PENGUINS:

To be or not to be.

 

Someone I know happened to get placed at some company where all new employees get a new, shiny self-help book on orientation day. It was a cute book. With glossy pages, large font, and illustrations. (Now, I'm sure the company didn't really think their new employees were idiots with extremely inferior IQ's.. I guess they didn't believe much in self-help books anyway and so got the cutest book they could find.)

So anyway, I went through the book. Or atleast I looked through all the pictures and read the thought bubbles. It was about a penguin called Fred whose ice-berg was melting. Now Fred's on the verge of leaving his home, starting off on his own, trying to make it in the big bad world. (So much for subtle metaphors.) And the penguins in the pictures are all worried about finding fish and saving their ice-berg and all that. Which was when I began thinking that maybe, just MAYBE, I'd like to be a penguin. Cos they have quite a comfy life..worry about fish, find a new mate every year, have penguin babies (minus the gestation, mind you) and worry about fish again. Plus they can make angels in the snow whenever they want. (Thank you, Zeenie, for pointing that one out.)

But then when Fred comes back home after his, uh, adventure career ice-berg-unmelting-quest whatever, he sees his wife. Poignant moment and all, but all poor Fred (being a penguin) can do is flap his fins uselessly. Which was when I realized that penguins cant even hug. And all the cartoons that show penguins lying around happily in an icy utopia are all LIES. Cos I thought about it, and try as I might, I just CANT imagine penguins lying down- they'd probably keep rolling around by mistake. (Heheheheh). Which also means that they must sleep standing up.

So then I thought to myself that its a good thing I'm not a penguin. Maybe it'd be okay to be a monkey..they got proper arms and everything. But nah, monkeys are damn ugly. So i guess I'm happy being human afterall..

:)

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Author: Kirtana K

I paint and make music and blog like a maniac. These days I try to run. But I have chicken legs and lungs the size of two-rupee balloons. I fail. I like pajamas and striped socks and books that read like song and songs that sound like poetry and strangers who read this page. And Maggi when I'm sick or cold or sad or celebrating. They'll find noodles in my veins if ever they cut me open. And potatoes. And maybe a tiny bit of whiskey. I'll be an Unidentified Living Object and they'll put my insides on display. It will be crazy. It will be awesome. It will.

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