I am in a bad mood. This is going to be yet another long rant. I am likely to crib like I have never cribbed before. I am likely to be unreasonable and sarcastic. I am likely to make a few chauvinist statements that might make most of you hate me till I am dead. I am going to make sweeping statements. I might stereotype people and their behaviors. I might even make racist comments. You might want to distance yourself from me. I might allegations against certain friends and acquaintances that will make them run for cover. My parents might want to disown me if they read this. Thank god they are not on social networks yet. I might fling accusations at people who fall under one of more of these categories: power-hungry, self-proclaimed-celebs, wannabe-socialites, and attention-seeking-whores. And at the end of all this, I might even deny that I ever made any of the comments I made.
Funny bit is that I like what I write. I like the process of writing. I like staring at the screen, and the way characters appear on the screen while my fingers are doing their tribal dance on the keyboard. I like the vertical line (is there a name for it? cursor?) that blinks when I am thinking what to write next. Its mesmerizing. Its magical. At times, I dont even think. The words and the narrative just seems to flow.They just pop up and somehow my fingers know where to tap and make them appear on the screen.
Haan, to funny bit is that I like what I write. I am not sure how many people like what I write. I am not even sure if I make sense. I am just betting on the law of averages and hoping that the infinite monkey theorem is true. In fact, this looks like a good title. Infinite Monkeys at Play. And imagine a disclaimer that states that this piece of text is produced by infinite monkeys in my backyard. I take no moral responsibility of whatever they have churned out.
So, yet again, coming back to the point, my writing. What about it? I forgot...