I am here to write about Jim Halpert. I meant to the last time, before I got diverted. It bothers me that I like him so much, because he is very similar to my ex. The same mild-natured, fun-loving, etc.
Thirty is so old to have that kind of crush like one did in school, when it just hurt and you didn't know why, and you knew no way of reducing the pain. Of course I can do other things, but one wants to moon, to think of this imaginary character, and wish for, I don't know what: definitely not the same kind of person again, but I dunno, the sweetness, good-lookingness, the fun? I can't imagine wanting to be with a person like him, he doesn't really excite one, yet I suppose, it's a fallout of being drawn to the same prototype. As A said, you look for improvements, but the skeleton remains the same.
I was feeling terrible because he was so similar to my ex, and it felt like a terrible betrayal that such people are ostensibly nice and easy to get along with, that nothing would make it obvious that they have the capacity to hurt you so. Yet, Jim does, doesn't he, in the way he barges in like a bull in a chinashop to declare his affections for Pam, and expects her to reciprocate. There is, of course, a 'normal' way to look at it, but I keep thinking that he was essentially callous.
Then, haha, there is also the crush on Krasinski, who seems of unnaturally buoyant mood and good humour: from his Twitter account, it would seem that nothing can get him down as he walks the straight and hard working path to success. You should watch his performance on Late Night show with Jimmy Fallon to understand what I mean. :D
Meanwhile, I wish I could get over this crush soon. It's destroying my routine.
I am going to AP tomorrow.

What I has been doing: it has all become too much, so it's time to write it in a list.

It's summer again, and today, I cut across the maath at India Gate from National Gallery of Modern Art, tramping down with my Roerichs and those sandals with small heels that still hurt sharply and with an insect bite that feels like someone's hammered a nail on your foot. It was lovely, notwithstanding foot hurting and emerging soreness of my inner thigh thanks to dubious condition of my leggings (don't ask): it was five-ish, the roddur had just stopped blasting through, and there wasn't a soul in sight. It was quite something:being in the heart of Delhi, and not have anyone around. I could probably have squatted and peed.
I was going to Bengali Market to meet my friend, R. I walked halfway, and then took an auto.
Places I went to today:
The Claridges, on Aurangzeb Road, which is very tree-lined and lovely
YWCA Kitchen, by Metro (felt rather nice after a long time), where I sat for two hours and methodically read through two issues of Eye, The Indian Express supplement and ate a rather nice platter of a lamb chop, a thick pork sausage (quite like a penis, if you ask) and a huge chicken patty, rather well-flavoured, and a milky cold coffee. Twenty-seven per cent added to the bill thanks to the legions of taxes with which you will be punished for eating out: it added about Rs 150 to the bill.
Thence, to NGMA, which was closing, so I walked straight, like a philistine, into the souvenir shop, and bought the Roerich prints I had been eyeing for so long. I will laminate and stick them up all around my room, so that I look at them and remember Ladakh. I wish I had time to look around at the photos. I didn't realise they would be so engaging. I just remember Amrita Shergill, Jamini Roy, Company paintings, Raja Ravi Verma and probably some Ramkinkar (such a lovely name) Baij from last time with O, when I slept on the yellow sofa.
Bengali Market turned out surprisingly nice, though Costa Coffee, with its industrial and tasteless peach iced tea and extravagant prices was intensely depressing. R came and ordered more gunk (she likes the gunk, and doesn't consider it to be gunk, obviously).
From there, we went to Pahargunj, which turned out rather nice, even though it had gotten to be desperately sultry by then, ar ami gorom e, amar tights er jalay ar pokar kamore hnaashphaash korchhilam. But, but, we bought shoes! Shoesses, soft ones, which  I never get. And she bought Kolapuri chappals, which she wanted. We walked down the main street to look at bags and clothes and earrings. We ended up The Metropolitan (where else) and she ate a rather tasty dish of chicken breast (always sounds obscene) and I had dubious caesar salad and ickily-sweet iced tea. We chatted for a long time, and then it was back home on a protracted journey where I couldn't wait to reach home and shed my tights.

It was a very full and enjoyable day, and I should really be asleep, but I am not.

This week has been harrowing because of the heat and The Office. I am considering hiring a rickety AC, because the cooler doesn't seem to be making much difference in 45 degrees centigrade. The Office has consumed my nights, even on days I have been very tired, like today. I have been watching John Krasinski's videos like an addlehead obsessive, though it has helped wear out the shine a bit.

In other news, dadu. A.
Are we really cool and special people that we fail to find someone good enough to live with? Are we independent and feisty and unable to compromise, or is it just sad that we haven't found kind, nice, fun people to share our lives with, and can't seem to be able to do with less.
It's annual sex time again, and I haven't found anybody. Hopefully it will be in better circumstances than last time.
I am enjoying living by myself. I was cooking a lot until this week's heat struck.