Bored. All I need is a 9-5 engagement.

Nobody reads my blog. And this fact is finally gratifying. Because I have decided that like most bloggers with a general theme, I too will make my blog a springboard for purging, whining, and self-pity. (Hence I want no audience when I cant entertain). There is no point in keeping the charade of humor and fleeting smiles, when my life is hanging by the pink, hirsute tail of a dead, rotting rat. But I wouldn't want anybody to read posts like this. The vestige of my pride warrants that.
I have mastered the art of doing nothing. I have no school, no commuting to Stony Brook for 5 hours in a day, taking the 5/7 am trains, returning at 11 pm, no homework, or the in between pressure of being a superwoman and doing all the household cooking, cleaning, groceries, trying to please the husband and the in-laws, and marvelously failing to achieve the feat. Secretly I wanted to do it all by myself. And I still quite hate taking help simply because I can't make my face glow with twopenny facial of insurmountable humility when somebody makes a big deal about providing a helping hand. I am all for acknowledgment and gratitude, but not when you will shamelessly procure such validity through inflated reporting yourself! You won't see me needing you, any more, ever again. Anyway, so now I have no school, and nobody in the potential job market thinks that I am sufficiently skilled for anything, hence I have no job. So yes I have mastered the art of doing nothing, and of sitting very, very still at one place, and staring at one thing timelessly. I am, inadvertently, training myself to become a yogi living in a secret dungeon of silence located in the foothills of some imaginary, heated Himalaya, barricaded by such a thing as a wooden door and latch, and the only thing remotely intrusive in this perfectly tranquil world of motionlessness is the shuffling feet of the mailman outside the door at around 1:30 p.m. stuffing mails in the jaws of the letter box.
Sometimes I feel very, very creative like killing myself in a very Vitruvian man like detail. But then again, where is the motivation to be so artistic. Had it been so then half way through, I would have picked up a paintbrush or a pen. Also, I literally have no money. (and this is the first time I am missing the myriad possibilities attained by the means of currency. I cleared out my bank balance in my last visit to India, making random and might I say quasi-robust donations for my means to places like Mother Teresa's home, my dad's NGO, my father-in-law's-friend's hospital et al. I do not regret it ever. However, as I had expected, it did leave me unequipped for some luxuries). Hence, any socializing is on hiatus. And thus movies such as Black Swan, and King's Speech must play out in my head by the action-direction-production of yours truly.

Sometimes I feel the need to shout really loudly till the nerves in my throat levitate, and produce a meandering, agile crevice on the ceiling, or hatch open a bulb. But then again, I restrain. Who knows if bathroom singing becomes a career opportunity someday.