Out of the many forms of torture I've heard of, read about and can think of when I picture Fernando Alonso as its victim; there is nothing that works like making someone read what they've written, for me atleast. I'd easily admit being the assassinator of JFK, Lincoln, Gandhi and Pope Gregory the fifth within a few seconds into the session. Ever since I had to write essays in school about The Cow or the very first 'Myself' composition, I don't remember reading them after I'd finished.
Oh, and if you were to spot lyrics of some Dire Straits song floating about in my posts, forgive me, I really can't get myself an editor, you see.
There, now I’ve made an excuse for any error, grammatical or otherwise, that might have crept into any of my posts.
Really, although I put in some effort into writing, negligible as it is, standing back, looking at it and admiring it is the last thing that comes to my mind. As a matter of fact, reading something that I’d written comes so low down on my book of things to do, that being hung by my toenails, electrocution by my testes and watching Karan Johar’s next movie would seem like the foreword. I’m honestly not kidding.
And I’m quite sure I’m not the only one facing this problem. But happily, for me, I atleast admit as much. If you have a Facebook account, you’ve probably come across posts by people elaborating the benefits of eating grass, or about their latest failed attempt at converting water into wine. People like these are hell bent on making your life that little bit worse, making sure you know about all the movie they’ve watched, writing a half-page review on it, as if you or anybody else cares about their opinion. And all of it will be in one sentence, something like this one, with so many commas that your mind really runs out of breath trying to read it, all the time thinking of how the feeling of running a knife through their intestines would feel. These people sure as hell don’t read what they write.
Should someone tell them? I’m not going to, I’ve too many people out to kill me as it is, and this guy, under the delusion of friendship, might take a bullet for me, while I run away.
All I can hope is that I’m not as bad as them. If I am, then this won’t be the last time I’ve shot myself in the foot. But, please, don’t tell me that, if I am. And I won’t make fun of that really stupid t-shirt you’re wearing now, and your name, and the way you walk, and your Facebook posts, and your movie reviews, and your critical appreciation of Les Miserables.
Ignorance is bliss, yeah?
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