name: that girl in pink
location: Somewhere, India
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Thursday, September 29, 2005

The Genius of Miss Marple

Being a detective, I believe, is a job best done by women. And not just because they’re smarter, have the gift of female intuition and can ask sensitive questions with, well, sensitivity. Men, I’ve observed, suffer from a startling lack of curiosity. A quality I’m sure is essential when it comes to detecting.

Take this exchange between my husband (will refer to him as H for the sake of laziness) and me for instance.

H (uninterestedly): Remember Bunty? Bunty and Babli are getting a divorce.

Me (leap out of my seat with concerned excitement. I have after all met Bunty once, never met Babli and had no idea they were married. There’s a lot to catch up on.) : What?? How come? What happened?

H (studiously changing channels on TV): Well, they weren’t getting along.

Me (with all the patience I can conjure, it’s too early in the conversation to start screaming.): Obviously they weren’t getting along. But what happened? How long were they married?

H (clucking in disappointment at the lack of good television shows): Not sure…probably the same as us.

Me (delighted with this piece of information, vague as it is.): My god! Were they staying with his parents? Was that the problem?

H (sees a ray of hope on Discovery Travel and Living’s ‘American Choppers’): No. His parents are in the States I think. Or Siliguri. Anyway, they’re not here.

Me (realising I’ll have to use this method of elimination to reach the root of this marital discord): So has she moved out?

H (damn. He’s seen this episode before): I don’t know.

Me (dying to grab that remote from his hand): Didn’t you ask him? You guys didn’t get much time to talk eh?

H (ah! That gladiator movie he’s seen 85 times is coming.): Actually we had lunch together.

Me (slowly counting to 10): So I guess you guys aren’t too close. You didn’t want to ask him personal stuff.

H (settling into a comfortable TV watching position, whilst continuing firm grip on remote): Oh! We’ve been friends since class 4. He’s one of my closest friends.

Me (grab cushion so I can scream into it.): Muffled aaarrrgghhh!

Such an abysmal lack of information is appalling and inexcusable. Now don’t think I’m nosy but I promise you, had I been given half an hour with Babli, I would’ve found out exactly what had gone wrong between the two of them, who was to blame, given sound advice and participated in some healthy name calling.

Men however don’t seem to feel the need to ask questions. H and Bunty probably discussed sports, property prices in various parts of the city and how the Swift isn’t that great a car actually. And all this while one of them is going through a major personal crisis. Like I said before, inexcusable.

This lack of thirst for knowledge is not the only reason men make lousy detectives. Another thing they’re severely missing is imagination. And we all know part of detecting is to imagining different possibilities of what could’ve happened. Women on the other hand have the skill to read between the lines, to process information in order to find out what it really means. Since we never say what we really mean, it goes to reason nobody else does either.

Another example to illustrate what I mean:

Sunday is my cook’s day off. And since we ordered in the night before and will be eating out at night, I figure I’ll give cooking lunch a shot. After giving it many minutes of thought I decide rice and chicken curry is a tasty and not-so-cumbersome way to go.

So around noon I drag myself out of bed (Sunday is my only day off, by the way. Just so everyone understands the supreme sacrifice I’m making.) and waltz into the kitchen. Throw the rice into the rice cooker and pull out my handy pack of Kitchens of India chicken curry paste. Clean chicken, add it along with the curry paste to the cooker and set a 20-minute alarm on my cell phone. Twiddle my thumbs for 20 minutes and sharp at 1:30 a delicious home-made lunch is served.

Scene at dining table:

Me: So what do you think?

H: It’s really good. Thanks baby.

It’s really good? That’s it? On television men make much grander gestures when their wives cook them good meals. Where are the undying protestations of love and how I make him happier beyond anything else? Where’s the offer to take me shopping so I can buy anything my heart desires? Why isn’t he even kissing the hands that have made him this gourmet meal? Obviously this means he doesn’t like the food. He thinks I suck as a wife. Marrying me was the biggest mistake he ever made. Just two years and already the love has gone from our marriage!

At this point I sulk, leave my food and walk off from the table, leaving H to grudgingly leave his lunch and the Amitabh movie on TV and come after me to figure what he did now.

Which man would ever be able to reach such perceptive conclusions on the basis of one sentence?

Clearly there are some essential qualities missing from men that render them completely inept at the cerebral art of detecting. And if you’re thinking of a certain Belgian with a head shaped like an egg, don’t forget, his creator was female.

Posted by that girl in pink  | 6:37 PM  |  6 comments  

Monday, September 26, 2005

Some people...

Some of us grow up with this rather naïve belief that people are essentially good. Strip away at their gruff/rude/obnoxious surface and deep inside is a heart that beats with pretty much the same values as the rest of us: kindness, the desire to be happy, the desire not to hurt others and the general want of peace and love in the world.

Not true. There are people who’ve been spawned by the devil himself and stripping away at their surface only will reveal a black heart that desires the worst for everyone. And all these offspring of Satan currently carry out their dastardly acts based from my workplace. I’m getting out of here soon but if you ever head this way, make sure you carry a crucifix and some sharp stakes with you. Just in case.

Posted by that girl in pink  | 4:39 PM  |  5 comments  

Friday, September 23, 2005

Query of the day

What makes 'Friends' such an exceedingly watchable show? Most of us have seen every episode of it ever and still we watch reruns everyday? (I watch it twice a day, on two different channels. And if nothing else is coming on TV I can even watch the week-that-was on the weeked!) We even laugh everytime. Sometimes at their jokes or sometimes just in anticipation of a joke that's coming up. What is it about 'Friends' that we can't get enough of it?

Comments are welcome.

Posted by that girl in pink  | 2:01 PM  |  6 comments  

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

The Higher Purpose

There comes a time in everyone’s life when we start questioning why we were put on this earth. This question has been poking me for a few years now and as I approach my 27th year of existence it’s become more of a hard nudge. There’s got to be more to life than just breathing and existing. Jesus had his cross to bear, Gandhi had the country to free, Hitler had a few hundred murders to carry out, Dharmendra had bizarre dance steps to develop…everyone has had a higher purpose. So what’s mine?

At first I felt I’d hit my groove with shopping. It gave me immense personal satisfaction and I was also substantially contributing to the lives of businessmen all over. Clothes, bags, shoes, home furnishings, shoes, jewellery, food items, (did I mention shoes?), I was at the top of my game. And my shopping sprees were truly selfless. There have been times when I’ve bought stuff I’ve never even used. Fruits and vegetables have been bought only to rot and die due to non-usage (apparently there’s a limit to the days “Mummy ka Magic” chalta hai). Clothes few sizes too small have been bought, waiting for the day they go down my shoulders. 4-inch stiletto heels that cause my ankles to audibly scream in pain grace my shoe rack. Jewellery that is only appropriate to wear at your sister’s wedding (I’m an only child) sits in the locker. I can sincerely say that when it comes to shopping, I’ve done my bit.

But there was a slight hitch in my assumption that shopping was my calling. You see there are people with tons of more money than me who’re doing a far better job of it. While I have covered every local mall/store/tailor/boutique in garage, people have taken their craft internationally. Apparently Bobby Deol has sunglasses from every continent! Sigh! In the face of such obvious contributions I had to face the hard truth. I was nothing more than a mere drop in the ocean.

This setback put me on the path to self-discovery once more. I spent hours standing in front of the mirror, contemplating my reason of existence. I faced the mirror standing straight, slouched, sideways, upside down…and suddenly it hit me!

It’s what I’d been doing all my life. And am pretty sure will continue doing for the remainder too. I can speak about it for days, without a break. I have explored every aspect of it and am always abreast of any new developments in the field. It’s what I live with day in and day out. It’s my cause, my raison d'existence (throwing in a little French for some flavour). I was born to battle fat.

See, I’ve been overweight for as long as I can remember. Till my teens we lovingly called it puppy fat. As I grew older the puppy grew up to be a healthy St. Bernard. Then somewhere along the way I had some illness (the cause of much hilarity to my cousin Anju) and I was on steroids for a bit. Soon we started blaming the fat on them.

Miraculously as I entered the college the fat melted away and for three blissful years people saw the me that had been so well covered for so long. I thought the battle had finally been won but I was wrong. It was merely a short ceasefire and soon the fat came back to attack me with a new vengeance.

Obviously talks and agreements weren’t going to win this war and so I too began the offensive.

Gym memberships were taken, but it turns out merely paying your monthly fee isn’t going to cut it. You apparently have to go to the damn place and use those hideous machines. A deep analysis led me to believe that a diet should be my weapon of choice.

So I started eating healthy. But like every army has its moles, mine was my sweet tooth. Chocolates and ice creams managed to infiltrate my food and soon I realised that I wasn’t making any headway.

Then I read on the Internet that Bill Clinton had lost 14 kgs on a new diet called the “South Beach Diet”. Hell, if the ex president of the most powerful nation in the world is using it; it’s bound to work for me. So I zeroed in on ‘carbs’ as the new enemy and started eliminating them from my food.

It turns out carbs have a bit of a role to play in conducting basic bodily functions. Without going into gory details, I’ll just say that I welcomed carbs back into my life with open arms and a quiet apology.

Why not give gyms another try I thought? I’m older and wiser now and I’m sure I can make peace with the treadmill. I did, for a while. But then another problem came up. My ears and right arm started plotting against me! Every morning the alarm would ring and before my mind could process the sound my arm would turn it off. I’d finally wake up only to the sound of my maid violently ringing the door bell and by then I had just enough time to get dressed and make it to office within the grace period.

So I decided not to be a slave to gyms and their inflexible timings (how am I expected to make time in the short hours between 6 am and 10 pm?) I made my parents buy me a treadmill. Little foggy on what exactly happened there but somehow that treadmill has ended up at my aunt’s place. But don’t worry, it wasn’t a total waste. It’s used to hang towels and the like.

In my campaign against fat, the latest weapon of mass (mass like fat-mass...get it? he he!) destruction is a home exercise DVD. Its been used all of once as of now. But I’m not giving up on it as yet. It is after all my true calling and I have vowed to fight it all my life.

For all of you feeling some pity for me in my fight against fat, the joke’s really on you. At least I’ve found my higher purpose. What’s yours?

Posted by that girl in pink  | 3:51 PM  |  5 comments  

Sunday, September 18, 2005

Bangalore, my love.

Lately the city I live in has been under a lot of flak. And not unjustly so. Bangalore is like the brilliant child you had, whom you expected would grow up to be someone you could be immensely proud of. But instead of the IIT-IIM pass out you this child should’ve been, it grows up to be a good for nothing failure, unable to live up to hopes, and almost too broken to have any dreams.

For the uninitiated (read those living on another planet), Bangalore is the IT capital of India. It was supposed to be the city of tomorrow. The model city that would keep up with every successful city in the world. People flocked in thousands for the better life in Bangalore. Businesses grew and the worthy became rich. Its success lured more people and more business. Things were bloody good! And then somewhere along the way, things started spiralling downwards.

Today Bangalore is a mess. The word ‘infrastructure’ makes most people cry and some of the more jaded ones laugh. The government is a case study in everything that can go wrong in a democracy. Population has exploded, property prices are skyrocketing and life is nothing but one long traffic jam.

But it’s still your child and you still love it.

I’m a Bangalorean. I wasn’t born one but I chose to become one. The main reason it’s my home of course is because this is where my heart lies. My then boyfriend and now husband is a Banglorean. But that wasn’t the only reason I chose this city to be my home. I really loved this city. And although today I’m one of the loudest complainers of the problems that plague Bangalore I still love it. Bangalore baby, here's why you rock!

Open a window and you’ll still see nature in all its glory. No government can stop the mad variety of trees that line our streets and how they choose to flower at different times of the year so that whatever the season, there’s always a splash of colour to lift your spirits.

The sky still looks like it’s out of a children’s storybook. The perfect blue with lazily floating fluffy white clouds. And then suddenly, out of this picturesque blue, out emerge thunderous black storm clouds that pour all over the city, leaving everyone drenched and delighted.

Bangalore accepts me for who I am. Wholly and unconditionally. No one hates me cuz I’m north Indian (a dreaded quality in a place like Chennai), not rich (not acceptable in Delhi) and not too cool (you gotta be cool in Mumbai). I can go pubbing dressed like Paris Hilton or Pavithra Hanumanthapaiya, Bangalore really doesn’t give a damn. Whatever my avatar, I can always be assured a chilled glass of draught beer and some good old-fashioned masala peanuts.

There are roads with names like Serpentine Street, Bride Street and Murder Street in Bangalore. And they still have old villas (albeit slightly rundown) with a faded 1905 carved above the front door.

People still pick each other up from the airport in Bangalore. And if it gets too late and you don’t have a car, someone will drop you. To your house, and not a taxi stand.

Despite the throngs of people that walk up and down it, M.G. Road remains one of the prettiest roads in the country. With the beautiful (original) Vidhana Soudha at one end and the lovely tree lined pavement on its side, M.G. Road is a reminder of everything that was once right with the city.

Courtesy and politeness are still practiced in this once pensioner’s paradise. Even as you sit in a crazy traffic jam at 7:30 in the evening, cursing and tuning radio channels, a fiat will slow down and let you pass first. It happens rarely, but it happens.

Bangalore truly is a cosmopolitan city. I really can’t think of any one community that has an overwhelming majority here. Our multiplexes show movies in English, Hindi, Kannada, Tamil, Malayalam and Telegu.

The pubs, the people, the parks, the place…it all works for me. I love Bangalore and wouldn’t wanna leave it for any other city in India.

Now I’ve got to go. Got a distance of about 3 km to cover and only one hour to do it. I better get on it.

Posted by that girl in pink  | 11:47 AM  |  6 comments  

Friday, September 16, 2005

Satyajit Ray, eat this.

There are some things in life that simply cannot be taught. I suppose they can be taught, but actually learning them can be quite impossible. Cooking a decent meal; saving money; reversing your car out of a narrow, winding road flanked by trees and other cars (my office); singing without homicidal side effects; sticking to a diet…you get my drift.

But fortunately there are a few seemingly difficult tasks that are really no big deal at all. Making a hit Hindi movie for instance. Bollywood (hate that word but it’s shorter than ‘Hindi film industry’ so am just going to use it for now) producers, take heed, this one’s for you.

Lesson 1: Casting.
Thin thin thin. The first thing you need to be looking at when casting for your film is what shape your leading actors are in. And no, round is not a shape. We want actors with minimal flesh covering their bones and the desire to flash all of it.

Must kiss clause. All of you who thought Indians were prudes can just kiss my ass! And if you don’t want to, I know plenty of actors who’ll do it. Nothing titillates the public more than uncomfortable, badly picturised kissing scenes. When casting, make sure your lead actors are willing to pucker up for the camera. It’ll not only sell tickets but will also put young, as yet inexperienced teenagers (are there any inexperienced teenagers?) off kissing. What better way is there to halt the growing immorality problem that sweeps our country?

Lesson 2: Costumes.

Should cover only basic body parts. God gave us limbs so we could flaunt them. So let’s not go against the will of the maker. It’s all very mathematical. 75% of the movie should have the male lead topless. When he does cover up, only sleeveless, strappy numbers will suffice.
Women can under no under circumstances not be showing at least 60% of their bodies. I don’t care if it’s snowing in the scene. She must be wearing strapless tops and shorts/mini skirts always.

Designer names only. Rule of thumb: Big bold branded names that can be seen by the viewer sitting in the last row of the theatre. Spend some time on your shots and figure out maximum spots where the designer’s name can be flaunted. Underwear straps, socks, belts, cell phone covers, nail polish remover…leave no spot untouched by a Gucci/Prada label. Your main protagonist maybe a radio jockey struggling to pay rent. That should in no way be reflected in her inability to buy only the top labels. This is a movie for God’s sake. Any resemblance to reality is to be strictly avoided.

Lesson 3: Storyline.

Love. There are enough problems in the world without movies adding to them. If you want a hit film, please make sure it revolves around the love life of the aforementioned flesh-challenged couple. And it must end with the twosome getting married or at least engaged. We have no time for relationships that don’t work out. Leave that to the real world please.

Comic relief. Over the top characters with outrageous dialogue are as essential to your film as a cameraman. Don’t fret if they don’t fit into the main construct of your film. There’s always place for bizarre best friends, landlords, doctors etc.

Foreign locations. See, we live in India and most of us can’t afford trips abroad. So make sure you set your film in an exotic foreign land. Of course every character in the film, from the taxi driver to restaurant owner to medical practioner, will be Indian but that’s totally believable. Like the saying goes, you can find a potato and an Indian in every corner of the world. (Or is that, a potato and a punju? I’m confused now…)

Morals. Pre-marital sex will lead to pregnancy. Dammit, we’re Indians and either we’re extra fertile before marriage or we always end up using defective condoms. Whatever it is, you have to make sure that if your loose moraled heroine allows for physical contact without the bond of holy matrimony she will damn well be punished for it.
And again, since she is Indian she will not stoop so low as to abort. In a successful Hindi movie, you do not need to be financially/mentally/spiritually ready to have a baby. Motherhood is the greatest gift you can get and must not be rejected at any cost.

Lesson 4: Miscellaneous.

Music. I’m sure I do not need to stress upon the importance of pointless songs after every twenty minutes of the movie. Whether you’re celebrating new found love, grieving a lost one or buying ice cream, why speak when you can sing?

National integration. Get as many characters from different parts of the country as you can. And make sure that even after living in a foreign land for most of their lives the do not lose their accents. After all, since we don’t get to hear these accents in real life, we may as well enjoy them on screen.

Inspiration. Don't forget to get inspired by an American movie and copy entire sequences from a succesful romantic comdey. If it worked for the yanks, it's got to work for us, right?

I think I have pretty much covered every aspect to the making of a successful film. With my entire thesis being based on a recent viewing of “Salaam Namaste” you can be assured I’m not just speaking through my hat. So go ahead and make you mark in Bollywood. Just excuse me if I don’t make it to the premiere.

Posted by that girl in pink  | 5:08 PM  |  2 comments  

Sunday, September 11, 2005

The Importance of Packaging

I have tried out every blog template offered by blogger.com. I started with the green dots, found it too cluttered so moved to some horrendous pink thing. It was too horrendous even for me so I moved to a simple blue top, white bottom sort of page. Not happy with the colours and layout I tried out a few more before finally settling on my current brown, blast-from-the-past template.

One may argue that it's what's written that really counts. That's like saying, its what's inside a person that’s important. We all know that’s not true! Let’s be honest here. Would you rather strike up a conversation with George Clooney/Julia Roberts or Bill Gates/Mother Teresa? Be honest now!! Actually Bill Gates has money so I suppose he does have a certain attractiveness quotient. And Mother Teresa is no longer with us so I guess they were both bad examples.

Ok quick. Would you rather chat up good-looking guy in marketing who works out thrice a week or dull, checked shirt wearing, lunch box carrying man from accounts? See, I’m telling you, packaging counts! Good-looking man from marketing may have the IQ of a chicken and our friend in accounts probably reads philosophy in his free time but unfortunately he is a victim of bad packaging and hence mr. marketing reigns.

My suggestion? Quit wasting time studying and getting degrees and developing yourself as a person. Some sort of mind development is bound to happen by merely existing in this world. Concentrate on what’s really important.

Join a gym, get a haircut that suits you, and spend money on essentials like designer clothes and accessories. (Don’t spend on food. Firstly it’s fattening, plus when you look that good people will want to take you out and foot your bill)
Spend time in front of the mirror and find an expression that’s flattering for your face. Learn it and keep it on all the time.
Understand colours and figure out which ones go with your skin tone.
Install warm yellow lighting around your house, it makes anyone look gorgeous.
Express concern about the state of the world in your conversations. Don’t worry, you won’t have to do anything. Just talking about it is enough.
Always have a copy of Freud or Gabriel García Márquez around you so you look like you’re intellectually gifted. Never mind if you can’t pronounce the name. People will be so intimated by your killer combination of good looks and intelligence that no one’s gonna ask anyway.


Follow all this and you my friend, are on the road to dizzying success. Guaranteed to succeed in any field, this is the formula for true happiness. And years later when you sit content with the deeply fulfilling life you’ve led, think back to the person who gave you these pearls of wisdom. Then put on your best expression and raise a toast. And make sure it’s wine ‘cause as we all know, hard liquor’s fattening.

Posted by that girl in pink  | 11:57 AM  |  6 comments  

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Down with Music

Recently saw a re-mixed, re-released video of Alanis' "Hand in my Pocket" on TV. Reminded me of college when she'd just burst on the scene. The song was so identifiable then. Especially the part that went:

And what it all boils down to
Is that no one's really got it figured out just yet
I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is doing something or the other depending on the verse she was belting...

Anyway, I was 17 then and it was cute to have not figured out what to do with your life. No one knew what they what they wanted to be be or do. Hell, those were the days when things like 'dedicate life to dogs' or 'be CEO of major MNC' were both battling to be No. 1 on probable future careers. Both equally vague and improbable but optimistic anyway. Yeah baby, I had one hand in my pocket and the other was busy making plans for the future.

I'm nearly 27 now. And I've barely got one hand in my pocket, (thanks to v. tight jeans) and the other's just scratching my head wondering what the hell to do with myself. I've done college, done a post graduation and put 4 years of my life into a career that I'm having very serious doubts about. And along the way, the only thing I've figured out is that of the 11, George Clooney is my favourite and that I definitely prefer pizza to burgers. But besides that, I'm still where I was when I was 17! Without the rosy glow of youth and with a car loan to repay.
Alanis, you wily cow, why did I ever believe you when you said, "everything's gonna be quite alright"? Nothing's alright. Grrr. I'm writing about adolescent issues in my late 20s. Serves me right actually, falling for the word of a noveau hippie with unkempt hair and a distorted sense of self (Really, who comes naked in a video with a body like that?!). What did Alanis know? Look at her, 10 years later and what's her big accomplishment? Remixing and re-releasing an old hit.

Posted by that girl in pink  | 1:54 AM  |  7 comments  

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Colours of a Hurricane

Go to any newsy website or news channel and hurricane Katrina is definitely one of the top three headlines. Read and see pictures of the poor calamity stricken citizens of New Orleans trying to get food, trying to escape disease and ravagers and looters. Read about the media's outrage at how not enough is being done. Read a local newspaper and see how the Indian media can't get over the fact that these are pictures of America. These are images we are used to seeing from Africa or India, not the world's richest and most powerful nation.

And it's not just the disaster struck city that resembles poor third world countries. Noticed how all these people are black? Amid outstretched hands hungry for food and forlorn faces mourning a lost loved one, there isn't a single white hand or face. There are no white people looting pharmacies and electronic stores. There are no white kids staring into the camera, wondering where their parents are.

It gets me wondering, do disasters not strike the white people of the world? Who ever heard of Europeans going on a looting rampage after a natural calamity struck? No, that's what happened in India when the earth quake struck Latur, all those years ago. Who ever heard of a disease outbreak after too much rainfall amongst white people? Nope, that again happened in Mumbai after the recent floods. Hundreds of fishermen and their families die in Orissa every year, either due to drought or flood. And yet every year, when there's a hurricane in Florida all one hears about is some property damage and maybe one or two people getting injured. And if someone dies, the white people of the city come together to pray amongst candles and flowers. It's all very civilized and rather beautiful actually.

So when finally nature directs its wrath towards a prosperous western nation, how come it's again the non-whites who suffer? Obviously there were white people in the city of New Orleans but somehow they all managed to get away. So are non-white races of the world really somehow not as good then? Bosnian refugees don't look as pitiable as the tragedy struck victims of New Orleans, and they've been going through war for a few years now!

Maybe it's not really a function of race. It is a function of your economic state. The people who are suffering and who got left behind are the poor of New Orleans.

So then how come all the poor in New Orleans are black?

Posted by that girl in pink  | 11:50 AM  |  2 comments  

Thursday, September 01, 2005

And finally...

Turns out there is a serious mental disorder doing the rounds called "Net Addiction".

Wait, if that wasn't funny enough, get this - those afflicted with the disorder can go for help to
www.netaddiction.com Ha! If that wasn't the funniest thing I heard. An online site to help get you offline. Isn't that like asking an alcoholic to get help in a bar?

Just realised, this is my second post on the same day. Gasp! In making fun of it, have I fallen prey to the disorder?

Posted by that girl in pink  | 10:02 PM  |  0 comments  

a passing observation

Sometimes I think life is nothing but a series of countdowns. I find myself reciting numbers in descending order all the time.
On the treadmill, I stare at the display, willing the seconds to reduce and come to zero so I can get off the damn thing and get on with my life.
At the traffic signal, I glare at the timer, hoping that will get it to move faster.
As a deadline inches closer I avoid looking at my watch, trying desperately to somehow stretch the minutes out longer.
Towards the end of a vacation, my heart starts sinking as I start thinking of just the few minutes I have left before I need to check out and go back to the mundane.
Whatever the situation, it's really never about enjoying the time one has, is it? Somehow it always seems to be about rushing through stuff in order to reach point zero.
Maybe that is what life is, eh?. A series of countdowns, all leading up that final one?

Posted by that girl in pink  | 10:01 AM  |  2 comments