Vox Imports


Someone (sometwo, actually) reminded me today of the existence of my blog. (If you pay close attention to that sentence, read between the lines and such, you'll get what I want you to get- the fact that I'd forgotten about this blog- a novel and exciting development in my life since one depressing day three months ago when I was bored enough to start blogging in the first place.) Which just goes to show that I'm no longer as bored as I used to be. And also that the net connection I have at home sucks worse than the net connection I had at Green (name changed to save my neck), which is saying something, cos the net connection sucked there too. But Green was better, cos there were fixed Sucky Net timings there- 5:30 to 6:00 p.m. At home, I have to cross my toes every time I try to log in (I'd cross my fingers but my fingers like to feel free when they type).
Point being, when I did remember my Ink (confession: I never forgot in the first place, which just destroys the purpose of the entire intro of this post), I signed in and sat perched on the edge of the bed like a Buddha and stared at the page for A Very Long Time (now I sound like I have a laptop, woohoo) waiting for Inspiration to strike. It didn't. So then I wondered if my blog felt betrayed, cos of being abandoned after having kept Boredom at bay all the time I was at Green with way too much free time and free internet than anyone should have to deal with in an entire lifetime. Which turned into a very complicated train of thought, which, in turn led to theory # ___.

Theory#___: Blogs Could Be People.

Yes, dear four (five?) readers, blogs could be people. And my blog could be two people. Or at least, one person with a Dissociative Identity Disorder in its early stages. So. Meet Ink.

Ink A:  32, intelligent, single and sarcastic. An ugly-as-hell person you'd meet at a bar; the type that gets meaner when he's downed a few pegs (which is saying something, cos no one can stand him on a Dry Day to begin with). This is the guy who, in his youth, spent many mornings alone at cafes, pretending to read, and realized (too late) that Aloof Cafe Book type habits are a sure fire way of killing your social life, and will only get you laid if you're a hot intellectual art-appreciating type person of the female sex. So then the Aloof Book type guy invariably turns into the Bitter Bar type guy, and spends the remainder of his 57yrs making witty observations and snide comments about any random in the vicinity who looks happier than a nympho in a convent school.

Ink B: a  depressed, pretty type girl who won't make it past 23. Tends to wear white clothes and stare silently at seas, unwittingly scaring gullible slum-dwellers who come to the seashore to take a dump in the night and sometimes canning trips for wannabe-hippie teenagers on pot, hash or some other (more lethal) hallucinogen. Most people of this type think they'll die by drowning, floating prettily on the ocean with wrists slit (for effect), but usually end up dying unremarkable (often undignifying) deaths (run over by a three-wheeler, for instance). The type of person you'd have as the protagonist of an almost-but-not-quite-good book, that you wouldn't actually want to have anything to do with in real life.

Thats my split-personalitied blog for you.
Pick one.

And thats the best I can do while I'm feeling like shit. Like some very inconsequential person's shit, too. I hope at least some of you four (five?) people are entertained. Love you all. I mean it.


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