This doesn't deserve a title

I feel like writing, but nothing seems to strike my fancy. Inane lyrics of stupid pop songs are running in my head…brings a wry smile to my lips. I should be working, but there really isn’t much for me to do here. I read what I’ve just written… doesn’t inspire much confidence, but I guess I’ll continue to ramble…for the sheer lack of anything else to do.

‘An idle mind is a devil’s workshop’…I distinctly remember having said this to someone recently…whom and why? I re-read again…it seems to insipid, so unattractive. Shit! I’ve seriously got to deal with this inferiority complex…its so…so turning off. yeah…I gue that is the best way to define it. The only reason I haven’t told anybody of ,my blog (kru excluded) is because I’m scared that no one will like it.
Then again…I reason with myself…why the fuck should I care? I’m not writing this for anybody…I’m just trying to express myself…I’m not asking for any judgment…or am I?

Last week in office I was biding my time reading Agatha Christie of my laptop, pretending all the time that I’m neck fucking deep in work… such a brazenly fraudulent attitude to work! Wonder where I’m heading with it. Her stories are ok…rather unfair though. The whole fucking point of reading a murder-mystery is to guess who the goddamn culprit is…now when the big picture isn’t given…how the fuck is anyone supposed to guess…I read the book to exercise my brain, not to marvel at her fucking ingenuity. Cunt.
Anyway, that is quite besides the point…what I wanted to say was that reading her books definitely improves your vocabulary. Quaint words, eloquently waxed by those archetypical impotent brit prudes over gin and fucking tonic really does stick in your head. Weird…I can’t seem to remember a single word though.

Its weird, but I feel that the entire notion of being able to write only when in a bad mood seems so fucking adoloscent. I bet the that the same bunch of people can actually write in a good mood, and write well. I know that it really isn’t about how well one writes...its just that the whole fucking attitude of ‘I write when I’m messed’ really gets to me. FUCK! Grow up…stop wallowing in self pity and showing the world how heavy your shoulders are with all your worries and problems…boo-hoo-hoo…nobody really give a rat’s fucking ass! Fine…granted you write beautifully…but what the hell is with the brooding, sulking, motherfucking load of horseshit! It’s so fucking juvenile, a fucking act within an act…wheels within fucking wheels. You’re so full of bravado… ‘Nothing is wrong me. I’m messed because I choose to be-take it or leave it. I don’t need your pity’…bullcrap! Deep down all you want is for the world to see how much you’re fucking suffering and hurting! It’s so goddamn stupid…have some fucking self-respect.

Stop individualizing bobo…stop it.

That felt good…wanted to vent all that for a while now…Vesuvius on the fucking verge. Heh. Good thing didn’t direct it at someone…it makes me groan to think of the consequences. Just realized that blogs do have an iota of use then.
Met S after a long time…hasn’t changed all that much since I last saw her…atleast physically. Mentally, I really wouldn’t know…she was always so closed up…never figured out what lay behind the veil of her eyes…makes me wonder…how sad is she now? She was never truly happy…I just hope she isn’t sadder. I’ll never know…don’t think anyone will.
I’m happy! That’s all that matters to me. I’m not ashamed of being selfish…who isn’t? life is a quest for your own happiness…reminds me of the new will smith movie. His happiness revolved around the happiness of his son and money..pretty selfish by any estimate. Somebody told me about this…keeping the special people around you happy…it being a purely selfish motive…sort of on the lines of -they happy-you happy. Was it kru? I think I’ll find out.

The creative juices seem to be petering out now…sad…I’ll again be consumed by boredom.
There is so much more to say…but nothing seems to be left to write.