*NEW* Recent blog entries

August 28, 2007

how to have a stroke or whatever you want to call it

8 comments

Arre yaar. Just when I get happy, something has to happen.

Now something tells me that “has to happen” is a wrong phrase and perhaps one that only an Indian could use… But I cant be fuckin bothered because no body is fucking publishing me. And if and when they do, what the fuck are editors for?! AAARGH.

Sigh. Just in the middle of work, had no desire to post another one tonight, was working very happily and very satisfied, when I decided on a break and went and checked something and well… Now I feel like a fool all over again. And I am amazed at the number of times I feel that for a 28-year-old.

So I wrote a poem. Like a silly thing. Obviously not for myself. And for once for only one pair of eyes. For once something inwards and not fucking outwards. And well. So I went to mail it. And then I felt like a fool again.

And now. Well. My back is hurting, I have horrible cramps and feeling fucking cranky. To avoid giving in to that – since my eyes really hurt after that – I am typing, which is further hurting back. After this I have to go dash an email I have delayed by an evening and start writing tomorrow’s work. Which I asked for; after a long while. I really want to… stop writing and.

Well. Now I am feeling SO…gnaashhnngnashhn (teeth gnashing sound inside head) that. Fuck it. HERE is the fucking poem I wrote. It is my fucking idea of fucking romancing someone. I am such an ass. Each time. And I love making a fool of myself HERE on this sorry ass blog when I am trying to be a fucking idealistic there-aint-no-definition-for-that-kind-of-freak elsewhere. (I mean, WHAT was I thinking when I started THAT blog?! And ALL because of THAT fucking song. ARGH.)

Dude. I HAD never before thought to be a journalist BEFORE I heard of that course from a girl who lived next-door. Who is now an anchor in the channel (la di dah, too many details). AND because I was reading Sidney Sheldon’s ‘Sky Is Falling’ and the character called Dana Evans was a war correspondent. I loved her. And then I heard there was a course you could join. And thank god I did. (Still debating over what is journalism, but that one, some other tme).

Currently, am gonna go research on low bp. Cuz, never mind. Read this. And fuck had I sent it, I would have been so embarrassed.

In my teenage angst, here i mope
Like a silly kid with a silly hope

Waiting for that silken stroke
To tell myself, oh you silly bloke

Tis nothin' close to being a stroke
For it's only but a silly poke

PS; am an arsehole.
PS1: a poke is this tool on a social networking site, where you, well. nevermind.

Just two more minutes please...

8 comments
Mayuri stood there, in an orange printed saree and a green polka dot blouse that was tied between her breasts. Even through the small-white-flower print, the chiffon was transparent. She had worn her saree haphazardly, almost, as if in a hurry. Her face suffused with a strange warmth. She was pleasantly plump. Her hair, down to her waist, was open and she was standing at the window, smiling at someone in the distance. She and Arjun had made love for the first time last night. Arjun was 11 years younger than her. He was blind.

There was a knock on the door and four boys entered the room. “Where is Arjun?” they asked of Mayuri. She turned around sharply and upon seeing them, seemed pleased. “He just left for school…” she replied; and as she did, a very loud crash could be heard.

Everything went dark as screams of “Arjun has been hit!” “The truck ran him over!” “Someone take him to the hospital” “Call an ambulance” were heard. Mayuri just stood there, rooted to the spot. The one man who had loved her for what she was. Who had seen the softness in her despite her hard exterior. The one man who understood…a mere boy. Was dead. On the morning they had almost said they loved each other. And he had asked to stay for just two more minutes… and she had sent him away.

Mayuri stood there, rooted to the spot. Then her lip quivered, her chin, her eyes watered and as the tears rolled down her cheeks there was a wail….Mayuri, the prostitute, crumpled to the floor.

There was about silence for a split second… and then they had clapped. All of them. I was still curled on the floor, crying. The tears wouldn’t stop. But they were clapping. Some were crying. Before that, they had laughed with me as I had joked from the stage. THAT feeling. THAT sound. To have people move with you, believe what you are enacting. Sheer, sheer bliss. That was my debut on stage… September, 2004. The story of a 29-year-old GB road prostitute who falls in love with a 19-year-old, blind college boy. I loved every bit of it. One of my happiest memories.

And funny that she was there too… She who betrayed me and who I will never, ever write for again. OK. This is HAPPY post. Before I spoil it… ta.

August 27, 2007

Death of Eve*?

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Oh well. First I write something called Obituary; then I announce a new blog. Some questions were bound to arise. While I won't go into the have-you-fuckin-lost-it ones, let's say few asked the same thing: Does The Indian Shitizen mean the death of Emancipated Eve?

Are you fuckin kidding me? Hah. One is part of the other and both are part of the process.
Hmmm. (Tries to be all mysterious when actually she doesn't know what to say next)

There is an Eve* post ready - one typed out, another in the head - but have decided that if I were to start posting three posts every friggin' day... it's spoiling habits. Mine, of course. heh heh.

So no, we will continue Clit Chatting.
May we all shag in peace.

PS: Yes Nafo, yes, I have been thinking on the lines of your suggestion too. But if wishes were horses, Eve* would be called Porky the Orgy Pig. :)

Introducing: The Indian Shitizen

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NEW BLOG: The Indian Shitizen

“Kuch karma zaroori hai kya? (is it necessary to do something?) Why cannot you be content to see what is happening around you? And anyway, what have you done so far that you think you can make a difference?” said one. “One person’s will or wanting it does not really matter when we are 6 billion of us clubbed together sharing the same resources,” said another.

And that’s what it boils down to: Those who care, those who don’t and those who pretend they don’t give a damn. India - we - just reached the 60-years-of-Indepedence landmark; and yet some things really make me wonder if that figure means anything at all. Both good and bad things.

I cannot answer if one person can make a difference. You see, because usually, for one person to make ANY difference, he/she needs MORE PEOPLE behind them. This is one start, hoping more would join.

In the time of superheroes, this country needs a Hero.

J-Bo ain’t it. She be one of the anti-heroes. Show allegiance, join in, I need more people to write here. Whenever you want to, or talk and share stories. A course in writing or workshop is not needed, just a will and a want are. Don't send friend requests. I don't care for friends. But I care for ideas.

It is my country, and yours; and I am not bothered about those who don't care. Yet. READ, write back, ask, seek, DO.

And those who think this is idealism or whatever, go bugger yourself, in peace and love of course.

Obituary: What Happens Next

4 comments
How does one greet people, who share your most intimate thoughts and ideas… many of whom you don’t even know? And some who refuse to acknowledge you? In another month, it will be a year to me writing this blog. And in that year of writing these words, much has happened. The blog has seen house changes, water crisis, medical histrionics, party gossip, disastrous love affairs, secret crushes, parental musings and death. Perhaps in death was the birth of this blog…

But this blog is nothing remarkable. There are chick blogs by the dozen and two out there. Amazing sex scenes, some even make me blush or embarrass me thinking, damn, there’s much I have not done and much I am too chicken or sheep or whatever to ever try.

There are people who have unique blogs that are based on such brilliant ideas that they make me feel like another amongst the averages out there. I don’t know about you, but I don’t like being average. Blogs that have interesting content, many readers, much interaction… bloggers are being picked off by publishers and having books printed. Or approaching publishers and having books printed. They go “who?” if at all anyone mentions me.

And then I am being banned! And I don’t think mine is a blog people pass on to friends to read. That would be accepting that they read it! And I guess it might be kind of tough explaining why You read a woman’s “well written angst blog”. I was told that recently. And much as I hate criticism, the word and critique are valued. I do believe it too.

So I am a little confused. I write about my life and that too not about yatches or orgies or fun or good, happy things… I write about anger and death and betrayal and cynicism… So sometimes I wonder; and get somewhat daunted: WHY am I doing this and WHY are you reading? Just another ‘reality’ thing? (And if it’s a yes to that, why should it bother me?)

Where does it go? I am not earning money from it – despite the ad sense, my earnings are zero dollars, heh heh, I suck at money, I tell you, and am secretly quite pleased that am not making money from my blog…it’s almost like blood money (and the fact that no one will pay you for this? Say it honey, say it to yourself and do not fuckin hide from the truth: Says shit-voice in head). SEE what I mean? Even making a point about writing angsty blog, I had to get that bit in about the voice-in-the-head.

I wanted this to be a blog where people shared their stories. Their triumphs, truths, lessons, musings, love stories, angst. The BIGGEST mistake – that just goes to show how smart I am – in that enterprise was the presumption that people want to talk about themselves. They don’t! And they hate it if they find a hint of themselves in this blog, whether real or imaginary.

But then, I wanted to share my story… so that if there was anyone who was going through the same confusion I was going through, they would not think – like I did or used to or sometimes still do – that I am the only one in that boat. Somewhere, I wanted to assure myself that I was not the only one getting buggered… and in doing so wanted to reassure whoever, that listen, it’s perhaps all right, something bad is happening to most of us. We are strangely alone; and yet we are all together.

(Perhaps the reason, why I simply cannot hate the Dude. No matter what has happened. Because, somewhere, in some weird, fucking psycho-somatic-convoluted way, I understand. And it hurts more to understand; grudging is far easier.)

And then there are the things… I think, I have learnt or am looking for. Why do answers matter, someone had asked. They do, because they perhaps eaxplain who I am, what I can be, the things I find myself doing that surprise me. Those answers help me Live. To KNOW the reason or cause or reaction.

Some of the things I learnt by observation, some were easy lessons and others… They took bits of my soul. Maybe writing down some of my realizations, observations, fool-hardiness, whatever; would perhaps help someone else. Of course in the process I get hits, comments, am read and feels damn good for my Ego.

For almost-nine years in journalism, I am Nowhere. (smiles) You should see WHAT all some colleagues my age and even younger have accomplished. Oh, HOW the bile rises in me. In sheer irritation with myself. Not envy. They were working while I was FAFFING my arse off. CHASING RELATIONSHIPS. AND I STILL WANT. AAARGH.

Being read HERE, feels DAMN good. You have really helped my self-esteem… it had gone down to my ankles and was steadily seeping out. (And I don't mean the ones leaving creepy comments)

Hmm. Can I stop being angsty? Nope. But perhaps… I can entertain some other thoughts.

(Thinking. Hmmm. I know this posts sounds disjointed and all over…because I am thinking. It is not a writer’s block. But… WHAT do I write next? Shrug. Is there something you want to read? And fuck-you if you write “a sex scene”. Go pick up Penthouse or something. But remember it was perhaps published by a team of four pimply, over-hormonal, don’t-get-any-boys and not some gorgeous red-head who is telling you how she enjoys giving blow jobs. So what do you want to read? I need some help here!!!)

PS: Yo, VOTE for the reasons you think this blog is called porn: Pick ONE answer.

1. too much use of the Fuck.
2. oho, it’s actually clit chatting
3. no no, the bit about the throbbing clit
4. but she also talks parents and love-shove, dude…
5. …and penis and vagina…
6. Fuck you.

August 25, 2007

Rebel Warrior

1 comments
by The Asian Dub Foundation (lyrics)

Ami Bidrohi!
I the Rebel Warrior
I have risen alone with my head held high
I will only rest
When the cries of the oppressed
No longer reach the sky
When the sound of the sword of the oppressor
No longer rings in battle

HEAR MY WAR CRY!

I'm hear to teach you a lesson
I'm hear to torture your soul
I'm the itch in your side
That's got out of control

'Gonna prey on your conscience
You'll be praying for forgiveness
Seen all the evidence
No longer need a witness
So take my word man
Here's my sentence
One hundred thousand years of repentance.
Check my anger, it's real

Ain't no token
I'll be satisfied only when your back's been broken
It's my burning ambition to burn down your empire
Man I'll be building you a funeral pyre
The fire in my eyes
If looks coulda kill
I won't be satisfied until I've had my fill.
Check my anger, it's real
Ain't no token
I'll be satisfied only when your back's been broken

Ami Bidrohi!
I the Rebel Warrior
I have risen alone With my head held high
I will only rest
when the cries of the oppressed
no longer reach the sky
When the sound of the sword of the oppressor
no longer rings in battle

HEAR MY WAR CRY!

Repetitive beats beating against your skull
I'll be striking you down
To the sounds of the wardrum
The doum!
The doum of the dhol
taking its toll
Null and void is what you've become
An underground army with my brothers and sisters
Hand to hand fighting
building up a resistance
Repetitive beats beating against your skull
Null and void is what you've become
Ami Bidrohi!
I the Rebel Warrior
I have risen alone With my head held high
I will only rest
when the cries of the oppressed
no longer reach the sky
When the sound of the sword of the oppressor
no longer rings in battle
HEAR MY WAR CRY!

I read the commitments
Strange alliance
The siren and the flute in unison
'Cos it's a part of my mission
to break down division
Mental compartments
In political prisons.
I'll be sowing the seeds of community
Accommodating every colour every need

So listen to my message and heed my warning
I'm telling you know
How a new age is dawning
Ami Bidrohi!
I the Rebel Warrior
I have risen alone With my head held high
I will only rest
when the cries of the oppressed
no longer reach the sky
When the sound of the sword of the oppressor
no longer rings in battle
HEAR MY WAR CRY!

Ami Bidrohi! Ami Bidrohi!
Yes the unity of the Hindu and the Muslim
will end your tyranny
Ami Bidrohi! Ami Bidrohi!


Leopards, Slush Fields and Nightmare

2 comments

Went to bed at 1.50 am, woke up shaking at 3.40am. Nightmare. After ages. This is what I remember and I am glad (for lack of a better word) for I am extremely scared.

I don’t know the house, but all I can see is that I am talking to Mamma-Papa. I suddenly notice something moving in the cupboard kept behind Papa… it’s a wooden crockery cupboard, with glass windows you can see through. And from inside the cupboard, there’s an animal staring out at us, twitching its tail.

“Is that a leopard?” I ask.
Papa walks to the cupboard and pulls out the cat – perhaps a cat I know because I take its name, which I cannot write here. Then Papa says the leopard is in the other room. We go to find it, it’s a cub. (I think)

Then I see Mamma lying on a cot in the other room – that looks quite like my current drawing room but is not – and is crying. She is also cuddling the cat. (Now, my mother HATES cats). Mamma is refusing to go the other room and repeatedly saying, “Na, he never loved me.” I am getting angry at her for crying and then I get nasty. I say, “Stop pretending, you were equally responsible. Stop pretending.”

(I don’t speak to Mamma like that. Ever. We fight, but not like that. She gets easily hurt; and well, my words can hurt. So I watch it with her. She would otherwise brood on what I say for months…)

Then I see this former colleague of mine who comes to visit me. I don’t know what he is doing in my dream. As he is leaving, he picks up my favourite wooden box. It was an incense holder earlier, now I use it to keep, stuff. So Friend takes my box and leaves with it saying he wouldn’t give it back.

I run after him crying, “Please don’t take that box. Papa gave it to me. But you cannot take my box…” I am crying and running after him, it’s pitch back, I am running in the dark, calling out to him to return my box, but he does not say a word. In fact I cannot hear anything at all. There is a sickening, oppressive, pressing silence. Panicking, I reach for my cellphone for some light. As the light from the phone illuminates the surrounding area, I realize I am standing in the Slush Fields. As I tried to manouever, my foot sinks into the mud and I fall into it.

I woke up screaming and crying. After ages, a nightmare within a couple of hours of sleeping. WHAT did it mean? I have never seen leopards in my dreams before. I have seen tigers, many tigers, surrounding a small, flimsy, wooden cottage I am trapped in. I keep thinking that the tigers could easily break down the door if they tried. That dream always ended with the tigers slowly, menacingly, closing in on the house. I still don’t know if the tigers symbolized keeping me locked inside… or keeping something from getting to me. But I remember a clear sense of extreme danger and pervasive fear.

Also very vivid is the fact that I HAVE dreamt of the Slush Fields before. Not too sure if it’s been this dark before in the dream. But the Field has always been distasteful. It’s huge, grassy and extremely muddy and slushy. Like when you water the lawn too much and there are parts where you think the mud is strong enough to hold your weight, but when you place your feet on it, your foot sinks in. Whenever I have seen the Slush Fields before, I have been running or chasing… And have tried ti skirt around the muddy patches. This time, I fell in it.

I don’t have nightmares generally. And I have never woken up instantly to remember most of it either. This time eerily, there were two pencils lying next to the laptop. And fresh sheets on my ‘beauty rack’ (no dressing table). So I wrote this down in paper and now am typing it out from there.

Now an article I read long time back said that what we dream is a sum total of what we have heard/ experienced and a residue of what lingers on in our subconscious.

I have been thinking of Mamma-Papa. Leopards? Perhaps because I recently read Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi’s The Last Song Of Dusk (and also because I recently saw his pic again). Now that book has this very menacing – but sultry – panther walking out of it’s cover. You can make out from its tail that if the panther could pounce, it would. But that, is a panther; and I saw a leopard… Perhaps because last week I was talking to someone and he was narrating how he went for shikaars (hunts) with his uncles. And how they saw leopard pug marks all around.

However, there has to be a reason. I woke up crying. No, am lying there. Actually, I woke up petrified and howling and desperately, desperately wanting another human being near me. (Is ashamed) I am really scared.

I love cats, my Mom hates them. Yet, she is the one cuddling the cat.
Meaning: for whatever reason, ‘Ma’ would rather see me with the cat than with the leopard

Leopard: does not change its spots..
…Even though it might pretend to be a cat? Is there someone I trust who I think is a ‘cat’ but is actually a leopard who will harm, kill and maim me? And someone who’s ‘spots’ I have not noticed? (Or have I and am willfully ignoring and therefore the nightmare, a warning?)

Friend stealing box
Something precious to me will/ could be taken, that I don’t want to part with. And the one doing the taking will be someone I know…and trust?

Falling into the slush and mud instead of circling it and the surrounding darkness
Either, if I don’t watch, I am about to get caught in something I wouldn’t like… Or is it already too late and I am in trouble?

I don’t know, but I am disturbed. Also – those who want to think I am weird and a freak are most welcome to, not that they wait for my approval! – but, for past sometime, what I am seeing, especially dreams that disturb, have an eerie way of coming true. I see fucking scenarios that are played out as is. It’s not even déjà vu because I KNOW exactly where I have seen that situation before. I visualized it. Premonitions? I fucking don’t know. But am petrified. The nightmare reeks of betrayal and breach of trust and loss.

Please, not again. I am really tired.

PS: And I so wish this craving for other human beings would go away.

INTERPRETATIONS OFF THE NET

Cat: A feminine aspect. Cats attacking you represent the enemies; if you succeed banishing them you will overcome great obstacles and rise in fortune and fame. It also says that if you are fond of cats it means answering to your own feminine, sexual side...

Leopard: Enemies seek to cause injury but will fail. You will be embarrassed in business or love, but by persistent efforts you will overcome difficulties.

Black: Black signifies isolation and transition period. It shows up conflicts and friction with relations and friends

torch/ SEARCHLIGHT: Focused attention, concentration on a particular issue. Meditation and concentration. The search for something. Trying to understand and make conscious decisions...

MUD: In some dreams, as in a muddy road, or swamp, the mud is simply the retarding aspect of your hesitations and fears. In other dreams, people search through, or dig in the mud, which represents the cleansing of emotions caused by outer circumstances, the looking through the experience or muck of your life for its treasure, for often a flower or jewel may be found in the mud. IT is the primordial substance or life energy, sensuality, even blood.Mud is like clay, it is a substance that can be moulded, and so may present the idea of your basic memories and emotions that were shaped. Mud may also symbolise healing, as it contains all the elements of the past, which we need for completeness.

MOTHER: To dream of your mother usually signifies the feelings or pains you still feel in connection with her. Mother can represent all we want in a caring and loving relationship, or perhaps all we didn't get. RIGHT. THAT makes sense.

Running after someone: either trying to protect them from themselves or trying to stop them from doing something...

My interpretation:
I am about to suffer yet another heart break. LOL. It will involve another woman. LOL. Probably someone I know or a 'friend'. LOL. Oh well, everybody is welcome. It won't be anything new. AND I am NOT trying... so Hello, WhoEver Up There, listen up... I DON'T want love-shove, no no. You can keep it for you or whoever. Just leave me alone, okay?

Bugger off, I want.

2 comments
Oh hello. Have been writing all day, all over that is. Official story, started another story, wrote some random half-posts that I will go back to another day. And through it all, two thoughts stay: 1. I want a vacation 2. I don’t want to think, at all.

Hmm. On second thoughts...I don’t want to write on those lines. Because now that I am counting, there are more than two things I want...

Vacation: Lazing around, food when I want it, no phone calls, no dogs, no one. Feet up, arms behind my head and feeling the breeze through whatever flimsy garment I am wearing. NO Internet. If there is a typing device around, I will type. And not a single face I know.

Crazy fling: It sizzles from the toes to the top of my head and comes out of the ears. I want a head rush. The kind that makes you wait for phone calls, crave to see the other, want to touch. AND I want to know that it WON’T lead to anything and I want to know exactly when it would get over… so that till I am in it, I have a complete blast. Without thinking of the finale.

Body Feel Over: And no, I don’t mean a massage. I want my skin…felt. Nothing else, just felt.

Body creaking massage: Ah yes. Head banging is very bad for your neck and mine feels as if it has had a sledgehammer going at it. Would love a massage that makes me groan and cry and after it’s over, I pass out. AH. Aaaaaaaaah. The thought of it is so… releasing. And yes, I do mean a massage.

Obsession: Yeah, somehow nothing ‘gets’ me these days. If anything proves difficult or tough, I just walk.

Role model: I realized that I don’t have anyone I idolize or feel any sort of reverence for. And well, it’s worrying that I find it tough to find any ‘guru’.

Big Break: something out of the blue that pays like crazy. Say a movie role. Hah.

Ending of The Story: Just that, ending of The Story.

Thick skin: I SO want to walk away from SO many things. BUT. Hmm. Am gonna.

Stronger nails: Mine just fuckin’ keep breaking away. I finish at least a litre of milk in a day – yes I do – and YET, my nails are weak. At times I do feel that if snapped hard enough, my bones would go too. They just feel very light.

Slavery: Oh yes. I want someone to control me…rather be ABLE to. Someone smarter than me who takes all the decisions, tells me what to do, takes command, has spine and basically wraps me around his little finger. Trouble is, all that happens when I MAKE myself do so. And not because the person can. I want that someone to do it to me…without me liking it. Doesn’t happen you see. I just got more balls. Sigh. Yeah, a man with balls. Bigger than mine. (and no, this does not mean friend requests: THINK about it, if I have not found someone around me, fat chance that someone random on the Net is going to work out)

A gun: Yup, want one. Carlos the Jackal’s gun. Meant for snipers.

A knife: Should be serrated, something I can strap to my thigh. I can use it. I wouldn’t mind one of those retractable blade ones; and while we are at it, handcuffs too. :)

Learn two kicks: One hard one in the groin, the other right below the chin. Practice those, one-fuckin-kick knock-outs that make Mikey proud.

Elope: With myself. Just FORCE myself to leave this city and its people and move. Far away. Far, far, far fucking far away. Change my name, call myself Mrs Dalloway and then fuck everyone’s happiness anonymously. No particular reason for doing that, just want to.

Bitch Fest: Yes, I want my conscience to die. THEN, I will talk. Ah.

End of ennui: I can’t tell you HOW bored I am. I do this and that, and yet. It’s the same old, same old.

Shrug.

PS: Those who write in saying, “Oh you don’t talk” and “I leave comments but you don’t make friends”…. LISTEN up. DID I post my fucking blog IN your inbox? Nope. You CAME here, read and left. Stick to that.

WHY should I make friends with you? WHO are you? WHAT are you?

For those who think I am always writing, Yes, I am. And what makes you think you can fucking buzz me WHENEVER you want and start chatting on whatever? And DUDE, those who think that I am going to start sharing my inner-most secrets etc…Scoff. I have a blog to assuage my self-importance.

This is for those who start sending nasty mails when friendship requests are denied or when random e-mails are not responded to. Let me tell you one thing: WHEN I am remotely interested in a person, I make it very clear. So if despite adding you, I am Not talking: Take it as a sign, go look elsewhere.

And please, “So what’s happening?” is not my idea of a scintillating conversation. Darling, please, I hate being brain dead. And most such emails do just that to me: Kill my grey cells. If the cost of NOT being friends with you is that you won’t read my blog… DON’T. I didn’t seek your approval or persmission when starting this blog, I don’t need it now.
UFFFFFFF. I want OUT.

I REALLY want to BEAT the CRAP out of someone. Anyone! And given my size, that's sure gonna happen. Grim.

August 24, 2007

The Devil's Lair

8 comments
The twist the curl
The tress and twirl
The wind in her hair
The devil’s lair

So softly spun
With a hint of sun
The crest the trough
The undaunted brow

The shoulder caress
A wild, wild mess
A wish so keen
You’re torn between

To wrap and pull
Till your arms are full
To hold her close
Almost nose to nose

To feel her heat
To measure the beat
The impromptu tryst
The stolen kiss

The desire divine
This girl of mine
The wind in her hair
The devil’s lair

August 23, 2007

The world is full o' weeping...

1 comments
The Stolen child
WB Yeats

WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Complete poem here

PS: Was mailed this by an Irish friend... and the last four lines, have stuck. I want my fairy... to take me away.

August 22, 2007

BAN-NER

10 comments
BANNED BY THE TIMES OF INDIA/INDIATIMES

LATEST ON BANNING: Kingdom of Saudia Arabia ALSO bans Emancipation of Eve

Dear so.so@indiatimes.co.in,
This is a message from the IT Department.The web site you are trying to access:eveemancipation.blogspot.com/is listed as a site within the category Porn.


The latest news this side of the hemisphere is that one of India’s BIGGEST media conglomerates, the high and mighty THE TIMES OF INDIA/INDIATIMES has BANNED this blog, called, the Emancipation of Eve, because for them, this blog is PORN.

Banning would mean that this blog cannot be accessed in the TOI/ Indiatimes premises. Really, does not hurt my feelings. But pisses off my sensibilities. I really don’t know what times of India do they talk about, for they sure are out of the times you and I live in.

It’s funny that at a time when the Indian media is wondering about the so-called proposed bill to CURB the freedom of the press and the press’s ability to TALK freely; the venerable (supposedly misled) TIMES OF INDIA/INDIATIMES decides to put gag orders on people who are trying to write and speak their minds.

I find it particularly funny that the alleged porn-centre, TIMES OF INDIA/INDIATIMES should BAN me calling me PORN. OH WOW.

And the Phat Chicks programme that they have running on their extremely sorry website, Indiatimes? Where the chicks talk about sleeping around, one night-stands and casual sex? And the PHOTOGALLERY with semi naked pictures? That is not porn? And the fashion shows they have when celebrating the various anniversaries of the various septuagenarians? Where their journalists flash their tits in see-through dresses?

It is EXTREMELY funny that media houses that cry so loud and so hoarse on being allowed to say, do, sting operate and whatever else in the name of Freedom of Expression are intent on BANNING anything that does not adhere to their ideas of that expression.
IRONICAL Indian Media. And perhaps the reason the entire bunch should be banned. As for the Times Of India/INDIATIMES… it IS back to being colonized and high time we had another Quit India movement. They’ve been around for more than a 100 plus years now, and it shows. Get out guys.

And yeah BAN ME. How to use negative publicity in a positive manner – since that is all that anyone has to say about THE TIMES OF INDIA/INDIATIMES – I have learnt from you guys. Please ban me, it’s good for me.

For those who cannot read me: Mail me. Am starting a mailing list for BANNED offices. Hit counts on this site are for my ego, I don’t earn through them. So those interested in reading and find their access banned, mail me at foxytanya@gmail.com (for the ‘strangers’), for those who have the other id, mail me there. Shall fuckin’ mail you the posts.

PS: Symbiosis Intitute of Management Studies in Pune also calls this blog porn. Brilliant. They apparently even have a media course. Rather interesting. Also, those who CAN read this... DO pass it on to others. Let's see who else bans this blog.

PS2: Apparently now, TOI office has not banned it, but Indiatimes has. What a joke. I remember having done a film review for the website (indiatimes) and giving a low rating to this VERY BIG movie that was given glowing reviews in the paper. I was asked to STOP reviewing films. The spiel given was that BOTH the website, Indiatimes and the newspaper are part of the PARENT company. And therefore have to reflect SAME thoughts (and same ratings, it did not help that the paper had given that film 4/5 stars while I gave it 2 and a half). By that logic: Banned at indiatimes, is banned in TOI. They reflect the SAME thoughts, people. For those needing technical clarifications.

PS 3: Burf, dont think its a technical glitch. If it, hope they see sense. They are welcome to read.

Survival tips for (stupid) people who live alone

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I used the stupid in the headline because many of staying alone, forget that there could be situations where no matter how self-sufficient you are, you NEED help.

1. Always have a flat pair of slippers… when you are woozy and getting down the stairs from the fourth floor, heels are not reliable, even if they are 1 inch-high kitten heels. You could easily twist your ankle and then fall off the stairs, which would further complicate a simple food poisoning.

2. If you have dogs that are teething, it is of particular importance to keep in mind that they might chew your flat slippers. A spare is advised, that should be kept out of reach of dogs.

  1. A food poisoning is simple only till as such time you get to a doctor. It is not wise to think that if you puke and shit long enough, the infection will ‘go out’. It doesn’t and after the food is thrown out, the puke gets REALLY bitter. You’d rather hold it inside. (This is gross, yes, but if I can be stupid, I worry about the world, not being as stupid as most of them. Waits for some gaalis on that one)
  1. Though it is wise to check the Internet to see if the symptoms you have are food poisoning or too much eating and stomach not being able to handle it… self-medication or medication on advise of good friends is not advised.
  1. However, PLEASE note what your body does on normal days or circumstances. You should ideally be able to notice that it IS behaving differently! And the body gets ‘moody’ only when you have been doing bad things to it.
  1. When ordering cakes and stored food items from outside: Always choose whole cakes instead of muffins and small pies, you don’t know how long those have been lying around.
  1. Now SUE me: Coffee chain BARISTA has one of the POOREST quality food. Their sandwiches are stale, their quiches are dried inside and their cakes give food poisoning. The apple pie was the ONLY outside item I had had yesterday; so there are NO doubts as to what made me ill. And that’s the thing with Indian cafes, despite their gorgeous posters about coffee beans from Italy or Bolivia (or was Bolovia mentioned when talking of cocaine? Can’t remember). PLEASE AVOID ALL BARISTA FOOD. And, I WILL do something about this officially too. I am not shitting my insides out for a company that charges Rs 50 for a stupid cup of stale coffee (when a 50 gm bottle of Nescafe classic costs just seven bucks more and lasts a fuckin month)…especially when their food makes you ill.
  1. ALWAYS recharge your phone and have some balance left or renew your pre-paid to call in case of emergencies. Or at least have friends online who you can ask to place calls for you. Advisable to have some friends-online-at-all-times, so that its not like you log on and everyone else is sleeping.
  1. There is nothing to feel embarrassed about… if you have to call friends and ask for someone to be with you when going to hospital. It’s better than passing out in the cab and then thanking your stars that you weren’t raped or anything.
  1. Please don’t take your health as a joke. For those who stay alone, being able to stand and do our shit, is very important. You and I cannot afford to fall ill, because we don’t have people to look after us at home. I was really down in the morning… but the staff nurses’ spoke sweetly and one of them even stroked my hair because she was surprised that I was 28 and looked... (whatever the age she said I looked which am not writing here, fuckin irritating); so she very sweetly stroked my hair (Staff nurse Tiji Thomas at Max Medicare, Panchsheel will be remembered and with all my heart I shall wish her well. Nurses meet many patients… they don’t have any business stroking one patient’s hair in a busy day that was just starting. But she did. And this patient will remember). AND, I was happy. I knew the injections would stop the vomiting, but some kind words and other people smiling and fussing about, improved my morale like ten-fold.

PS: And well, when friends think that if-she-can-type-she-can-go-to-doc-too; perhaps not. When I wrote that earlier post, was scouting for who to call to help and who to call to call a cab for me. No car so that would mean sitting in an autorickshaw and going to the doc. Very smartly, have been lazy about paying bills and therefore phone is barred. At 8.30 in the morning, only friends from outside the country were online… and asking someone to call Chhote Yadav the Cabbie from the USA, would be a tad daft. So was online and desperately waiting for help. And, got it too, in the most soul-lifting, puke-stopping kind of way.

I also love being alive and not ill and not puking and not doing potty every five minutes. Hmm. Actually I REALLY like being all right and wouldn’t change that for all the heart-breaks and bastardo men in the world. And you know what, not ALL men are bastards. (frowns, does not like that line) Well, let’s say, not all men are bastards all the time. (grin)

Please look after yourself everyone.

poisonin food,

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and the worst part of it, being nalone, and nnot knowin who to call. its gettin worse, getitn self to doc but need someone to come withnme... dont think can manage alone. whichnis nice. who to ask?
mamma?
papa?
bhai?
hahha.

its sickj., theybnever tell u. that u shoud practice.

August 21, 2007

Flashback: Just writing

2 comments

Was writing this on July 17th, but never completed it or posted it. Don't remember what happened to interrupt it. Remember though that I was trying not to think and just write.

I would love to have a device that could read my mind and type things as they come to my mind. Like a constant, instant recording of the thoughts running through my head. Unconstructed, unstructured, no words thought of, no meanings attached, no reactions assumed. Just thoughts as and when and if they occur at all.

Like right now I am trying to keep up, but it’s not effortless. It’s as if the brain is trying to think for the fingers to type something. Or like I would have to stop to write that I just lit a cigarette instead of having something automatically write it down. Each time I am typing – as I am thinking – it’s another thought on hold.

Hmm. Some think I am a hypochondriac. I am not. Finally got the right diagnosis: thyroid hormones are all over the place and it’s not the right places. Apparently it’s a hyperactive thyroid thing, something called Grave’s disease. Extreme fatigue, mood swings and sudden, extreme weight loss. From an entire lifetime of roundness to being called anorexic. Why the fuck did it all happen in those particular years? Hmm?

Kind of weird that EVERYTHING that was previous – people, situations, relationships, learnings – simply blew up in my face, down to the minutest of details. At times for the good; at others, for me to grit my teeth and get along. At times it all seems so schematically written* – when I see the entire situation as a third party – that it seems, so, unreal for real life.

(schematically written: *What does that mean? Who wrote it? Or did I have I hand in it? Is it really destiny etc or do we think of something, an idea of how a certain situation is supposed to be or how we want it – no matter however vague an idea – and then we go about fulfilling it, subconsciously too, perhaps? At times it has been weird, eerily enough, I HAVE got what I wanted… but there has always been some loophole that has fucked it up*.

PS: Well that was written back then. Got a headache and a neck-ache from too much head-banging at the menwhopause live @ Aquifer show. Ah, but was very nice. After a long time a live gig and the band I enjoy hearing. Unfortunately, the CDs they gave out – debut album, Home – does not have Downtown or Time. It’s not supposed to, but I was just hoping.

August 19, 2007

The Decibel

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(Wrote this story first in 2000, though heavily edited and headline changed now. It was an inter-college, on-the-spot story writing contest, part of that particular college's annual festival. Had won it, much to the surprise of the college I studied in. And this was winning the same contest in the second year in a row. The first time was as a first year student and now, as a second year one. Was a member of one of college's literary society's. They refused to publish this story in the college mag. Then re-found this story on the net, that other college publication board had put it up. Anyway, here it is. It's fiction.)
__________

The rocking chair moved forwards, backwards, forwards. Thoughts were flowing freely.
Twenty-two years of leading a good life. ‘Good’ in every sense of the word. She had never had to ask for anything and had it all – influential parents, luxurious childhood, the best school in town – the best of everything. Life had been good... too good in fact.

Suddenly she sprang out of the chair as if an invisible hand had slapped her out of her reverie.
She walked up to the cupboard and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. The face that stared back was not exquisite, but it was a face that would register itself.
Heart shaped face, big, brown eyes, small chin, tiny mouth. What was it that her friends, people in general and men in particular said about her? Yes.
“Earthy sensuality and raw sexuality.”
If only they knew! Her lips twisted in a sardonic smile and the face that stared back was silently grotesque. The silence a part of her power.

Money had never been a problem with her family. Family, she thought. How long had it been since she had last seen them all together? It had been 10 years. Ten years since she had last seen Him. Ten years, during which she had been at her best. Best at studies, best at sports, dancing, singing – you name it, she had topped it.

She opened the cupboard and stared at the rows of dresses. What should she wear for tonight?
The backless, black one or the off-shoulder blue one? Whatever... she had to look her best. Ten years was a long time to wait and plan everything. From the huskiness of her voice, to the arrogant swing of her hips and the studied curl of her lips – she had practiced everything. A picture of practiced perfection. Now she was ready. What if she failed? She dismissed the thought with a turn of her auburn hair. “Burning embers,” that’s what He had called them. Ten years back.

She shuddered as a sharp pain pierced her head. They called it a migraine.

She was 12-years-old, romping around in a pair of shorts, a Garfield tee-shirt and two long pig- tails. It was Holi and per chance most of her family was gathered together. He was there too. Twenty-seven years old and everything a little girl’s hero should be. She had been playing badminton with the other kids, “a bouncing cherub”, as He had put it later. The pain stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

She looked at herself again as she dressed. Any signs of ever being cherubic had gone – rigorous exercise had left her body lithe, with a scheming head on her slim shoulders. The black dress looked good. She knew it and He would know it too.

Her parents’ place was all lit up. There was the usual glittering chaos – booze, bosoms and bitches. She smiled polite “Hellos” to everyone, the smile restricted to her lips... until she saw Him. Her eyes sparkled and her smile froze. He was standing with his very pregnant wife.
How long had they been married?

Ten years of course, she laughed to herself. As she walked towards Him, she felt 12 again. Would He remember? Had He forgotten? How could He when she had not? Not a single thing, not the tiniest detail.

He saw her and was momentarily stunned. His wife, the Woman, felt ill and went inside the house leaving Him alone. ‘Them’ alone. “You have changed,” He said. “Ditto,” said she. He had a distant look on his face. No, He had not forgotten, He was remembering. Was it affection that she saw? Affection... she was confused. Hadn’t he said he wanted her back then? She looked at the house and began walking towards it. Hadn’t he carried her to the nursery then? She looked back at Him, He followed.

The house hadn’t changed much. The nursery was gone, the place where he had made her sit on his lap. “Sit higher child, higher, higher and...” The groping had perplexed her then, tonight she was counting on it.

As she undressed Him, she felt in control. The tables had turned. As He descended on her with a grunt she noticed the changes. There were lines on His face now. But he was still looking very pleased. He had done it when she was 12-years-old, now He was doing it again. Of course, He would be pleased, hadn’t He caught her young?

The door to the room opened. He looked up, still pounding into her and sweating profusely. The Woman, his wife stood there, a hand on her stomach and her mouth open in shock. He got off her in a jiffy, trying to pull the sheet over himself. She had not covered herself. She stood there naked, looking at the Wife, looking at his pathetic nudity and laughing hysterically.

Ten years for this day. For all He had done to her as a child. She had never fallen in love, because of him. She had been scared of getting into any relationship, because of him. She could never have a baby, because of him.

Her laughter had broken the voice of her silence, the noise had risen to destructible decibels.

PS: LOL. Corny ending; but I was 20... ha ha, seems I've always loved drama. So hate me. Heh.

Slashed doggy for breakfast

1 comments
Moral of the story: When scared, don’t try to be brave, just type.
Corollary: What comes out of you can surprise you. Shock many others.

For some, Damaged Goods was perhaps ugly. 'Oh she says she is confident, now she writes of suicide.' Some saw it as dark writing, with perhaps a question somewhere. And I spent a considerable time explaining to another friend – who I have not met – as to WHY I wrote that blog. And I wonder about anonymity and obscurity once again. Like it would be so nice, to be unnamed eve*. Like some have sweetly said they read this with morning tea/coffee. Not a pleasant picture that earlier post, for early mornings. Hmm. But then, have I ever been rosy?

Felt it, wrote it.

Hmm. You know what… Now I know what I would fill in the “most embarrassing moment” of your life column. And these were full weeks. I don’t even know if tears qualify here. Or a strange, abject sense of loss. And I don’t believe that just a second after saying I am embarrassed I have AGAIN confessed to the loss. (Do I have no shame, dear god?)

More than anything else I feel… Ridiculous! And YET, I HAVE to write about it: This is one situation where I would LOVE to pretend and not write… but that would be against everything that I am, or strive to be. But FUCK, this BLOG is burning me.

My mother and another astrologer (hmm, I should write a cohesive thing on ALL of them, for my reference!); have forever maintained that the (trying to be) honest is my greatest failing. Because it also makes me abjectly stupid. The astrologer says, “Tu yeh honesty chorh de. Jis din jhoot bolna seekh jayegi, kisi ki himmat nahi hogi rokne ki.” (You should stop this honesty. The day you learn to lie, no one will dare stop you)

Stop me from? Shrug. No idea. All these allusions to some sort of ‘greater purpose’ or some sort of talent that will make me The Star are PISSING me off. ARGH. Get off my case. Sometimes, obvious solutions and answers are the farthest from the answer.

The BIGGEST underlying thought: That somewhere the fact that I was once married comes up or matters. And I am honest or trying to be for as much because I don’t want to hide. Or be ashamed. Or have insecurities. And since I happen to be a somewhat not-moderate person, I prefer to throw it in my face constantly rather than deal with it in whatever way you guys/others do it.

Someone wrote, “and I am secretly hoping that THAT BLOG did NOT represent your mood…” Well, it did. Felt every bit of it as I typed. I did not dare move for fear of actually really wanting to smash stuff. Not the whole lot, just a bit of it. And that line about “expensive crockery”… was pure fiction. I don’t have any. (Broke a glass though, only one, little bitty pieces, but that was very consciously when berating self for being a prized arsehole)

Why was I feeling like that? Well, someone didn’t like the idea of me having a crush. (looks at toes, nails are painted black, feels really stupid and extremely confused)

And I am really scared… that it happened again. That ugly, hopeful, shitty-ass, grinny-fuckin-faced feeling. I cannot express exactly HOW stupid I am feeling… for Feeling. And confused as to why did it happen and how… Because I don’t want it to happen again. Because it… How could I?

PS: The basics of any relationship. I forgot. I hate confusion at 28. And why, pray WHY, do I feel bereft? (And someone tell me, how many more times to finally get whatever that divine message is? I'd go and finish with all the fuck-ups in one go...and we can get on to other stuff. Like that a 28, despite all the glorious words, I am really, NOWHERE. And no one is going to help with the way ahead. So far it has all been on impulse and gut reaction. But now perhaps something more is needed...what, what, what?! Frustrating.)

PS 2: And, am not suicidal, dude. Can get angry; not suicidal. When I write here, I usually have the thought and type...so many a times, it's pretty much being read AS its happening inside the head. So basically, between the thought and it being read, there was writing it, editing it and then posting links on various sites. Not the work of a suicidal person. Just a perfectionist. And yet the contradictions in me: If I were ever to think that way, it would be impulsive. And never, for a man. Ever.)

August 18, 2007

Damaged goods.

5 comments
The dogs thought it was a game... as the feathers flew all over the house. On the carpet, on the cot, on top of the almirah, in the kitchen... there were feathers and cotton balls chasing each other all around.

The wind howled on the terrace, slamming the doors shut and then yanking them open with a force more savage than when raping a woman. The dogs barked happily, their tails wagging and they watched Mamma take the Party Cushions out of the cupboard. The home cushions and pillows were already a shredded mess.

Mamma had a shining object in her hand, which the older of the two dogs had often taken in his mouth. Mamma had always scolded him saying, "Leave that, you will cut your mouth with it." It was called a knife... it was big and had a black handle and serrated edges, which Mamma knew how to work.

Mamma slashed another cushion. There was a weird noise she was making that the dogs found funny..it sounded like another dog whining... Mamma whined and slashed at the cushions, then the pillows, then Mamma went after the mattresses. Gouge. Slash. Strip. Rip. Tear.

Once all that could be torn, ripped, shred was torn, ripped, shred... Mamma howled, lashing at the walls with the knife. After five attempts at slashing the wall - it was no cushion - the knife split. As it broke with force, the knife blade sliced Mamma's forearm and blood spurted out. It first spurt out and then it started flowing down Mamma's hand, on to her shorts and down her legs. Mamma stood looking at the broken knife - now covered with her blood with bits of feather and cotton quickly latching on to it - and the blood leaking on to the floor.

The dogs stopped wagging their tails. They could sense some change in Mamma. And they could smell the blood. Mamma kicked at the broken knife angrily and went into the kitchen. The dogs followed but did not enter the kitchen. Mamma did not like that. Mamma was standing inside the kitchen, looking around wildly. Then she started pulling down everything from the shelves.

First the masala bottles... yellow, red, mixed brown, pepper, salt, garam masala....then the sauces...one by one, Mamma took things out and smashed them. Then she found the rolling pin. She tested it by swirling it over her head. Then Mamma laughed a crazy laugh. "Oh yes," she said and started hitting around with the rolling pin. First, the oven door, then a dent on the fridge, then the window panes in the kitchen, then the expensive crockery that had been prettily set two days back.

The dogs started barking, they did not like the sound of things breaking and the shards flying everywhere. The little one entered the kitchen, wagging her tail and yapping at Mamma's ankles. Mamma had broken everything that she could and looked around wildly... she saw the pup at her ankles. Mamma got very angry. The dogs were not allowed in the kitchen. "GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN" she roared and kicked the pup. Mamma's foot landed on the puppy's soft muzzle, there was a sickening crack as the pup first flew three feet off the ground, landed some distance and forcefully slammed against the wall. The pup lay still.

The big dog ran with his tail tucked as Mamma turned and fixed a glare on him. "Come here," she said... the big dog ran out onto the terrace. Mamma looked around the kitchen wildly... and then she saw it. Her Cartier knife, Mamma loved it. It was her meat slicing knife, and it could cut through bone and sinew with two deft moves. Mamma picked it up and caressed it. She placed the cool blade of the knife against her cheek and started laughing. Then Mamma took out her tongue and slowly ran the knife edge on it, very gently. She held on to the kitchen slab - it was granite - as a thin line of blood appeared on her tongue. It stung. Mamma tasted her own blood. And laughed.

"Come here, " she screamed calling out to the big dog, who was now on the terrace. Mamma went out with the knife on the terrace. The big dog was cowering... Mamma was looking at him strangely. Mamma did not go to the big dog but sat on her haunches instead. She hid the knife behind her back and crooned to the dog, "Come here baby, it's just you and me. Like always. Come here. It's for our good." The dog, out of habit and training... and perhaps love? ... started inching towards Mamma. Slowly, his tail wagging tentatively, unsure of what to expect. Except for the fact that the human who fed him daily, patted him, held him and gave him tasty chew-bones was calling him. The big dog had always known when Mamma was upset. Today she was upset...but there was something else too.

The big dog stood before Mamma, his head down, eyes looking up at her, apologising for whatever it was that he had or not, done. Mamma extended her left hand for the dog to smell and be comfortable. As he licked her left hand, with the blood still dripping, she brought the knife from behind here and even as the dog realised that something had changed...Mamma held the big dog's head and in quick move....she slit his throat. But the dog moved...and she missed the jugular. It started thrashing, beginning to howl, but it came out in gurgles.

Mamma started crying, "Sorry baby, sorry...but this has to happen, who will look after you after I am gone? And i love you..everything that i love will go...there is nothing. Sorry baby, dont move, it wont hurt, it wont..." She held the squirming dog under her knee and holding it's head down, howling into her tears and her blood, Mamma took the knife and again and this time, deliberately she sawed his neck.

He twitched and then he did not twitch anymore. As Mamma turned -- now she was moaning, it was a low, monotonous drone, the little pup was coming around. She was not dead yet. There was an ugly bruise where the pup had hit against the wall and it was rising under it's soft brown fur. The pup looked up dazed and tried to stand up, groggily. Then it saw Mamma standing on the doorway. Mamma's eyes looked mad, her mouth was open and there was a strange noise coming from it. The knife was in her hand, the older dog's blood dripping from it.

"Chhoto..." said Mamma and took a step towards the pup. The pup could smell that the big dog was dead, it started whimpering. It could not move as it saw Mamma walk towards it. The pup cowered and started whining, it was painful, Mamma's earlier kick had broken some ribs. Mamma reached the pup and stood looking down at it. The pup was trying to slide away. It knew there was something terribly wrong with Mamma.

Mamma stood looking at the pup and then she crouched next to it. She kept the knife down and started stroking the pup's head. She crooned to it, "My chhoto baby, the little one... both of you, what they took from me. I cannot keep you... I cannot keep anyone you see. I am damaged goods baby. No one wants damaged goods. You will go too...cant leave you for others to hurt, can I? Please understand my little one, Mamma is damaged goods....just damaged goods..." She picked the pup, cuddled it some more and then suddenly, she held it and wrung its neck.

Then Mamma took the pup's body and laid it next to the big dog's. She covered them with her bedsheet. Then she sprinkled all the ghee on their bodies and set them on fire. Then she started climbing towards the rooftop...up, up and up she climbed. Till she was there on the top and could see the distant horizon. She hated heights. She had always known she would go like that. She looked at the horizon again...and in the distant somewhere, heard her phone ringing.

"No point" she told herself. And jumped.

.....

2 comments
dont want love
dont want money
dont want luck
dont want fame
dont want name

i just want to be held close.
in a way that says that i wont be...that i will be held on to.
in a way that says that holding me feels nice for someone else
that it does not hurt,,,sendin a little softness my way
just a warm, warm, warm hug.

not to be turned around and then done
not to be told "chalo game bajate hain"
not to be kissed
not to be felt up
not to have the boobs squeezed (WHY do men have to do it instantly? Cant you just fucking HOLD the woman instead of going after the boobs instant-fuckin-ly?)
not have a hand running up my back or butt
just fuckin, held close. where i can hear the heart beat.

why is it so tough? affection? and why does it scare people when i am open about it? Sex is no big deal..its just a matter of saying yes... But to be, held. It's tender.

I so miss tender. It's been a while. I am supposed to be kung-fu chick...mata hari... joan of arc..jhansi ki rani...therefore...its presumed that i dont need tenderness.

It's funny...so many people i meet...who have perhaps read the blog, they just want to take me on. Hah. WHY? I ALSO write about wanting to be hugged and loved....HOW come no one wants to pick up on that offer?

And why the fuck do you have to try and put me down? I WILL retaliate and you WILL look like a fool. BUT. Will you hug me? You can insult me as much as you want to... hold me, a minute? Just wrap those arms around me, pull me into you, kiss my forehead, stroke my cheek and cuddle me... And for one honest minute, just let me feel human. Let me belong. Even momentarily.

but you cant can you? haha. of course not. He stopped hugging me when i was 11...the onset of menstruation. It's fucked up. Grown up girls do not hug their fathers. She was never that physically-demonstrative-of-affection. Till thamma (paternal grandma) was alive... she used to oil my hair, smoothen cold cream...and stroke my hair when i went to sleep. she died. way back.

then i made the biggest committment of my life. and he wouldnt touch me. hahahahahahahaha. i tell you. THAT was the biggest joke. he wouldnt touch me. wouldnt hold me. pushed me away.

Bas. aar na. par chi na aar.

August 17, 2007

The If Only

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If I was less moody
If I was more compassionate
If I was less my-way-or-high-way (usually me on the high way!)
If I was less who the fuck says it has to be this way?
If I could only ask for help
If I could tell someone how exactly to make their lives
If I could open a school
If I could have farm house… for dogs
If I had the energy to do half the things in day that I want to in a day
(Forever getting tired now, with days when I feel that there is just no life in me; doc says it’s the weight loss).
If I did not question the affections of the few who do love me
If I could only stop doubting
If I could trust….
(More than money, more than anything else, if I could only trust)
If I did not get scared of being replaced
If I didn’t keep running…
…From me
If I didn’t If so much

Need to get out
Need to ctrl+a, Delete…
…A lot of people in my life
Need to find a channel for the energy
(Think internalizing all the energy is devouring me from within; thus the shrinking me)

And again, the thought of just pulling out all stops, a big bang and poofing-away without a backward glance, is very appealing. It’s also, slowly, tenaciously, becoming an obsession. If we don’t need people – though yes, I do enjoy people – then what’s the point of pretending to having some around? Hmm. Are you truly alone if you are among people you know…between the familiar? What will it be to not know anyone. ANYONE.

No background. No prior expectations. No reputation and notoriety to precede. And more than anything else… no one knows what to expect out of you. You are fucking as new to them…as THEY are to you. Ah. That, is a truly delicious thought. Unknown. Unsuspecting. Fucking scary. But extremely, thrilling.

Hmmm. Me, getting hooked on to an idea. Is dangerous. Thank god mom cannot read this. (smiles) But then the whole idea would be for no one to know, no? Oh what fun. Hmmm.
1. money
2. back end
3. poof!

PS: Yes, poof.

PS 2: Don't tell me what I have to do; I manage to fuck-up on my own pretty well, thankyou.

August 16, 2007

I am beautiful, dammit!

1 comments
Had heard this song when I was 20... fat, had hair down till my butt and everything in me could be cuddled. (Yeah, somewhat now too, just that the claws are more apparent as well). And this song, it stuck with me... it WAS so me. And now, skinnier than I have ever been - even when I was four! - this song still fits... Because you see, skinny, fat, pretty, prettier-still... all depends on us, and how much we let it bother us.

Like I have my I-wish-I-looked-(even)-better days; and there are days, when you can put the most beautiful woman, or all of them in the same room as me and it won't bother me. I would still laugh, crack jokes and generally grab the balls. Eye balls I mean. (Pretty or no pretty, baby, I DO walk with the attention, each time I try, hate me for it, you can!)
Yes, yes, of course, if you/I know you're not Helen of Troy, you aren't Helen of Troy. But dude, Helen also fell for pansy Paris, didn't she? Not too smart as I see it.

Anyway, this song, rocks. By Bette Midler, called 'I'm beautiful' -- there's a para I've deleted, and replaced the Miss M with Miss B.

"I'm Beautiful"
"This is the Divine Miss 'B'and I'm here to share with you some rare
and stimulating insight into my cosmic fabulosity.
It's really very simple.
I simply believe with all my heart:
"I'm beautiful, I'm beautiful, I'm beautiful, dammit! "

"Go away, little girl," they used to say.
"Hey, you're too fat, baby, you can't play."
"Hold on, miss thing, what you trying to do?You know you're too wack to be in our school."

Too wack, too smart, too fast, too fine,
too loud, too tough, too too divine.
I said you don't belong. You don't belong.
Too loud, too big, too much to bear,
too bold, too brash, too prone to swear.
I heard that song for much too long.

Ain't this my sun?
Ain't this my moon?
Ain't this my world to be who I choose?
Ain't this my song?
Ain't this my movie?
Ain't this my world?

I know I can do it.
I'm not too short, I'm not too tall,
I'm not too big, I'm not too small.
Ooh, don't lemme start lovin' myself!
I'm not too white, I'm not too black,
I'm not too this, I'm not too that.
Ooh, don't lemme start lovin' myself!
I'm beautiful, I'm beautiful, I'm beautiful, dammit!

People always ask me,"Miss B, how did you get so faron so little?"
Shut up!
Well, I woke up one morning, flossed my teeth and decided,"Damn, I'm fierce!"
You look good!You can be just like me! A goddess? Yeah!
Don't just pussy foot around and sit on your assets.
Unleash your ferocity upon an unsuspecting world.
Rise up and repeat after me: "I'm beautiful!"
I'm beautiful, I'm beautiful, I'm beautiful! Dammit!

That's it, baby, when you got it, flaunt it, flaunt it!
Ooh, don't lemme start lovin' myself!
I'm beautiful, dammit!

Feels like the fog

4 comments
It’s a funny morning. Woke up and for the first five minutes, was convinced that I am back in Kalimpong, mountain-town high up in West Bengal, missed being Sikkim by some kilometers. Mornings and noons were characterised by fresh, chilled breezes and the fog rolling down, covering the green mountain sides in clouds. I lived there for three of the best years of my life. The last of the girl was left behind there, me thinks.

It is cloudy on the terrace, with the most pleasant breezes… Not the breeze that this is the characteristic of this city, the tree-uprooting, dust throwing winds that come suddenly, gets into your eyes and mouth and leave as suddenly. The Kalimpong breeze – much like this morning – was always cool and clean, you could SMELL the breeze… It was more the chill though. Waking up to goose bumps sprinkled across your skin is a definitely delicious feeling.

Over the weekend, I have fought with one friend, while two others have called me a slut and a third, anonymously, sent me hate mail saying the person will be standing outside my office. All four people, are men. And seems funny, all this should happen right after the ‘I-have-a-crush-post’. It’s a bad thing, na… me being slightly happy? Smiles.

Adulation is such a double-edged rapier. Actually it’s always a naked blade, we just like to believe that once we have the adulation, it’s going to stay. But it’s fickle, because you can never be sure of what is drawing people and what are the inferences they draw either. Hmm. Anyway.

And yes, now marriage proposal rises to four – Maxine, who’s a woman, Varun, who was joking, He Who Must Not Be Named, whom I asked to marry and he refused and now Nat on myspace, who thinks I should marry him because November is like two months from now. On the other hand, was told that someone is “losing all the self respect and whatever else in me after the last couple of posts.” Shrug.

Someone else asked: “Why do you doubt yourself? Why do you write what you write? Why do you constantly contradict yourself? A blog is more important to you than friends and people.” Friends and people who weren’t there in my life two months back? And given that such lines are being written after two honest blog posts… LOL…am sure those friends and people wont be around for much longer either.

I constantly contradict myself – though I don’t think I do – because perhaps I am finding out/ discovering/ realizing a lot of things even as I type them out on this blog. And because I am human and I make mistakes and being a weird human, I write about them in public. And WHEN have I ever pretended that I have all the time in the world for someone else? I might have the time, I often use it lying on my bed writing something, or typing on the laptop, or sleeping, or playing with my dogs, or writing in my notepad…

“Contradict yourself” – you mean when I say I want friends and then push away people who try to befriend me?
“Contradict yourself” – you mean when I announce that I don’t want anything to do with love and then go tell someone I have a crush on him?

Oh yes, those do sound like contradicting myself. And look! I wrote, in this very post, that I don’t contradict myself. And now am doing so. Oh my god, what a liar, no?

You see, friendship for me does not mean constant hanging out or constantly sitting in each other’s laps or discussing everything etc etc. It definitely does not mean constant companionship; not anymore that is. Please understand that I am or have never been… ARGH.

Actually, NO. Believe what the fuck you want to believe. If friendship means OWNERSHIP, hah. Dude, when my parents cannot claim full ownership – and I don’t think anyone’s can – how the hell does someone else expect it?

And what is with PRETENDING you can understand me? I am MOST irritated because I shared things with you that I don’t write about. YES, imagine, after all this so-called honest blogging, there are STILL things I don’t write about. And I shared them with you. Not because I need a secret keeper, HAH, for all my talking, I can be the most fucking close-mouthed person you can EVER meet. EVER.

(Clenches teeth, deep breathes and thanks whoever for the umpteenth time that the object of ire is not physically present…)

And another messaged, late into the night, woke up from deep, disturbed slumber to read: “I miss having someone in my life who feels as much pain as I do. On a daily basis. Not pockets of it, every once in a while, but bushels and bushels of it every day. I am sorry to trouble you. This time in the night. But I needed to send that message out. Really needed to. Sorry babe, just loneliness making me take extreme measures.”

Another person who should be having his woman next to him, to hold him, love him, talk to him, support him, listen to his brilliant ideas, hear what he did at work, enjoy his meals with him, discuss movies and music and books with, someone to play word games with, someone to go on his road trips across the country… Someone to just to tell him he can love her and she won’t be scared and would love him back. BUT.

We had thought we could date…we both needed the same things; and for the first time in my life, in fact he is the only one, with whom I could talk for hours and hours on the phone. Other than two of my closest girl friends – lol, actually the only two friends I have! – I cannot talk on the phone beyond the first “what else is happening”. But we were in different cities… and unsure what the chemistry would be if and when we did meet.

And in between those speculations was our respective need for space. He told me his previous girlfriends did not give him space. I had not given much to my previous boyfriend…. So I gave him as much space as I could. Unfortunately, for an online interaction, it proved too much. While I was giving him ‘space’ – meant not calling him when I thought he was busy, not calling him after work because I thought he would be with friends, not calling him generally till he would call because I would assume that if a man wanted to talk to you, he would call – he was taking it otherwise. He called one day, irate, to say that I did not care enough. Why? Because I did not call him enough and was giving him too much space.

Well. That was that. Ever since we have introduced this concept of space in our relationships, it’s become rather skewed I tell you. We want our space, but we want someone to constantly wait for us on the fringes of that space too…so that when we surface, they are there. We want to give space but we are a little scared if that becomes too much space. Sigh. Uffff. Too much.

And if I write more, I will include four other points in this post, which would make it even longer. Rather irritated, bye.

August 15, 2007

‘Sex is a big part of our relationship”

3 comments
That headline was to keep alive the tradition of this being a sex-blog. And since it’s only a jackass who would believe that anyone fucking blogging so much is fucking at all; well, you can imagine how much THAT word is happening here.

(The smarter/cockier ones would notice the random days of no-posting no doubt. But then, it could just mean, shaggin’, no?) Necessary sex-bit over; now the other headlines that could perhaps go with this post:

Life, in real time
Curious and curiouser

I have always been worried at the idea that perhaps if I get happy, I wont be able to blog, since my USP seems to be angsty-weepy blogging (but yeah, I do it in style, yeah). However, it seems, I don’t have to worry at all. There is a darned good supply of shit happening all around for me to keep typing.

(Btw, it’s beautiful and windy on my terrace and am wondering: A whole lot of things I read in magazines today, I don’t remember, but a whole lot of things I read in mags as a kid are as vivid as smelling a new Reader’s Digest when it was taken out of it’s khaki packing. Like the story somewhere on body type or something… it had said that men with ‘generous’ lower lips kiss very well. It is bloody true! Also, please note: most villains are shown with thin lips while heroes on covers of romance novels always have fuller lower lips. Talk about stereotyping the poor things. Ah, externalizing the objectification feels so good) Anyway.

I am beginning to realize why parents find it tough to adjust to their ‘kids’ becoming thinking adults. The more I see the kids around me becoming men and women, the more it’s… sort of making me unsure of things. Particularly things about the Salvage Point.

Now all of us, to some degree or the other, are fucked up. (There are those who are not fucked up at all, congratulations, you may leave the blog right now.) Sooner or later, most of us realize that too. Now some of us might be interested in undoing some of the damage. But the big question is: What if beyond a point, the fucked-up-ness cannot be undone?

What if there is a Salvage Point, that critical point/moment where you realize you are fucked up and do something about it? And WHAT if, that Salvage Point is already lost… way back in childhood? What if, by the time, we grow up, we are already so fucked-up, that adulthood is simply spent caught fighting webs created well beyond our time of control or cognizance? And to think that a lot of parents do things for the BENEFIT of the child.

Talking to the tarot reader, she mentioned how parents – when teenage daughters get pregnant or adolescent sons are found addicted to crack – how parents breakdown and ask, “Was there something we did wrong?” What would happen if someone were to reply in a “yes” to that question? Would it help, adding an, “It’s okay, it was not your fault. You were doing your best; you didn’t know any better?”

He used to be one of the cutest toddlers around. He probably hates hearing that too. As a little boy who could not speak yet, he idolized another young boy I knew, who was slightly older. Now this older boy was shy himself and understanding the toddler’s extreme nervousness in company, took him as a ‘friend’. The young boy of 5, with his dart-shooting gun and the 2-year-old who could just say ‘tanni’ (Tamil for water). And me an observer – and often informer to mother – at age, 10.

Now, that little boy who could only say one word in Tamil, he says he had a “fucked up” childhood… It breaks my heart. They had him when they were pretty senior, biologically, their only son, the apple of their eye. And such a bonny baby boy to behold, I don’t blame them at all. So they mollycoddled him, didn’t let him out of their sight. He was always lonely’ and not everyone responds to changing schools as a star performer… But this is what I know and have gathered. There could be more. I do not know. And it’s getting to me… I saw the boys shoot the tail off a lizard with the dart gun. The tail had fallen next to the single-worded infant, I was shrieking and going nuts, while the two “men”, the 5 year old and the 2 year old, they roared with laughter.

And today, that toddler writes to me and says he is in love with a girl and how sex is really important in their relationship. He called me by my name…and I had to gently remind him, that no matter how much he likes sex, I will always remain ‘didi’ (older sister) to him. He sent back a smiley and stuck to didi after that. And he says that the girl he loves is leaving him and he cannot do without her because he was “truly accepted” when only around her. He wants to marry the girl and has even spoken to his parents. But the girl, well, she’s gone silent and is throwing a fit. So he tried swallowing pills.

And I think I will answer him in the email. Now for the rest of the post: Am tired writing and suddenly distracted so am gonna wrap it up in short…

Curious and curiouser: What happens next, vis-à-vis, my own life. "What happens in chapter three?"

PS: Happy Independence Day, India's 60th year of being a democracy.

August 14, 2007

Heebeegeebees

3 comments
Erm.
Very nervous.
Have not slept a bit.
Kept waking up smiling.
And then getting extremely nervous.
Prowled on terrace at 3 am.
Refused to get online.
Now that I am, regretting it and...
Very nervous.

I am sure it's second thoughts somewhere else.
Why did I open my mouth?
Why am I such a moron?
If I am a moron at 28, WHEN will I see sense?
After SO much happening, HOW could I do this?
And THAT too... OH GOD... everyone will now CERTIFIED laugh at me.
And I had to blog about it too.
Thankgod I don't write names.
O Ma.

Like I tell "God" each time ----> "Please let me get out of this, and I swear I will never do it again...or try my best not to, or at least take some responsibility for it."

I am TELLING you, Life and Luck have decided to plot and scheme against me...and reality and fiction are mingling.

I did NOT plan to open my mouth and blurt out that I have a crush on hime. After wondering if a) he has a girl in his life b) he has more than a girl in his life c) if he thinks of me as a girl at all d) if he thinks of me in more than-just-curiosity ways e) if the curiosity is because I am a girl or because I am as much of a reality as a snorcack and d) if romantically, even at 28, I have learnt NO lesson -- last night proves it -- what is to happen to me?

So I was hoping, that if at all, all of the above had favourable answers and I stood an iota of a chance; then I would take it nice and easy, slow and steady, patient and virtuous and all that and see where it goes and all... till. Well. He told me he had a bad day. Then I asked him to marry me. He started laughing. So then I got pissed off and told him he was rather rude for laughing at my proposal when all I was trying to tell him was I had a crush on him. Well. He asked me how I could just spring it on him especially after he'd had a hard day. Then we debated on why it was a bad idea.

:( How many times have I written in my columns that when men say things like "it is a bad idea", women should hitch their skirts and run and not make an ass of themselves? I don't practice what I preach. Dear mother of gawd, I want to cut my tongue and feed it to my neighbour's mad dog.

I am embarrassed for life. And I am going to be rejected again. And it's all because i could not keep my mouth shut. For once, despite the humour in the situation being fucking APPARENT, I cannot laugh. Yet. I have quickly documented all this so that I CANNOT deny my assinine behaviour later. And being the practicing-learning-every-day-sadist, I will bloody keep reminding myself to NEVER ....aaargh.....why did i open my mouth?

o ma aami koto gadha.

August 13, 2007

Kya karega Pandu, jab kismet ho gandu?

4 comments
(would perhaps mean: What's the point in changing your role, it's your luck, you fuckin' arsehole)

Or let's call this one 'how to make an ass of yourself in 12 days'...

Actually a week, but the extra five days often drive home the point. This post can also be called, How It Is Never Uncomplicated.

“You wake up with a smile on your face and find that even the most mundane activities are tons of fun. If you can share your attitude with your family or coworkers, the day will be an utter blast”… says the horoscope for Taurus today. Bastardos, you got it wrong.

It also says self-criticism, stress and worry are out of bounds. Wah! That’s like denying two-thirds of my personality. Hrmph. :

(At the end of the day…)

All the above was what I had started writing, till stomach cramps and work got the better of me. And the fact that each time I have been trying to write for past some days… well, happy thoughts intervened. Transient, happy thoughts, but nevertheless, I shall enjoy it.

I have realized that I am way too hormonal to have uncomplicated friendships. And of course I mean with men. I used to think that things would settle down as I “grow up”, you know, learn to be more mature about things, appreciate differences, respect taboos and not cross certain limits. Basically, I used to think, that with age, being “only” friends with a guy would be easier… FAT chance there!

I can bravely say, that so far, most friendships with men have had some sort of sexual undertone: explored, unexplored, implored; the awareness has been there. And given the chance that I like to befriend men with things between their… ears, it just makes it tougher. I am a mentally-undone sort of person. Because you know, obviously player-like men are so obvious. You know what they will do… But the ones who come with functional brains, ah! The minds of those men are far more interesting than a dozen players in consecutive nights.

With guys who think, it’s a different ball game. Somewhere, there is a constant conflict between the woman-me, and the person-me. The person-me would love to get to know the person, hang and chill and generally do stuff that two people, who are getting along, do. But the woman-me, well, she has to complicate things. That part needs validation of being noticed as a woman, of being acknowledged. And does not stop till it gets a positive response, or reaction.

And this part, well, she’s the ‘siren’, if at all. That’s the part that will seek a response from the ‘man’ and not the person, that’s the part that will want the man to ‘like’ me or respond to me, and well… ARGH. (Out with it woman!) Well, at times, I would willingly complicate things. Like kissing a good friend of many years, to see how he handles it. Or bring a sexual edge to a perfectly healthy, platonic relationship and shake its foundations.

Why? Am I constantly trying to prove to myself that a man and a woman cannot have a non-sexual relationship; that whether they acknowledge it or not, a sexual attraction/ curiosity is ALWAYS there? Or, as usual, and is constant habit: Is it just me?

This one could be me being one of the few. Not everyone has rejection issues! Rejection issues that need validation from the closest male friends – funnily enough, these are the men who are the choicest of the lot, ‘eligible’ in every other way, and if they are my friends, they obviously have a high tolerance for me, and yet, I cannot fall for them – that I AM a desirable woman. That men, find me desirable… I think, some of my male friends, they understand this…

(And see, before some of you write in angrily saying I should get over this and blah; the point is you want YOUR man to NOT reject you; and when that happens, when your partner chooses another etc, some of us, I think, seek validation in getting as many ‘responses’ as possible… not necessarily sleep with the whole bunch, but definitely KNOW that you are appreciated, wanted, liked, desired, whatever, blah…)

Like my friend says, “If I say I only want to hang with you, you get mad. If I say I have more feelings for you, you get mad. What do I do?” So…at times it’s the ego that wants you – who likes me as a person, to respond to me as a woman – and at others, well. It’s basically, things my way. And it’s selfish; because first I want you to acknowledge that you do think of me sexually; then I want us to spend the rest of the time being normal and not talking or thinking about it at all. It’s absurd; and I know it even when am doing it.

Why am I writing all this? Because on one hand I have complicated a real, nice, intelligent association – though he insists he just wants to hang, unfortunately, I know what will happen next; you see, I set out to do it – and also because I think I might be…

And now, well, am getting happy thoughts that are preventing me fucking blogging. Obviously it means there is a man involved. And yet…

Well, I think right now, I am sort of vulnerable (those who believe in plain speaking – funnily, am supposed to be one such person – they would call this vulnerability, desperation) . If pleasant, intelligent, warm men show general curiosity, I think… I think I begin reading too much into it. It’s ugly accepting that another’s interest could be just (or is) curiosity, but well, no point making an ass of you. (And yet, another’s words ring in my ears, “You have rejection issues that make you run from people…and thereby them reject you.”) Do I really make an ass of me, or do I just assume that am being stupid and therefore run away?

Man! Having a crush is getting more complicated with age. I am not even fucking sure if it’s a crush or rejection issues! Grr…and to think there are those who don’t think like so. Those who are mythically “comfortable with themselves” and therefore don’t think like me. Strangest thing is… I am super confident and super comfortable. Things go all funny only when that three-letter word called MAN enters the picture.

And fuck the crush; even making friends is tough. First, at 28, you are still thinking “making friends”. If that’s not embarrassing enough, you want to behave like a child and have the new person completely to yourself. Sigh. And since all of us have already settled in lives – and most others have more settled lives than mine – people have set circles and set friends and set lives and set fights and set situations… and where the fuck do I fit into all this?

I don’t believe this. At 28, 10 years after school, I am still the new kid in every circle.

PS: Dear Gawd, or the Devil (since complicating things should technically be your department) --- please send Major System Shaking Affair. Let him be really good at keeping my mind involved else I will look for online distraction. Let him also be very good in bed - with me that is - else I shall be tempted to seek elsewhere; definitely fantasise. Let him have female friends who do not have a problem with me; and preferably who don't have a hidden soft-spot for him. Let him have a mother who likes me...if at all I have to meet the dignified lady. Let him have no issues with earning more than me, I promise I won't have any! Let me not think marriage -- unless he is thinking of it too -- and then if I am not thinking of it, let it remain uncomplicated. UFFF. Just let me have something that's good for MY system. I shall try NOT to hurt the other, but take no responsibility. I have been told, we are all adults.

PS 2 ---> And did I add, that I very recently announced, "I might not be on guys' most preferred dream girl list"... Nope. It has to stop. I am actually scared to acknowledge that I am well... not that bad. And quite wantable and keepable and wishable and all other ables. It's my wanting this and that and that too that perhaps causes the constant seeker. Maybe am a committment-phobe too. Hmm. You see, when I got this and that and some of that as well - I still don't sing - I fuckin' want it all too, yeah. And till, as such time, as The One (lol, like in the movies, will mine need convincing too?) appears or sends an email or pings me... I gotta find the good in the lot of them. Or whole lot of them. (bubbling laughter, grows, boils, spills over....ha ha HA HA)

PS 3 ---> Aaaaaaaa.....i went and told him! Told him!!! And he laughed and refused to believe it. Aaaaaa... now, well, he says its reciprocated. But..there is a but. What if all his positive thinking is because he is overworked? And changes his mind? Aaaaaa.... I am so stupid and so embarrassed. No idea what I shall do if he indeed changes his mind... says, "This should be interesting." Aaaaaa....