The compliment I get most often is that my dog has a shiny coat (fruit peels…to eat).
[Shut up about the dog, its not funny anymore. It’s fucking tiresome. You are boring away your readers. This way your blogging career will end before it begins. You will have no friends, and eventually your dog will die and you will be all ALONE.]
[STOP TALKING IN MY HEAD, MOTHER]
Sorry about that.
As I was saying, the compliment I get most often, about me, is that I have a good sense of dressing (I wish it was ‘style’). I wish people would appreciate my sharp wit or overpowering intelligence or acts of philanthropy, but since I don’t have any of those, I’ll take what I can get.
Since I do not know how to handle compliments, I usually answer by saying it comes from my parents, both of whom inculcated in us, a deep sense of aesthetics. We always chose looks over utility, which is my answer to why I have a slim antique closet that can not hold my clothes.
Meet the source: Architect, rebel. He still wears his hair long, but who cares?
He’s Howard Roark, but he believes in L-O-V-E, especially while lying on a friend’s VW.
Before my mother made an honest man out of him, my father used to spend time at the Osho Ashram, eating theplas and aam-ras puri in the community kitchens. He also sat on benches in hill stations looking pensive and arty to get chicks. It worked!