Like a Rolling Stone

All the time I was working the past couple of months, I fantasised almost obsessively about this week -- my first as an utterly useless, aimless, prospectless, worthless, jobless member of the great Indian loafers club. I mean, what would I do? Where would I be? How'd it feel?


And, everytime, a hazy motion picture would start playing in my head. 

***

A lithesome girl, with somewhat of a resemblance to me, rises in time to shut off the alarm. A quick brush and she heads off for a run at the picturesque jangal-mangal park. At the park, she is PT Usha on dope. In the next hour, she completes her twenty rounds and is forced to stop when other runners plead with her to leave because of the complex she is giving them. 

Back home, she showers and readies to break fast.  At the table, her hand effortlessly ignores the leftover pizza and the freshly grilled cheese sandwiches and reaches instead for her favourite -- oats and orange juice. 


Then, as always, she arrives before time for class. Naturally adept at learning alien languages that were never meant to be learned, French n'cest pas difficile pour elle. "If it was not for your last name, the size of your hips, your love for gongura, and your country of origin, you would have certainly been mistaken for the French," the professeur tells the beaming girl. 


But it's only still the beginning. By the end of the day, she has, aced through her calligraphy lessons and her cooking classes, completed her visit to the lending library, spent time at the NGO, won a chess tourney with her non-virtual boyfriend, sifted through her freelance assignments. All, in time for bed. 


She completes her nightly routine and slips into bed with a contended smile. She is already ready for the next day. 

 ***

Now folks, that is what should have happened.  This is what happened. 

Everyday: Woke. Thought about running. Ate. Went out. Watched movie. Ate. Thought about French class. Read book. Slept. Cooked. Ate. Double Grilled Cheese Sandwiches. Went out. Thought about calling lending library. Played chess with virtual boyfriend. Went out. Bought calligraphy set. Met Jughead or Amen. Read 51 sex tips men want women to know. X BOXed. Went out. Came back smelling like smoke and booze. Read comics. Thought about the video. Slept. 

Not exactly as I imagined it would be, but pretty much how I'd want it to be. 

Grrr.

I'm going to use Blue Shirt's head for target practice.  Really, I am.  It will be like this. His head will pinned to the wall between rows of balloons in the shooting stall, at the carnival where I go every year. And then I will go pop! pop! pop! and poof, he'll be gone.  Okay, so given my exceptional hand-to-eye coordination and natural arm strength, NOT to mention the size of his pig head; all chances he'll come out of it unscathed, but that's completely besides the point. You get the point. I want to kill him. 


Now, there's three people in the entire world that I feel like that about, you understand? HIM, that loony Smugface (who is always offering to help when I say I want to kill myself) and of course, Devilkid (who was born and genetically designed to make my life miserable). 


Only, I can't seem to rid myself of any of them. And this one, I've been putting up with for like years. Okay, so maybe he's just this side of cute, can come up with a wisecrack or two and, knows me very, very well. But that's it. He's SO insufferably arrogant, and SO mean. Definitely deserves this much blog space, NOT.


But today, I tell you, he went too far. TOO far. How dare he doubt if I'm good enough to snare the celebrity husband that i'm pining after? This is it. I'm so totally done with him. Long time readers of the blog need not snort. This is only the 4569th time in the past seven years I've said that. But I promise you, this will be the last time and you all know I am woman of my word.  If you don't know anything of the sort, well, you will find out now.


Baah, now what I was saying? Yeah, so he's a dog. Whether he thinks I can do it or not, I'm going to marry NK and that's that.  If for some reason should NK not consent, (which frankly, I don't think will happen. After all, it's not like I'm some crazy, creepy fan who watched Hyderabad Blues once and then decided to marry him), I will resort to us touching noses, which will be considered and blessed as holy matrimony under the Eskimo tradition.


"Realistic ambition", is it? "Buy me ten pairs of bunny slippers if I marry NK, each in different colour", will he?  Hah! There. Now, that will show Blue Shirt. 

Blank Verse

Two very blogworthy incidents happened today. 


In one, a lifelong wait comes to an end. Today, I saw him. He's everything I ever imagined he'd be. Now, I just have to find a way to make him marry me. 


In the other,  I did it -- the really, really bold thing.  I quit the job. 


P.S: Dear God, I will do anything if you'll just arrange this for me. ANYTHING. Even believe in you. 


PPS: Jughead, I can't be more glad you are back. In the absence of a god, I leave this to you, my pimp. If anyone can do it, its you.