On the first I'd gone to Calcutta/Kolkata on vacation with my mom and bro. Well, I can't do anything about the utter lack of flavor in that bit of prose: I'm pooped. So anyway, I met with my grandparents, uncles and aunts, great uncles and aunts... the basic idea is--relatives. There was a noticeable lack of cheer this time at my grandparents' house as compared to the last time I'd visited (which was in October '07). Age is catching up on my grandparents, and senility is beginning to show obvious effects. My grandfather, for instance, whose health--though relatively good for his age--is going downhill. His hair is a lot grayer than the last time I'd seen him, and he's developed a variety of senile idiosyncrasies: he talks to himself; he can't sit in one place for over five minutes (in other words--he's unnaturally restless); he loses his temper for no apparent reason; and yeah, similar stuff. It's kind of sad, because my grandparents' family is the stereotypical Indian joint-family (my grandfather's and his two brothers' families live in the same house), and the family is visibly falling apart. My grandmother has become overly cautious and suspicious of what the other families are doing, and things like that. The house that was built in the early 1930s by my great grandfather for his family to live in for generations is now a derelict old mansion: a colossal abomination. When I was a kid I remembered the place was hellishly cheerful: it brightened up the space contained within the old four walls with laughter, love and other such things that today seem even more distant than a dream. The house now stands on its last legs as the present owner (my grandfather's late oldest brother's oldest son) is considering selling it off. That would destroy almost 80 years of the sentimental worth that the house has augmented over the years. Ever since my great grandfather returned from England with three of the highest engineering qualifications of the time and built the four-storied house. He died in the sixties, but my great grandmother took great care of the house until 1989. After that, the house was divided into three separate sections for the three separate families. That brings to mind Lincoln's aphorism: A house divided against itself cannot stand. Proof of that is in Calcutta; at my grandparents' place. This time when I went there, the place seemed darker, colder (not because it was winter) and a fucking hell of a lot lonelier. My great uncle is not doing well: I doubt he has much longer to go. Everyone has to go someday, and that day is just arriving quicker than it should. But that's life: impetuous; unpredictable; invidious...
I brought home from my grandfather's place all six volumes of Sir Winston Churchill's 'The Second World War'. I've already finished seven chapters of the first volume while I was in Calcutta, and I guess bringing all of them here would give me greater consistency in reading. The books are pretty old, actually. My grandfather had bought them in 1964; which was mere years after the book was first published. Rather eerie to be reading something that was published that long ago. Anyway, Churchill's language is remarkable. My mom's told me that a gazillion times before, but now I finally got to see that for myself. I'm inspired, to say the least. Inspired to fully exploit my vocabulary, which, for some reason, hasn't found much place in my prose of late.
I'd initially thought of making this a rather long post and all: what with my being absent for almost five days and it being the New Year and all. But for some reason, I find myself at a loss for words. I have nothing to say; really.
All right, so before some shitty, ephemeral thought comes to mind, I want to say here that I've been flamed today. Well, not today, but I opened the mail today. And this time it's a genuine flame: not an excuse. It's a genuine, ass-fuckingly genuine flame left by an obtuse, bimbotic slob who's too pusillanimous to sign in. That fucking makes it a hell of a lot harder for me to give him/her/it a piece of my mind; my temper, at the moment, being nothing short of explosive. If naivete transcends the traditional boundaries and reaches the level of acute mental retardation, and insinuates deplorable problems in evolution somewhere up the ancestral chain (I suspect incest and motherfucking, but it's still open to speculation), it's just so irritating! For one thing, I can't contact the damnable mongrel, because in a rare flash of intelligence, the reviewer decided not to reveal his/her/its true identity. For another, even if I could contact him/her/it, what the fuck should I say? I can't possibly stoop down to his/her/its level of intelligence (is it still considered intelligence by the norms?) because it not only hurts my ego but is also painful, to say the least. Nuff babbling; here's the little motherfucker:
Name of the reviewer (anonymous): none of ur buisness (Note over here his/her/its spelling of 'business'. I suppose the retard thought the spelling of the 'i' sound in 'business' was the same as that of the 'i' sound in 'build', and that the latter could be used instead of the former in 'business'. Incorrigible.)
Story: Between Basketball and Love
Review/Flame: WTF! u made the the two hottest characters in the whole anime GAY! no! U SHOULD HAVE CHOSEN MIYAGI OR SOMEBODY!
I just don't know what to say. Except that this review bears a striking resemblence to the one Pollux received for one of her stories, excreted by a rabid mongrel-ess named Thonicca or something to that retarded effect. Okay, fine, I'll say it: 'none of ur business', you motherfucking ogress, it's fan fiction, just in case you missed that little detail. In fan fiction, the author is entitled to near-endless freedom, falling short only of creating original characters. I can make any character I want homosexual, incestuously inclined, pedophilic, adulto-philic, necrophilic, any other philic--whenever I want to. I can kick them forward in time by any number of decades or send them to a parallel dimension where basketball doesn't even exist. I have that freedom: all authors for this site do. And here you are, sticking your unsightly ass into my innocuous little homosexual story and farting all kinds of hurtful invectives at me. If you haven't noticed, over 90% of the stories in this category are yaoi, and the better part of that involves pairing up these 'two hottest characters'. You're probably just a mindless preadolescent who's new to all of what goes on in the real world, and knows the word 'homosexual' only by definition. Or otherwise, you're simply traumatized because you espied your dad engaged in lustful sodomy with a rent boy. In that case, you need to go to a therapist, or probably engage in a little homosexual intercourse yourself. Go fuck your grandmother, bitch!
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