i ate civilization. it poisoned me; i was defiled. and then, i ate my own wickedness.
…wish me luck!
Mary S. Horne borrows US $100 000 from Richard C. Clark, writes and signs a promissory note stating that she will return him the money, inclusive of 10% interest per annum. The promissory note can’t be transferred or refunded and cannot be collected before the date stated (January 2010). She, however, attaches a letter authorizing Richard to use the note as collateral.
Richard borrows US$50 000 from Piece of Shit Bank, uses promissory note as collateral i.e. back-up, but defaults on his loan.
Piece of Shit Bank can’t get money from Richard, so they file a case against Mary S. Horne, demanding payback.
Surpise, surprise, Mary refuses ! Arguing that she has not amended her promissory note, she states that it does not count as a negotiable instrument i.e. paper that transfer value of monies. Primarily because it is not stated on the face of the Promissory note.
Piece of Shit Bank’s Defence: But they were stapled together!
…….lawyer FAIL.
It’s my cousins’ birthday today, and the pictures of her smiling happily with her brother in the sunshine are too cute. Yes, I use that phrase when my vocabulary runs out of pretentious steam. Hur. Her dad is the epitome of Crabby Uncle, the one who can’t stand the in-laws and is the first one to open a bottle of vodka at ten a.m. when the in-laws start them prayers for the wedding. (back in india that is) Brilliant but so gruff, he’d amaze. Hates indian hypocrisy, devout mumbaikar (but then again like every other indian — mixed political feelings), cultured, brilliant, actually does Time crosswords. The kind of person whom you’d have to spend a lot of time with in order to break, but the kind who’d be in so in love with his wife that his entire photoreel of his niece’s wedding consisted mainly of pictures of his wife’s ass. Which I helped him upload. I miss him 8(
I distinctly recall laying on the guest room bed, after passing him the international phone. It was my cousin on the line, a few hours after the frantic back and forths after the Mumbai attacks and the reassurances had been passed around like bread at the table. Things were alright, and he swivelled round in the chair to talk to her, curled up protectively towards the computer screen and quietly asked her how she had been. She chattered happily about school in another world, and about her friend and apartment problems, and he started giving her advice on the smallest things as if she were the person he took most seriously. At the wedding, he was loud, overbearing, pompous; drank like a fish, smoked his way through niceties like a chimney, and funny as hell. My dad hated having to down his offered Kingfishers, cringed at the mention of him, but now… Now he cradled the phone on his shoulder, spoke slowly, asked questions, as if what he said had no importance other than careful advice or warm encouragement. This was no show of drunk social bravado or sarcasm, nothing with which to be impressed other than the gentle solve of his brow. So struck by the starkness of his manners, I tried not to spy, and attend to my Mistry novel. But as he stalked out of the room with his white kurti billowing out behind him, I dozed off dreaming of Freud and fathers.
Hooray for Windows Live Writer. A weekend of stupidity that can’t be explained past synaptic gaps, and a resulting flu that has me sitting at home on a Wednesday instead of pandering to kiddies and their shiny distractions..
Still struggling to delve beneath surfaces and shows of pride/aggression/love to find substance. Psych class has strange currents of empathy, somehow—that there’s more than just the medulla or the cerebellum, that the brain and the mind are sneaky little bastards. Off to substance.
