Letting go. Chapter N.

Caution: This might be a blog. But, it is my blog. I stand by my principles to not let you read the deepest and most personal posts in my blog, this being one such post. However, I wish that this blog also act as my diary. Something I can look into a few years later, maybe, and relive these good (or bad) experiences. God knows how I’ll feel then. I hope I’ll laugh at it. So, if at all you want to laugh or even just read through at the expense of me making a complete fool of myself, I couldn’t care less.

Note: This one’s for you, N, sweetheart. If you ever get to see this, that is. I’ll let you know somehow though.

Yes, it’s been quite some time since MJ died. We paid our tributes. I did my special thing man. I smoked some MJ. Oh yeah, it was ’special’.

During the few weeks I’ve stayed away from this blog, a lot of life-changing experiences occurred. Actually, it wasn’t really life-changing. I was just trying to make it seem big. Nonetheless, experiences of no particular sort occurred. And they were quite beautiful. So, I met N. This pretty, cute and surprisingly interesting chinky. She had more to say than the usual chink talk. That much is for sure. The rest of this post is what I wrote to her when things started falling apart.

“I am sick and tired. I’ve seen dumb girls, intelligent ones, mature ones, immature ones. I think you fall into the last category(and I was actually hoping for the 2nd). Alright, so I said I liked you. Maybe it was too early. Maybe it wasn’t. I don’t care. Besides, wasn’t it like obvious before? When I said it, all that I  meant was that we should go out more often. Get to know each other better and if something worked out, good for us. Else I’d have been content at having met a girl as interesting as you. Content for having had a good time. I didn’t even ask how you felt about me. Obviously, because you don’t even know me that well, do you? I felt it could wait. I might look scary, but you are acting way too weird and immature. I am sorry if I have been the cause for any disturbance during the ‘n’ number of times I must have asked you out. All of that at the risk of looking like a stalker. I believed spending time with you was worth the trouble. Huh. I was probably wrong. I don’t exactly know what you are going through. I would have liked to, though. But you probably will never respond. In fact, I would be surprised if you are still reading this, not having ignored it like you ignore me. I am sorry for this having to be so long, moreover when you didn’t ask for it. But I believe in conversation. Transfer of thoughts and ideas help. And besides, this is about you. So I thought I should let you know.
Especially since you never let me know.

It was good knowing you and a pity we couldn’t hit it off. Anyway, grow up. Good day.

S.D. “

I somehow feel good after this. I can’t figure out why. If anyone can’t relate with it or not understand this piece of crap, I really don’t give a shit. Like I said, this is to be my diary, so back off. Anyway, thanks for listening/reading. I couldn’t have asked for anything better from you man.

Peace.

Update: As we move along in this irritating dream, this tiring, yet worthwhile journey called life, we encounter very few characters/situations that can have a lasting impact on us. An impact so forceful, you would consider changing yourself. N was one such person. We probably don’t even know each other properly, but the unfolding of events in our midst have indeed opened my eyes. She may not have realized this, but that is how things stand. And I don’t write this to win her. She’s long gone. I’m happy for her and I’m sorry for the trouble caused. I mean it.

I stand corrected. This post(the original, not the update) can be considered as my angry rant that was a result of a clouded and emotionally challenged mind. Thanks to you, its clear now.

Respect.

Hey, MJ. No kidding, you were truly awesome.

Micheal Jackson is dead.

As I write the above sentence, I wonder if a spellchecker could identify his name. It did. It reported an error in my name, whereas there weren’t any in Michael Jackson’s. There also weren’t any errors in Sinatra. Neither in Frank. Nor in Joe. Not in any goddamn english English name. Goddamn Englishmen. His Holiness despises you.

A friend of mine, who had not visited the ashram in a long time, sent us an article. It was in some not-so-famous news website, and it scrutinized Michael Jackson like the one of his many freakish scandals mentioned in it had just occurred that very day. The guy is dead for heaven’s sake. All we can ask of you is this. ‘Could you be big enough by blessing his soul and getting on with it, instead of splashing your PMS ridden rants on otherwise decent news sites.’

I mean, what did he do to you ? This guy who died two days back, was a phenomenon. A true entertainer, in every sense of the word. This highly gifted man was sent to Earth with the only aim to entertain us and that he thoroughly did. As I read articles comparing his stardom (stardoom is his case) to the likes of Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra, I thought to myself if its even possible to make such comparisons. The guy we are talking about revolutionized pop culture. Not only was he a decent song-writer and a good singer, but he was a phenomenal dancer. Presley and Sinatra were famous in America. MJ is a name still used across the globe for two very different reasons, to calibrate a person’s dance skills or as the subject of child molestation jokes.This was mainly due to the fact that MJ happened at a time when the world was growing small. Metaphorically. The advance of information technology and the start of concepts like music videos only helped him climb higher. MTV, a relatively new venture then, used him to propel itself into popular culture and has stayed there since.

In his life, MJ has been the subject of umpteen number of scandals. Regarding the child molestation case, there are already reports doing rounds on the net saying that MJ’s child victim has indeed conceded to lying about the incident. What a pity. Yes, it was irony when the guy who sang that it didn’t matter if you were black or white went on to transform himself into a white lady. But that’s none of our business if he was so insecure about his skin tone/looks or even if he was affected by vitiligo. Or is it ? It still did bother millions. I guess that’s why they say fame is a two headed motherfucking demon bitch.

Every one of us who was born in time to witness the guy who had rubber bands for tendons rise to his peak should consider themselves lucky. We enjoyed his videos. We bought his cassettes and CDs. We secretly tried perfecting the moonwalk. We danced our hearts out to his music. We stood awed by his live performances. We accused him of child molestation. We showed him his way down the steep hill of turmoil. We tarnished his name to ensure that future generations don’t really give a damn about him. We should be ashamed of ourselves.

Perhaps he’s found a better place. One where no one would bother how he looks. One where there aren’t any fake people around. He was too good for this planet anyway. Rest in Peace.

The weird things we do.

I get scared man.

Real scared at times. So scared I can feel pain surging through me man. It like starts of from my feet and slowly but steadily travels up my spine, to orgasmically end in my brains. Is that even a word; orgasmically. Hehe. Anyway, this new shit is keeping me up for hours man.

Its called try-and-not-click-anything. Have you ever had your mouse broken ? I did. It was a trippy mouse man. It had these red and blue lights coming out of its transparent case. It never failed to entertain me. Watching those static lights. There’s nothing like it man. So one fine day, the mouse broke. It just broke man. I was left mouse-less. I grew frantic man. I didn’t know what to do. How do you suppose you can operate a laptop without a mouse.

The touch pad ?  I’ll tell you whats wrong with touch pads. Its like the lamest invention ever. You probably think its way easier man. You know, without moving your entire freakin’ arm and all that. Forget your arm. Your wrists man, they need to be dangling in the air, like a pair of wet trousers put up to dry. The worst part is, you need to ensure that a tap is considered as a click. This is necessary if you can’t use both your hands and need a free hand, you know man, like to hold your head or something.  So if you do that, the pad can’t differentiate between actions like clicking and moving man. It’s cause you need to touch it to move it and the pressure sensors register it as a tap. Its all too technical man. Too technical for you to understand. Anyway, it just can’t differentiate between the two man. I end up clicking half the ads at most websites.

As a result, Im actually starting to like Google man. The brilliant whiteness. It completely engulfs you man. Makes you feel white. Caucasian kind of white.  On this site, there’s absolutely nothing to click man. If it were any other website, I’d go crazy. I fret most of the time trying to keep the pointer away from links.  Lose sight, a touch, a little misunderstanding between you and your touch pad and your entering whole new territory. Which, mind you, you can’t leave within the next half an hour, thanks to the unbelievably slow net speeds at the ashram. That and the numerous pop-ups man. How do you turn this shit off ?

Why the name.

Actually, I don’t know.

It just seemed right.

I copied it. Big deal. Sue me.

But it describes me perfectly. Doesn’t it ?

Besides, what do you care ? Who are you?
What?
Kiss my holy, round, bulging, Oreo-brown ass.

This is arbit. This is outright insanity.
I don’t care what you think about it. But feel free to join the ashram, by commenting. Its Zen here. Divine. Dark. Outer-worldly. …….. Chocolate. I love chocolate. Sorry.

Like I was saying, I am high. I feel dry. I definitely am constipated. I don’t need help. If your reading my shit, maybe you do.

Now, dude, how would you like to go get us our stash ?