I’ve been under a fair amount of pressure lately. The uncertain kind. The kind which cannot be attributed to this, that or the other definite reason. Mostly I suppose it’s the realization that I’m growing older (and uglier) and that I am at present extremely jobless and likely to remain so ad infinitum. For another four months I have the sorry excuse of being a student but after that the lack of employment is a serious worry. Deadly serious. People (implying singular person who shall remain discreetly unnamed) are beautifully optimistic and give me hope that the future is not bleak and penniless but the heart is heavy. And no, parental pressure has never been of any use.

The sad outcome of all this uncertainty is that my fuse has become a good deal shorter than that of the average Acme dynamite stick. And the resultant explosions are way uglier than any fate suffered by Wile E. Coyote. I blew up on Shome today. The only apparent reason at hand was that he’d been ill and weak with fever and he hadn’t informed me. The poor child looked utterly bewildered and asked if it was necessary to call me up whenever he had to take a Crocin. And I am embarrassed to confess that my reply was “thatiye chor marbo.”
Ouch.
I tell you it’s a miracle I have any friends at all.