Window Blogging

“Simply press the button, wait for the beep, blow into the unit, and within seconds the LCD displays a precise digital percentile readout of your Blood Alcohol Content (BAC). An entire test takes less than 10 seconds.” Saturday night. 2 guys. 1 bar. Copious amounts of alcohol. 1 Breath analyser to bring it all together. Guy1: “It says here level 0.02 means you’re beyond the drinking & driving limit and I know level 0.12 is when you get into coma.” Guy2: “ Well then, I think 0.08 is a good limit to aim for” Guy1: “Perfect. Bartender, we’ll start with 2 Irish Carbombs, followed by 2 large Glenn on the rocks and then we’ll think of something.” Guy2: “You know, I think I read a book once where this guy had a wicked experience with a breath analyser once.” Guy1: “Man, you read way too much. People who write about breath analyser’s are obviously retarded...ah here come the irish.” 1 hour later. After attempting many BAC counts and sharing breath analyser with anyone who would talk to us ...

Write dammit...write it in as many words and as little sentences it takes...whatever needs to be done, don’t shy away. No more lies. It’s only words and words are all you have...ha!... So much these words can do...create, destroy, humiliate, infatuate, betray...every verb at their control. Humans are the most vocal of all the animals. That is both boon and bane...which is higher in the hierarchy is anyone’s blame game. Kill the dj, the blessed fucking dj...oh that Morrissey meant well. Stay sharp man. It’s the drugs...I can’t control my fingers. They type like there’s no tomorrow...but you know what I can do, I can put these dots. Notice the dots...always three in a row...they’re mine. I did them. There is no point really, just like life. No point, no real point that is. The preachers preach fiction. You have to watch the details. You have to have somewhere to hang your heart on at the end of the day. Don’t wear it on a sleeve. It’s way too risky that way. Start or follow a band which ...

Its a me, myself, Irene post. Its a gin in the gin soaked boy post. -- I am still having a love affair with Ice Cream. -- I hate pastries. I’ll eat them if you get them and I’ll buy them for you too. But inside, I’m squirming when I’m eating. -- If you dress grunge or have short hair, my look will linger when it falls on you. In that linger, I will even have imagined a life with you, complete with smiles, cries, Parisian cafes, Tuscan vineyards and long conversations (I think I fall in love easily...which is also to say that I flit...unless I cling). -- If you dress pretty, I’ll give you only the customary look. -- I think you can make out a lot about a person by the music they listen to. I am undecided about making anything out on a first meeting though. -- I am also undecided about photographs. -- I open up 60% of myself very fast, 20% after a little prodding, alcohol and trust, the other 15% if I love you. The remaining 5% nobody has known. I wish that were not so (Those numbers are...

Plus 1. Another day and they told me it added a whole year. Cause sometimes, you need a reason to party.

You’ve been walking to the same beat so many times, the monotony comforts more than it hurts. Like a cocaine addiction, it charmed you in first, then made you want to fight it and now you’re too afraid to move away. For you know for a fact that if you move out into the light, it’ll turn you into flesh and bones. Reality will pierce you through the retina. You enter the bar where you get your daily drink. There's a girl sitting alone, short black dress and red, very red, lipstick on. She looks at you. Her look lingers. She catches a glimpse of the guy she’s waiting for in you. She waits for you to get your hand stamped from the doorman and turn, realises you’re not him, sighs and turns to her Caipirinha. You walk straight to the loo. Look at yourself in the mirror. Your look lingers. You catch a glimpse of the guy you’ve been waiting for, in you. Then you sigh and turn. *fiction of the mad science genre*

Promise me one thing. What? Promise me that you won’t ever try and show me your poems. (Laughs). Yes I won’t. So are you flirting with me? Hmmm...I’m flirting with the idea of flirting with you. *from two different movies*

Fiction is not me. I gave being Ellis/Gaiman a chance, tried to steal a look at Borge's words and even wrote under influence. The best case conclusion would be that I'm still raw, but just between you and me, I'm not really in the being-patient market for me to "mature". And also, writer's are a dime a dozen and bloggers wanting to be writers cheaper than that. But you know what, till there’s money in the game, I will stay. And anyway, like those HSBC ads all over Heathrow, its all perspective (innit?). Which is not to say that perspective doesn't change. For like loyalty, it is very much for sale. Like a microwaved bag of popping popcorn, very much unstable. And with enough butter, easy to swallow but hard to digest. Ah perspective. Pop me one. Although, at the moment, the popcorn bag is a tad bit empty. Cause I can't talk about existential woes and relationship problems and having fun on dates or fights in clubs. About music, drugs and wine. About ho...