Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Government-sponsored Debauchery.

Ya, ya. I know there are roads and mohallas and cute lil dead-ends in your city glorifying washermen and cobblers and goldsmiths and silversmiths. But in my city, you have -

Text loosely translated as - "The street of the dude with the beer".

Next to Beerkaran Street No.1, we have -

Text loosely translated as - "The SECOND street of the dude with the beer."

So I am trying to say this in a sophisticated, indirect and non-confrontational manner:

Beat THAT, suckers. :D :

Sunday, June 14, 2009

My Friends are Retarded.

No wonder I like them so much. Also, they sometimes buy me lunch. And say the following:

"I hate the idea of male gynaecologists. The very idea that I am showing off everything I have to a man and he is STILL not going to fall madly in love with me, is too depressing. I want a female gynaecologist."

"Divya, talk to me. Don't be silent but violent."

"Same sex couples confuse me. As an engineering student you learn several things... here is a nut...and there is a bolt... and you can't do jack with two nuts or two bolts."

"Divya you have a blog?" (yes) "Am I in it?" (no) "Why the hell not?!"

"Pakistanis are just Indians with bad judgment and hot sisters."

"You study in Jodhpur! Awesome, I love Gujarati food."

"Divya's like Gujarat in peace time. No alcohol and constant yammering."

"Let's get married and have lots of babies. I'll even have some of mine with you."


Good times, good times.

I don't want to go back to college. :(

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

If only I could work a Milk Cooker.

I hate my shoes.

Thisis the primary aftertaste of my internship days. I was curious to see what it would be after the first week of interning, and this is it. I hate my shoes with a degree of loathing I normally reserve for overweight Iyers with control issues and South East Asian tastes (I wonder if I have been vague enough), Vodafone and jackfruit. 

These shoes are, quite objectively speaking, a fantasyland of ugliness.  The salesman told me it 
was bought by office-going women, which is unarguably an accurate description of the kind of shoe I was looking for. But these shoes, please note, are black pleather with metallic rivets in straight lines. Observe:

No? Not disgusted quite yet? Observe again:

Grim , what? They aspire to be worn, presumably, by the Tamil housewife who goes to work in Andhra Bank from 8 to 5 and secretly aspires to Vengeful Gothdom. (However said Vengeful Goth activities must cease by 4.30am, because then it is time to put on the milk cooker.) 

That reminds me of the time I expressed my desire to know the ideology of Goths, to a Goth. She told me "We do not support society and we protest." Protest what, I said. ""We protest society" she said. Yes, but which bit, I said. "We just protest" she said, and left. I am very sure that she is wrong. I opened the Wikipedia page on Goth subculture and Ctrl+F 'd "protest". No result. 

I took a day off from work. I feel delightful and slightly dangerous. This could be because of one of two reasons - 

1. I am reading Chuck Palahniuk, which always arouses in me feelings of deliciousness subversiveness, or
2. I successfully faked a (resounding and rather impressive, if I may say so myself) hacking cough on the why-I'm-absent phone call to the office today,  and immediately afterward gave my reason of absence as a back-ache. (Sing with me... What the Fuck?! I know. I spend a large quotient of my time wondering why I do the things I do in the remaining part of my time.)

I got a tee shirt with a lovely print on it, for my birthday. However the neckline of the tee shirt is humongous and strangely amoeboid, and therefore I am flummoxed as to the correct way to wear said tee shirt.  If I wear it so that I am modestly covered in front, A good third of my back is aired. If I protect the modesty of my back, there remains much nakedness to be addressed in front . My mother is of the opinion that I should let her take a sewing machine to the tee shirt. I am tempted to let her. 

And to everyone who this concerns - they know who they are - I am not buying skinny jeans. I tried them on. Without exception, they cling annoyingly to my leg instead of flopping around comfortably and shapelessly. Absolutely unacceptable, what.



Edit: I bought the shoes for 140 rupees from a hole in the wall near where I work, because I'd gone to work with my bathroom slippers on and the partner of my firm is anal about formal dress code. I insert this back-story because, after she saw the travesty that are my shoes, a friend said I should include the reason I would possibly buy them. I agree. My shoes scared her dog. Her dog is an abominably large and scary German Shepherd.


Suddenly I like these shoes.