A Quality Shoe

My past two weekends have been sacrificed to shoe-hunting. Man, I feel like a girl! My male pride is hurt, I have never ever been this fussy about anything in my life. I'm not getting any decent, wearable pair of shoes for even 3k. Its a travesty! Its unthinkable! And it has pissed me off completely.

What's more, the sales-people they have in these huge air-conditioned stores are so bored with their work that they can't even try to show you anything. Sir, its right in front of you, help yourself. 

Whatever I want is way too expensive and whatever they offer, is what I wouldn't be caught even sleep-walking in. So there's a classic example of Life, sermonizes my brain. Yeah, yeah smart-ass.
Then suddenly a known melody fills out the ensuing gap with delightfully apt words...

 " You got your
   toecaps reinforced with steel,
   Hard-wearing
   sole and heel,
   Make those tired feet feel like new.

   Take your pick,
   black or Brown
  Great for the country
   or the man in town,
   You're gonna need a quality shoe"

User name already exists

That's the story for most of us late starters to the Web, the address is already taken. And English, being the common denominator with a paltry 26 alphabets, doesn't help either. 
The story is that I was checking out the WordPress online blogging thing, and well, there it was. I couldn't get a goddamned user name. Let me tell you that I'm very imaginative with words and letters, and I tried a lot of awesome names and mythology references, but the Server God wasn't appeased. I was vanquished. All the awesome names were taken by all the awesome people. 
So what can a guy do? Rant against the civilization.

Old Ink

I was wondering when was the last time I wrote a real letter to someone, with a real pen and ink. The days seem almost hazy, I remember furiously scribbling down the last letter in my English Language exam addressed to God knows whom.
Ah, and yes, I almost forgot those four years at Engineering College were spent in the drudgery of University examinations, scribbling for grades twice a year.

But I'm actually missing the smell of a freshly filled fountain pen, the scratch of the nib as it works across the sheet of paper. Its a world that we have left behind, a world of letters and handwritten notes, of pens and letter-pads. Its makes me sad, though I know that we are in a better world and times, of electronic communication and instant status updates.

I have had this idea idly germinating in my mind to take up writing by hand once again. I have no rational reason for it, only a heart full of vague emotions and the ever growing dismay for the easy, at-your-service world. I'm not old or incapable, I want to do things with my own hand, see the world with my own eyes. I want to travel and jot down my experiences.

Maybe evolution is playing with me, kicking up my primal urge of self-reliance. I don't know, but I want to break-off with technology at some point and assert my own existence on the power of my animal will and sinews.