it's not everyday one
imagines an
in an
indian rope trick
it's not everyday one gets to see that either.


favourite heroine

crack that coke can
recycling into trance;
prices go high again.


With literally everyone I know of banging on about how good it was, I finally contributed to the many millions it's been making.
I must say though a little part of me died the very instant of watching the shiny new Lamborghini crash and the batmobile self-destruct, but I guess the truck scene kind of made up for it.

Books have been alien to me since eternity; my readashionship with them hasn't been particularly page turning, blame it on the internets. The ones I have managed to get my hands on by fluke are hairy puter does pot—the series minus last one, vinci da code, bhagat poiints at someone, and the likes. I say by fluke, as they were either gifted or found in a hotel room. and to this day, the thought of sitting through a storm of well stringed words seems rather tiring. A cousin from the states recently left this behind, and I can't wait to see how that goes down with a bookworm pesticide equivalent.

Oh and BTW, meet GTD. Getting Things Done is all about, well, getting things done. and after streaming through countless GTD posts on lifehacker, I can't help but laugh considering that I haven't actually got around to doing anything other than just reading on and on about it. And with that, it may come as no surprise that Google Reader screams this at the top of its voice.

I think I have too much free time on my hands; but newly assigned part-time presence at a popular clothing retailer might just end up proving to be more healthier than I thought. I couldn't be more accurate in defining silent, killer boredom at work, If I happened to say that I've managed to master the exact sequence of the songs on the massive playlist solely due to the lack of any remotely entertaining activity taking place. and earworms like these playing now and again combined with inability to google the lyrics on-the-spot, its like torture trying to guess them track titles. Although to be fair, its not everywhere you get ladies in their thirties coming out of the fitting rooms saying, "I need a fairy with a magic wand to shrink my bum."

In other news, wayne ugly fat potatohead douchebag rooney has been made an ambassador for Mercedes. why-o-why I ask WHY! calling it a total cartastrophe, is putting it lightly.


It's quite dreary when pre-movie real estate gets plastered with miles of boring text ads. but seeing my phone company come up with such gems instead, is super stuff.


Welcome to mon la première, noveau travelogue;
went Bath sometime last week, got punfully
painfully drenched in the dreary rain.
what follows this, is a selection picked off thy faithful
photomachine. more flickr drooling when the darned
uploadr starts to show any signs of working with vista.

inborn annoyance with chinese homosapea isn't new
"what, chinese tourists? at the Great Roman Baths?
surely they mean no harm."

see what I mean? and no, I definitely wasn't to blame.
there I was focusing all I had to that one perfect shot, and
phataak! the shanghai forehead unleashes itself in all its fury.
was it tying her shoelaces, or just randomly deciding to pop up like a ninja the very next instant; I don't know.
although the latter does seem more likely.
you can imagine the things going on in her head at that moment-

legend of the disappearing forehead.

A certain Mr. Gorgon and his excavated fore head

A 1.6 metres deep cold plunge bath

with a camera in hand and all pumped up, it wasn't long before
The Sartorialist wannabeism kicked in.

river Avon, from bus window of the dumb travel company who thought an hour on a rainy day was enough to walk about exploring.

Stonehenge : a group of stoned stones.
and pardon the different angles. nothing more entertaining than pretending to be a professional photographer among clueless tourists. sad, I know.

sigh. writing a travelogue, it seems, clearly isn't my forte.


writer's block is a myth

only when you end up getting something that involves frolicking around randomly fiddling with faintly farcical first page results of a fairly fruitful search on flickr for these:

first name, favourite food right now, high school,
favourite colour.

celebrity crush, favourite drink, dream vacation,
favourite dessert.

like to be when you grow up, love most in life,
one word that (possibly) describes you, username.

and picking an image from the results on the first page.
and using Big Huge Labs Mosaic Maker to create a mosaic.
and then getting drunk

that was fun. and it appears many have done this by now.
in case you haven't but feel like, do go ahead and drop a line.


An update as its eight minutes past eight on the eighth of august in the year two followed by two zeroes and an eight, after I ate roasted chili flavoured tortilla crisps with some hummus which was great and I want to mate


conundrum chinesse

So I've had this theory since long that If every other awesome girl is detected along a man within her personal space area, a 'brotherly-sisterly' relationship can be safely assumed while being blithely oblivious to what the bitter truth might be. Told you positive thinking works. It kind of comforts by giving some hope and sort of showers you with endless supplies of 'maybe's cushioning you on a safety net.

Sadly though, like with all good theories come the mandatory drawbacks. It all seemed to work pretty well, until a few months back. No they didn't turn around and throw dagger looks, nor were they long-haired male rock fans mistaken for girls if at all you thought that was the worse it could get to.

Get this—everywhere I looked around uni, 80 to 90% of innocent girls fell prey to appearing chinese almost instantaneously;
no literally, everyone.

Although when I say Chinese, they might well have been Koreander or Japhacheese cakes or the likes;
I couldn't possibly differentiate the taste.

It wasn't like I had stumbled upon a barrage of randomly prepositioned young chinese tourists, they were just there.
Or maybe I was doing it all wrong according to, oh I don't know, some bizarre set of Feng Shui body language rules. Their confused expressions as I looked at each one of them in sheer disbelief disturbed me even more.

It felt like something went terribly wrong somewhere in thy DNA. My innocent sight was either accidentally bestowed upon with mysterious 'racial mutation powers' of you know Huu Huangdi or the Chinese Kitchen God was frying fucking with me real bad.

You know there are times that make you think
"maybe I had too many noodles last night."
Something tells me this could easily be one of them.
and, that I need more of brazilian cuisine
sigh; talk about being beaten with a chopstick.

In other news, a mentally ill lunatic proves he is one rightly so by confusing the moon for my car.