How Time Flies.

I've had three baths already and my skin still has a greenish tinge. I'm hoping the world will assume that my body cells have started producing copious amounts of chlorophyll, but you know the world. It is gleefully malicious, and that is why most people will think I'm just nauseous. Or decomposing. Serves me right for liking the colour green so much.

Holi delights me. I don't have to spend on expensive firecrackers, I don't have to spend dreary hours shopping for a jewelled horror that passes of as a notun jaama, I don't have to pray. I just have to get out of my house and look like I'm terrified of colour (yes, I smirked at that. Terrified, hah.) and every little kid in the vicinity who has a pichkaari appears magically. I then have to pretend to run, and I know water balloons will come zooming in from all directions, landing here, there and everywhere with woeful plops that are most unimpressive for what are supposed to be lethal weapons. I finally act like a damsel in distress and say something equivalent to "Look at what you've done, you little twerps." and poof, I'm a part of the chameleon clique. I will be offered sympathies and free bottles of permanent colour, and I can spend the rest of the day stalking and attacking victims.

Crime was never this easy.

Which reminds me. One of my earliest posts was also about Holi, which means that my blog is about a year old. Did you ever think it possible. And the dashboard tells me I've managed about 55 posts. Did you ever think that possible. And since I can't be bothered finding out how old my blog actually is, I have decided that it is in tribute to the family tradition we have of being unsure about our birthdays. My grandparents never could figure out the Gregorian calendar, my father was registered as having two different birthdates on two different certificates (but then he grew up in Bihar and that is another story), and my mother - well, she was told that she was born on the day that she was born, and you know how gullible children are. As for me, I can't read a thing on my birth certificate (which, again, is sure to be a conspiracy of sorts. I can't be eighteen already). And most importantly, my zodiac still confuses me. It is befitting, therefore, that my blog not know when it was born.

But this means that my blog's now the equivalent of a one-year-old baby, and every parent knows that the period after this is when you regret ever having thought of the opposite sex. I, of course, don't have that luxury either, being the sole begetter of this creature. Which means I garner no sympathy whatsoever. I am a single mother who has fallen prey to artificial insemination without realising that there will be no father to blame everything on. And, consequently, no alimony either.

Frankenstein seems a more lovable book all of a sudden. Aaah! It's alive! It's alive! Oh God, it's alive! Yes.

And since I seem to have run out of things to write about - witness the fact that I wrote this post about birthdays and monsters - I'll go back to doing something more worthwhile, like staring at the ceiling. Happy Birthday, blog, and Happy Holi to the rest.