Litter Bug

I have thrown not more than three chocolate wrappers and bits of paper on the road, and that too only because I tried to basketball them into the dustbin and failed. But I still can’t escape the ignominy of a carbon footprint. And now, making my already guilt-ridden conscience worse, I have on my head the shame of being responsible for a mountain of cyber litter.

Every time they ask me to type in my email i.d and my p******d I feel like an annoying, messy 4-year old who dribbles dinner all over the clean carpet just to say I-was-here. I know they said, “Never delete a mail again!” but does that mean I save mails from 1999? What are they trying to make me do—flood the world antiques market with worthless correspondence? The same send-this-to-twenty-people-or-you-will-have-a-lousy-love-life forwards lie latent in my inbox as cruel reminders of at least seventeen years of accumulated bad luck. Seventeen into four years, if you count all my four accounts, each associated to different personal profiles posted on networking sites (five and counting) with Friends I didn’t know I had. Unread daily updates and newsletters go to a cyberspace thrash can which I would (*shudder*) dread to have to empty....

And now I've gone and got my muddy footprints all over the blog world. Like the guilt of being a litter-bug wasn't embarrasment enough, I now have the added responsibility of ensuring that every word I put up online counts for something.

No pressure.