Trippin'.

I believe I owe myself a decent post. The last week has been rather choppy because I've been all over the place, not just physically, but mental-health-wise. When I come to Chennai, I like Vellore better, and when I'm in Vellore, Chennai seems so much calmer. Then there's that voice in my head (yes, me) that still misses Calcutta that it borders on physical ache.

Thanks to VH1, I realised that we're going into an entirely new decade in two days, and that is weird because later when we're old, people are going to call us the generation from the 00's. The generation who swooned over a sparkly vampire, and men that looked like boys who look like girls. We are people who loved those cats who could not spell. The generation that perpetrated a swarm of homegrown singers in the closet with a guitar and smoky voice, destined for Internet stardom. This post is not about them. I don't know what it's about, I just like the sound of the typing, which I guess is the equivalent of enjoying the sound of my own voice, so essentially, I'm just feeding my own ego as usual over here.

First things first, the blog has been overhauled, and the comment pages are back again, but the CBox still remains, just in case. If anyone makes a Twilight joke over the wolf, I will personally Seppuku them, then Harakiri them, also.

Mr. America's present finally reached after three odd weeks of effing and blinding its way across the Universe. See, the scarf reached him and now I'm all zonked because I used to have it, and now he does. I know how postal works, thankyew, but it's just, okay, there's a picture of me wearing it. And now he's wearing it. IT'S FREAKY. That scarf travelled more than I did.

(I know I said I wasn't going to put up that picture but hey, I just did.)

See what I mean? It's in my dorm room in front of the mirror, and it's there, early morning California too. What a trip. Pun intended.