Mist

Based on a photo taken in Chikmaglur. 

Shrug

First of all, Happy New Year! A tad late, but it's still barely a week old, so here's to a fruitful and enjoyable 51 weeks ahead. I also managed to get my hands dirty with charcoal marks again, hence the title of the post. I'm finding it very convenient to subjectify myself- I don't have to go begging, plus I lose the right to complain.

Of Capitals and Quesclamations

I recently discovered the existence of the Interrobang: a combined question and exclamation mark that renders repetitious usage of the two in succession to denote simultaneous surprise and curiosity redundant.  This is the wonderful invention:  ‽ 

It looks something like a blotted up 'P' but would probably be widely used if available on the standard qwerty- and subsequently abused in chats by exasperatingly redundant successive repetition. I can just imagine the "‽‽‽‽‽‽" sequences ruining the purpose of their invention.

It is Caps Lock Day today, in celebration of the most unused key ever. I think my nightmares will soon involve chat screens with the two combined with annoying textese and apostrophe abuses: "R U GNG 2 B WRKNG WITH COMP'S RUNNING VISTA‽‽‽‽‽". 

The horror.

Three:

The exact number of days needed to get used to one's mirror image after a haircut. The first day, your hair retains the precisely creamed and set pattern that the stylist has painstakingly created on one's sorry excuse for a scalp. It looks suspiciously like the stylist's own do, so I sincerely hope he was facing a gender-identity crisis when his got done. After comments on the hair being dry, the forehead being much too large and the curls not having been there the last time round, he resigns himself to the onerous task of disciplining my hair. 

The second day is spent being shocked at the strange face staring back from the mirror. The typical lay-person tries hard to get it to look half as decent as the previous day, with none of the patience or the products. Of no avail, of course. Strands of hair flop around refusing to take orders. When finally the third day arrives, it mocks you with impudence, scattered in all directions with a snobby air of practiced indifference. By this point of time, the image has sunk into the subconscious and it notices nothing unusual there. Good riddance to insulating, high-maintenance, long rubbish. 

Meanwhile, as this scheduled post is being published by faithful ol' blogger, I'm on a flight home, looking forward to a long, lazy and blissful month and a half.

"I'm no longer a Conjunctivit"

Another of those priceless things you hear at law college. Apparently describes a person previously inflicted with conjunctivitis, and by definition, me. It hit me just as I handed in my Human Rights essay and left me with blurry vision and social ostracism. But it seems blurry vision helps you draw better, or at least, think you draw better since you can no longer see clearly enough to spot your errors. I've hit on the secret to improving one's artistic talent at last!

Here's the result:

To Sir wth Love

If the plagiarised title is forgiven, this post is dedicated to the dearest mother-to-be, one we have fondly nicknamed Sir. She has been hankering for a post on this blog for a long time and I have finally run out of all excuses that may justify the silence. The good news is that I'll possibly have more time on my fingers this final year, the bad news is that I'm still as lazy as ever. I'm also dedicating it to her love for nicknaming people around her. 

You see, we have decided to nickname her baby-to-be fetoose, and I'm having a hard time justifying it to myself. In our defence, Sir once managed to nickname her mother "isles", with a long line of reasons for the name. Nevertheless, I like nicknames. When I nickname someone, I usually find a generic term to use or distort for the person, trying hard not to make it sound affectionate- I'm usually nauseated by cheesy endearments (apologies to all those who do use them- it's just me retaining a juvenile distaste for affection). Nicknames give me a sense of personal ownership over the person, a form of attachment I'd like to keep and be the sole possessor of. Not that others aren't to use the nickname, but I'd like them to earn the right first ;) Same applies to nicknames others give me, I'd like you to take the personal effort of giving me a name you think I can carry, and would be thrilled if you made a new one for me instead of squatting on another person's affection. Happily enough, I've been handed a lot of nicknames, from China, Stooge, Sandivaali and Cat to Torchpants, Ka, Guv'nor, Sam and various distortions of my name. Nothing to the Nicknames I've used, of course... besides Sir, there's Kaa, Pree, SED, Gump, Fish, May, Shrew, Joy, Cow- I could go on. Point being, of course, that the people I nickname usually mean more to me than I'd let on.

Update: 16 September 2010:

Well, a day after all that was written and saved for completion, fetoose decided to cut out the 'to-be' and make it 'mother'. Throws the entire post into disarray, so I didn't continue typing till today. (or I would like to use that excuse). He looks ridiculously cute, and I must say, I can't wait to be the annoying aunt, which is what I'm sure we all land up being, despite our deepest desires. I was told that I'd make a fun uncle though- it's a pity my sex is against me there.

More Attempts

Blogger seems to have Helvetica now! Excellent; except for the fact that I still haven't found a muse worthy of Trebuchet, let alone Helvetica. 

The reflective surface on my laptop screen caught my eye, however, and this was the result-

The lateral inversion being an obvious error.