Alaipayuthey, kanaa..

You might wonder who I'm putting on the mysterious act for. Not showing my face in photos and so on. Truth is, I don't know myself...I only hope that person knows.

Man to woman "So what do women want anyway?"
Woman to Man "I'll tell you. Can you keep a secret?"
Man to Woman "Sure. Cross my heart and swear to die."
Woman to Man "Come closer then", leans towards his ear and whispers, "We have absolutely no idea!"
Man to Woman "I knew it!"
(Being a summarized version of the exchange that takes place between Hillary Swank and Harry Conick Jr. in P.S. I Love You)

I want to write one of those embarrassing letters, which are usually written by well-to-do women in Agatha Christies'; the ones they get blackmailed for by their former lovers.

Will it ever happen to me? I wonder. Somewhere along the way I became cynical, self-obsessed and irritated at the thought of any intrusion into the well oiled mechanism that is (or was) my daily routine. But now I'm bored, I want something to happen. The question is, is just wanting it enough?

Sigh and its such nice weather...