Oh look. Another post about absolutely nothing at all. Couldn't have done it without you, by which I mean you, and your constant hankering.
Although, remember that interview I wrote of, where I was asked about my reading of Bangla literature and I said, "Oh bangla literature? Sure thing. Tenida."? Yea, well, I got the job. I'm minutely freaking out right now, because I don't know how I'm going to pull it off, but yay me!
So I went out and bought myself some shoes. Green shoes. The kind of shoes elves in green tights and hats with bells on them might wear. Or even, while we're on a manic linking spree, the wicked witch of the west. I did look in my wardrobe once I came back home, and all I could find was blue. Blue, everywhere. If you just muttered "manic depressive" under your breath then be rest assured I'm not sharing my herbal happy-making pills with you.
Anyway, green shoes, but no green clothes. Other than the one I wore when I was shopping, which clearly influenced my decision. So goddammit I'm a thoughtless shopper, but hullo? Try shopping while you're being molested and then you come and tell me if you're overparticular about colours. There's this commune of shoe-shops at the New Market basement, around 5 of them huddled together, all with the same owner. So I went, because my nice stilletoes from Singapore are dying slowly and painfully, their leathery tentacles giving away one at a time. And a girl needs heels. If she's short and fat, she needs to swear by heels, while cursing them when they aren't looking. Very much like a workplace sitch. Ok, who said that? I didn't say that. Anyway, these days I only wear flat slippers and go around looking like a pasty ball of sourdough.
So I spent an hour having my thighs felt up while trying on shoes, which were mostly delightful (the shoes, not the feelings up), but because I have the feet of a mangled penguin, they looked horrible on me. Then, since that didn't seem like thanking the good people over at sexual harrassment inc. enough, I parted with all my money, down to the last twenty rupees. And after having warded off repeated demands from molesting shopkeeper to drop me home on his "naya A-1 bike", and having reluctantly accepted a bottle of Maazaa practically shoved into my face (only after I sniffed it suspiciously and asked him, "Drugs toh nehi milaya, na?" Because I am upfront like that.), I was on my way. I didn't protest, other than shoving his filthy hands off each time they slid up my thighs. It was closing-time, I was more or less the only customer in those five shops, and I don't know why, but it just didn't seem worth it. That shop has lovely shoes at cheap prices, and though it won't be in a very long time, I'll probably go back there, unless I find a different place as good. I know, it's very lame, and I have protested in the past. But it felt wiser to just leave - you get a gut feeling sometimes.
So between arbit shoe-shop molestors who insist on having my number and dropping me home, and Ottoman, my stalker auto-lover who also boasts of his bike and his large house and knows exactly where I live, as also the number of days ago I last rode his auto, but is otherwise very polite and has never made any offensive advances - my love life is abuzz with activity. Yup.
At least I have a new watch to go with the shoes. Surprise gifts can be nice sometimes. Maddening, at others.
While looking for career alternatives during the past couple of weeks, which, I have to say, have been very trying, I came across this - behold the Whore of Mensa - the dark and comical underbelly of scholastic learning (with special ref. to the study of Eng. Lit.). I wouldn't have made the grade myself.
Finally, words of wisdom. Gandhiji said that for the seeker of pure and true goodness, there must be no close friends and no exclusive loves. I'm just saying.
Oh, and don't expect me to post again for a very long time. This blog is becoming increasingly despicable to me.