You know when you're tired and you reach that point when words are simply bunches of syllables strung together for no reason at all and people are just talking blablabla the words are only sounds and all the sounds are the same and look the lamp's making a pretty pattern on the wall right there and what were you saying? and you squint at talking people but now they know you hear nothing know nothing and the words die down slowly and they stare right back and their stares and your ignorance and your tiredness go straight back into your head and warp and implode quietly inside the oatmeal that is your mind.
And the someone says WHY AREN'T YOU PAYING ATTENTION. IT'S ONLY COMMON NICENESS TO PAY ATTENTION. I AM DYING AND MY LIFE IS OVER AND I WANT TO KILL MYSELF AND YOU'RE NOT EVEN BEING NICE TO ME.
Firstly, niceness isn't common. It is extremely uncommon.
Secondly, I am fundamentally a nice person. I eat rainbows and shit butterflies on a regular basis. This is just my off day.
Thirdly - yes, I believe you should break up with your boyfriend. Partly because you are "not on the same plane of Emotional Maturity as far as commitment is concerned" and "maybe our lives are just beginning to run their Natural Courses in different directions from each other" and you are "Destined for different things" , as you so eloquently put it.
But mostly because I know he is cheating on you. Sadly, so do you.
Now stop talking to me about it.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
The Small Print, Only Bigger.
FORMAL NOTE OF ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF BORROWED MATERIAL (garnish liberally with 'respectively'):
To both of you Unknown Persons who own sites good enough to show up within the first two pages of search results for "angry jumping woman" and "anal British butler guy" - observe left hand side and right hand side respectively of (BRILLIANT NEW!) header, respectively - please note that I have borrowed your (?) creations and made me a new slap-up header. Which I love. I am sorry that I have forgotten the links to your webpages. However please note that this would not have happened if your webpages had not been eminently forgettable.
Ooh, I almost forgot:
Please don't sue me.
I love you despite your catastrophic taste in colours (Dear Angry Woman - did an extra large bag of peppermints throw up on your dress? No? Then we have a problem.) And is that not the truest love?
Ok i'm done.
To both of you Unknown Persons who own sites good enough to show up within the first two pages of search results for "angry jumping woman" and "anal British butler guy" - observe left hand side and right hand side respectively of (BRILLIANT NEW!) header, respectively - please note that I have borrowed your (?) creations and made me a new slap-up header. Which I love. I am sorry that I have forgotten the links to your webpages. However please note that this would not have happened if your webpages had not been eminently forgettable.
Ooh, I almost forgot:
Please don't sue me.
I love you despite your catastrophic taste in colours (Dear Angry Woman - did an extra large bag of peppermints throw up on your dress? No? Then we have a problem.) And is that not the truest love?
Ok i'm done.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
I Watch You Smoke.
It is all peer pressure, she said dismissively, with all the happy confidence of one who has had her opinions gifted to her shrinkwrapped, for easy consumption / long shelflife.
She said, Cigarettes are Dangerous and Smelly and Dirty, how could they possibly be sexy.
I don't really know if I like the smell of cigarette smoke.. I've never had the luxury of choice, my sinuses have been making their opinion obvious for as long back as I can remember. I cough and I sneeze, repeatedly and embarassingly, around anyone who chooses to light up anywhere close to me. For every five minutes that I spend in an elevator with a smoker, I sneeze four days. Quite understandably, I try not to linger.
But I look at smokers, that doesn't hurt. I watch them gather in straggling groups around paan shops and outside the highway dhabas, and walking along the railway tracks, and sneaking behind the city hotels, and very rarely, braving the danger of their hostel balconies, standing facelessly in the scary opaque blackness of winter nights, the tips of their fingers lit up faintly by the smouldering ends of their fags. I look at them and for every ten fumbling idiots puffing away at their stubs, there's definitely one sexy smoker.
There are those smokers who clutch their cigarettes gracelessly with three stubby fingers, puffing on them jerkily with a sort of sullen singlemindedness. They smoke furiously, right till the filter, with the urgency of asthmatics with inhalers. Sometimes they pound their fags into their little plastic dip-tea cups, stubbing them out until there's a papery, grey-brown sludge at the bottom of the glass. Sometimes they belabour themselves into doing party tricks and force out a marching parade of stiff, unhappy looking white rings, looking pleased with themselves. These smokers and their silly, pouty, ring-producing mouths are a pain to watch. I don't like these smokers.
I like the other ones.
The ones that inhale slowly, absentmindedly, with their elbows up on the table and their fingers completely relaxed, the cigarette between them barely an afterthought. They inhale, and you see nothing for two seconds, and then they breathe out gently, in faint white tendrils. Their lips barely move as they smoke, the act of smoking itself just an accessory to the whole thinking, talking, laughing performance.
The ones in whose long, tapering fingers the cigarette stays suspended almost miraculously, as they move their hands around while talking. The thing dangles carelessly between middle and ring finger, and they flick the ash away from them in that pretty wrist-flick that they don't even notice they do. It dances dangerously, threatening to fly from between their fingers when they start waving their hands around as they talk excitedly, and pushing their hair away from their faces. They never notice. It never falls.
Then the smouldering tip begins to fade, and they stub it out halfheartedly in their cups, and they leave.
I walked into a dhaba once, on the Madras-Pondicherry highway, to buy chocolate. I saw a girl with long, shiny, messy hair, mile-long fingers and a beautiful mouth smoke a Djarum Black while talking angrily into her phone. To this day I am not sure whether I bought a Dairy Milk or a Gems, but the tableau of that girl and the beautiful long black cigarette dancing angrily at the end of her beautiful, skinny fingers is burned into my mind, like one of those pretentious black-and-white photographs they call 'high art' these days. But this picture is not black and white, of course. Dark brown gold hair, freckled brown fingers, black cigarette, pale gold band. The colour is only too alive.
Smokers should quit. If they can't, they should learn to be sexy smokers.
I mean, if you're doing something that is going to stain your skin, kill your breath, block your blood vessels, collapse your lungs and stop your heart, the least you can do for yourself is look hot while doing it.
No?
She said, Cigarettes are Dangerous and Smelly and Dirty, how could they possibly be sexy.
I don't really know if I like the smell of cigarette smoke.. I've never had the luxury of choice, my sinuses have been making their opinion obvious for as long back as I can remember. I cough and I sneeze, repeatedly and embarassingly, around anyone who chooses to light up anywhere close to me. For every five minutes that I spend in an elevator with a smoker, I sneeze four days. Quite understandably, I try not to linger.
But I look at smokers, that doesn't hurt. I watch them gather in straggling groups around paan shops and outside the highway dhabas, and walking along the railway tracks, and sneaking behind the city hotels, and very rarely, braving the danger of their hostel balconies, standing facelessly in the scary opaque blackness of winter nights, the tips of their fingers lit up faintly by the smouldering ends of their fags. I look at them and for every ten fumbling idiots puffing away at their stubs, there's definitely one sexy smoker.
There are those smokers who clutch their cigarettes gracelessly with three stubby fingers, puffing on them jerkily with a sort of sullen singlemindedness. They smoke furiously, right till the filter, with the urgency of asthmatics with inhalers. Sometimes they pound their fags into their little plastic dip-tea cups, stubbing them out until there's a papery, grey-brown sludge at the bottom of the glass. Sometimes they belabour themselves into doing party tricks and force out a marching parade of stiff, unhappy looking white rings, looking pleased with themselves. These smokers and their silly, pouty, ring-producing mouths are a pain to watch. I don't like these smokers.
I like the other ones.
The ones that inhale slowly, absentmindedly, with their elbows up on the table and their fingers completely relaxed, the cigarette between them barely an afterthought. They inhale, and you see nothing for two seconds, and then they breathe out gently, in faint white tendrils. Their lips barely move as they smoke, the act of smoking itself just an accessory to the whole thinking, talking, laughing performance.
The ones in whose long, tapering fingers the cigarette stays suspended almost miraculously, as they move their hands around while talking. The thing dangles carelessly between middle and ring finger, and they flick the ash away from them in that pretty wrist-flick that they don't even notice they do. It dances dangerously, threatening to fly from between their fingers when they start waving their hands around as they talk excitedly, and pushing their hair away from their faces. They never notice. It never falls.
Then the smouldering tip begins to fade, and they stub it out halfheartedly in their cups, and they leave.
I walked into a dhaba once, on the Madras-Pondicherry highway, to buy chocolate. I saw a girl with long, shiny, messy hair, mile-long fingers and a beautiful mouth smoke a Djarum Black while talking angrily into her phone. To this day I am not sure whether I bought a Dairy Milk or a Gems, but the tableau of that girl and the beautiful long black cigarette dancing angrily at the end of her beautiful, skinny fingers is burned into my mind, like one of those pretentious black-and-white photographs they call 'high art' these days. But this picture is not black and white, of course. Dark brown gold hair, freckled brown fingers, black cigarette, pale gold band. The colour is only too alive.
Smokers should quit. If they can't, they should learn to be sexy smokers.
I mean, if you're doing something that is going to stain your skin, kill your breath, block your blood vessels, collapse your lungs and stop your heart, the least you can do for yourself is look hot while doing it.
No?
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Watching Shoe Porn..
..is an excellent way to spend a Sunday morning. It leaves you full of delicious visions of orgasmic silk ballerina flats (transferred epithet, ya -- shoe is satin and I am orgasming) and deLIGHTfully vertiginous patent mary-janes, and you float through the next hour or so in a pleasant haze composed of the million shades of purple that only exist in celebrity shoemakers' minds.
Then you switch off your computer, wear your dusty Nike floaters with ankle socks (what? my toes get cold.) and go downstairs to eat your puri-bhaji.
I have no intention of owning any of these things, these Blahniks or Choos or Loubous or Ferragamos. I love my floaters most of all the shoes I've ever owned; yet, you know, I believe that to obtain a sense of perspective, it is necessary to know that perfection exists at a height of four and a half inches from the ground. It has a delicious little moue nose and wears plum silk.
And today, it retails on eBay for $10.50.
I don't have $10.50.
Today is not a good day after all. I better go back to sleep.
Then you switch off your computer, wear your dusty Nike floaters with ankle socks (what? my toes get cold.) and go downstairs to eat your puri-bhaji.
I have no intention of owning any of these things, these Blahniks or Choos or Loubous or Ferragamos. I love my floaters most of all the shoes I've ever owned; yet, you know, I believe that to obtain a sense of perspective, it is necessary to know that perfection exists at a height of four and a half inches from the ground. It has a delicious little moue nose and wears plum silk.
And today, it retails on eBay for $10.50.
I don't have $10.50.
Today is not a good day after all. I better go back to sleep.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
I Half-heartedly Crushes! Oooo <3
Jon Stewart on Fox News, which pointedly insisted on covering Bush going home, while all other channels were watching Obama:
"Let it go. If you love an administration, let it go. If it comes back to you.. well, we're all moving to Canada."
I think he may just have won himself a provisional position on my (sadly underpopulated) Sexy Persons List.
--
A little late, I know. But dah-links, you know I can only find the time to watch American comedy show clips absolutely irrelevant to my syllabus and cumulative grade point (which shall be INSTRUMENTAL in getting me a JOB, and do I want to end up as a HOBO in these HORRIBLE RECESSIONARY TIMES?! Yes, I love you too, thank you ma.) the night before an important assignment.
But a girl needs a little romance in her life, ya know. Even if it is (temporarily) wrinkly, pink and slightly (very) meh. Like a dried prune.
Not to mention one-sided.
(So that would be half a dried prune?)
Hm.
I'm going to die alone, aren't I.
"Let it go. If you love an administration, let it go. If it comes back to you.. well, we're all moving to Canada."
I think he may just have won himself a provisional position on my (sadly underpopulated) Sexy Persons List.
--
A little late, I know. But dah-links, you know I can only find the time to watch American comedy show clips absolutely irrelevant to my syllabus and cumulative grade point (which shall be INSTRUMENTAL in getting me a JOB, and do I want to end up as a HOBO in these HORRIBLE RECESSIONARY TIMES?! Yes, I love you too, thank you ma.) the night before an important assignment.
But a girl needs a little romance in her life, ya know. Even if it is (temporarily) wrinkly, pink and slightly (very) meh. Like a dried prune.
Not to mention one-sided.
(So that would be half a dried prune?)
Hm.
I'm going to die alone, aren't I.
Monday, January 26, 2009
The One where We dream of Vanilla-Butter Cookies and Plot to Sneakily Eat Brownies.
Quite the spoilt one, I am, I should think. The mess food is pretty damn decent and the different-dessert-with-every-meal scheme they have during the winters is a stroke of fucking genius. Four rasgollas with lunch and four jalebis with dinner? Yes, I see one very happy fatass waddling into the girls' hostel. But you know, their baking is not up to the mark. Their baking, in fact, is non existent. Efforts in this direction are restricted to the buying of crumbly yellow cupcakes with disgusting tutti frutti bits within and oily plastic wrapping without, from local manufacturers, no doubt, who'd be unable to tell their muffins from their mawa kachoris (sidenote - YUM.) Hell, I'd be unable to tell their muffins from their mawa kachoris.
Here, then, is the reason I dream about my mother's sunny yellow vanilla-butter cookies the diameter of my palm and the taste of a hundred happy vacation mornings (and afternoons and evenings and midnight snacks and after-breakfast-but-before-lunch snacks and so forth.)
I could, of course, go down to Uncle Sam's Pizza, the Jodhpuri abode of surprisingly good kimchi and pizzas infused with the delicate taste of cardboard, where, for the princely sum of thirty five rupees they will pack me a slab of THE BEST BROWNIE EVARRRR, which I will hold to my heart and protect with my soul, all the dusty way back to campus.
And which I will sneak quietly into my room, without bringing to the attention of fellow resident hyenas that I have in my possession an edible of the chocolate kind (the smell draws hostelites like blood draws sharks.)
And which I will eat sneakily and quietly, crumble by crumble, nibble by nibble, quiet as the proverbial dead man, on my bed.
And whose evidence I shall dispose of with speed and efficiency by springing in two graceful (and ninja-silent) leaps to the floor-dustbin, thus completing my crime.*
I think I may be just a little hungry right now.
--
* hostels usually follow the Communist Approach to food. Alternatively known as the Pulp Fiction rule (mi casa su casa.) Unless it is bad food. Then it's all yours.
Here, then, is the reason I dream about my mother's sunny yellow vanilla-butter cookies the diameter of my palm and the taste of a hundred happy vacation mornings (and afternoons and evenings and midnight snacks and after-breakfast-but-before-lunch snacks and so forth.)
I could, of course, go down to Uncle Sam's Pizza, the Jodhpuri abode of surprisingly good kimchi and pizzas infused with the delicate taste of cardboard, where, for the princely sum of thirty five rupees they will pack me a slab of THE BEST BROWNIE EVARRRR, which I will hold to my heart and protect with my soul, all the dusty way back to campus.
And which I will sneak quietly into my room, without bringing to the attention of fellow resident hyenas that I have in my possession an edible of the chocolate kind (the smell draws hostelites like blood draws sharks.)
And which I will eat sneakily and quietly, crumble by crumble, nibble by nibble, quiet as the proverbial dead man, on my bed.
And whose evidence I shall dispose of with speed and efficiency by springing in two graceful (and ninja-silent) leaps to the floor-dustbin, thus completing my crime.*
I think I may be just a little hungry right now.
--
* hostels usually follow the Communist Approach to food. Alternatively known as the Pulp Fiction rule (mi casa su casa.) Unless it is bad food. Then it's all yours.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Are you part of a Louving Relationship?
If you are, firstly, hello. Thankyouforvisitingmyblog. Pleasecomeagainsoon.
Secondly, please remove your intolerable self from my line of vision. I don't like you. I am possessed by a barely controllable urge to throw stones at you when I see you. And while it is undeniable that I have the hand-eye coordination of an arm-amputee, I am PERSISTENT. And there are MANY stones.
Are you celebrating your anniversary? Don't tell me. Are you celebrating your monthiversary? I will slowpoison you. (It hurts more apparently.)
Your cuteness repulses me. Your love is retarded.
Do not rub your coupledom in my face. I will rub your face in the ground.
--x--
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA GOD THAT FELT SO GOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDDDDD :D :D :D
*zen-like happiness*
Kindly speak up, Treasured Visitor, what did you say? You think the blog is just a smidgeon too ranty?
On the one hand I could agree. Alternatively, I could say - Suck it up. It's my party, I'll cry if I want to.
Oh and if you're the guy from Denmark here looking for "sexing like bunnys" again, what do you know, you just might be in luck this time. Love....rabbitlike sex... here in Mandore, Jodhpur, you'll never know the difference. Try once and see! :D
--x--
If you're part of a couple I know - pretend you never saw this and I'll pretend I never said it ;)
Secondly, please remove your intolerable self from my line of vision. I don't like you. I am possessed by a barely controllable urge to throw stones at you when I see you. And while it is undeniable that I have the hand-eye coordination of an arm-amputee, I am PERSISTENT. And there are MANY stones.
Are you celebrating your anniversary? Don't tell me. Are you celebrating your monthiversary? I will slowpoison you. (It hurts more apparently.)
Your cuteness repulses me. Your love is retarded.
Do not rub your coupledom in my face. I will rub your face in the ground.
--x--
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA GOD THAT FELT SO GOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDDDDD :D :D :D
*zen-like happiness*
Kindly speak up, Treasured Visitor, what did you say? You think the blog is just a smidgeon too ranty?
On the one hand I could agree. Alternatively, I could say - Suck it up. It's my party, I'll cry if I want to.
Oh and if you're the guy from Denmark here looking for "sexing like bunnys" again, what do you know, you just might be in luck this time. Love....rabbitlike sex... here in Mandore, Jodhpur, you'll never know the difference. Try once and see! :D
--x--
If you're part of a couple I know - pretend you never saw this and I'll pretend I never said it ;)
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