SHOOT TO THRILL

Junkie.
Severe junkie.
Adrenaline worshipping junkie.

Can’t help it.
Was born to have a good time.
Period.
There’s just nothing for it. Wasn’t born a career guy. Head’s very rectangularly or circularly (as opposed to squarely) placed on me shoulders. Just kicked a lucrative career goodbye. And surprisingly, the reaction ain’t pangs of despair but just a simple yippikayay motherfucker. Accompanied with a smirk, an indelible smirk that refuses to wash itself off. Its actually more like a tattoo of a smirk on the lines of Jack Nicholson’s portrayal of the joker in Tim Burton’s version but with the convincing connivance of Heath ledger giving the final touches.
Can’t help it.
And probably, at a certain level, don’t want to. Fuck, the goosebumps are what I live for. Just took a year or whereabouts to realize it. Pimped meself as the family guy who’d learn the fucking ropes and get a regular 9 to 5 but ne eh, not fucking happening.

I am the fallen angel.

Had just forgotten the cause and effect symbolism that got me here.

That the million bike accidents did not happen to deter me from biking, but to enforce the belief that I was probably meant to survive that and more.

That the good grades weren’t proof that I’d make it big as a lawyer, but proof that I was born to achieve more.

That surviving hunger for weeks did not mean the lack of money, but proof of the fact that I enjoyed adversity and would go the distance to prove that I would survive.

That I’d someday have conversations with the bitches called fate and destiny after a game of paintball where I’d pin them down in yellow. And as if that wasn’t enough, would snicker at them in the end to re emphasise that the rules really did not apply in my case.
Tough luck bitch, too bad. Healthy sparring but they could have done without the bruises.

That my sword would scream the reddest while they’d carry the golden thought of first blood (very expressly drawn from the torso, medieval, very medieval, but hey, the broad sword was biased) to their graves, the only solace in a war valiantly fought. Ill advised, but valiant nonetheless (plagiarized).

Can’t help it.

Was born to make a bike’s pistons have a period.

Was born to make a car figure skate.

Was born to see the speedo quiver at the red line.

Was born to revel in seeing approaching blackness after jumping off a cliff.

Was born to row in thin air because the fucking raft was on a bloody waterfall.

Was born to scrape off a scab to watch the welcome rush of blood.

Was born to disable serviceable speakers after a full blast November rain rendition from slash.



But there are a lot of blokes who need a mention here who catalysed the metamorphosis of the monster who chose to be.

1. Sinnerman , for the indelible faith in the force, for fuelling the lifeblood of rage against the machine for debilitating me to be the degenerate misfit who’d finally break the shackles and infect further. Coffee owed(and probably butter chicken too), for life.
2. Iceman, for the faith, the blind invigorating faith that it was worth much more than something mere mortals would understand, head held high…. Always, come what fucking may.
3. Maverick, for channeling the adrenaline to somewhere other than a collision course.
4. The faithless freak for making me believe in something that I used to think was a biggest sham on earth. Hats off, bearded loverboy.
5. The travailed pillion rider, for taking the plunge first (damn, envy) convincing me that it was possible.
6. The Black tongued Nazi, for taking the initiative for kicking the man’s much psychofancied posterior.
7. The lustbug, for absolute faith.
8. Spock, for generally extolling the abilities as superhuman when they were just a common man’s try out. It’s the faith that fuels me on. Bless you.

9. The Ice Queen. Your belief makes me the impervious monster I am today. You’re the piston that makes the engine belt out fury, perseverance and performance, babe. Love you.

Thank ye, comrades.
Thank ye from the pits of me non existent heart for making me believe in the reptile I am.
For making me believe that I kill for fun, not for food.


Humble regards,
The wannabe who dared.