Plastic Money

Plastic money is convenient when you carry it. But it's the biggest source of embarrassment, when you forget it. With no paper money, the thin wallet gives you an indication. But forget the damn card and you'll hardly feel the difference. You probably won't even care to check.

But you should. Check once. Check again. And again.

Because the only thing that can be worse than Federer losing to Fish, dirtier than pigeon shit in your room and uglier than Kareena Kapoor's protruding collar bones is making a very very old friend pay when it is supposed to be your treat.

Testi-fy

If you're thinking that this is one of those posts where I pick up a song and launch into describing its greatness and meaning and what not, let me ensure you that this is nothing of that sort. It is not at all about the RATM song called "Testify". (RATM is totally brilliant btw. No one has ever spat out a "m******f**ker" that comes close to what Zack de la Rocha says in "Killing In The Name Of".)

But let me not digress. This post is about writing and receiving testimonials and the effect that they can have on you.

It all started with when the yearbook went live. I made a new folder called "testes!" (I realised that I got the spelling wrong only when I spell checked this post) and wrote my first set of testimonials containing those for Smiley and Billu and during a chat with Bose, asked for his opinion. He was probably just being nice when he said that they were absolutely awesome and that he wanted me to write another one for him. I felt proud of my power of senti and even claimed the "King of the Senti Ring" title. To be able to summon the services of my senti-gland so effortlessly and then shut it out with equal ease made me feel like some superhero.

It was a major ego boost. Much like the boost that the said ego experienced when praise for this (rather boring) blog came as a bullet point in a totally unexpected testi. (This short form is slightly disgusting, but convenient.) Apart from the boosts came shocks. Massive shocks. People called me "decent", "sincere", "mature" - how I wished could tell people to think twice before using such blasphemous adjectives for me. It was a shattering realisation of the fact that I failed to follow the teachings of this revolutionary article:

"How to be an a**hole"

Just when I had recovered from this calamity, came the truth which spelt disaster on my scarred mind. It dawned upon me, that the testi-s I wrote, to put it bluntly, sucked. They were neither funny like Billu's testi-s, nor senti. Smiley's testi for me, totally pwned in this regard. If my tear ducts had not been so crocodile-like, I would have certainly shed a few drops after reading it.

I think I should publicly apologize to all those who feel that my testi for them doesn't pack enough emotion or doesn't do justice to their personalities. I'm really very sorry. I tried. I really did. Thanks to all those who wrote such nice things about me. I absolutely love reading those testi-s over and over again. They give me narcissistic pleasure beyond measure.

Tathastu. (That's how Hindu Gods sign off.)

p.s.1: Current addictions: Eddie Vedder's voice, Mark Knopfler's guitaring.
p.s.2: Farewell tomorrow. All this has happened too fast.
p.s.3: This post isn't worth posting. But there are already too many unpublished drafts.

FUBAR

A course which requires me to work hard even if I only want to pass.
A project which exists only on paper.
A humongous pile of clothes to be washed.
A dirty room.
A nagging desire to watch movies when I should be working.
A rapidly decreasing account balance.

All these contribute to my current situation described by the title.

Bachaao!