why do we even bother with all the effort of thinking over who's hot, who's not, who makes sense, who matters and who could die while kissing a frog for all we care? Everyone's going to land up cold and hard as stone one fine day, yes (Stop. Thinking. Of. Edward. Cullen. Dimwits)? So how do relations, tags, personalities and the whole nine yards matter, even? What does the word existence even mean? Why do we even exist, again? We're crumbling into nothingness as we speak, and making a mark on the world will probably help us through the process, but for what? Will it guarantee us another life? No. Will it guarantee us an extension on our current lives? Hell no. Then why bother? To feel inspired? To feel a sense of self-worth? And what does self-worth do for you? Push you to do things a bunch of people are going to remember for a few months/ years, before they find a new bakra to admire? If you answered yes to all the above explanations, you're brilliant. Could you possibly lecture me on the need to lift my butt off the sofa and do something? Be nice. I just gave you the coolest speech with innumerable question marks.
Randomness is good. Randomness defines variety. I am random, and I prefer it to be that way. Earthworms are hermaphrodites, for those of you who didn't know. See? Random knowledge is good too!
I no longer see any reason to continue this post. Wonder why I even decided to write this in the first place. Thought to ponder over.
Yes, we're feeling gracious tonight.