Putting anything you write out into the world leaves you vulnerable to ridicule, misunderstanding, scrutiny . . . rather like being in a relationship. Blogging opens the door to even more extreme ridicule than writing something for a definite purpose, since it is so blatantly exhibitionst in nature, such tantamount navel gazing for an audience. I find myself screening the ongoing narrative patter in my head before the imaginary screen of my friend whom I shall call Boomy.

This blog, which may or may not ever go public, is going to have to exclude all the juicy bits, I'm afraid. Those have to remain the province of my very private journal, or be fictionalized in fiction, maybe. This is for the same reasons that, while I heartily recommend the experience to all college sophomores, going naked hot-tubbing is way less cool if you do it on TV. So, sorry, but despite the fact that I am a super sex bomb in real life, if you want juicy bits, best go here like the rest of the perverati.

This evening I watched "Born Into Brothels" which was good but so sad. I talk a good game about emotion and urgency and social justice but I am such a fucking academic. Sometimes I think my hands would pass like ghost hands through anything but this keyboard. I can't believe I have the gall to ever be cranky about my thesis (boo hoo, science is so hard!) or my sore jaw or my goofy family when at least I am not living in squallor in a brothel in Calcutta.

There was this song I recognized from a Bollywood film I saw with the aforementioned Boomy a long time ago, which lasted for about seven years, but starred the lovely Shahrukh Khan.

Okay, that's all for now. Back to the House of Mess.