"I Quote. I Ramble..."

You don't understand! I could have had class. I could have been a contender but that would require courage. I could've been somebody, instead of being a troubled man who questions himself everyday. That is who I am. I've got a feeling I'm not in my delusional la-la-land anymore. So, here's looking at me, kids. Fasten your seatbelts. It's going to be a bumpy night in the freak show that is my life.

What we have here is failure to communicate. Now that we see these signs, perhaps help is at hand and we can sit back and enjoy the smell of a defrosted napalm in the post apocalyptic morning. I'm definitely not going to say, Made it, Ma! Top of the world! Hah! They call me Mister Witty - and I'm as mad as hell, ain't going to take this anymore! I can't handle the truth. I want to be alone. After all, tomorrow is another day. Mom always said life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get. A boy's best friend is truly, his mother. And life is a banquet, its just that most poor suckers are starving to death!

La-dee-da, la-dee-da.

Page 3

Okay, let me start by apologizing to all the people I force to read my random ramblings. I realize that I have put the ‘pro’ in procrastinate and haven’t really gotten on to updating the blog I so dedicatedly penned to begin with. Sorry! I’m lazy. I know that I need to find a way to destroy the dawdling demon that lies within. Okay, now on to more serious issues. I just walked in from an awards function and its after party. I enjoyed myself thoroughly – guilty pleasure, perhaps. I mean I’m not one to go absolutely goo-goo-ga-ga over stars (SRK excluded) and their soppy shenanigans and even more sloppy speeches – since I already have my acceptance speech, a classy one at that, down pat. I just had fun criticizing the overly dressed up tartlets and continued giggling like a schoolgirl at the effeminate alpha males. Yes, I see the irony too. Now you’ll have to excuse me while I take a minute to trounce my classist moment.

Done!

Anyway, while all of the above doesn’t make sense and since Red Bull clearly cannot get me high I want to pen down a few thoughts in all my commonsensical consciousness. Exclusive clothes, air-kisses, Evian, polite conversation, bitchy-bytes, designer shoes, fancy cars, 5 Star Venues, imported caviar, expensive wine and artificial hair-shine is the stuff that my custom made career will become heir to. I’ve always wondered if I could master the art of fake conversation and compliment my worst enemy. I’m no Derek Zoolander but I do occasionally seek worldly advice from a puddle in a pothole. I don’t know my Hussain from horse-shit but I know that the going rate is a million bucks. Don’t judge me – we all know how it works.

Now here’s the scary part. As I gradually climb the social ladder and go from the SMS invite to a handcrafted courier, I’ve begun to become conscious of the arch lights that reflect from the flippantly larger-than-life Prada handbags and I, in point of fact, fit right in. I must say that I enjoy the concept of power-lunches and high-tea. I don’t mind paying the extra ten grand for a label that reeks of a fashion know-it-all. I take pleasure in holding my wine glass just right even as I enjoy name-dropping and reveling in the luxury of fake scandal. They say that talk is cheap but my mouths full of imported Sushi.

…I absolutely hate it.