I don't like the Madras airport. It's hot. I don't think the AC's working. And maybe it's just me but everyone here looks really depressed. Ugh. I hate the heat. But I hate the cold too. Can't figure out which one I hate more. And my jeans, which were loose when I left Delhi, have become uncomfortably tight. I think I overdid it on the pancakes and the sausages.

 I still have another forty minutes to go before boarding. I'm flying Paramount Airway, business class. Not as good as it sounds because apparently the entire aeroplane's business class. I know how these bastards work. Basically it's going to be the same as the economy class in other airlines. They've just called it something else to make passengers feel special.


I really hope my flight doesn't crash. I hate take off especially. When the plane's going up, up, up, with it's nose towards the sky, I always get the feeling it's going to stop moving and come crashing down. Landing's not too bad, because with every second you're getting closer to the ground and so, chances of survival are increasing (that's what I keep telling myself anyway). Just to be on the safe side, everytime the plane touches the ground, I always raise my legs slightly so if something decides to tear through the linoleum covering the floor, it won't tear my feet apart at the same time.

I think I need psychiatric help. I blame my family, I really do. And my dysfunctional upbringing.

Funnily enough, I'm actually looking forward to going back to Delhi. I'm happy there now. I was re-reading the entries I wrote last summer and it was all incredibly depressing. I wish I wasn't so morbid.

On the bright side, I haven't bitten my fingernails for twenty four hours. This is a record.


I'm sick of having short hair. I'm not going to cut it again for the next six months. And I'm going to actually start using my hairbrush from now on.
And I'm going to stop biting my fingernails. 
And and and and and...

...yeah, that's it. 

I'm going to go watch Rebecca now. 


Nothing at all.

The horrible exams are over. I can't even begin to describe their horribleness. Apart from the fact that I had no clue what answers the questions demanded, the classrooms we had to sit in were so cold that my fingers were completely numb for the first half an hour. Tried wearing a pair of gloves but then I couldn't even hold my pen.

I really can't make up my mind whether I hate Delhi summer more, or its winter. Right now, I'm thinking of sun and heat with longing, but I'm pretty sure come May, I'll be cursing it all and wanting the cold back. Oh well. I just have to accept the fact that nothing makes me happy. Except misery.


My father's in Delhi this week but because of the cruel distances, I won't get to see him. That doesn't matter though because since we're getting a long weekend (cheers, Republic Day), I'm flying back with him to Madras for a few days. Apart from the fact that I'll be escaping the cold and vegetarianism, I also get to see PM and the dogs and the sea. What fun.

I remember the last time I went, I used to cycle down to the sea a lot and one day, after quite a few Bloody Marys, I got hopelessly lost. So there I was, cycling round and round some sort of fishing village, drunk out of my mind, with no clue where I was or how I got there or how I was going to get back. After panicking, I just gave into the lovely drunkness and after twenty minutes of cycling through twisted little paths and dusty fields, I found myself outside Dad's house. I don't know how that happened, but obviously my unconscious is a lot more intelligent than my conscious self.

I read Wuthering Heights yesterday. I tried reading it once when I was fifteen but I gave up after three pages. I don't know why I did because this time round, I found it completely unputdownable. Way better than Jane Eyre and definitely the best novel I've read in a long time. Completely besotted by Heathcliff obviously, and Hareton as well. Though I'd never want a Heathcliff in my life. I wouldn't know what to do with him. I also read Great Expectations, after years, and I've decided that it's the only Dickens book I can stand. I hate Charles Dickens with a passion.



Oh fuck it. I have nothing to write about. I'm going to take a nap.


Fuck The Lady

The Lady of Shalott is supposed to be about a stupid faery like creature who sits and sings and weaves whole day, sees Lancelot, is overcome by hormones, rushes to the window thereby activating Mysterious Curse and so sets her own death in motion.

It is not supposed to be about sight, visionaries, the principles of art and Plato's theory of reality.

If you ask me, that cow deserved to die.


Happy New Year. Not.

Today is the first day of the new year.
I have a sore throat, no voice and I've spent most of the day coughing up slimy mucus from my lungs and gargling with burning hot, extra salty water.
Fuck. My. Life.

On the bright side, we're all a bit closer to death.