Because Some Things Can Not be Contained

...And there comes a day, when you are so happy, your heart breaks into a million billion pieces...

Ode to Statistics Paper 7, Group A

While you were there, smug and grinning
Out of that detested green notebook of mine,
When days were hard and heads were spinning,
And all I would is mope and whine.

Dismal days, mournful evenings, terrible nights,
(Mornings I would sleep unheeding),
Who knew heteroscedasticity could create such frights
And all one could say is bloomin' and bleedin'.

I would gaze at the formulae perplexed,
Classifying most derivations as miracles of God,
I would walk about harried and vexed,
Could hardly give it up, would not plod.

Ah those precious winter noons,
Now never return to memory or weather,
When explained MLEs were boons,
To forced testings myself I would tether.

You were my nemesis, my curse,
My Everest, unconquered, unvanquished.
You still look so forbidding, so terse,
Like those dukes who so languished.

Now that you are gone, I wander about lost,
Slightly bemused, mostly confused,
You gave me purpose, like warmth to frost,
You hide now like a madman accused.

I sing my woes, paint my toes,
Lurk around curtains, scare sneaking cats,
You and I may have come almost to blows,
But hating you gave life a meaning, do I sound bats?

I still do not understand correlation,
Never really read up Durbin Watson test,
Left the pages on auto correlation,
Econometrics makes me feel like a disliked guest.

I might be back again with you in weeks,
Or may not if luck favours,
I still owe you much, the guilt reeks,
The heart says you are a fool, the mind wavers.

The truth is I am witlessly, mind numbingly bored,
So bored, for even you I pine,
I await for sense, until then thoughts are to be ignored
I am all right really, not insane yet, completely fine.

I am getting lazy about blogging properly. Unpresidented is a good way to blow off some steam.

Sometimes, writing something, anything, seems therapeutic. I am glad blogging exists. If today was thanksgiving, I would be thankful for it.

I have nothing else to say.

Actually, I do have plenty to say, but I am a very lazy blogger.

I plan to use this as a journal

Dear Unpresidented,

I am a fool.
What is more, I think I am enjoying being a fool.
I wish there was a way I could stop but this time, it overpowers not even sanity, but even unhealthy levels of insanity.
You, I hate you. You do not know that.

I am tired. And disgruntled.

I think I need a paperback journal again, blogging is just not the same thing.

Love
Ria

Do see beyond the anger

I wish someone understood,
How much the head aches,
Little shivers of hatred,
Courses through your veins,
Why bouts of nausea
Winds about your lungs,
Why sheer reluctance
Overpowers every sense,
The sight, the sound, the thought
Sends you down spirals of angst,
Why morbidity is heightened,
Why the only feeling left is rage,
You see, do not you,
It is not you I hate.
Just something else.

I probably have some unresolved rage issues.

Devilry

And, sometimes, you do run out of words.

It is hard to arrange mental incoherence into sensible sentences.

All you can want, at two in the night, is a little sense, and try not to submerge under the wave of sheer desperation and longing. With the advent of midnight, your mind is possessed by a soul bewitched, and things tug at your heart, heartless, ruthless, cunning and crazy.

This is not it, you are just in the throes of an obsession. The real thing is far more beautiful, far more magical, far more heartrending.

Yet, it is midnight. Things do not make sense. You are just grateful, that someone else did. Yet, this does not gladden. There is a purposeless rage, you feel thwarted, there is a sense of hurt.

It shall be morning soon, and it will bring forth rationality.

Yet, there is a certain unmitigated joy in this purposeless, hopeless madness. You have been bewitched by midnights, and you submit yourself to it.

You can not resist magic.

A little of what is going on in here

Sometimes, the thing you want to write most about is the very thing you want no one else to read. You want to write it down, with loops and flourishes, or perhaps chicken scratched on a piece of waste paper, fold it up, stuff it inside a drawer and then never ever remember it.

Or perhaps tear it up in shreds and hide it in the lane behind the college.

Dear college, you haven of secret whispers and dreams. You are a warm hug, you are my solace and sanctuary, my friend, my first love, my constant love, and, as I once promised you, my most favourite place on earth.

Darling, darling Presi, you shall always be my most favourite place on earth, wherever I end up going.

Unsent Letters

I have never learned to love the way people love away,
I find it hard to trust, to believe,
To find constancy of affection for any single being,
To love knowing you are true, intransient in every way.

All I ever did wish was to love, just once,
In such a way that I would be incapable of ever loving again,
That I would find love, a love which would be so irrevocably mine,
I would know it was mine with the first glance.

I loved you once, with a madness uncompared,
Then hated you more, a feeling more intense,
Then I found out how I felt nothing anymore,
You were dead, love was dead, my heart was spared.

Yet, now, when you are gone, gone forever,
I roll between the sheets worrying over things unsaid,
I see now, I am a part of you,
More than you were a part of me ever.

My heart aches, I weep under covers
Not thinking of you gets harder,
I dream of the days when were friends,
perhaps more, perhaps lovers.

And I see I am in love with you after all,
And I am too late again.

Testing

Wayward winsomeness, willingly wages wars within.
speak, craziness within, open, ask, question.
crumbling into droplets of madness, fiery stars,
glowing here, there, everywhere,
til I am submerged, enveloped, filled,
Fulfilled.

In the dust of escaping shoes, restless fingers,
breaking, destroying, yet, in the muddled mess
creating a vent.
you shiver, you moan, you weep endless weepings,
and end it in a trilly, shrilly
Laugh.

Ridiculous, they bemoan, weary weirdness,
oh, so weary, so foolish, yet,
there you are, looking up at trees,
smiling, talking, laughing, ignoring, accepting,
waging billions of wars within
Yourself.

Music and the Madness Within

There is a music playing somewhere in my head. It flows out, surrounds the room, envelopes me with its playing, lightly snatching, notes. I know a hunger I have never known before. I remember things I had assumed unseen. The music plays on, amazingly mysterious, delightfully light, and there is joy. Joy. Exquisite pain. Sorrow. Despair. There is hopelessness intertwined with dreams I thought I was incapable of dreaming any more. The music tugs at memories I never thought I would have the courage to remember.

Glimpses hurry by of things, whether imagined or real, I can not differentiate. They have always been there, and too much time has rushed by. I remember companionship, forced, accepted, beloved, lost. Something stabs. It chokes. Friends, who are still there, friendships, which are no more. There is a mist I have to see through to realize which way my thoughts are headed for. There are mountains, wise, steady, old, yet, young. There are valleys, and snowfall. I feel again the first snowflake, soft, cold, perhaps like the heart I pretend I have. The music plays on, makes me remember more. Its my Ghost of the Christmas Past.

There is me. Me. So many me's. The writer, the fool, the joker, the student, the liarthe one who talks so much, the one who revels in tragedy, the one who craves drama, the one who never rests, the one who is cold and unfeeling, and the one who never ceases to weep. I remain amazed at all that I have been and all that I am. I look for myself, the one which is my true self. I find none. I am too many people. The music gives me no time to feel shattered. I pass shaded trees and glistening droplets, the music guiding me all the way. I wonder at my fear of my stories, too scared to let imagination reign. This was not me. Not the one who thought and wrote and lived somewhere else everyday. What had happened in the last few years to kill the courage to explore my own thoughts. Why did the stranger affect me so much?

There is a stranger. So unknown, it hurts. But never ceases to fascinate. For I see myself mirrored in him, every trait, every hesitation, every word, they come from me. Yet, someone else speaks them. I do not have the courage to ask him why his presence, his existence, the fact that he is there, known to me, bothers me so much. Or ask him why indeed is he there, why did he want us to know each other. Things had been so much happier before. Not happier. The music refutes the word. They had been safer. Now, its an uncharted territory whilst I move along with a mutiny in my heart.

I am ad libber. The one who speaks her mind. The one who makes things up as she goes. Why are my thoughts so controlled, my actions so proper? Then I know the truth, a truth which does not set me free. While the music ends, joyously, resonating, vibrating, shimmering with love and hope and happiness, I realize being ad libber was the biggest lie of all.

How Economic Models are Made (or What Heads of Institutions I will be Applying to Should Not Come Across

"He Dharti ma, mujhe apne god me samale!!"

"No, nothing, not even a budge," Bonky observed and tilted her head in thought. "Maybe you have got the words wrong. These goddesses are very picky about the words you say."

"Hmm, should we be more specific you think? Maybe ask her to open a crevice and then add the 'god me samale' bit?"

"If you ask me, she would get offended if you treat her like a kid. Next you know, the earth will start contracting again and we will end up right next to the Russians and Bangladesh will become a mountain."

"As admirable as your Geography is, I think its worth an effort."

The revised version of the classic suicide appeal was exclaimed again with full fervour with no tragic results and we were left mulling over the undivided road yet again.

"You know what I think? Dharti ma has done her work. Now we need to appeal to the god of roads. The earth is probably all hollowed and awaiting my corpse. We need to pray to the road to divide and let me access my grave."

"Trying to commit suicide, are we? Is this because they abolished the examinations for masters at Presi? Come, come now, we know suicide is too drastic a step, do not we? Try breaking a leg or something," remarked an interloper.

"We have an examination for masters? Since when? You think mundane stuff like this drives to me to desperation? Ye hardly know me, interloper."

"Of course we do," said the interloper, ignoring everything else but the reference to examinations. "Don't you remember PM telling us some girl only drew a downward sloping line when asked what a budget line was?"

"No. Who is PM?"

"Uh, the Indian Economy professor, but never mind that. Why in the world are you looking so thoughtful? Last I saw you thoughtful was when you were making paper balls to throw at..."

"Yes, never mind that. Ask me that question again."

"Why in the world are you..? Oh, oh, you mean what is a budget line?"

"Seriously, what is a budget line. It is a downward sloping line, that is all. What more could we add? That it looks like a rainbow from afar if drawn with one of those multi coloured pens?"

Bonky, appalled by my ignorance, added her own intellectual input to the answer, "It has a negative slope. Oh, and in case supply is rationed.."

Quelling her with a glance, I continued "Let me think out the answer without trying to write downward sloping lines have a negative slope. Oh, oh wait, I know, a budget line is a downward sloping line. This means it slopes...er...downwards.."

"Oh yes," Bonky interrupted forcibly. " I can not mention downward sloping lines have negative slopes but you can mention downward sloping lines slope downwards. Not only are you a despot, you are a..."

"Careful with your language. I have a feeling I might be blogging about this later."

"You blog about us?? You mean our conversations and everything?"

"Of course not," I remarked airily. "Now stop interrupting my answer. So, since a budget line slopes downwards, we can assume the force of gravity acts on it."

"We can assume what," she exclaimed .

"I am just incorporating a bit of tenth grade Physics. You should know gravity now. You studied Physics at high school, did not you? Waste of time in my opinion, when you had to end up as an economist and forget about gravity. So, where were we? Oh yes, let us assume slope of budget line is -1. It can be anything really, we just need a negative value. So do not go stretch the syllables of the word 'what' again. Accelaration due to gravity is 9.8 m/sec². Now, we will proceed to equate them. Therefore, -1= 9.8 m/sec². Bonky, why are your eyes popping out?"

"Are they? I never noticed. The weather, perhaps? Tell me," she added conversationally," do not you think equating -1 with 9.8 is rather pathbreaking? Not many people dare to do it."

"I did not equate it with 9.8, Bonky," I replied, a strained note creeping in my my voice due to all the unnecessary explanations. " I equated it with 9.8 m/sec². And close your mouth. What with all the eye popping and mouth gaping, you are beginning to look like Fishface"

"That, of course, makes all the difference."

"Now for the last bit of my answer and pray do not interrupt me again. Cross multiplying, we can say -1/9.8 = m/sec². Bonky, I see you goggling again. It is a very unnerving habit. Get rid of it. Sec² can not be negative, since it is a square, which implies meter is negative. However, we know distance is a scalar quantity and can not be negative."

"So? Go on. You interest me enormously. How will you deal with this obstruction to your brilliance?"

"So, Bonky, all it proves is that a budget line does not exist. The concept of a budget line is mathematically unsound and hence, all we have learnt in Consumer Behaviour is based on the foundation of mathematically incorrect theories. Which means our Part 1 examination was one big lie."

"You know," remarked Bonky, after thinking it over a bit," I think the ground vibrated a little. Want to try that prayer again?"

What I Could Do With My Life- The Way of the Economists

(Pinged, as usual, since I am incapable of writing original things at a stretch, from my blog)

By this time next year, if I have not actually managed to write everything incorrectly in my development paper as my dreams seem to predict, I ought to be a graduate. However, as is almost obvious by the level of intelligence one usually displays on this blogspace, 60.5 percentage of Indian graduates are not employable. All students of Economics immediately fall under this marquee, namely because, when real life does not measure up to theory, we attribute it to errors made by statisticians. In fact, in the blame game, we attribute anything to statisticians if it makes us look good. Marriage between a statistician and an economist is, thus, amongst one of the worst nightmares of a marriage counselor. Of course, most jobs earmarked for graduates do not provide statisticians, resulting in the unemployability of economics students.

Let us form a flowchart in our minds, since I do not know how to create one on blogger. The educational path of a graduate divides automatically into two parts, an MBA or Masters. We will not consider the former in this analysis as I would immediately start weeping uncontrollably if anyone tries to interview me.

A masters degree usually ensures :
The geek tag
A job
Pretty much nothing else

And now we will revert to my favourite form of writing- point wise discussion.

1) I take up the jobDescriptionI have absolutely no idea. There was a vague explanation somewhere which said we wouldhave to predict GDPs and stock market fluctuations. There have also been whispers of bulls and bears. But since I plan to take up Mathematical Economics, questions I would be certainly be incapable of answering in job interviews are:

What do you think will be next year's GDP?
What was last year's GDP?
What is GDP?
What are bulls and bears?
What is a stock market?
What is a stock?
What is macroeconomics?
What is economics?

Pros: I will have money if employed.

Cons: Probably no one will employ me.I would still be clueless regarding what the subject is all about.

2) I get desperate and decide on the Ph.D

This also has different repercussions. So sub dividing the topic

a) I do the Ph.D. and take up a job

Refer above.

b) I stick to researching economical stuff.

Description

No one really knows what economists research, least of all the economists themselves. We begin by trying to find out a correlation between the shininess of a jellyfish and its sexual life (Translated : A jellyfish!! Ooohh pretty!! Do you think it has a girlfriend?) and end up with results on the marital stability of men who own charter boats. We automatically create a model on the basis of our observations and pretend it describes the economic conditions of fishermen.Of course, sometimes, policymakers think the sexual life of jellyfish is exactly what the countries need as a pick-me-up in these times of desolation and degeneration. Hence, Nobel prizes are often awarded randomly to economists on the basis of the prettiness of the paper clips used. So the probable effects of doing research are :

i) I win the Nobel Prize

Pros
I will be famous.
I will be rich.
I will have a model named after me. Palit's theory of monopoly whorism has a nice tang to it.
I can finally be an author, even if to a niche reader base.
I will finally be invited everywhere, and not only because my great-granddad had two many kids, assuring an unending supply of relatives.
I might accidentally figure out what the subject is all about.

Cons
I will be famous.
I will have to give lectures. For which I will have speak slowly and enunciate properly. Something I have never cared for since I was seven.
I will be doomed to either a life of celibacy or multiple divorces.
Every budding economist will hate me.
Someone might figure out my model is actually based on a statistical error.

ii) I do not win the Nobel Prize

Pros
I can still be an author.
If I force Calcutta University to add my book to the recommended texts, the royalties will be decent. But only just.
I can have a blog about Economics and people in love with the subject can read it and have a crush on me.
I can finally be an aantel.

Cons
I would still have to lecture people.

I would probably end up being the vague, scatty professor who always trips while entering the classroom. Also, my students will hate me.
I will be the poor cousin of Nobel prize winners. The only parallel I can think of is being a weatherman-on TV, but only to give the newsreader a break.
I might end up coming back to Presidency and then complain vaguely about the lack of attendance in my class, enabling my HOD to give me gloating looks.
I would only have the option of dating economists, never getting the chance to meet anyone else.
I will have no money.
I may still not be able to figure out what the subject is all about.

This is roughly, the sample space of total possibilities in my chosen career path in the next twenty years or so. Since this has been my first attempt in long term thinking, it probably comes as no surprise that I am in extreme panic mode. However, these make nice blog posts. If anyone can come up with alternative career prospects for me, please mention them in the comments section, and I will analyze them too. Of course, when it comes to choosing, I will probably just draw lots. But that is next year's tale.

(A Delhi trip excerpt from an exceptionally long post from my blog)

There was a week spent in un-idleness in Delhi. College packed three of us pseudo-economists off under the hope of keeping the beacon of Presidency Economics high. Siblings sent us off with joyful good byes in the hope of the splendour of gifts brought back. We went there in the hope of meeting some proper guys for a change (Dear Kolkata guys, please do not get offended, we love you all. You are intelligent, stalwart men who will always remain the people our parents hope we will end up getting married to. This is just the rebellious phase every just-left-teenage girl goes through. But we always come back to you. Maybe we leave you again later. But we will discuss that in some other post).

We did meet them. It was a wonderful eight days which we spent falling in love over and over again with every man in sight, not even excluding wonderful looking professors from Pakistan (Pakistan has everything, good looking professors, good looking men, even, for crying out aloud, good looking women, and an actual interest in Economics. Wish to reword those Partition clauses again). We also realized Kolkata is not an undisputed World number one in aantlamo. Very, very curiously, Delhi comes close. Frighteningly close.

However, the trip's main impact laid elsewhere. Not being one to keep people with their breaths held in taut suspense, I will be quick to come to the point. It was the washing of clothes (Cue, quick drawing of breath). It was while we washed clothes, past midnight, with the aid of shampoos the hotel beatifically provided, we realized that we had actually transcended to adulthood. That we were women in the real sense of the word. Also that we would make terrible washerwomen and that washing clothes would also have to be struck off from the list of alternate careers. There were also instances of impromptu dances which involved jumping on a rather bouncy bed and which ended with loadshedding and meeting cute looking guys in the lobby to discuss the electricity problems in Delhi and why that meant the Stock exchange was falling (The mating season for economists is not a very attractive one. We are reduced to either discussing the Stock Exchange or questions on how to become millionaires while trying to get Ph.D. degrees. The first ends in fistfights, the second in hopeless sobs).

I realize I must have mystified my readers (Gasp, I have readers, it feels good to say that while planning crazy attack on chirping birds). The college sent us off to Delhi to attend a seminar on (held breaths again) Economics (gasps) with a few other South Asian countries. Scores of undergraduate economics students were bunched of in a scenario reminiscent of Goopy Bagha Phire Elo where Bikrams are caught and imprisoned (this is for my non Bengali readers. Bengali readers, skip this section before getting an aneurysm or something by the mind boggling description) by a mad yogi of a sort, whose death had been predicted by a boy named Bikram. The imprisoned Bikrams in the story become his housemaids and washerwomen. We presented papers and listened to endless babbling by famous people on how to achieve the Indian/Bangladeshi/Pakistani/Nepali/Sri Lankan Dream. Since none of us were even particularly clear about which dreams they were focusing on, we would utilize the time to run away to Connaught Place and visit Nirula's. Or some other equally wonderful, ambrosial joint (Cue: Wipe away nostalgic tears).

In case you are nice enough to want read the post in its entirety, pleej to click here.

Confusion?? Errr... not really!!

"no, just awfulyl sad
its like
sometimes
you want to be a criminal suppose
and then you meet someone
adn all ambition goes to hell
and all you want is to have six kids with him
the eternal topic of you have met the hero, and the hero gets the girl"

Now that's what our dear miss ad-libber said while having a chat with me!! Who says only guys are despos?? Seems like am "still" on the other side of the planet when i meet such "desperate girls". Wonder of wonders they call me despo at college!! Seems it's an opposite world.. am happy with 1 guy and am a despo.. these girls romance 3 guys under the moonlight and don't fall in love!! If Deepanjan is reading this, i want an explanation sir!!!

The Dudes Abide

(Pinged from my own blog.)


It is very easy to recognize economists when the budget season nears. They go about looking pale and sickly, heedless of all sights and sounds, except when wincing painfully at the sight of a copy of The Economic Times. It is not hard to reason why. Most economists forget all they have learned ten minutes after they get their degrees. Some do not even wait till the end of the examinations. After that, all theories propounded by them are a result of assumptions made and an imagination active. Many are the theories I myself have created on ill prepared examinations. Three of the papers easily deserve a Nobel. John Nash is a classic case of famous economists. No one but he could have created something which reads "Complementarity is the source of multiplicity in the Nash equilibrium". One requires the aid of an imagination fueled idea and a psychological disease to make up that.

The lot of an economist is a hard one. In the olden days, most people would join the Foreign legions to help them forget. With the legions having now been disbanded, they try to fall in love. Love after all, always makes you forget everything. However, most economists are a bunch of snobs, assuming (which is their business) that every other human is inferior to them intellectually and they deserve no less than Fellows from Oxford. Of course they do not get them. But economists are extremely persistent. If nothing else works, they go and take to drink. And they forget.

(N.B. If the economist is a female, she does not even need to take to drink, she takes to weight loss. That makes her forget everything, including love and foreign legions. It is an unstated general rule that female economists who take the subject seriously are fat. The fact that there are not enough female economists proves it. Who really wants to remain fat nowadays?)

But then drink brings out all that is base in man. Which is why perhaps when we got drunk, all we could do was whine about "Cournot equilibrium" and "Todaro-Harris model" and then sob in a corner.

But I digress.

(Click to enlarge)

Every man meets his Waterloo. And economists, despite all rumours, are humans. Albeit with slightly different Waterloos. While the misogynist finds the woman of his dreams, business tycoons find brothers constantly reminding them of their share in the business, politicians find unsuitable son-in-laws, economists have the budget thrust upon their unwary faces.

For in this world, there still remain a few of little faith. Judas is the name which comes to the mind as an example. Some who do not trust enough in the healing power of forgetfulness. And they keep on remembering. Then they go join newspapers as columnists. Or the "Gor-ment" as financial advisors.

It can never be a very pleasing sensation when served with your early morning coffee are the screaming headlines referring to cost push inflation. The Fates band up against you and you realize there is a family member looking down expectantly and asking you to explain the meaning of cost push inflation as opposed to other kinds of inflation. The hurriedly mumbled line defining cost push inflation as inflation pushed by cost, rather than by other, say, non cost, what do you call it, thing, is not accepted in a spirited manner and the economist goes back to face the world, a mere shadow of his former, jubilant, coffee sipping self. The Fates are a cruel lot though, once aroused by the Furies, and questions regarding the subtle difference between fiscal and revenue deficit haunts the economist's mind till he receives the next day's paper, which speaks glibly of various anti inflationary measures and waiving of farmers' loans.

However, the budget question, once admirably settled, does not raise its head again for a considerable time. No more is the economist tormented by the general, misguided public to explain something the general, misguided public happily imagines the economist knows about. The economist, what with the daily cares of the world on his shoulders and the severe concern for the income of various alcohol fermentators, gets involved in the grind again. And forgets. Time, as usual, remains the best healer. And the economists, as spelled out by this very fascinating movie called The Big Lebowski, abide.

Conversations

First, or perhaps second day of college :
Unnamed senior (US) : Once you enter these hallowed halls, you never even look back and think of trivial monetary pursuits.
Me: (hiccough)
US: You strive for the betterment of society. You take an interest around the problems around you, be they social, political, economical. You are the ones who carry on the name of this institution to far away places and make it proud.
Me: ......
US: So, tell me, have you any idea about future plans.
Me: Yes, I was struggling around with the idea of film making.....
US: Aaah..in true Presi tradition. Surely,depicting the common everyday problems of the society?
Me: No, ah..more on the lines of a roma..ahem...I mean, I changed my mind.
US: Yes?
Me: What, I am 18. Dude, gimme time to grow up.
US: (shakes head over the seeming frivolity and disrespectfulness of the future baton holders of the prestige of the college)

About a month later
Unnamed Classmate at Metro Station (UCMS): What the..., I mean, ahem.. hey, what are you doing here?
Me: Er..taking the metro.
UCMS: Oh yes, of course, of course, what...ah..oh..umph.
Me: uh...
UCMS: ......
Me:....
UCMS: So..tell me, what are your plans for the future?
Me: Dunno, I guess go home, read a book or two, watch some mindless soaps.
UCMS: Oh, yes, no, I mean, not the immediate future, long term you know.
Me: Ohh..Yes..ah..I do have certain plans...still..you know.. in the process..What are yours (silly grin)?
UCMS: (mumbles something incoherently)...ah..what..the metro..yes..see you around..huh?
Me: (smiles back, relieved)

About a year later
Unnamed Classmate after Results (UCAR): So..er..unfortunate what?
Me: eh?
UCAR: Performances, this and that...so, what plans for your future?
Me: (suppressing a sigh) I have, you know ideas...am still thinking... probably... you know how things are.
UCAR: Its almost been an year, hardly two years left, you can not mean to tell me you still have not thought it out yet!!
Me: There was this astrologer, you see, she foretold I am dying, like, in a couple of years, so, you know, was not worth the bother. Might as well go on an African safari and have lions consume me for all good this subject is going to do to me.
UCAR:...

A couple of days back
Concerned Parent: So, I see you just have an year left in college. Any plans yet about your future?
Me: Well, we have plenty of options, how does documentary direction sound to you?
CP: (somehow preventing an aneurysm) Do not, pray, be flippant with me. Have you gone through the college brochures?
Me: (College bro- whaaa..?) Eh, course, don't you worry, I have got the thing down pat. Everything is hunky-dory. You worry too much.
CP: (sighing, lays down weapons) So, what is this documentary direction?
Me: (she agrees? Damn!) On the other hand, how does..umm...species conservation sound?