Confessions of an empty wrapper

By the time you are 20, people tend to associate you with things you do, it’s like an added sub clause to your very being, which is diligently remembered in the mental “good at doing directory”. It doesn’t really matter if the person is a virtuoso in his field of doing or just plain lame, as long as you are able to draw some semblance of an association. Ah, A, the debater, B, the stud mooter, oh c, she’s a slut, and d, have you seen the number of publications he’s had? And the list goes on and on, he plays the guitar/drums/synth/etc etc, he’s got great formatting skills!!, he/she is her/his boyfriend/girlfriend /Ex (they are after all “things you do”, or have done at some point of time, don’t make that face, you fucking hypocrite), his poetry opens up a whole new dimension, he is good at painting, he writes pretty well, and blah blah blah, to make an account of the entire list, would certainly take about the same time, as it took to write the Constitution, and round about the same number of people, or going by the present day parliamentary standards, double the number, triple the time. My profuse apologies to all those who have to face a predicament on my account, “oh, Prantar, eh, ermmm……..hmm,*sigh*”.
Do you remember how sometimes the toffees we bought as un-sub claused kids, were nothing more than a shiny wrapper that had been sealed air tight? No, not the ones which had say one or two less, but the ones that had nothing but nitrogen filled in them? I came across one of those empty pompous inflated ones a couple of days back (in what was to turn out to be another vain attempt at quitting). I never noticed as a kid, but then it had a consumer complaint number, hardly worth the effort, unless you are, say, a child labourer, and spent half your days earning on it, in which case there is a good chance you wouldn’t be able to read it. But still it was good to see that it was there. Not getting into the whole debate of whether there is heaven or hell, of whether I don’t give a fuck, or whether I don’t give a fuck, if and when the gates of heaven or hell open, I do hope there will be someone sitting with a complaints register.