Holy Holi, Batman!

Ah, Holi.

Where people of all ages decide to attack random people with water balloons and colourful filth. What can only be described as a weekend of terror. My office lies pink in it’s wake. My drycleaning bill is huge. My clothes are mothered. My only pair of comfortable (i.e. they still fit. The other one is too tight. (Yes, I have put on weight. I’m starting to look like a giant pin-cushion, with my needle-like arms and legs.)) black trousers are purple. Hell, even my undies have a pinkish tinge to it. My nice little Dharamshala beads now glow with a white light (I had to wash them in detergent to get the green stain off of them. Now they have a faded plastic-ky feel. Not good.), bringing to an end roughly 4 years of wearing them (*sigh* ’tis the end of my youth). I hate fat Punjabi people. You would think someone with so much area to clean would not want to get dirty, but noooooo; we *must* indulge our childhood again, mustn’t we?!! B@$tards.

The world around me was like a bad day at the hostel loo (with psychedelic colours, no less). Random urchins paint it black, giving a whole new meaning to the term “grease monkey” while drawing visual analogies to half-naked guerrilla-fighting VietCong.

Holi should be spent with boring friends in a quiet room, with a *lot* of intoxicants and a little token colour. Not with a few intoxicants *anywhere* and with enough colour to affect general visibility.

…

Thank God it’s over.