addiction

Suffice it to say that I’m addicted. I’m ashamed to admit it. It isn’t like my delightful addiction to the English, or even the seemingly unhealthy addiction to the san. It is a completely deplorable situation when a person arrives home at ten in the night after a long, tiring and hectic day; and then proceeds to stay online from then till four in the morning, doing nothing more than some seriously overrated networking.

Which brings me to another concern - my constant addiction to time gobbling activities that require minimal or no mental exertion on my part, viz. the TV, the internet, and the book. Perhaps the only thing I can say in justification of these is the fact that my writing is getting, well, not better, but at least more adventurous, and certainly more voluminous. That can’t be all bad, can it? And I am actually learning things in spite of myself; very, very minimal, and very, very rarely, but still!

I want a football team now. (Milan Milan Milan, just for? I have not sufficient information to make a choice.) I have to get Ender. I have to find out if my morbid streak is actually worth tapping. I have to hone my crossword skills. R says it’s one of his passions (look at me, using initials to confuse and protect identities. Who the hell’s reading this but me and, hopefully, random strangers?) and I want to be good enough that I can call it a passion too. I need to set up a plan. Seeing all erstwhile (ow) classmates going their own ways with panache and aplomb really greens me up. I want to know what I’m doing.

Sufficient soul searching.

Is this part of the hangover?