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22 Mar 2016

Bits n Bobs.

It is 34 degrees outside (at 10pm). This picture is more for me than for you or for the post. 

Reading slump. Reading slump. Reading slump. I burned through titles in February. I could hardly bear to look at a book these last couple of weeks. Not even junk (junk usually gets me out of the gunk).

Writing slump. Writing slump. Writing slump. I couldn’t even put together a listicle till now :O

No amount of working out is going to “counter” the effects of bad eating, much as I’d like to believe in that sham of a theory (which was created by me). If I eat that fucking Fresh Menu TexMex burger now (one that I don't even like that much), a wilted excuse of a salad or even half a grape for dinner is not going to prevent all the crap from setting up shop in your tummy.

No amount of research is going to help me start what I really want to – two projects that have been in the offing for some time now, two projects that are really close to my heart, two projects that are still stuck in the “research” stage of my research-ridden life.

Each day is making me question the need for me to stay on at my job – the only thing that is stopping me is the terrifying fear of becoming a stereotype. And of course, the fact that I’d be broke as fuck.

I’m being hit by little waves of quarter-life crisis (what am I doing with my life?) every now and then, just as I’m at the fag end of the first quarter of my life.

-_-
^that is for not being able to register for the A-Z challenge – comments have to be enabled on the blog apparently. And nope, not going back there. Not even for A-Z. But I AM planning on taking part this year as well.

I have been diagnosed by me as having Stage 1 Cleaning OCD. Who woulda thunk it? :O All those years of Mum having to threaten me with dire consequences if “my room in not clean in the next one hour” (along the lines of “somebody gonna getta hurt real bad) paid off I think. Or that’s what it seems like because all the screaming matches (which involve screaming and stomping around on my part and sporting a stricken look on The Roommate’s part) revolve around Cleanliness of the House. I’m sure he never really was prepared for the fact that someone could lose their shit about bedsheet edges not being perfectly aligned with bed edges.

Part of being a pet parent involves dealing with people who don’t believe that furbabies can be loved as much as human beings. And turns out, I’m not good at this type of dealing.

Summer is here. But that deserves a whole other rant post.

The trusty secondhand relic I use as transport is close to giving up its ghost – if you see someone on the Ecospace Flyover, Bellandur going at a maximum speed of 10 kmph, wave out… it is probably me.

P.S: If anyone is still reading, this post, the blog itself, any part of it, write me a postcard or an e-mail? I miss talking to writers who write for the sake of writing and readers who read for the sake of reading. 

P.P.S: Some asshole bird decided the auspicious second to shit at would be the same one that I was riding past its stupid tree (if you want proof, go see my Snapchat). I have never been shat on before. Ever. By anyone.