Me and Pothead

“When I am doing nothing,” I said out loud, “You do something? When?” said Pothead to the white ceiling with her eyes growing wider in undisguised astonishment. Now, as you know, there are these born critics. They won’t let others finish a sentence without interjecting some of their senseless alternative critical observations in between. Ofcourse that makes you lose your chain of thoughts-and I mostly get rather irritated when someone interrupts me with a snide comment when I am right in the middle of constructing an elaborate empirical oracle like statement. Not to say that Pothead looks downright hyperactively funny when she makes her overblown facial and hand gestures to convey a point. Someone should tell her this is not the stage and the audience is not sitting 30 feet away from her to necessitate exaggerated expressions. But the thoughtful compassionate person that I am, I rarely point out other people’s flaws, unlike some obviously intolerant people around.

And while I was thinking all this out, Pothead naturally had to comment on my silence. “Oh, you were saying something? I’m sorry. I thought the ceiling spoke.” There, you see. Jab, jab, jab- all the time. If I wasn’t this tolerant and overlooked people’s flaws, I’d have left her company long back. But there again- that’s the trouble with us nice people.

“The ceiling doesn’t speak”, said I curtly.

“Well, you never know. I thought the window spoke to you. Ofcourse, I’m not saying that I have your extrasensory fine tuned perceptions to apprehend non-human communications, but, well for a moment I thought, maybe the ceiling had a case of mistaken identity and decided to engage with me in conversation.” Yawned Pothead.