My thoughts on procrastination

Jonny Jonny

“Jonny! JONNY!” bellowed Jonathan Smith Sr., banging on the apartment door. “Goddamnit Jonny, open the fucking door!” he banged on the door again, the green flakes on the faded door reverberating. “I know you’re in there.” Jonathan heard his son scuffling inside, hastily making way towards the door. He could hear his son, Jonathan “Jonny” Smith Jr. clumsily fiddling with the latches on the other side of the door, cursing under his breath every time he fumbled. Jonathan flung the door open, almost knocking over Jonny, and barged right in. “What took you so long?” Jonathan said, and went straight to the only bedroom in the apartment, not waiting for an answer. ...

10-ish reasons to love a commuter bike (or why your Pulsar is good, but my Passion is better)

Last week alone I saw two articles about the coveted Royal Enfield Bullet (for the uninitiated, it's the bike that goes dug-dug-dug-dug). So, being the nosey parker that I am, and being a proud owner of a bike in the segment myself, I searched the interwebs for a similar article about the simple commuter bike. Sadly I didn't find a single one of that sort. I never wanted to write this blogpost in the first place, but it seems like the universe has conspired to result in this. Cunning universe. So here are 10-ish reasons to love a commuter bike- 1. They are cheap AF: You can saddle up on a 100 cc for under 70k INR. With papers. Accessories included. Not only does it cost less, but it's really wallet friendly when it comes to maintenance as well. These bikes are manufactured with the average middle class commuter in mind. By that I mean, for the ones who have a strong mindset of "don't fix it if it's not broken". The bike will work fine even if you...

The Meaninglessness of Life and Other Cock ‘n Bull Stories

The act of smoking (or smoking up) is a sacred ritual. Dating back to ye ‘ol times of yore, it involved an old man, probably senile, and definitely hairy on the wrong side of the head, transforming crushed dried leaves and herbs into a portable-apparition device by the simple act of lighting it up and inhaling the white fumes. Puff-puff-pass was probably a thing back then too, definitely. Air, fire and earth – the holy trinity of existential liberation in just the right proportion seems to free your mind and soul [1] . When in actuality, it chokes your lungs and wreaks havoc on… well, pretty much every other part of your body. But goddamn does it feel so good to breathe in that toxic smoke. Maybe that’s why the first drag of the dirty nicotine stick every morning feels so special. That DNA-altering carcinogenic smoke tickles something so primordial, it wakes up the dormant gene that once resided in the (organic) tar-filled lungs of your great 250 -grandfather [2] . Like a nea...

Ramblings of a delusional dumbass

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