Money doesn't grow on trees, But when you convert the dollar to rupees

So, I’ve been thinking. Don’t laugh! It happens to the best of us. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, so like I said, I’ve been thinking. After my extended (and almost permanent) absence from blogosphere, and having milked my previous blog for far more comments than it was worth, I have finally managed to sit myself down and write. The interim, my friends, has seen your honourable narrator graduate from the threshold of womanhood and tentatively take her steps into the big bad world. NOT! Nevertheless, after being shunned/deemed unworthy by some two-bit college that thwarted my plans of immediate post graduate studies, I decided to spend the year building the foundation of a vast financial empire that will soon rival Lia Ka-Shing’s*. As of now, my grand savings stand at an optimistic 1,000$.
Oh great, 23 X 4 X 1,000,000 months to go. All right. So maybe it will be a while before Lia Ka-shing loses a good night’s sleep to worry.


Monetary matters aside; let that not stop me from 'jumping to conclusions' backed solely by six months’ worth wisdom of the privileged cubicle life, which I surprisingly found, is not dissimilar from LKG. From what I gather, my parents abused the “Wait till you’re grown up and have to face the world…” speech way too often, at a time I believed I was too raw and ignorant to challenge it. Blah! If only I had known. As I have noticed, and as oxymoronic as this sounds, adults are far more juvenile than kids. Not to take away from them the credit for having survived the throes of infancy, the hormonal anguish of adolescence and indecision of the early 20s. For clearly, age and experience has endowed them with a wealth of skills that time has fine-tuned to a superior artform in itself; one that only the seasoned might decipher.

Case in point, my first week at office which was marked by awe and wonder at the assiduousness of my colleagues. As I stuck my head out of my burrow and took in the panoramic view of heads of my fellow drones hunched over their PCs, getting their prescribed amount of Vitamin E from the computer screens, I, in all my youthful naïveté, believed they were working and marvelled at the Chairman Mao-styled efficiency of the bourgeoisie.

But be warned, o’ casual observer, do not let this eyewash colour reality, which as we know, takes a different path from appearance. But no more shall you remain in the dark, for I have taken the liberty of depicting my well documented jottings as a pie chart (no less); for your convenience and viewing pleasure.

If I were to describe a day at office, I probably could not recall much apart from it being punctuated by three important events. Events that break through the barriers of 'departmentalization' and unite the employees like nothing else does.


Event A: the arrival of mysterious tea guy
Company X’s 'working hours' are from 7am to 4pm, and then the evening shift takes over. Alas, from 7:00am to & 7:52 am there is zero productivity due to insufficient level of alertness of one to four of the senses. The fifth one, the good ol' olfactory is however, at its zenith, 'cause everyone has honed this sense in particular to detect the arrival of the tea guy. Unlike most organizations, mine has not yet succumbed to the digestion destroying vending machine coffee/tea substitutes. Instead, the onus of awakening the economic viability of entire workforce is placed on the capable shoulders of mysterious tea guy (or as I fondly call him, Sunshine.) Sunshine, however, if you were to go by physical appearances, would be the Indian version of Darth Vader. With his black polyester windcheater jacket, matching pants and helmet, (no he does not remove it- EVER!) and stealthy movements all work in tandem to preserve his anonymity. The dead give away of his presence, however, is the pervading smell off caffeine that lures all the bleary eyed drones towards the pantry in Pied Piperezque fashion.

After the beverages has been consumed, and morning pleasantries are exchanged we then return to our stations and begin the wait for Event B.

Event B: The arrival of FREE breakfast.
This causes the second upset for the day. Once again rendered by another pillar of support to the organization. Event B flags of the polite yet determined race to the queue for some Darshini-style nourishment. Once again, never underestimate the pent up energy of co-workers who spend 54 hours a week attached to their seats. Keep in mind that this only implies a greater stock of resources and any delay on your part find you facing empty containers. After this initial flurry of morning hyperactivity there settles upon the arena a semblance of quiet productivity. But you, o' avid reader, are better informed and less susceptible to deception thanks to my efficiently created diagram.

Nevertheless, this farce is earnestly endorsed until focus wanes yet again, at the commencement of Event C.

Event C: The approach of Biscuit Lady
First of all, let me apologise for failing to identify the person and associating her merely with her designation. In my defence, I did know the name of the first Biscuit Lady whose name was Shanta. Much to my surprise, I’ve been told that the Bearer of Biscuits is not a position that is much sought after and low job satisfaction has led to numerous replacements since Shanta. Also, it is difficult for me to concentrate on anything else when faced with the tempting array of biscuits. However, this moniker has the fondest connotations, the mention creates a little pool of goodwill in my otherwise hardened heart.

As I was saying, Biscuit Lady’s two appointments are at approximately 10:45 and 3:45 pm, give or take 15 minutes. She can be immediately identified from any corner of the floor by the pink plastic box and flowers in her hair. But it’s the former accessory that ensures her desirability by both sexes. For within this pink plastic box lay a mindboggling variety of biscuits that only a united Brittania, Parle and Unibic can deliver. Oh, sweet heaven!

It is also common knowledge that the first recipients get the choicest pick (Read: the Cream Biscuits). So the tracing the progress of Biscuit Lady is a matter of great anticipation and discussion.


Prior to this I always disapproved of Google employees being bought over and bribed by gastronomic goodies. One had heard murmurings of the urban myth that they had UNLIMITED ACCESS to all the Snickers, Mars, Coca-Cola their greedy paws could grasp. To which I would never fail to voice my disappointment at their venality. Heck! Turns out I’ve been easier to buy, for as I peer into this vessel of wonders and rummage for the choicest cream biscuits, Nirvana is but an inch away. It is comforting to know though, that the co-workers enjoy the same extent of stimulation at the appearance of Biscuit Lady. So once again, the guard is let down and the moment of baked goodness is savoured. Once the cookie crumbles the remains must be dusted off the shirt and keyboard, headphones replaced on the head and chairs swivelled back to the monitor. ‘Work’ is resumed.

Further research reveals that apart from the regular gratification in the form of caffeine, nicotine and other illegal stimulants most of us require periodic reaffirmation and recognition of our individual worth. HR, of course, enthusiastically fulfils this void (created by negligent parents) in the form of cheesy trophies at the quarterly awards and office outings at restaurants that specialize in Rs. 250 per all-you-can-eat lunches. Oh, for life’s simple joys!

I fear that my blog has painted a very ‘another brick in the wall’ picture. Far from it. What I actually intended to say is that working life has made me conclude that thankfully, age, maturity and incessant education, try as they might, cannot undo our inherent trait to find the short cut or make hard work any appealing.

(Slow fade in of ‘Chariots of Fire’ soundtrack here.)

For what we are doing in fact, each of us, in our own subtle is dictating to the company, exactly how much we are willing to work and how much of our spirit they are allowed to suck out of us.

(Gradual build up of background score)

It is this passive yet tenacious rebellion keeps on is the only thing keeping us from becoming the dreaded statistic, or a Chinaman (as Beijing 2008 Olympics will reveal).And that, my dear readers, is what you should take away from this blog entry.

(Crescendo!!!!)

“The triumph of humanity!”



Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to read Bangalore Times.


*Lia Ka-shing for those of you’ll who don’t know and are too lazy to Google him, happens to be 9th richest man in the world. At least that’s what Forbes magazine says. I believe them. Nothing less could be expected from a person whose name rhymes with Ka-ching!

Teething troubles

I met a senior of mine from school today; in Foodworld of all the places. Actually, I spied him from the personal section and promptly ducked behind a shelf of Garnier Fructis shampoos and conditioners. Now, being the practical cynic that I am, I usually never refer to the heart as the epicenter of mushy love and emotional nonsense. I strongly believe that the heart, like the rest of our body is doing its job as diligently as it can (in my case at least). So really, it is not right to draw it into all this scandal, associate with St. Valentine and other mythical creations of the greeting card companies and sully its reputation.
But in this case, an exception must be made for I could have sworn I felt the usually infallible cardiac stop for a millisecond, do a little skip followed by a whoopee! before it proceeded with its regular activity. Pretending to refix the Velcro on my floaters, I observed Senior Boy from my vantage point. I might have drawn the courage to accidentally bump into him if he actually knew I existed.

And then, I was fourteen all over again. Senior boy was the all-important school captain, air-borne basketball prodigy and quiz-extraordinaire. His girlfriend was naturally, too ugly and too stupid and didn’t deserve to be with him. Did I mention that she was a bitch. Besides, I was convinced that we shared a secret communication. Only much later did I realise that it was such a well kept secret that he didn’t know of it either. then there was this one time... he called me out of line and asked me to pull up my socks, I thought I would faint with excitement to be at such close proximity to him….

Now during my short lapse into teenage fantasy, I seem to have let the present haze over. As a result I had failed to track senior boy’s progress from the entrance to the aisle where your trying-to-be-21 narrator was situated.

“Pooja?”

It was He, separated from yours truly by just a 5 kg bag of Henko Washing Powder.
He knows my name he knows my name he knows my name he knows my name he knows my name he knows my name he knows my name he knows my name he knows my name he knows my name!
(At that moment my overwhelmed mind could hold no other thought, like- what was the 5 kg Jumbo pack of Henko stain champion doing in the Personal hygiene section?)
Moving on.

I got up, as gracefully as could, seeing that my arms were laden with various products for body and stomach. Oh why oh why, I wondered, why had I chosen this fateful day to purchase my six months supply of sanitary napkins? If you’ll observe, sanitary pad companies, for all their discreet advertisements fail to adopt the same sentiment when it comes to their packaging. So this is me, standing with peppy purple packets of Kotex Style, snazzy purple packets of Chocolate Pure Magic and a chain of Purple sachets of Cadburys Gems, trying to pretend like I had grown up. Nevertheless, I resolutely clung on to my last threads of composure and coherence and struck up some reliable Polite Conversation.


It started off with the usual “it’s been so long!” which in turn led to the “I miss school so much” reminisces. So far so good. Senior boy, still had that same lopsided whiskey smile and hazel eyes. Maybe he hadn’t noticed the explosion of purple in my hands. Maybe he liked my earrings. Maybe…. I was considering revealing to him, how I used to always walk past the floor where his class was even though I had nothing to do there. And how he was the star quarterback of my sweet valley saga…

But it was in the “so, what are you upto these days?” segment that my fairytale musings ran into trouble.

I went first, harping on about My Course, My College and My Future Prospects. This is a well rehearsed speech that every final year student must have in handy. (The authenticity of the report is insignificant, the main objective being to field off nosy relatives, Parents and their associates.)

And then it was in his turn that he dropped the bombshell. “So what are you doing these days”, I asked innocently, expecting him to relate to me glorious stories of how he had found a cure for AIDS, produced Quentin Tarantino’s latest bloodfest and was now on his way to patching up the ozone layer.

“I’m a junior copywriter at ___________ (fill in name of one of these monstrously successful gigantic advertising firms).”

And just like that, the foundation that my adolescent aspirations were built on came crashing down. I tried to hide my disappointment behind the aforementioned purple purchases. While they were useful in concealing the external reaction, they provided scarce emotional support that the situation demanded.

Now, no offence to any of you copywriter lowlifes (In fact in the Future Prospects monologue I have vividly outlined my desire to be one of them), but you must understand that Senior Boy was destined for greater things. Was this the culmination of all that superstardom? A junior copywriter? Drinking synthesized coffee substitutes from the vending machine, having his ideas rejected and then stolen by 27 year old pricks, befriending and adopting a pet rodent who then becomes his only company on a Saturday night binge…. Okay the last one is pushing it, but you get the picture. NO, he was made for better stuff!


There may be many of you who might think I'm overreacting; making a 'mountain out of a molehill' as it is commonly known. I'm not. When you’re in school, your seniors are the rockstars. They are smart, cool, confident, good-looking and everything else you ever wanted to be. You expect them to go on to become GOD or THE PRESIDENT … an Astronaut at the very least. You will understand that a junior copywriter isn’t quite in the same league (though it does share the same initials with an eminent ‘Christ’ian personality).

First it was the tooth fairy that let me down, then came my parents and now, it’s my seniors. I don’t think I can deal with the harsh realities of life anymore.

Damn I hate growing up.

Life and times in Koshy's

A lot of the recent Bangalore bloggers have recently turned their attentions towards Koshys aka Parade Café. Being an avid snooper into blogs, I can safely say that almost everything of consequence that could be said about it has already been said. From it being one of the landmarks of Bangalore to being the Headquarters of the jhola-fabindia Party- to the ubiquitous Mr. Prem Koshy’s -ahem- well thought out attire. From the excellent coffee to the Sunday morning appams and stew; anything of miniscule importance that might influence your decision to wine and dine good ole K has already been covered. So if you’re looking for a restaurant review, keep looking.

It had come to our notice that off late Pecos had officially crossed the thin line that distinguishes grungy from filthy. Our other regular bum zone the MG Road Barista had become too hip-hop for our liking. So Chatterbox, Secret Squirrel (SS) and I had no choice but to adopt Koshy’s as our sole foster home. And that my friend involves spending obscene amounts of time in prime property while attempting to do minimal damage to the already scarce resources.

Even if Barista and Pecos weren’t disqualified, Koshys has some inherent advantages that tips the scales-
There’s the friendly parking attendant who could probably fit my bike into a postbox slot. And silently waits as I walk up the parking lot at least twice before identifying my bike even though he knows exactly which one it is.
Then there’s the wonderful view of the traffic signal at Anil Kumble circle presenting Bangalore in all its claustrophobic, cacophonic glory. Secret Squirrel vehemently insists that if you look at a particular angle through the blinds in the restaurant onto St Marks Road it looks just like Europe. I think this is mainly because she has never been to Europe.
And last but not the least (I hate that phrase), the coffee costs 14 rupees 24 paise- exclusive of VAT and other dubious taxes.

From the many hours spent there, we have deduced from all the not-so-subtle hints, that the members of the Malyalee Waiters and Co. would rather not have us there. From the very beginning they correctly adjudged the strata of society the three of us were from i.e. the class of the Impoverished Students. Maybe it was our one rupee fifty paise tips that gave us away. Nevertheless, since then, they have proceeded to systematically discriminate against us.

Our powers of keen observation and lack of anything else to do have also led us to another important discovery unbeknownst to the average visitor. I\we have deciphered the secret code the waiters use to determine the treatment you receive at Koshys. Ah yes, the one item separates the man from the boys, the wheat from the chaff, the diamond from the stone… you get the point. This one item is… (drum roll)… the checkered tablecloth.

Ah yes, and not everyone is so blessed as to receive the tablecloth treatment. There are several things to be taken into consideration before the immigrants from God’s Own Country decide to bestow this honor on your table.
One might enter Koshy’s thinking, “Ah! Here is a place where I can unwind and relax and just be myself, away from the stress and scrutiny.” Sadly, this is not the case. For as soon as you enter, you are automatically subject to the instant appraisal of the white uniforms. Based on the results of these, you will be slotted into one of the following categories based upon which you might or might not receive the ultimate accessory to your table:-
Lawyer (read Mayo Hall) types
The ‘culturally enlightened’- those who fancy themselves to be photographers, actors, directors, authors, dancers…. (they ain’t buying it)
Repulsive yet powerful politician + cronies
Broker-client combination
Old timers
College bum
Significant someone

Another way of guaranteeing a tablecloth is if Mr. Prem Koshy feigns recognition and stops by to exchange a few pleasantries. They might have a union but they don’t want to displease the boss.

And finally, it’s just a matter of vulgar commerce. Mainly, what have you ordered today? If you’re going to order an iced tea and veg puff, you ain’t getting no tablecloth. No way hozay. Even a burger and coke doesn’t quite cut it. Get yourself some beer and prawn curry rice, or a steak lets see that bill climb into 4 figure zone and you got yourself one of those purchases from Bombay Dying gracing your table.

Needless to say, we have never been honored with such fineries. Yes we order the 2 cheapest things on the menu, and I eat all the yummy yellow sauce and ketchup that comes with the smileys and then ask for more. Yes we lodge ourselves for extended periods of time and point to other tables and guffaw ungraciously. So what if every bill presents its own unique mathematical dilemma of how to split it 3-ways? Is that any reason to treat us like the stale shredded chicken that comes in your hideously priced club sandwich? I mean, if you prick us do we not bleed? If you poison us do we not die… and so on.

Yet despite being consistently ill-treated and un-served, S Squirrel, Chatterbox and I never stop trying to gain their approval (much like the neglected children that we are). Who knows, one day we might be so lucky as to get a tablecloth.

An Update

Ah yes, finally an update. Your lives have meaning all over again.

Let’s see what has transpired in the interim.

The Men in Blue fail miserably.
Britney Spears divorces Kevin Federline.
Salman Khan is suspected for having links with the underworld

Yes, as you can see it’s been a season of surprises.
Good, so now that we’ve reviewed the world news and covered all the important topics like global warming (the real reason why Britney didn’t wear underwear), genocide in Sudan (Madonna adopting an African kid) and George Bush’s assassination (I wish) we will move on to the personal front.

I lost my phone…. again. Rather, someone saw it and decided that they wanted it… again!
The fourth time, this is happening to me. Anyone who has lost their phone, even if its only just once, will know the supreme pain it is. And I mean this in a fishing for ‘new’ one rupee coins at the PCO and scavenging around for lost contacts kind of way. Like my friend KC quite accurately put it: Losing a cell phone is like losing a limb. I felt worse then than after any of my break-ups.

I still remember the first time it happened. It was a dark and stormy night…. My beloved Samsung C 100 was a mere 42 days old, still in cell phone infancy when someone laid their greedy paws on it. Oh the trauma! I went through all the 5 stages of grief, dealing with the loss.

Denial: No, it cannot be. I could not have lost my phone. It just cannot be.

Anger: WTF! The thieving muddher f*%^#&s!!!!!

Bargaining: Okay, if I find my phone I promise that I’ll never give fake accounts to my parents again. God promise.

Depression: Do I really need to explain this. I mean come on, I lost my baby.

Acceptance: So long my sweet. You were my first and will always hold a special place in my heart.

Getting to the final stage was a long winded journey. Being my first phone, I simply could not comprehend my miserable luck. Why me? Why me? Why me? Why me? Why me? I related my tale of woe in the weeks that followed to everyone and more. Initially I believed that I was the only recipient of such an injustice. Yet every time I narrated my tale of incredible misfortune the listener had a similar story to tell. Left it in the auto… Kept it on the table…. Went for a concert…- different beginnings with the same result. This got me thinking… has no one managed to escape the Fate of the Fidgety Fingers? And then I remembered a story my granny told me when still under five feet and wore those hideous contraptions called Bermudas.

One day when Buddha was meditating under the Bodhi tree a villager approached him. He was young and well built, but his gait was haggard and his clothes were disheveled. Seeing the man’s tear-stained face Buddha’s heart went out to him. “What is it young man, that causes you so much grief?” he enquired. “O’ enlightened one”, the man sobbed, “My Beloved Wife died last night.” His face was downcast with grief. “You are all-knowing, O’ wise one. Why must I alone be subject to such misery? Please bring her back to life.”
Buddha knew that this was not one of the trifle questions he usually encountered like, “Why does my neighbor have 15 cows when I have one?” So he thought carefully before answering. “I will grant your wish and bring your wife back to life”, Buddha said, “but on one condition.” The villager instantly perked up and nodded his head in consent. He was prepared to do anything to bring his Beloved Wife back to life. “I want you to bring me a handful of mustard from a house that has not had a death. If you can perform this act I will bring your Beloved Wife back to life.”
While the young man was puzzled by this unusual request, he wasn’t going to argue with one who had attained salvation. Besides, it seemed like a simple enough task. The man set out immediately. All day he went from house to house, asking for a handful of mustard. While everyone was more than willing to oblige him, he soon found that he could not accept it from any; because there wasn’t a single family who had not experienced the death of a loved one.
It was dusk, and the bereaved husband was still empty handed. But though he was unsuccessful in his quest, he finally understood the point Buddha was trying to make. Death and sorrow are the universal facts of life. No man can evade them.

In case you’re wondering; there is a link. Because such was the lesson Pooja learnt as well. While death and sorrow aren’t exactly an inevitable part of a student’s life and may eventually go the small pox way thanks to cloning and some good ole weed. The loss of a cell phone on the other hand, is the inescapable reality of today.


So while I am beginning to accept these hard Facts of Life, I am very much loving my new Moto C 168 with FM radio and 4096 colors and all for just Rs. 2700!! So here’s wishing it a happy first month anniversary and praying that I will be fifth time lucky. And hopefully its resemblance to a Made in China plastic toy will play an important role in deterring subsequent phone thieves.

IROM SHARMILA CHANU
I SALUTE YOU

The strongest part of me is my indifference. What I once regarded as an advantage is actually my biggest flaw. Very few things can draw me out of this haze of detachment with which I blankly float through life.

I SALUTE YOU, Irom Sharmila Chanu. You make me ashamed of what I am. The pointlessness of my existence is magnified by the contrast of your struggle for the people of Manipur.

I can never hope for your greatness and integrity. I respect your integrity and mission. You are a queen.

Say NO to the Armed Forces Special powers Act of 1958. it is a violation of the basic human rights of the people of Manipur.


You decide!
Read about the Armed Forces Special Powers Act (1958)-

http://www.satp.org/satporgtp/countries/india/document/actandordinances/armed_forces_special_power_act_1958.htm

Tehelka’s interview with Irom-http://http://www.tehelka.com/story_main17.asp?filename=Cr032506_Iroms_iron.asp

The Girl without a boyfriend



"You don’t have a boyfriend? You’ve NEVER had one? But why?"
Demanding; not asking.
I was not conforming.
I’m always having to explain why I don’t have a boyfriend and its getting increasingly annoying.

I’ve always had difficulty answering that one. It always seemed to me, that going around (if you’ll excuse that juvenile terminology) requires the alignment of a number of factors. While many are known to obtain this magic configuration quite frequently, I have encountered several obstacles. Through my lack of things to do (including boyfriend), I had the spare time to explain this in detail to you.

The situation is best represented as a probability problem-

Event A- Pooja gets a boyfriend

P(1) A single boy- 0.25
P(2) Boy likes Pooja-0.1
P(3) Pooja reciprocating (within the given time span)- 0.1
P(4) Pooja feeling vulnerable and romantic- 0.13
P(5) Boy asking me out during this period of mutual attraction/affection- 0.76
P(6) Pooja not pretending that she didn’t hear him ask her out- 0.37

P(A) = P(1) . P(2) . P(3) . P(4) . P(5) . P(6)

P(A) = 0.25 . 0.1 . 0.1 . 0.13 . 0.76 . 0.37

P(A) = 0.0000228475


Thus the probability that the outcome of Pooja’s encounter with a boy will culminate into a beautiful romance is 0.0000228475

Now you don’t exactly need to be Pythagoras to know that at a probability of 0.0000228475, you’re chances are not good!

Notice that I haven’t even taken into account 2 important factors
a) The boy is old enough to vote
b) Pooja studies in all-girls college


Yet, despite being perfectly content, I find myself almost apologizing to inquisitive others regarding my single status. It’s only on one’s own blog space does one get to illustrate the matter at hand with the help of a probability sum. You might see that this method does not go down too well as conversation. Least of all when someone asks you a seemingly simple question like “Why don’t you have a boyfriend? (accusatory)


For long I had to combat the interrogation with nothing more than a half-hearted shrug and a sheepish (almost guilty) grin. I’ve always known that the truth is overrated but it’s taken me unusually long to apply it here. As a rule its always more interesting to lie.

I have a boyfriend, it’s a long distance relationship. We met in a chat room.
My parents have fixed my marriage with a boy who lives in Dubai when I was 7.
I’m a lesbian.Ofcourse
My first boyfriend died of leukemia and I can’t bring myself to love anyone again.

It’s a good exercise in creativity to come up with something innovative every time. Besides, Mastercard could not buy the priceless reactions I get.

Who cares?

So after the initial enthusiasm of me writing my first 2 blog entries and a week of walking through life thinking, “Hey that is so cool, I should write about it in my blog!” it suddenly hit home. Why would anyone care to read my blog? What is going to set mine apart from the millions of others floating around…. What is so special about my I-woke-up-and-brushed-my-teeth routine that its going to convince all those highly discerning readers (with the attention spans of a goldfish, if I might add*) to spend an extra 3 minutes logging in to read what I did over the week. Or, do I really have something special to say?

And suddenly it all seemed so pointless, like one of those moments when you question the value of your existence…. All those ideas that seemed so brilliant initially just seemed bleached now. I’ve never been strong in the face of opposition. This time it was so convincing that I instantly decided that I didn’t want to blog anymore. So I let it lie, which was quite convenient since it meant that I could stick to my routine of doing nothing.

Now here’s the part where I insert an incident/anecdote that caused a change of heart and mind, leading me back to the blogosphere. But truthfully (no one uses truthfully anymore), nothing happened. I’m here because I like to write, it makes me happy. Besides, I can always pretend not to care that no one reads my blog.

I still don’t see how my insignificant words are going to make a difference anyway. The same doubts seep in every time I sit down to write. Because lets be honest, who cares? And the answer is (my favorite): I don’t know.

* A goldfish is said to have an attention span of 6 seconds. Strangely (or maybe not so) a recent survey conducted said that 6 seconds was also the attention span of the average American while skimming through channels. You do the math.