Poached Gondolas on Tibetan Curry

I got up this morning and wanted to write - not try to be coherent and check myself on turning points and character descriptions, but just write. So, here I am - shirking away from all the responsibilities that come with a glorious Friday morning. Have to make a million calls, coordinate schedules, complete my ugly storyboards, send random faxes to people in undoubted positions of authority, but all that can wait, because I am throwing up in a literal sense here.

I am not being judgmental here, but wouldn't you agree it's better than most vices? I mean, it's not like I am taking three swigs out of my whiskey flask first thing this Friday morning and then trying to be coherent and productive the rest of the day, though, now that I think about it, that sounds delicious. Talking of delicious, I had forgotten how good ketchup and black pepper can taste - on an omelet of course. It's the right amount of sweet and spicy that seduces my tongue (sorry, that sounds a little dirty when I read it back!). Aah - the simple pleasures of life - the gifts of an urbane, middle-class upbringing!

You know a writer is loosing it when he uses too many exclamation marks, or 'bangs', as they call it in the South! This taking for granted of his audience, that they wouldn't get the subtext, so let's bombard them with miniature surreal imagery after every sentence - aah the insecurities of today's writer. The exclamation mark is the literal version of a sex scene in a film. Oh, ah, the audience isn't getting it, let's put in a sex scene, light it beautifully, and they'll forgive all story issues.

Wow, I sound angrier than I though I was. It's that weird kind of anger, that has no specific cause. Maybe, it's angst?! Hmm, we'll never know, because there aren't too many exclamation marks in this post. I remember reading Hunter S. Thompson somewhere where he said writing is only good and enjoyable when no one is binding you to do it. I am paraphrasing in shittier language of course. He was talking about his angst at waking up and writing articles as a journalist, sometimes on things he didn't care about.

How did we get here? Weren't we talking about ketchup and pepper on eggs right now? Are you still reading this? Are you? Why? I mean I appreciate it and all, but seriously, why? If I had three choices, I would wish for a neverending supply of toner ink for my dry printer without having to leave home, and for a fax machine at home. Gawd, why are we still using these? Didn't we evolve enough to telepathise with one another? We are humans for christssake, not wild animals, like Fantastic Mr. Fox and his friends. Good movie by the way. I liked it. If I had a kid, I would make the little bastard watch it. It would be an interesting experiment to see if he/she could sit through it. How out of touch with pediatrics am I?

I am not even going to read what I started writing now. It's veered off its path so much that going back there could cause fear and paranoia of the worst kind. But isn't that the point? The whole shazam about the journey and not the destination. I was recently told I have too much ambition to be a hippy and it broke my heart. So, I bared it out with the only living grandfather and he simply said if you don't have a destination, you cannot start on your journey. OK fine, he used more pedestrian language, but that's essentially what he said, or I think he did. But I want my critic to see my now - in this morning of weakness and still tell me I have too much ambition.