ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!

*ringtone* Tujhe dekha to yeh jaana sanam|Pyaar hota hai deewana sanam 

“Hello?”

“Hey Dude! What’s up? What you up to?”

“Hey! Nothing much. Just listening to some Bollywood songs.”

“DUDE! What is wrong with you?! Stop listening to such …”

Okay. That is it! ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!

WHAT is wrong with YOU man?! Yes, I’m talking to you, the self-proclaimed-music-bible whose sun rises and sets with the Opeth. The ninth degree douche bag who is gullible enough to actually believe that God is an Astronaut with a divine Tool in hand. What man? Did you see God flying around in outer space shagging away to glory? I know you are a religious prick who fancies that there is a Stairway to Heaven out there somewhere, ludicrously assuming that your girl friend is going to buy it for you on your next birthday. Maybe you should go ask some African tribes whether such a thing exists. They’ll just hang you upside down and feed you to their crocodiles and then, send whatever is left of you packing onto the Highway to Hell. I am extremely sorry, I am NOT going to pay attention to you morons who advise me to listen to (oxy)morons like Judas Priest.

And then, you have a problem with anyone and everyone who does not growl or tear his/her hair apart on stage. So what if Rebecca Black expects us to party only on Fridays? She has just crossed her puberty bro, so let her be. If she wants Justin Beiber to be her soul-mate, then just imagine their kid singing with some true melody, “Baby Oh Baby, It is Friday! Did you know that? Baaby?” Feeling much better, are you now?

Here I am simply lying down on my bed, relaxing on my own in my miniscule bedroom with the door closed, the song “Mere sapnon ki rani kab aayegi tu | Aayi Rut Mastaani Kab Aayegi Tu” running in the background, and a fantasy floating in my head wherein a beautiful Maiden is asking me out, and you have to come dancing inside like the Death personified and let out a cry,”Duuuuude, at least try Breaking Benjamin for Gaaaawd’s sake.”

Do I look like the fucking Tarzan to you? Do you see me in my underpants, hopping from one tile to another, beating my bare chest and screaming my guts out AAAAaaaaAAAAaaaaAAAAAaaaa? Then please explain it to me, why should I try to find my place in The Diary of Jane?  Just because YOU have a strong, overwhelming desire to become her[Jane’s] addiction, don’t drag me along. LEAVE-ME-ALONE.

And I KNOW that you live half of your life in a cage, staring at an outdated computer, spending more time on time sheets and trackers than on coding or some other innovative work. So, you can stop howling that you are a Free Bird in front of me, you cheap hypocrite! Anyway, I WILL still remember you if you just take a solemn oath to leave here tomorrow! That would be great, really.

Believe me, I’ve tried to understand your passion, and tested it too. Do you concur with me when I say children are the best judges with respect to any issue - Fair, just and unbiased. Well, I played one of your all time favorites, Oh, Oh, Oh, Sweet Child O’ Mine to my cute, adorable, bubbly, three year old cousin sister on her first day to school. She spat on my face. Where do we go now? Well, I’ll go back to my room and you can go mind your own god-damn business. Kindly forgive me [or don’t, I’ll just stay as The Unforgiven. I least care.] if I sound too rude to you, but your auditory system is messed up. Big time.

Pink is gay. Read again, slowly. Pink. Is. Gay. I just can’t take it when you think you look “kewl” in your pink shirt or when you are sporting a pink watch or wearing a pair of pink socks. You might think you are metro sexual – hetero sexual, but for me, you are just a freaking homo! Anything with the word pink is puke-inducing. Right now, I am Comfortably Numb in my black overalls, thank you very much. But, it is when you start crooning along with your fake pink iPod that I am just Another brick in the wall, that I Wish you were there, out there on Planet Mercury. May the sun shine on you crazy diamond and burn you alive!

Thanks to your constant verbal abuse, my laptop has coughed out its speakers too. Now, every time I feel like listening to some age old classics like “Papa kehte hain bada naam karega | Beta hamara aisa kaam karega” I have to go hunt for my broken headphones. This definitely wouldn’t have happened if the Japanese had bombed Pearl Jam instead, during the World War II.

And you don’t stop there, do you? I finally decide to give you some peace by sticking my headphones into place, regardless of the fact that the speakers might be in a working condition now. You could have just gone back to your Jimi Hendrix/Slash imitations, despite the fact that you cannot pluck a string for nuts. But nooo, you HAVE to peer down at my playlist and give me dirty looks and start fidgeting around until I remove the headphones and bark at you, “WHAT?!” and then you walk away muttering in disgust, “No taste only.” I swear on my future grave, I’m just going to piss on your carefully, nurtured, 24 year old Porcupine Tree and cleanse my stinking ass in your crystal clear, serene Lake Bodom.

I’ve had enough of this baloney. I’m not sure who the real juvenile idiot is here. When I suggest you some good regional songs, all I get in return is a small burp and a fart. So, the next time you wince in pain at my choice of music and groan,”It just hurts me a lot watching you listen to that shit man.” I’ll simply put down my headphones and shut down my comp. And kick you in the groin instead.

PS – I do understand that your guitar solos belong to the “real, matured music” category, but do spare a thought for my need to go back to my school days once in a while.