It's been over a year!

Hallelujah, I've been a (lazy) bum.

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Once again, I find myself writing whilst suffering from a paralysing cold (the flu cold, not the winter cold), and upon Jayant's reminder (which Gmail gladly served upon me, with awesome efficiency).

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Much has transpired.

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The future has arrived at our doorsteps. We (batch of 2004 law students from a certain educational institution that doesn't deserve to be named) are finally in our final year. So to all you uncle-jis and aunty-jis who insist that we simply must have another year left - No. We don't. But we do mourn the end of a rather long, er, vacation. Obama's "happened" (snore, double snore, triple snore), and I'm so sick of hearing about it that I'm beginning to fall asleep at the "O" - "O" for Over-exposure, anyone? "O" for OhBloodyHellNotAgain. (But that's just me right now, being apprehensive, mistrustful, crowded, pseudo-rebellious - for all ye know, he's going to be brilliant. I just get a bad vibe, 'tis all!) I just have to say to us - Let's ease up! I mean, he isn't our President! Sigh.

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And other things've happened too. My brother's become an amateur photographer (the moon's his exclusive muse, but she's been a bit shy lately because of all the, y'know, craters and Chandrayaans). Zeta-Jones gave Carla Bruni (she's a songwriter too, by the way, in addition to being the world's "coolest celebrity", a former model, and the President's whore - I wonder if she'll ever make Sarkozy sing us an immigration love song) a breast-inferiority complex at a recent Gala to honour Sarko (the Gala was for Sarko, not the breast-inferiority complex). The Indian stock markets crashed. Delhi's apparently more polluted than it ever was (What? Seriously? In spite of the goddamned smoking ban? Gee. On a serious note, it's because of the cars. So don't buy cars. Buy buses instead - give your whole neighbourhood a ride). I got myself another addiction - watching Kung-Fu Panda. David Foster Wallace died. Elizabeth Taylor almost died. George Bush didn't die. James Dean was born again. God came down on earth.

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Believe what you will.

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Oh and it's Dostoevsky's birthday! 'Tis true.

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(Pardon the hyphens. I'm having formatting troubles. Again. It's not my fault this time.)