AND the reason is me.

On one of them rare idle Sundays of mine, [yes, I flatter myself.] I give myself some profound Einstein like moments. [And no, I also have no idea what that's to mean.]

Today’s special incidentally happens to be my Grey cell’s pet too!

WRITING.

So this post is written to ponder over why I write so pitifully less often.

Did I mention I adore alliteration?

Anyhow!
Cerebrum mumbles once in a while of the injustice done by letting it idle around. I console it by saying Paris Hilton is geographically and technically space,
and it unfortunately takes an ass-whipping lot to reach where her non-existing [tee hee] ones have.

Cerebrum does a happy dance with pelvic-thrust and everything.

Microsoft word is an evil thing people. Everytime I click it smiles wickedly as if saying, ‘oooh. Trying to write bighead? We’ll see who goes beyond the third paragraph this time!’

Bitch it is people, swear to blog!

swear to blog!

Cerebrum. Munchkins. Come back to amma NOW!

Okay?
Okay.

So slowly even as this demented thing goes on, I realize; despite my craving to translate just about everything in my head to words, to give every thought a living form that exposes calculated bits of my soul to people I want to reach out to, I feel a violent urge to withdraw and let them thoughts safely sober out right where they originate from.

Ambiguity being my primal OCD, it clings to my skull with an Edward like precision.

Edward scissorhands I mean.

[HA! Got you, you gay twilight bitches =] ]

Of the plethora of excuses I procrastinate with, my craving for perfection to the extent of killing what I create if I hunch a negative premonition stands out.

Did i also mention I don’t quite comprehend tautology?

Anyway, don’t get me wrong there, I aint subtly hinting the thing you are by now mutely smirking about. [But if YOU think so, I’d humbly agree :)]

All I emphasize on is the degree of my self-destruction. I mean, do you see it you lovely people, do you?

 I am a damned one trick pony and take no joy in it and yet have the cheek to indulge in such extravagance.
The nerve of me I say!

My very need for perfection in everything I write is such that I’d rather curb my sole reason for living than to do so for the love of it.

Passion I tell you is a gay bitch.

It laughs gaily at you everytime you try to kill it, it smirks Al pacino:God-father like and seduces you George Clooney like.

It surpasses love, logic, success and ambition. It defies your rationale, your chain of thought and karma.

It haunts you with a maniacal speed,
it makes you jealous of all them smart butts who write without having to worry, to analyze and think and then re-think once more of how it will be perceived, whether it will be taken how you want it to be, if the concluding line will deliver the punch it is supposed to, will pun and sarcasm EVER register, will drawn out and complicated sentences ever be conventional, will this fashion of writing for once not seem vague?!

So you get the point readers.

Then there are those dark times when I fancy surrendering my soul to them science leeches and safely and endlessly mumble to my chi of how hopelessly lame people who think they can make a ‘flat in Bandra-something beyond a TATA nano- pet Yorkshire called barood’ delusion come true before ‘botox-savings piggy bank’ has to be broken into are.
[see what I mean by drawn-out?]

But when the social order demands a degree-attained existence one does not question righteousness, one just shuts one’s trap and photocopies in advance for the next semester.

So such you see birdies is my twisted, oh-so-melodramatic opera-like musical.
*loud sigh*

Cerebrum threatens to quit unless mushy names are stopped NOW.

Tata!
bye bye!
see you!