Post Script

The Beast knows I am leaving. He has sulked all day. Nibbled on lunch. Refused dinner. Just in case my plane crash lands somewhere, will someone assume ownership ? He has difficult tastes, eats Lays (Pringles are for plebs!) and likes his water ice cold. He likes his monthly shampoo - but only cold water and Johnsons baby shampoo. "No More Tears". His eyes need to be swabbed once in a while. He sleeps on the bed for a bit, but then marches over to his anointed spot- right in the line of fire of the air conditioning. If only lovers could take his cue.

The day has been a haze. Positively so. I woke up with the distinct sensation of having my toes sucked. It wasn't Hrithik alas. Just the Beast. Next, I checked my phone for text messages. It appears that I promised to write a monologue for an amazing female actress I met last night (when I wasn't ejecting people from the party). And there's nothing like a cold, damp nose to get the creative juices flowing. I did write the piece. Writing a blog is pure pussy. There's something else about text which has to be spoken. The words need to resonate. I am sure that my mono(homo)logue will be rejected. (It commences with "I love balls") but it is better to have monologued and lost than to never have monologued at all.

Finally, there are only two degrees of separation in this country. The best looking man at the party last night (and, in case you want to know, he was not thrown out) was the brother in law of the man I lusted after two years ago. Clearly, I am in desperate need of a bigger canvas.