Amidst the strums of 'Moon on Water', listening to the gentle tones of a soulful guitar, I reflect on the events of today. Namely bitches who think so haughtily about themselves, they and their superiority.

Consider this.

Indian woman of perhaps 30s walks in, and asks if we have books by Salman something. I asked her for the spelling to which she quizzically said,

"What? You don't know him? He's like the most famous writer in the world, won 2 Booker prizes etc etc."

I shook my head in sorrow and earnestly replied that there were too many books and authors to remember all of them, even the 2 Booker prize winning Salman so and so.

She gave a derisive snort and walked out of the shop, pissing me off to no end. I mean... come on! It's not as if I know every book out there is it? To each his own right? OMG THAT BITCH. I had the mind to ask her if she knew Frank Herbert, whose book Dune won the Hugo Award and Nebula Award? Or Neil Gaiman's Coraline? Or perhaps Edward Said's interest in Orientalism? Or Dan Simmon's Kali? Haruki Murakami?

Sigh. Plus, I have to decide on a career course soon. What do I want to do? This pressure is returning as my full time stint comes to an end.