Anyway, while I have been away working like a mule, and complaining about as much as one, I have been mulling a few ideas which I hope will be considered cool by my few, select readers. Because that’s what most of us are out here for isn’t it? Try to appear cool, intellectual, blah blah.

I usually, and proudly, do a shit job of that.

Anyway…

I formally launch a new thread (?) on this woeful backwater of the blogworld. Chaos Theory. My cynical, often violent, mostly pessimistic view on the world and all the stupidly crazy events that now occur with alarming regularity.

I leave you with a definition.

Scientific fact: The entropy of a system always increases.

I wonder how long we’re gonna sit around watching as shit blows up all around us. Bombs on bicycles, handcarts, motorbikes, buses, trains… the only thing not blown up yet is a fuckin’ plane. 9/11 anyone? Bombs in theaters, markets, even a fuckin’ hospital. Is there any place these goddamn terrorists don’t have access to?

What the hell do the police and intelligence agencies do all day? Jerk off??? Where’s the FBI-style shit that’s supposed to catch criminal motherfuckers before they even think of doin’ somethin’ nasty? All i get to hear in the news, after the bombs have gone off and ripped through about 50 people, is that the intelligence agencies had information about operatives meeting somewhere in India to mastermind their brilliant plans. And this raises the question… where the fuck were you “intelligence” geniuses when this happened??? How about actually preventing something for a change. Catch someone in the act. Heck, kill someone in the act. I’d much rather you carve a hole into the heads of one of these people than have them running loose.

But how could i forget… the police have much more important things to do. Like protecting our fucking useless politicians…

…who are still out there on TV condemning the attack, offering compensation to the families of people who died, and other such generally worthless shit. I’ve got a question for these assholes… Would you condemn these attacks if your kid gets blasted into little clumps of meat? I’d love to see someone related to a politician getting wasted in a terrorist attack. Better yet, see a politician getting wasted. God knows we can do with less of their kind…

What pisses me off more than our homegrown so-called leaders condemning attacks is when the internationals get in on the act…

“Georgie condemns the terrorist attacks in India.” Well… here’s a suggestion you complete illiterate… how about you turn your eye on your fuckin’ “ally.” You wanna smoke out terrorists? Look no further.

Coming back to the morons in charge who we are stuck with back home… how ’bout you’ll actually take a long hard look at a certain student’s movement, and round up every motherfucking last one of ‘em? Do you’ll really need to deliberate over whether its a terrorist organization you stupid fucks?

And these Indian Mujahideen fellows… Sometime back, the news was showin’ an e-mail these fellows had send to news agencies in which they actually had the audacity to say “find us if you can,” or something very similar, along with a few religious mutterings . I honestly think its fuckin’ insulting that after having successfully carried out all of these blasts, these nutjobs are still out there taunting the people of India.

When you think about it, the solutions to terrorism aren’t too difficult really. At least not the way i see them. Find suspect. Round up suspect. Kill suspect, just to send a message. Screw the decade-long court cases. Round ‘em up and shoot ‘em in the fuckin’ head. Problem solved.

I’m tired of having that lingering doubt in my head every time if in some form of public transport in Mumbai. Or crowded public places for that matter. Been there, done that. And that’s the shocking part. That people in India are almost resigning themselves to the fact that terrorism is, and will continue to be, a very real part of their lives.

Since i’m incapable of coming up with more stuff that attempts to be intelligent and funny at the same time, i’ll move right to the point.

Premise 1: It is necessary to have a license to drive a two-wheeler
Premise 2: It is necessary to wear a helmet when doing so

My license has the photo of some drunk-looking scruffy-vagabond-type fellow. I dont know how, but whenever they get your pic for any sort of official document, they manage to make you look truly hideous. Suffice to say the license guys did not catch me lookin’ at my usual spectacular best. Here, i must mention that my license, as of now, has been expired for around three months now. That, even in the eyes of the twisted nonsense that passes for law in bloody India, makes my being out on the streets being all cool whilst driving my mother’s gearless scooter quite illegal.

I’m not too cool with the helmet bit actually. My personal opinion is that i should be free to injure/kill myself through negligence. Then again, it has saved me what woulda been yet another head injury…

Anyways, i was cruisin’ the streets (can i really say that for a fuckin’ scooter?) last month… minus the helmet, in a rare break from the usual. Which is exactly why i caught the eye of a member of those supposed guardians of the law. Unlike the fat fucks populating Mumbai’s police force who even a child could outrun, this guy looked like he meant pure business. For me, that meant pure trouble since i was about as illegal as one could get.

Even as this worthy soul blew on his whistle and motioned me to stop while pointing at his head, i simultaneously did a mental “oops,” skipped two heartbeats, sharply drew my breath in, and then briefly contemplated gunning the throttle. Would i be reprimanded? Fined? Should i make a break for it???

Btw, here, i must say i’m writing this particular thingy simply to annoy the vast majority of my friends because i possess a singular advantage in certain situations that they will absolutely never enjoy.

Even as the copper walked toward me, a glimmer of hope. Something about the overall “look” suggested a weakness, one that i would, and did, exploit.

To digress slightly, being born into a Maharashtrian family, i unfortunately and much to my disgust, find myself tagged as being the same. Lemme be honest. I make a horrible Maharashtrian. i dont know the festivals. traditions. culture. and as far as the language, all i’m capable of is the basics. read that as i can irritate/annoy/abuse people, quarrel/argue/fight whenever necessary, and importantly, i can ask my mum for food.

Maharashtrian males from the generation previous to mine have a typical look, especially the coppers. The fellow striding toward me fit the bill perfectly. It’s in such situations that i dont mind relaxing my standards a bit. Before the fella could even say a word to me, out rushed a stream of apologies, in Marathi. Sure he demanded to see my license. That wasnt gonna stop me from stating my bullshit excuses. That brief, yet strangely funny exchange went kinda like this…

“Where’s your license.”

“Oh sir, i’m so sorry i’m not wearing the helmet. You see, i’ve lost my usual helmet, someone stole it, and the one i have is my mother’s and it doesnt fit me very well.” (this part is true. i have flappy ears that kinda stick out like those of an elephant. in fact, i can even wiggle them!)

“But…”

“You see, i have the helmet right here under the seat.” (scrambles off bike. removes helmet from under the seat. makes a show of struggling to fit it on supposedly oversized head.)

“I see…”

“Sir, i’m really sorry i wasn’t wearing it. You see, it doesnt fit me very well.” (points at poor ears that cant flap no more.)

“Ok Ok. What’s your surname.”

(blurts out good solid Marathi surname. ah, i’m such a bastard…)

“I see. Your license is in order right?” (well well… surely the law can take a backseat for a fellow Marathi man.)

“Yes, yes, absolutely. I’m really sorry sir, i’ll wear the helmet till i get home even if it hurts.”

“Yes, please do so. See, it fits you so well. And you know the rules…” (my, what a turnaround.)

“Yes sir, i know the rules. I’m really sorry, i’ll wear it all the way home.” (not even remotely ashamed at this point. rather gleeful in fact.) “Can i leave?” (from lawbreaker to helpless fellow Marathi man in awe of oh-so-mighty cop in the blink of an eye. well, a few blinks at any rate. i really am a hypocritical bastard…)

“Yes, yes. Go on now.”

(drives off into the night.)

On such vagaries is the law applied in this crazy metropolis.

And yet. Here I am. Still walking this journey.

I like to just mentally “stop” for a bit on the 4th. Every year, like some crazy ritual. Every year I think to myself, “I shouldn’t be here.” The fact that I am, while it keeps me going every single day, is strangely disconcerting as well. Near-death sort of experiences can and do appear to make you think funny. More on that later.

I remember having to head to Andheri to, ironically (considering I was crap at college), submit forms to secure admission into an engineering college. Standing at the doorway of a slow local train departing from Borivli, with two friends standing ahead of me, and one to the side. Standing at the doorway, although I believe it is illegal, is something that is a common feature of Bombay locals, and is something I did regularly to avoid, in all likelihood, asphyxiating in the inside of the compartment in the crush of human bodies.

My last memory is of the train stopping at the Malad railway station, a good three stations away from my destination. I think my mind hit the pause button after that. And then conveniently didn’t unpause for about 5 days. The next bit is a reconstruction of the kind they show on all these medical detective shows on discovery channel.

Passengers in Bombay locals have an annoying habit of beginning to push out even before the train has come to a standstill at a railway platform. Indeed, most of the fellas at the doorway bound off the train when it is far from still.

Which is the same that happened with me. As the train rolled into Andheri, the pushing began. Even as I was being pushed much farther out than was probably safe, my friend ahead of me shouted a warning about a railway electricity pole that looked dangerous. Pole 21-18 did turn out to be dangerous.

Crack!

Head injuries and me go a long way back. But meeting a mass of steel when travelling at a not too slow speed with my forehead is something I hadn’t really tried before. The experience was not pleasant.

The initial impact threw me off the train. I can only, however, marvel at the human body’s instinct for self-preservation. Even while falling down off the train, I managed to grab on to the footboard of the train, clutching on to where my feet had been only a second before. Self-preservation nonetheless could keep off the blanket of unconsciousness that swept my mind for only so long. With the result that I crumpled, luckily, to the side of the railway tracks, as opposed to getting dragged under the train, which would surely have marked my complete end, if not a complete end for some appendages.

Its a sad reflection on the kind of people that seem to inhabit this forsaken city that even as my friends were racing to get to me, having thrown themseleves out of the train with not too much regard for their own safety, some unworthy soul was attempting to wrestle my wallet outta my jeans.

Help luckily arrived to rescue my wallet and me and bear away what I’ve been led to understand was a rather bloody-faced body. I do not know how those three lugged me away over a distance of about a hundred metres, through what must have been extremely startled crowds, to a taxi. Suffice to say that after some trying trials, I landed up safely at a hospital, whereupon my friends began mobilizing any and all people they could think of—their parents, friends, friends’ parents, my family, and I dunno who else. By the time I had been whisked away to another hospital, one with better facilities for my particular problem, i.e., shattered head, a veritable army of family and friends had arrived armed with blood (literally) and money where necessary.

I believe I woke up on the 5th day after the incident—even know the details are hazy. It was 11 more days of interesting experiences before I could make my way out to the world again. Not before some kind doctors endured some not insubstantial verbal abuse from me when semi-conscious to fix a slightly broken skull and a partially ripped forehead.

Whew.

I count this day as among one of those defining moment type days. Far-reaching impact and all that…

I don’t fear death anymore. Actually, I’m not sure if I did before, but I definitely don’t now. Having come so close to death made me realize that, obviously enough, it can happen just about anytime. I could die right now as I write this. Ok, this example doesn’t work coz you wouldn’t be reading this if I did.

I could die tonight, immediately after clicking the publish button. This healthy new-found understanding of death is rather interesting. I know its out there, somewhere around. Not actually around like Brad Pitt in Meet Joe Black. Just plain regular around.

Another “side effect” is that i don’t have much in the way of long-term plans. I figure, what’s the point of looking 15 years down the line to a house with a white picket fence, etc. Live in the here and now. Live each day for what it is and enjoy it. Could be my last. All the small stuff in life, good and bad, carries a lot more value when you think this way.

So many people I know have already painted the big picture of their life and gone, “this is where I’ll be.”

I play with the colors everyday, not really knowing what I’m creating on my canvas, coz I dunno if I’ll be.

Random realizations have a funny way of coming about. Bear with my convoluted explanation here…

For starters, I’m a huge fan of spy novels. I swear by Robert Ludlum. Would probably gladly be his bitch if we’d ever met. Which is why me reading Chetan fuckin’ Bhagat is very out of the ordinary. I only recently purchased his third novel coz its cheap, a measly 95 rs.; I have his two other novels as well, for the same reason.

Anyway, moving on…

A bit of background. My best friends are all girls. The only people who will read this tripe are part of that female fan following. And I’ve realized that I’ve played the wrong cards with most of the girls I know. I’m stuck with all of them in what is, I believe, popularly known as the “friend zone.” Or worse.

To return to the book mention above, a line goes to the effect, “you go down to the lowest category invented by Indian women ever—rakhi brother.” I assume I will not be sued for reproducing this…

The whole rakhi concept is of course to do with a sister tying a string on her brother’s wrist, in return of which, usually for the price of a Cadbury dairy milk chocolate, the brother is supposed to “protect” his sister from all evils or whatever. I’m quite fuck-all when it comes to this traditional stuff; I only do national holidays (i mostly loaf), and although I’m an atheist, Sundays coz it’s God’s holiday. Good on Him.

I am a proud (?) member of this lowest category. I have, at last count, something like 10 rakhi sisters. That’s 10 girls, some of them rather nice, who are completely out of reach. Can’t do shit about/with/to them. These are girls who could potentially do naughty things to me. Instead, they gimme playful punches and ruffle my hair around. I remember doing the same stuff to my dog.

This is not even like shooting yourself in the foot. More like shooting your left nut off. Reduced potency both ways.

Doom.

So ladies… take a chance.

i believe it marks the beginning of summer. Mumbai summers are a pain i can do without. its an absolutely disgusting feeling when you get to office after an hour in the bus, completely dehydrated, with damp pants coz of all the butt sweat.

the pollution makes it worse. absolutely hate having to walk on a centimeter-thick layer of plastic from all the damn balloons people throw around nowadays. and the gulal, disgusting stuff that absolutely refuses to get off your skin unless you wash yourself sixteen times with soap. of course, the oily variety doesn’t go at all unless you scrape off/shed your epithelium.

the men make it worser. i can understand why women absolutely hate holi. had a hairy incident on the bike on holi day. poor ole wobbly Charl had quite some dodging and swearing to do sitting on the back of me bike as we tried, rather recklessly, to speed away from a rickshaw full of rowdies who’d taken it upon themselves to introduce our faces to some gulal. which, when your doing 40 on a bike is petrifying.

wasn’t always this way though. until the age of 10 or so, i was one of those crazy kids who had mastered the intricacies of projectile motion without having the damndest clue about what it was.

we had a little “tradition” in our building. actually, it was more like a war, with the neighboring building. there wasn’t an objective of any sort, none that i can remember at least. everyone was pretty much tryin’ to get the other guys wet. it wouldn’t be a typical guy thing unless there was some kind of almost military feel to the stuff we were up to.

on the ground, we’d have the… uh… ground troops. fellows armed with a bizarre variety of water pistols and several buckets of water. with color in them. the real fun tho was on the terrace. we were the artillery section, if one may call it that. we were armed with the balloons. dozens, if not a few hundreds. throwin’ shit like there’s no tomorrow, hitting anything and everything that moved. pure murderous intent behind every balloon aimed at an opposition guy down on the street, or a balloon guy on their terrace.

the utterly absurd part was when there was this occasional unspoken truce. for some reason, we felt it necessary when throwing balloons to scream, yell, shriek… basically any sound last associated with primitive man… and then there’d be a moment when both sides would fall silent, briefly, transfixed by the sight of a far more appealing target on the streets below. hostilities forgotten, and all our neanderthal actions would be directed at a common target.

women. the most fun things with whom to make intimate contact with some rubber. am talking about the damn balloons.

the cheap thrills we’d derive from making them scamper around, dodging raining projectiles. the cheers that would go up from both sides on scoring a direct hit. it was almost worth not growing out of…

I will not glorify the band here. They are already gods without requiring me to publicize them. Instead, i’m gonna inform ye readers about that concert and “educate” you about those absolute legends.

The six-piece band is fronted by Bruce Dickinson. Who I’m sure can still shatter glass with one good shout (btw, he’s actually done that). Having seen so many concert videos, i knew exactly what to expect. Running around the stage. Jumping off the amplifiers(?) at the center of the stage. All the fun crowd interaction bits. All the costumes to go with particular songs. Its amazing that at his age, he still has that energy and childlike enthusiasm about his performance. And the vocals still sound exactly the same. Unfuckingbelievably powerful. Just thinking of him makes me moist…

I’ll go with the guitarists next. Dave Murray. Adrian Smith. And Janick Gers. Yup, all three of ‘em. These guys have three guitarists, who typically alternate fluidly between lead and rhythm guitars. Usually in the middle of a song, or a leads section. Where one guy starts off the leads, before another picks up in the middle of it. The third guy usually strums away on the rhythm at the back. This btw is the typical “thing” that these guys do. Dave usually plays the most complex leads with an almost placid smile on his babyface. Adrian, who looks all tough coz of the general look, can always be counted on to deliver with his bits. Janick, more of the showman of the lot, will, when he’s not playing leads, usually be seen swinging his guitar around his neck. And oh, he’s the one who always messes with Eddie when he comes on stage. You’ll do not know what that means yet. Patience.

Mr. Steve Harris on the bass guitar. The guy who started the band. 32 years ago. And who still defines what Maiden is all about. Steve usually sings along with all the songs almost involuntarily. All the while playing the fastest most super bass you will have ever heard. Thumping rapidfire bass that could easily give you cardiac arrest. Fast as in you-can’t-see-his-fingers fast. One of his bits, which i absolutely fuckin’ love, is to point the bass guitar at the audience and “gun” them down with it. You have to see this to understand what it means, and why he usually has such a gleeful expression on his face when he does it.

And Nicko McBrain on the drums. Nicko has a terrible sense of humor. Which is usually why he’s the only one who laughs at his jokes. Laughs himself silly in fact. But, in his own words, “A good drummer bucks up the feet. A bad drummer fucks up the beat.” Nicko is an awesome drummer.

Now for the set. The world tour. The Somewhere Back in Time tour. Which has actually kicked off from Mumbai coz of something to do with the prevailing winds. So that Bruce can fly the guys around easily or something. Oh yes, Bruce Dickinson is a fuckin’ genius, who, among several other things, is certified to fly commercial jets.

The show began with a bit Maiden had last done 22 years ago during the World Slavery tour (btw they always have cool names like this for the world tours, usually something to do with the particular album they’re promoting). Churchill’s speech. I actually rather love this speech. For an old guy during the war, Churchill had real balls. Anyway, in a continuation of the flashback, the speech gave way to Aces High, also a song based in WWII. The few thousand guys trying to crowd the guardrails at the front rather lost it at this point, with the result that i found myself propelled from back of the crowd to 10 feet from the guardrail. Close enough to memorise Bruce’s features and all that (i actually wanted to :-p). 2 Minutes to Midnight followed next; this one is more about the Cold War, and the song name actually has a very deep meaning behind it. Explosive guitar riffs on this one that will knock your pants off. Revelations is a song that is based on Aleister Crowley, who, among other things, was a real creep. Bit of a quiet song, which helped coz the crowd finally stopped jumping and pushing around. No Maiden concert can be complete without a performance of The Trooper. A brilliant classic, again with a cool historical background in that it portrays the famous “Charge of the Light Brigade.” This song is particularly fun coz Bruce always dresses in a soldier’s uniform and waves a torn and burnt Union Jack while running around on the platforms on the stage. Very theatrical, but very cool. Wasted Years was next; this song has real good guitars. You wouldn’t expect a chant from the Bible (slightly modified albeit) at an Iron Maiden concert, but that’s precisely what The Number of the Beast starts with. I love this one coz the whole crowd chanted along with the immortal lines that every Maiden fan simply has to know. Maiden has been grossly maligned coz of this song; for the millionth time, they are NOT Satan worshippers. Some of us fans might be, but not them! The next song is another classic; this one will make you Run to the Hills. Everything about this song is amazing-galloping guitars and accompanying bass, loud ear-shattering screaming at the end. Basically a song you must hear. As far as the deeper meaning goes, its actually about the struggles between European settlers and native Americans.

The pièce de résistance of the show was slap bang in the middle of it. Based on a poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is THE Maiden epic, being an impressive 13-and-a-half minutes long. The song chugs along happily enough for the first five minutes or so. The stand out, however, is the lengthy instrumental section that follows for the next six minutes. Starting off with a quiet bass line accompanied by the creepy sounds of a creaking boat, a lil bit of guitars, and a few rasping lines on the vocals, the music breaks out from a gloomy and eerie quiet into a cool fast bass line, before bursting out into a loud scream and some brilliant leads. The most incredible part is that these guys play the song exactly the way the original version is, all 13 minutes of it. Am sure nobody else could ever play something that long so perfectly…

Whew. Next was Powerslave, a song about some Egyptian stuff. Bruce played the part by wearing some kinda Egyptian headgear, i suppose something that is similar to the stuff Pharaohs wore, considering the song is based on a Pharaoh as well. Heaven Can Wait is a song about a near death experience. Bruce sang part of the song while hanging onto a steel girder at a height of about 15 feet off the stage. Dunno why. Can I Play with Madness? is about some supernatural stuff, bit of a fan favorite this one. We were all, however, surprised to hear the beginning of Fear of the Dark. This shouldn’t have been on the set list, but no one was complaining. Another one of Maiden’s must-play songs at a live performance, thousands of us sang along with the beginnings of the song, including the little audience interaction bit that all of us expected to be there, when Bruce always gets the audience to yell out “fear of the dark.” The lyrics to this song are actually rather good, and the music is even better. Next came the signature song, the self-titled Iron Maiden. This song is a rollicking little piece, written in the bands earliest days when their sound was a lot more raw than what it is now. This song was marked by another truly Maiden-esque spectacle. A tradition of Maiden at concerts is to have a huge Eddie figure walk out on stage. The costume worn by this grotesque creature is always in keeping with the theme of the world tour; in this case, it followed the futuristic theme of the Somewhere in Time album. This i suppose will explain my reference above about Janick always sparring with Eddie on stage. Moonchild is another song that is based on the works (in this case, a ritual) of Aleister Crowley. Another rocking song, and one that is actually rarely ever played at Maiden concerts. This song quickly gave way to The Clairvoyant, which has some of the fastest most amazing bass you will ever hear. Where-the-fuck-are-Steve’s-fingers kinda fast.

Since it was evident that the concert was drawing to a close, a lot of us were restless since the one song that just HAD to feature hadn’t been played yet. Then again, there’s a reason you save the best for the last. The first sounds of Hallowed Be Thy Name were greeted by the most loudest, also hideous in the case of those who had truly lost their voices, roars. This is the best song i have ever heard. This is the best song you might not have heard yet, which makes you a fool. Anyway, the song is, of course, a classic, a must-play at every concert. Its characterized by everything that fans love about Maiden. Soaring vocals. Superfantastic guitars. Amazing changes of pace throughout the seven minute length of the song. And, in the end, a massive drum roll from Nicko, accompanied by Steve gunning down the crowd, the three guitarists blazing away, and Bruce letting out one last loud yell, usually lasting around 30 seconds straight (yep, a continuous yell that will make your lungs implode if you so much as try to do it yourself).

These are the sounds that died down on that absolutely unforgettable evening. Those six godfathers of metal, takin’ their bows, weapon of choice still in hand.

Iron Maiden rules everything. Up the Irons!!!

Nonetheless, i was rather surprised, for about 0.5 seconds, when a goddamn rickshaw-waala clipped the back of my bike as i was nearing home. This, btw, at a junction that has roads comin’ into it from five directions, yet no fuckin’ traffic signals. Authorities obviously don’t care that people have been killed here. Even when the gates of my school open rite out onto the same fuckin’ street. Did someone say safety first?

Anyway, gettin’ back to the rickshaw-mofo who chose to favor me with his attentions. The moron who chose to charge ahead through the junction, the fact that i was passin’ thru at upwards of 40 notwithstanding.

Bike accidents are freaky. There’s so much instinct and split-second reactions involved. Jammin’ on the brakes, even as i could feel the rear end slip out. Eyes closed the instant it was apparent that gravity was gonna have a lil joke at my expense as it brought my bike slammin’ down onto my left side. Hands and legs taut against the impact. Gritting teeth as my 10 foot slide under my bike against the harsh concrete road tore through my goddamn pants and more.

The unfortunate part is i couldn’t even pick a fight with the bitch. Priority went to evaluating the damage. Second pair of cargoes torn within slightly over a month. Beneath the shreds, around two square inches of skin missing from my left knee. With an inch long gash down the middle. Painful ribs. At least i had a damn helmet on. My head’s been beat up far too many times already. With obvious effects.

Biking in this miserable city is a dangerous prospect. People waiting to cut you down at every corner and side street. Some, like truckers, wont even blink if they run you over and squash you into liquid shit.

As things stand, i’m spending time hobbling around with a bandaged leg. Traveling is a beaut. Every bump in the road feels like the equivalent of being kicked in the nuts for my ribs, so wonderfully fucked over they currently are.

All my little crises in this new fuckin’ year have made me realize a lotta weird stuff tho. Back in my college days, i knew i had some kinda death wish. Always up to dangerous stuff. Ambling across roads, dodging traffic. Traveling on the rooftops of trains. Dare i mention suicide attempts. Hmm, i think i just did.

This accident is a glaring reminder that i haven’t put that “wish” behind me yet. If alone, i’m rather unstable behind the wheel? handles? whatever… of a bike. Speeding unnecessarily. Randomly resting my mind on some rider and then racing him, before moving on to the next one. Practically aiming for people who edge too far onto the road. Oh, almost forgot my fuckin’ road rage. Mouthing abuses to anyone/thing that gets in my way.

“Born to be wild,” anyone?

I’m getting cold shivers already. And this is not because i’ve showed up in my stupid air-conditioned office in shorts and my Maiden tee.

Incessant foot tapping also been happening. Since yesterday. The girl next to me has already complained and told me to put a lid on it. Hard to stop tho.

Around six different Maiden songs playing in my head rite now. Fused into one long smooth delicious medley. All the classics. The fuckin’ anthems. And those long musical masterpieces.

Can’t even work. Everything seems boring today. Everything seems like something i have to labor through before i get to that promised land.

Even if i die tomorrow, after tonight i can die a happy man.

And i’ve not even had sex yet.