Cake.Yum.

My name is Post it and I'm a RomComaholic.
I admit.
I'm a sucker for happy endings.
For all things that give me butterflies,make me reach for my tissues,binge on low fat ice cream and in general add to the "One day,i'll meet the One too" feeling.

And yes,i believe in soulmates.

I firmly believe that all events in a person's life- right from "damnit! The toast always falls buttered side down" to the n-the heartbreak courtsey Mr. Right Now- all lead up to that one, absolutely magical, drumroll moment when,y'know, you meet your Harry.
Or Sally if you please.

But here's a thought-

What if I'm wrong?

What if this feel good factor that the entertainment industry taps in on to make cheesy movies and corny novels out of to cater to the masses is nothing but a smokescreen?
A scam to exploit our absolute happily-ever-after infested gullibility and help us kid ourselves till we're 40, single and suicidal.
And then visit the shrink.

What if all the sunshiny talks of true love is just that?
Talk.

Besides,what happens when i do find the One?
Hell! How do i know who he is?
Does an alarm go off in my head?
Will a sappy love song start playing out of nowhere as i bump into my knight in shining armour at the departmental store?
Is there really a "dum di DUM" moment that'll clue me in on my "right guy,right here" situation?

And then again,what guarantee do i have that i haven't let go of my soulmate already?
What if i did meet him,tagged him as yet another passing phase, and moved on?
Or worse.

What if my soulmate is a Siamese cat?
Or,Brad Pitt?

Plus,aren't cynics always telling us to suck it up cuz love is overrated?
How, it's the same feeling as biting into one's favorite cheesecake cuz the brain releases the exact same chemicals or some such similar BS?

There you go.
Problem solved.

Who needs a man anyway?
I can bake.

Art.

They say sex is a form of art.
That it gives expression to the soul.

Beautiful words really,if only i didn't have a totally disturbing image of a paint by numbers book i had as a kid.
Which got me thinking..

If sex is an art, who's to say what's genius and what's trash?

Then there's the tricky matter of understanding abstract art.
And cartoons.

And what about the people who were never born artists to begin with?
Do they take the help of paint-by-numbers or do they go with their gut?
Are they laughed at or are they ahead of their times?

Do we pull a Renoir? Or maybe a Dali?
Or do we go ahead and find a different genre altogether?

What happens when we mess up? Do we use more paint or do we start over?

How do we know the line between beautiful and boring?
Between original and pretentious?

And exactly what is the yardstick against which we've been pitted?
Who is keeping track?


Which makes me wonder-
Who are we kidding?

We're as clueless as the guy who has smudged his picture of a farmhouse as did a maestro with his self portrait.


So then,what IS art?
For want of a better word,
Undefined.