God was Murdered

Hey, Lal. It was year 2001, I was 19, in college in Melbourne. I was sitting in a tram with my friend Rohan & his friend. They were speaking — I was listening. Rohan’s friend was talking about his future — he knew exactly what he will be doing after graduating, at 23, at 31 — I mean, this fucker had the  blueprint  of life & beyond — this human  masterpiece  knew exactly the moment he will impregnate his wife with a girlchild & precisely the moment his son-in-law will impregnate his daughter — 27 years in the future. I fell madly in love with this prophetic bloke — he all but,  turned  me supergay at the speed of light. That’s also the first time ever I consciously realized how clueless I was about everything. I had studied Commerce in high school as Science was way above my paygrade. For college, I headed to Adelaide & took Hospitality as one of the  uncles  in the family thought Hospitality was glamorous & the  in-thing  — I couldn’t care a damn as I was  allegedl

Hey, Tōsh This is the fifth year we’ve known each other & we must take a long moment to hail each other for not ending up in a high-security Bihari prison serving a life sentence for going Ted Bundy/Dahmer on the other. We’re two Stoic betches! Last three & a half months have been ridiculously productive & disappeared at lightning pace. I’ve minted more rectangular Gandhis than I ever have in my pro-life. Today, I sit here & write this deliciously dark letter. In the real world, writing this letter is considered a colossal burn of time as I will spend hours carving it & earn zero Gandhis from my creative crunches.   Maybe I’m stupid — all the money, fame, cheap vodka, threesomes, degrees, honors, Snapchat.nudes, blowsJs are exposed as hollow pursuits when they are pitched against a friendship that is still alive after five years, which in the Fully.Filtered.InstaWorld is worth 55.5 years. Fun Fact : Anything worthwhile in life is either free or fleeting — and life

I loved my girlfriend till I choked her! Now the betch is dead — Not a True story. In Cold Blood — Not a True story either. Hats & Pants off, Sir Truman Capote for writing this book that I loved & made love to.   Fuck you, Sir Truman Capote for selling this book as a True story. True that — On November 15th, 1959, Perry Edward Smith [Perry] & Richard Eugene Hickock [Dick] killed — Herb, Bonnie, Kenyon & Nancy Clutter. But that’s where the Truth rests in peace & Truman’s imagination & artistry are born. In Cold Blood is based on a True Story, written to give lusty readers orgasms & make Truman an overnight millionaire & superstar author. I hate the Rich — most rich betches got poor betches’ blood on their bums & breasts. I love Truman. He got rich on Clutters’ bloody graves. But his was a victimless crime . All the crisp, movie-like dialogue, bone-chilling scenes & philosophical/flawed/poetic/sociopathic characters he created were certainly a f