If I laughed at his dreams, would I be laughing at his peanuts?

ET: So do you come here often?
Young Poet Type: Yes. Very.
ET: Why?
YPT: The sea inspires me.
ET: To do what?
YPT: I usually write poetry after I spend some time here. I reflect and watch people…
ET: Do you prefer the company of nature?
YPT: Nothing like that, though nature is a better companion because it listens.
ET: So you like watching people?
YPT: Yes. Like I realised something about the peanut seller behind us.
ET: Really? What?
YPT: That he’s not selling peanuts. He’s selling dreams?
ET: How is he selling dreams?
YPT: Because he wants to do something in life. He want’s to make it big. He has a dream for tomorrow, but today, all he has is… peanuts.
ET: Ahh! Thank you for your time.

8 thoughts on “If I laughed at his dreams, would I be laughing at his peanuts?

  1. You write well, and there is some promise in the language you pen, but your experiences are limited, and unless your horizon broadens, your blog will be no more than dull commentary on a mundane life – yours! and yes, you write fairly well!

  2. You are right, ABC. I have known for some time that I need to widen my horizons and am trying to magic some adventure, travel and supernatural activity. Till that happens, my blog will remain my crutch for my mundane life.

  3. Is ABC the mungfali-man? Does he have mung-infallible life that he decides to drive by comment on my friend’s blog?

    Don’t be mean Mr Peanuts … or we’ll assault you!

  4. ET: Fuck travel… that’s so clichéd. Here’s the plan: you cheat on the husband with a trucker. Preferably a haryanvi one that swears and drinks. You get impregnated by him, and then regret the affair. As an outlet for your regret and guilt, you take up crack while pregnant. Then give birth to a deformed baby that you give up for adoption. The baby gets taken off your hands by Angelina Jolie or Madonna. You vow that unless Clooney comes knocking on your door, your next child will be a legitimate one.

    The whole thing will take no more than a year, and you will have fixed your mundane life problem. That’s what I did for my boring vocabulary syndrome. Yes, Maddox is mine.

    You’re welcome.


  5. Dear ABC, Go stuff alphabet soup up your a**. Once your inflammation heals, you may be able to think before you type.

  6. G: Dude, that is so Americana. An Indian plot to widen my horizons would be that I give birth to a girl, which would not go well with the Haryanvis. Me and my child would be kicked around the hinterlands until a lone ranger aided me in the fight against injustice. There would be a few songs.
    KK: You scare me.

  7. Ha, I was trying to frame mine in keeping with the Americana of the comment that started it all. But I like yours better. The more the melodrama, the merrier. Of course, I like KK’s above all.


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