Livinghigh
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Livinghigh was here at 5:56 PM /



And the beat goes on....

Living life in the fast lane is actually quite exhausting. Meeting former Miss Indias and actually hearing them observe that you're quite - quite - bored may be a mite flattering. Hitchiking all the way to Gurgaon has made me an expert at jerking my thumb out just so , and hoping that the old man Sardarji at the wheel is not some abusive maniac who wants some sex-citingly attractive young man.

Given the fact that this is the same brain (?) that came up with deers humping half-deers, I'm sure you expected something like that in some measure at least.

After you've had your fill of rum-and-cokes and felt the delicous after-taste on your mouth as you lick your lips, and then tanked up on biting vodkas with fizzy Sprites, there's a thrill to sipping warm hot chocolate. I dare say that sounds very much a reprisal of the 'homely-vs-hotel' argument, but since I absolutely abhor that maxim, this most assuredly is not anything of the sort. I still prefer pizza to pani puri, and the cheaper pizza of Nehru Place's bylanes that are as piping hot and yummy as the most sumptuous Pizza Hut fare, at one-third the price.

Speeding on the zanny flyovers and shouting profanities in the wind as you zip by, giving Superman a complex, is a major high. The philosphical truths of the universe may not exactly be revealed to you as you peer into the depths of frothy and thick fruit beer, but it comes a close second. You look into the eyes of the person sitting before you, and like an all too predictable tick-tock of a grandfather clock, you ask yourself, she loves me, she loves me not?

And the beat goes on: da da dum da da da...




Red skies overhead wth tiny flowers shining like stars, and then you realise those are stars, and smile to yourself and recall the good times spent with past friends you call up nowadays on your cell just to hear their characteristic laughter.

Eating chocolate cake and guzzling cold ginger beer, while watching a soccer match on a dirty bed full of food crumbs, and knowing that you're so completely at peace that office the next morning is a far, far place you'll probably call in sick for.

Bouts of conscience that you're losing it, and waves of self-control - rigourous discipline and early nights, reading Bram stoker's Dracula in bed, and raring to go tearing down fictional fly-overs again the next night. Do I work hard, or party harder? Take control of your life, young man, Sensei warns, and I hope I don't disappoint him, as i put on my mythical leather jacket, the one with the roaring red dragon with horns.



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