Rapid Hope Loss

Yep.
That about sums it up.

People Aren't Chocolates

Do you know what they are mostly?

Bastards. Bastard-coated bastards with bastard fillings.
But I don't find them half as annoying as I find naive, bubble-headed optimists who prance around vomiting sunshine.

Accidentally In Love

I saw the movie version of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy a few days back, and absolutely hated it. I had been warned of its demerits in the past, which is probably why I never went to watch it while it was still running in theaters a couple of years back, for being the huge fan that I was, and continue to be, of the book, I was playing it safe. The last thing I wanted was a substandard movie to come along and ruin the book for me.

But a few days ago, as I mentioned, curiosity got the better of me, and after much contemplation, I finally decided to, as many would say, fuck it all, and thus thinking, procured a DivX print of the movie, and sat myself down to watch it.
It was, as I also mentioned, terrible, especially for someone who is as fond of the book as I am. The story was all wrong and messed up, and the best parts had been cut out. The beginning was corny, and Zaphod's second head was most shoddily done. John Malkovich was completely wasted as Humma Kavula, Deep Thought had a female voice (which was not, I might add, rich, resonant and deep), and Ford Prefect was black (which makes sense, actually, because Ford Prefects are, usually, black, and Mos Def does end up doing a fairly good job, but the fact remains, they made Ford Prefect black), a travesty I have still not managed to overcome.

So, as you can probably make out from the preceding paragraph, I absolutely detested the movie, for what it was, and for how it reflected on the book.

You would, therefore, be most puzzled to know, that I watched the entire movie again a couple of days back. It is a matter that, I am sure, baffles and perplexes. There seems to be no logical explanation that can satisfactorily explain the given situation. Why would a seemingly sane man (and I say seemingly for I, like you, am also not too certain if the assumption holds, although I am desperately trying to hang on to the belief that it does) watch a movie he professes to hate a second time within a fortnight?

A logical explanation, however, I assure you, does exist (which is probably what enables me to desperately hang on to the belief that the above mentioned assumption holds). It goes somewhat like this.
I am, completely and most definitely, in love with Tricia McMillan, or Zooey Deschanel, as she is more commonly known.

Which brings me, finally and in a somewhat long-winded way, to the reason why this blog post is being composed. I have often, and to a much larger extent in the recent past, been accused of falling in love far too easily. I try valiantly, whenever such allegations are brought up, to defend myself by vehemently denying these baseless claims, and proceeding to viciously assault the character and authenticity of whomever it may be making the accusations.

However, a little bit of closer introspection reveals, and I am trying to be brutally honest with myself here, that what many are saying might indeed be true. Over the past fortnight, I have fallen completely and irreversibly in love with Lena Headey (Queen Gorgo from 300), Preity Zinta (a couple of hundred times), Mirinda advertisement girl (I don't quite know what her name is), Minissha Lamba (the pretty new Bollywood actress working in Honeymoon Travels Pvt. Ltd.), Meg (from the animated feature film, Hercules), Priyanka Chopra (spotted her on the telly while channel-surfing), Abigail Spencer (from Angela's Eyes), Emma Watson (I was watching the new Harry Potter trailer), in addition to, of course Zooey Deschanel, as well as a couple of other people who I happen to know slightly better than the ones mentioned above.

But then, as I see it, this isn't necessarily a problem. I have no qualms with falling in love at periodic intervals of time, and I see no reason why I, or anyone else for that matter, should be denied the liberty to do so.
I am, however, I have to admit, not a little disturbed by the logical implications of the situation at hand, for it is quite clear, on a bit of closer rational analysis, that the very obvious upshot of, in essence the very factor that enables my being excessively prone to fall in love is just a tad bit worrying.

It's not the falling in love as frequently as I do that bothers me.
It's just that I seem to falling out of it just as frequently.

Is that Dopey in your car?

I completely fail to understand why any self-respecting Bollywood actress would let someone like Emraan Hashmi within arm's-length distance of herself, let alone permit him the occasional kiss. I mean, the guy is nothing but disgusting. Whoever encouraged him to take up movies ought to be dismembered and clubbed to death with his own left leg. The chap looks more like a government office peon than an actor, what with the mangy stubble and the scruffy clothes, not to mention the permanent hang-dog expression. In fact, within our household, and indeed among much of my extended family, mostly at my mother's instance, we have taken to calling him The Bhikmanga (The Beggar, or The Mendicant, for the ones not in the know). In fact, to be quite precise, he is referred to as The Bhikmanga II, the coveted and highly prestigious post of The Bhikmanga I (or The Original Bhikmanga) being already occupied, for a fairly long time now, by a certain gentleman by the name of Ashmit Patel. As you can probably figure out, subtlety isn't exactly my family's area of specialization.
But I digress. My objective is not to talk about my family's unique inclination towards finding unflattering names for B-Grade Bollywood actors, and Ashmit Patel's non-existent talent and looks shall serve as another subject for another day. What I merely mean to convey as of now is that the only good thing that Emraan Hashmi could possibly have going for him is the fact that his surname has the word 'Hash' in it, a word that for many people goes hand in hand with a variety of undoubtedly pleasant associations.

While we are on the subject of issues I completely fail to understand, I would request the reader to indulge me a little while longer, while I voice my feelings on the subject of soft toys. I mean, what is the entire deal with these soft toys? What is the objective these big furry things are serving, besides acting as extremely large pillows and/or handkerchiefs for your children? If your child wants something to lie on, give him a pillow. If he needs something to wipe his nose with, give him a handkerchief. But, as I see it, this unhealthy obsession to combine the two clearly does not bode well for you, your children, or mankind at large. There are combinations that work, and are called for (like the new iPhone), but quite frankly, soft toys as a seamless coming together of pillows and handkerchiefs don't quite cut it, mostly because you end up lying in your own snot.
And one can rest assured that if there exist daft objects such as soft toys, there will exist, in much greater numbers, people who are dense enough to take them to even greater levels of stupidity. Even if I do assume, for argument's sake, that soft toys are one of those civilization-altering creations, like fire, the wheel, and vodka, what could possibly come out of keeping a dozen of them in one's car?
Just the other day, as I was walking to South Extension to satiate my golgappa cravings, I spied a car (I believe it was a WagonR. Never liked them much.) with an entire array of soft toys, which on closer inspection turned out to be all of the seven dwarves, staring at me from behind the rear window. The answer to the question, "Why would any seemingly sane man spend hard-earned money to buy a set of soft toys and place them next to the rear window of his car?" completely eludes me. Surely, thus placed, these soft toys would be completely incapable of fulfilling either of the only two possible aims I have talked about previously. Moreover, spare a thought for the collateral damage such a move would cause. Merely glancing at the dwarves while I was walking down the street made me freeze and almost resulted in me being run over by an ice-cream cart (Grumpy had an exceptionally belligerent look on his face). Imagine what the upshot would be if I were driving a car and suddenly noticed the seven pairs of small eyes trained on me. Surely I would have a heart-attack, slam into the divider, and kill at least a dozen (four or five of them urinating) pedestrians.

It is getting late, and I must leave you now, for sleep beckons. But before I conclude this post and take my leave, at least for the time being, I must write about one last thing that I have not been able to understand all these years. Indeed, this one has puzzled me even more than the two mentioned earlier, and for a much longer time.

How can a healthy, full-grown, adult man be so tired at the end of the day, when a swallow weighing less than an ounce can fly non-stop across the Atlantic.

As You Like It

It is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in a most humorous sadness.

My Life

As a dear friend very aptly puts it, Oh... it's like animated and stuff! (Whee!!)

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