What sucks..

What sucks is I don't have time for a proper social life.

What sucks is that i can't go out tomorrow night for a drink cos i have to freakin' work..

What sucks is that somebody ate the last cornucopia in the fridge

what sucks even more is that i don't have any money left so that i can go visit my sweet angel in delhi?

Hmmm...what else....

Okay, I guess I can do one more quick one.

What sucks is Lukas "Don't Call Me Frodo/ Lisa Minnelli dupe" Rossi won Rock Star: Supernova.

end.

i just heard..

that soon after irwin died..australia zoo had to call an emergency board meeting. Apparently there was something that steve needed to get off his chest.

But seriously, the funeral is going to be a big event. They're even inviting some big names that were once friends of Steve, like STING, RAY Romano and BARBara Streisand.

I guess it's like they always say: If theres one thing worse than getting sunburnt it's catching too many rays.

Yeah i know.. im going straight to hell!!!

Crikey!! He's no more.

In case you haven't heard Steve Irwin, better know as The crocodile Hunter, has been killed. According to what i've read and what i've seen on tv, he was filming a program about the Great Barrier reef when a stingray barb went through his chest and killed him before medical help could arrive. The hardcore SOB even pulled the barb out before losing consciousness.

I seriously didn't know stingrays could kill people. I just thought they stung people and occasionally rayed them. I mean of all the animals he fucked with over the years.. a stingray? Irony is a cruel mistress.

Steve Irwin always seemed like he was hopped up on happy pills but thats the way he was. The man lived with no fear and was trying to make the world a better place. He made a movie, albeit a bad one, and donated all of the money he was suppose to make to wildlife conservation. Thats something to think about.. He put his life on the line to entertain drunk kids like me when i was too sloshed to even change the channel late at night. I now feel kind of guilty for openly rooting for the alligators and crocodiles a few times.
I guess he had it coming.. but a friggin' stingray?? i always thought he would have his testicles chopped by a big ol' mean alleygator or something.. anyways.. just knowing that Steve existed in the world made me feel a little more sane, a little better about myself but now the man who made Crikey! a global term is sleeping with the fishes. Ok, that may have been a poor choice of words considering he was killed by a fish but wateva you get my point. The next time you're enjoying a Fosters pour a little out for your boy Steve.

and make sure you recycle the can when you're finished.

RIP Steve Irwin
(1962-2006)

before another bout of procrastination sets in..

it's been just 2 days since I last posted, so I won't rush into it. i'm not short of ideas or anything but me tooo lazy right now.. lemme just savor the moment. wow 2 posts in 3 days.. not bad andy boy. actually i'd rather blog than sit n work in this dumb cubicle of mine..but wateva. Anyways this post is just to direct any new readers [if there are any] to scroll back to the earlier posts and leave comments. For those dedicated fans out there [that's you], feel free to visit later for the new wave of posts. Anytime now. Yep. Just you wait.

over n out

Thus quoth the scribe!!

I thought about writing today. Not the verb. The noun. Writing. But writing is so innately human, that it does not stand alone in my mind. When I think about writing, I think about people. And when I think about writing, I think about me. Is this going to be another stupid post? I should hope not. But I am going to string together a bunch of adjectives and metaphors and hope I get some closure. I write because I love the language. I write in stead of making talk. I write for attention, to be more than who I am, and to stretch the space-time continuum of my written work. I write to separate the noun from the verb.

Writing is cathartic for me; at times effortless, at times a chore that I embark upon just to feel the endorphins flowing again. And writing is important to my identity. I cannot look on a future without it. My wrists have become precious; my fingers, cherished. I have struggled to fathom my fascination with semantics and syntax. And it seems to be a common search among writers. I want my words to do everything I cannot do. Paint pictures across the sky in rays of brilliant contrails. Scratch dark grottos in dim forests. Splash whirlpools and whitecaps through a reader's fleeting attention span. Etch fiery whispers that linger in the dark. I do not know why I am so fascinated by thought and word. Shaping ideas, shading dreams, twisting a seeming into surety; its all possible with a word or phrase laid down at the fulcrum of events. The birth of the perfect line is a work of beauty and pain. I have seen children stringing together bead necklaces for each other. They pick and choose colors and shapes, look for continuity and aesthetic and thread a thin string through minuscule holes that defy patience until they are satisfied with the heft of their creation. The look [when they whirl it in the sunlight, or give it to a friend, or feel it lie on their neck] is the look I want on my face when I see my writing.