Just being a Goose, really

I don't know why I must blog about this, but I must - of late, I've been converting everything into PDF. I'm an Adobe Acrobat Reader and Adobe PDF Convertor maniac. Stories, letters, cover pages for books I don't intend to write. It's mental. Soon, I shall be institutionalised. Is there an Adobe Mental Health Centre, anyone?

I've binged on the art of formatting correctly before. It was something that prompted a fellow intern at a certain law firm to believe that I was, well, mad; it was also something that drove my supervisor-lawyer-type to shower all sorts of blessings on my oversized head. But the fact that I'm addicted to a particular type of document has me rather worried: I do, of course, have a problem with addictions, but of what intensity I ask? (My eyebrows and voice raise themselves in forbidding melodrama). It'll be newspapers next, or milk powder, or maybe even "educational material"! I'm a goose. Do geese get addicted to things? Wait, this is a literary trick I have used before. Save me, someone. Well, actually, don't. I might get addicted to getting saved. Now that sounds promising.

Let me change the subject to something less delightful. I have also, of late, discovered something that puts me to sleep better than Phenergan or Cetrizine (spell-check recommended, here) - it's a professor. I shall call him Prince Charming, for the sake of "brevity", for he is stuck-up, pompous, sweaty, Punjabi, and of considerable proportions, not to mention his speech delivery is apparently suited to test your HQ (Hearing Quotient). You get full marks if you can count his "number-of-words-per-minute", because they're usually three or four. And these three or four words stretch like some great American spandex, which makes you believe you've slipped into a Palahniuk-type alternate world where everything is, well, slow. Plus, the subject is rather intensely dull, intense like how anti-matter must be. I must not fully reveal this professor's identity, given the possibility of being made to endure his classes wide awake, which, at all costs, cannot be allowed to happen. I shall need a new drool box, though. I can't drool.

Anyway, the Unforgivable Curse has lifted. I was able to make it to college with a full four hours of sleep - in my own house. I should be writing about Hatter, Doofus and Matheran any time now. It's just that, well, the pictures have been sort of lost in the intricate world of My Computer, created thoughtfully by my brother to try every last bit of my emaciated patience (that screams itself hoarse in the smoky hollows of my emaciated outer "covering", read body). I've commenced making backups of backups of backups (i.e. pluralised and not ripped off from "a copy of a copy of a copy"), and hiding them all over the place. It's my own idiotic little world of hide-and-seek pleasures. I really have nothing better to do with my time. I do actually have a lot of better things to do with my time, but I pretend to not have anything better to do with my time. It's a time-consuming way of being, all this awareness and pretense, and consciousness and general stupidity. Entertaining, though.

It just struck me how Bollywood movies are actually quite brilliant. They know how to treat emotions the smart way. I can practically hear the stereotype scream through his haut-parleur (I'm sorry, but the English equivalent of this escapes me at the moment): "Hamne is emotion ke liye, yeh gaana select kiya hai. Total mein hamarey paas saat emotions hain, toh matlab saat gaane. Oye, woh pehla waala kya tha yaar...?"

How much simpler could it get? Just for the fun of it, try reading Exiles by James Joyce, and follow it up by a quick run of Bunty aur Bubli or Corporate or something. They aren't much different, really, though, superficially, well....

Okay then. Sorry for the bullshit.