Failwhale Birds, and other such.

The problem with using Twitter so much, is that soon you get used to the 140 character limit. You learn to disintegrate and separate thoughts into simple witty/poignant lines.
Don't see a real problem with this? Well, I do. The trouble is, that it makes me forget ho to write. Fic, blogposts, random abysmal poetry, anything. I write in the black notebook that I carry around with me, but only occasionally, When I feel like. When I'm inspired, or whatever.

Pen touches paper, fingers tap on keys, nothing comes out. The ink that I need...is in my brain, not the pen.

The other thing about Twitter is that it kind of conditions you to be very very aware of grammatical errors. Including typin lyk dis.
In most cases, I want to hand them a dictionary. Gone are the days of the SMS lingo, man.
This is, of course, if I check your FB page before I actually talk to you.
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I never thought I'd resent this city, but with every strike that happens, every auto/taxiwallah that refuses to ply, every pothole we're jolted into, my sneer goes wider. I have no idea where to go after this, or what to do, I just know that I cannot be here after my time is up. It's like life for me is stages. Muscat, then Bombay...where next, no one knows.

Some days, I feel like Spider Jerusalem.

I re-read Transmetropolitan recently and, once again, let the brilliance wash over me. It's not just the concept or the art, it's just that it's almost essential reading for anyone who gives a crap about journalistic integrity.

Random happiness is found in the flashes of great weather before the rain, in really good chai, in all things laden with cheese (the dairy product, not the soppiness) , in random cats I meet.

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I await :

Home, bed, parents, beach.

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Now Reading : The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
Now waiting for : Weeds Season 5, from Spanks.