Angry.

Five things you, generic you, although of course this comes out of a specific situation, should know about me.

1) You are completely free to look at a piece of art and give the following commentary: Wow. Fuck. Mad. Totally mad. Fuck. Fuck, man. And I? Am equally free to give the following commentary: Haha, ok, groovy eyeballs, I like the gel pen stuff, but objectifying women, borrowing liberally from Dali and CD covers? Yawn.
That's right, you hypocrite, my commentary is as valid as yours. You do not get to complain that I don't 'get it', or say in a condescending manner 'that's what you think'.

2) Art isn't sacred, and I will laugh at you for being overdefensive of your friend (if I'm correct)'s work.

3) Your friend, against whom, despite your apparent opinion, I have nothing.

4) You do not get to be the same person who tries to be sarcastic about my discussing the syllabus and who tells me to 'relax' when I react to your arrogance. You are not entitled to that multitudinousness. You make Walt Whitman cry. That's not wise of you.

5) You and a lot of your peers are stuck in a time warp and it's narrow and symptomatic of this mind-numbingly cool West Bengal college culture scene. I won't say 'grow up', I'll say 'get a fucking move on already'.


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Ugh. What else. Christmas? Bahumbug. Shoot yourself and pull the other one, brothers and sisters of the revolushun.

I'm a monster.

The sooner I can adjust to this the better. For everyone around me. Even the ones who don't quite realise.

There's a beautiful layered sound that can be made with three guitars and one piano, a sliding tumbling water sound. Like drinking from a cup of tea and tasting a trace of poison at the back of your throat after you've swallowed.

Maudlin, maudlin, cliche, cliche.

A disaster.

Oh for a sugar daddy. But I'll stick with my bitter one, because I love him. I'm that noble, sure, but there remains the little problem. How to make money. Not perhaps a great amount or even overnight. I need a steady income of my own. It's impossible to get the books I need(/want) otherwise. I need a job that requires me to think and that pays. They usually call it 'intellectual prostitution'. It sounds cool, see?

Haha, I'm pathetic. And poor. Oh my heart could break.

Take your glasses off, scrunch up your face.

This evening on campus we saw a (water?)snake on land. Zigzagging softly across our field of vision. In the streetlight it seemed bronze, dark stripes. It slid back into the jheel, and we started talking about snakes.

Or were we talking about snakes when it appeared?