Post-TS, Post-Modernism, Post-It, Post-errrr....../And so amid bad jokes, I finally make a post...

Poor blog. You nearly died.

But luckily for you, they put that absolutely shitty business called Design Exam and I had to think of you. That's how God plays, I am getting it. What a fellow, what a fellow ( God, Jeez )

So now. If there was a contest called Describe-your-design-exam-experience-in-two-words and if I felt like participating, I'd probably get disqualified on the spot. For both, mouthing expletives and crossing the word limit.

Yeah? well ? whatever never mind?

But seriously. What would even Kurt Cobain himself do if he was made to sit in a design exam?

He would surely either

1.pull the strings on the T-pulley and make music
2. die straightaway of Aneurysm

I know. He'd do neither, he'd just switch tactics and implore one and all to rape him and they'd let him off. And yet clever people like him end up with a crazy wife, bad advice about taking dope and shit like that. And we're talking about KURT COBAIN here.

I should clarify here that I am not saying he was God or anything. He just sounds like one. A Disappointed God. And the reason I'm discussing him at length is to procrastinate bringing up the topic of the Design Exam, since it has undesirable repercussions on my liver and well, right now, I really am into valuing health and all that. OK, the egg-jam then.

The teacher, seeing whom in the early morning directly affects your aesthetic senses, shows up waving a yucky Problem Sheet.

The Problem is always dead boring and by the time you're struggling to read Line # 2, a thought is running in your mind in parallel: why should I do this? why should I become an architect. I hate buildings. If I don't become an architect, I will be jobless and if i become an architect, I will still stay more or less jobless.

This is a difficult net of thought. Line # 3 and # 4.....#2568 hardly register. But after a while the truth stabs you. Oh yeah, you have to design a commercial complex.

Butterflies besiege your stomach.

Un Grande Marche. A little better. Designing Un Grande Marche sounds so much nicer but that's only the Gaul coming out of you ( If not Kurt, it's Cacophonix). At this point the average Drafter picks (i) his tools if he's in a I-Am-Because-I-Draft kind of mood or (ii) his nose, if he's totally doubtful about his stand.

Well, whatever, never mind...
Three hours later, only an hour has passed. The draftsman in question ( in rhetoric, rather) has passed out completely. While the clock hands tick around tiredly, let us leave the draftsman to his rhetoric and let me speak up in my defense of Why I nearly got you killed, Dear Blog.

It was the winters, Dear Blog. It was the Lack of Net. The lack of space in the room to, you know, actually SIT so one could write. And the other shitty things...

No we cannot go on. As we speak, our Chief Hero the Draftsman is rubbing his eyes and waking up, only to discover that he is, at present, sleep-typing this post.

God-dammit, so the Draftsman wasn't a he, all this while. Stupid gender-biased profession title, I tell you...

I am so glad I wrote this down. It's a nice post and full of deep meanings and poetic connotations. And those stirring bits about nature ( see: butterflies).

Will be back , possibly too soon for your own good, Dear Blog...