I have never hated anyone more than myself.
My dark passenger? The one called (nothing) once known as the big bad wolf (The Artist formerly known as Prince reference ). But wait, that was all in the mind, right?
So wait, what is it in me that is uh, not me? And what is me?
My head? My thoughts?
No, but those are manipulated, at opportune times and I (italics perhaps for effect)
(sudden fit of laugh)
(just realized I could be listening to music while I typed this. Not be this silent. A movie on hold. Inside the house. On the bed. That can wait. Did I mention being very restless oft late?)
And I have no control over them. The thoughts. The rationalizing part of me is definitely me.
Marijuana smokers are most likely to die of a fire. The worst you can do is fall asleep while smoking and it lights up the place. Random fact. Cropped up in head.
Ah, thank god. Strange Love playing. On my ipod.
Random phone call. From office. Was that me talking to him?
Yes I was pretense, but yup that was definitely me.
So what is this then? The Being John Malkovich thing? Trapped inside something and sometimes controlling and most times letting go with the flow thing? But most of us react to that, right?
Right. Dexter is a cult serial. Lots of fans. Who identify.
Fuck yeah. And I am trying to pass this off as mainstream literature too. LOL!
Wait, yup, this is an sms I just wrote to a friend. Extremely useful in building up the set and setting, you know! So that, everyone is on the same page. Or click.
“Ajab Gajab, Last Chance Harvey, and now From Dusk Till Dawn. Not non stop actually. But sort of continuous. Not brushed teeth. Have eaten one pav bhaji and two maggis in 2010, two days. Lots of beer though. And quite enough whisky.Not really hungry though.And not in happiness too.A lot of emptiness around and within.”
That IS sort of weird.
Was in a British Hoity Toity Club’s outdoor lawns supposedly partying with the tiffed of this drainbox of a city on 31st night. Instead tried to spend as much time away from the noise around a mostly lonesome fire outside. Dressed up in fuckin blazers and tie! Then there was the fucking crowshit. Literally. At some 11:58 pm. Literally 2009 shitting on me as it scampered along after a successful fucking up campaign.
Wait, I started the paragraph trying to prove a point here. So hoity toity british club for new year’s eve. At the derby for new year’s. First race bid on a horse called fucking Pocket Rocket. For the fucking poetry of it. You know! The whole act is supposed to be a celebration of the new year, right?
So I do. 500 bucks. The horse ain’t a favourite. But it wins. First place. You know, for the poetry of it. But seriously. The horse wins. So I get double my amount. 1000. But a bugger bid with me on Pocket Rocket. Coz I am a new comer to a derby. And there is beginner’s luck. You know? For the poetry of it.
It wipes out his entire loss deficit since morning. So brother is ecstatic and gets me a beer. And the only thing at that moment I want to tell him is, to really tell him, bro, you really ought to watch 13 Tzameti. I didn’t say that. He wouldn’t have got what I was saying.
Long story short. Next race, I bid again 500 on some random hunch. Plop. Nowhere in the top 3. Or top 5.
Ain’t no poetry. Okay?
None. But bah, the point being. it’s been a pretty ‘event’ful 2010, so why the emptiness inside? And which part is empty? Me or the italicized me?
Sorry, we don’t do fiction here.
We don’t serve noble gases either. They don’t react.
Marathon movie watching session happening. Absolutely random movie experiences. Almost to the finish watching Zoolander. And I am about to achieve film geek stardom by attempting 12 Angry Men immediately after it.