Twilight: Amavasya for Humankind

The top 3 wtf's that should make you want to rip your head off and chuck it towards the screen/book/girl (or boy) who's never going to grow up and have an orgasm if she insists on idolizing horny undead underage sparkly refrigerated mosquitos (aka Edward):

1. Paedophile - Carlisle chooses to give a hicky to (vamp over) a young underage boy during World War I. Talk about redefining wham-bam-thank you son. Edward, a hundred or so years later, decides to pass the hicky on to a barely 18 year old girl. Progressing in that annoying way future generations do, the next generation gets hickified by a werewolf before she's even a year old. Why haven't the feds taken this movie down for completely massively inappropriate child porn yet???

2. Skin cancer - Pale pasty sparkling skin is NOT sexy if you're not a 12 year old girl with her first tube of strawberry lip gloss. I suspect Stephanie Meyer couldn't afford a fake tan before she wrote the books and so she convinced herself that skin paler than Simi Garewals = not albino. If Fair & Lovely need new sponsors, they know where to look.

3. Manic depression - From permanently chagrined eyes (dude, c'mon, you're a teenager, your biggest problem should be acne) to multiple threats of implausible suicide from every character in this story, you're tempted to (a) shake them till their sparkles fall out their ears, (b) save them the trouble and kill them yourself, (c) AAAAAAAURGH. Either ways, someone please foot their bill for a shrink 'cos it's debatable who needs it more, any of the characters in the book, or George Bush.

The cure: F-U-C-K.

Can I just say, I really think the only way this book/movie/story/person adoring it can be healed and saved is if they all just start having normal sex with other people their own age who preferably aren't dead or permanently refrigerated tuna or whining about being too strong to put their genitals in you (psst, psst, he can't get it up Bella, move ON.) (Also, pssst, Bella, if his dick's cold and you want it in you that bad, just go get a pap smear done girl.)

PS: I clearly deserve a career in sex counseling. Also, I'd direct kickass porn films, where people would get to see some action, instead of other people pretending their weeners would explode your vagina and come out the other side. There's a clever trick for Rajinikanth's next film.

Fa-la-la-la-la

You know, it's a funny thing Facebook does to your generally snarky people-hating self. When someone you dislike 'likes' one of your statuses, you start *not* disliking them despite yourself, just because they seem to *like* you. In public at that.

Self validation's a lost cause thanks to the internet.

Spread the joy and have an awesome Xmas y'all, I certainly intend to :)

Za-Zingaaaa! :D

You think you've heard every pickup line in the book? Well... has anyone ever hit on you via Farmville? I'm not a big fan of the app, but I opened it today, and I shit you not, them goats and gander really inspire the kink in me. I'm itching to try out the really lame obvious lines:

• I think I lost my needle in your haystack. Let's find it... and earn an all-new score!
• When you're done milking your cow, couldja come milk mine?
• Plough my land, farmah.
• How bout we go sit under my cherry tree and wait for something to fall... we can counter Newton's law of gravity and make things go up.
• Meet me behind the bushes?
• Let's harvest us some crops.

I hope y'all cringe when you next hit your farms. Bwaha. I should SO have been born a guy.

What Ash Chandler Forgot To Say

One of the largest unacknowledged causes for terrorism today is undoubtedly latent frustration evoked by airport security procedures.

Can someone explain why women have to step behind a curtain to be body searched while men have their dicks groped in public? I'm gonna go with .... option a, men grope themselves in public anyway; option b, men's lesbian fantasies will be ignited provided such visuals as women groping each other. Either ways, clearly, the privacy screen's directed at the comfort of men, not women.

I was once stuck flying with this guy who had... well, it starts with w, ends with d, and ISN'T an erection*... anyway, he totally managed to dump it at the airport without getting caught. On the other hand, carry a clothes-hanging rope and the officials are convinced you intend to hang yourself mid-air, mid-flight, so they make you unpack, get the 'professional noose' out, and put it into check-in luggage.

Speaking of, why is it okay for us to carry knives, blades, and whatever else we want via checkin? How come we're persecuted if we want to carry them on to flights? What, it's okay to kill yourself or others, just please don't do it in the air? How come we don't care if people kill each other on trains?

*Although, now that I think of it, it'd have been kinda sexy flying with a guy who did have w**d. Not that you can actually get any in the flight loo. You have better chances on the train, really.

I Know What You Did A Second Ago

Isn't it incredible how people can have lives even if your FB feed doesn't reveal intricate details thereof to you every five minutes? It makes me feel very... Budhist and inclusive and such like. Also profoundly scary: there are those people who're on your friends list because you can't just say you don't know them (though, in fact, you don't). And they lurk and smirk and it's no use Mommy's telling you not to talk to strangers because this is a level of strangeness mankind wasn't prepared for. All the world's a social network, and men and women merely stalkers.

Don't think this is worrying? Let me paint you a picture. I think this dude's vaguely cute. I ping my friends who read his friends' tweets and pass me his blog address from something he said @someoneelse. I RSS feed his blog anonymously and when he posts next I comment with the cursory disclaimer 'I was blog hopping andddd...'

And then of course he has to be polite and come to your blog (where hopefully he won't read a post giving away your methodology but will instead read the cryptically enigmatic post you've planted there specially so he can happen upon it). Even if he doesn't leave a comment, lured by the Mona Lisa-like sfumato of your last post, he has to feel compelled to let you know he read your blog.

This is your gateway to the next level - authorisation to add him on an instant messenger or even that most invasive of all gossip hellholes - Facebook.

Thankfully for boykind given my latent (but clearly) proficient stalkerage skills, by this stage, 108% of all males would have bored me silly and I'll be over them. To the rest of you who were nodding all along and thinking 'Yes, yes, I so do that!'... shut down your comps, children. Go into therapy. Thxbai.

The Birds, The Bees, & All That's in Between

... Special thanks to Shwetha for stirring these memories.

* I used to think the F word was fool; particularly since people kept saying it had four letters. My little brother used to go 'fuck' all the time; so ironically, I thought it was a light to moderate swear word.

* Post Titanic, instead of having a sexual awakening, my friends and I discussed how Kate Winslet is really too old to just run around without at least a slip on. Particularly in front of other people.

* You know in Bollywood how couples roll down hills, flowers go ting-ting, and the doctor says 'Badaai, aap ma banne waale ho?' I ran into a guy while playing basketball and my friends told me I'd get pregnant.

* ... Except I hadn't had a period yet. So they told me I'd just bleed. Because pre-period, you can't get pregnant from baby-making banging into each other. And yes, the bleeding from the baby-making banging would, indeed, be my first period.

* If you say good night to everyone in the house and don't say anything after that, the karma invoked by the wishes would ensure you didn't have nightmares.

* Marriage counselors would give you sex fantasies to play out while they observed and wrote notes.

I'm not going to say anything about the state of sex education in India, I think it speaks for itself.

Let the Dogs Out

And if you think 'Oh, he's ugly, but maybe he has personality'? ... He doesn't.
It ends at looks for me, sorry to say. I'm superficial that way :P
Oh dear. I can compromise on looks if the man has a wallet. I'm rather deep that way. I mean, it's not enough for him to just look good; he has to earn shitloads too.
What about really ugly with pots of money? Repulsive ugly types.
Okay, hi, have you seen what I've voluntarily dated? What does it tell you about my vision? It's the holistic Zen-bugger-fetch-me-a-BMW approach.

********

This is why we say love's overrated. Well we don't really say it. But we probably should.

*****

Love sucks.
No, blow jobs suck. Vaccuum cleaners suck. A teething baby sucks. Love. It's hallucination man. Hallucinations don't suck.

*******

...Be a bitch like S. I'm sorry, is she a friend?
Please, don't tell me you think she can be my friend. How unbearable would that be.
Lol, no, but scary women attract each other I've found. That's how bitch cliques are formed. Not that I think you're any scarier than I am. But that's probably the point.

Writers To Block

One of the primary reasons I don't just quit and write full time is because I don't want to be tagged as an Indian writer, particularly after all the snide remarks I've let slip about them over the years. If you ask me (and I'm well aware that you didn't actually ask, but that's one of the privileges of having a blog in a democratic country), Indian writers fall into two categories.

1. Angrez chale gaye kya?: This category still writes like they just learned English and absolutely must cram every single word they know into every single sentence they write. Of course, a word is only worth knowing if it has more than three syllables, none of which are actually pronouncable.

2. Yo yo: Yo is either Chinese noodle soup, a flashing ding-dong toy, or one of those insane Tam songs with lyrics in a language noone can actually identify. Bring even half a yo into your writing, and you're asking for a universal ayyo chorus. The yo-yo category of writers (headed by C.B.) want to show the world how hep Indians are -- and fail miserably.

Don't get me wrong, writers from other countries suck too, in their own unique ways. I'd get into how they suck, or which writers are actually worth it no matter what, but that, as they say, is a story for another post.

Welcome Back!

This isn't a new blog, but it certainly isn't the old one. It's still me writing, but I'm not the me I was when I first started this blog in college. The situation seems apt for me to launch into a nice Amitabh-in-Aks (the movie, not me) style dialogue about 'Na din mein, na raat mein,' and so on, but as he does it with so much more panache, I'm content just saying 'Lookie what we have here' instead.

Chillax on the deletion of old posts - think of it as a haircut I gave my blog 'cos I was bored with the way it was growing. I'm sorry if I locked you out while I was trimming and snipping vigorously. What can I say? My blog wasn't sure how it felt about the new look, much like me after any hair-change :P

PS: If you want any specific post, ask and ye shall receive. I do have backup for once in my life. And no, you can't have them all, you should've thought of RSS feeds if you did (hint, hint, lol!)

Realism

The grass is allowed to be greener on the other side - Farmville's just a game, so stop watching your goddam crops like it matters!

Don't wonder if the glass is half full or half empty, drink the bloody water up, or watch while I ship it to Ethiopia, and pray it doesn't evaporate on the way over.

God Bless US, Everyone :P

The A's hardly need another reason to grow obese and yet poultry trembles in fear at the thought of their annual unholy plague celebration.

An entire civilization was wiped out by primitive unhealthy standards and instead of learning from history and spending the day flushing their body of toxins, those that stampeded in to take over the newly cleared space celebrate the memory of that day by making merry with carcasses of birds that hadn't evolved enough to even fly.

This whole thing is so wrong on so many many levels but Jesus saved them all by planting Xmas close enough for us to forgive, forget, and ho ho ho on. I'm thanking God this Thanksgiving for letting A's celebrate the plague of the pilgrims - whatever stops them from plague'ing us with work, baby.

Aami Tomar

Once upon a time in a far away land, there lived a little girl. She wasn't a princess, or a countess, or any of the romantic things you hear about in fairy tales. No, this girl was just that - a girl. All her life, this girl grew up knowing that she was ordinary. And the strength of her conviction let others know it too.

In a class, you'd have the ones. You know. The smart one, the pretty one, the funny one. This girl was - well - she was the no one. She wasn't even the loser or the left out one, she just had absolutely nothing special to define her with at all.

And she knew nothing special would happen to her either. She didn't have the brains or the ambition to want a career. She didn't have the looks or the romanticism to dare to dream of love. Love - love's reserved for special people, for someones. If anyone chanced to look at her twice, for lack of anything better to do, they'd look away the minute they realized there was someone better. There was always someone better.

And then, all of a sudden, when she wasn't expecting it, when she didn't want it, even, she met a man, the first she'd ever seen. He fascinated her in the way that fire fascinates a kitten. He wasn't like the boys she was used to, the ones she could boss over and control. It scared her a little that she didn't understand this strange new glowing flame. She was smart enough to know the treacherous warmth that called to you could burn you just as fast.

So she flitted around the warmth he brought in her life, letting the flames lick her, but backing away before they could engulf her completely. Never really trusting though she wanted to. And he, the fire, for reasons she couldn't tell, seemed to understand. He didn't claim to love her, which would have been scary and difficult for her to believe. He just claimed to want her. And that she could believe. Not because she was special, no, but just because he was a male.

She knew wanting, she recognized it with relief, and let him want her. She let herself want him. She told herself that wanting wasn't love, it was.. infatuation, juvenile, attraction. Something she could get over. Even while she knew she couldn't, that he was taking her out of her noone'ness and making a someone out of her. His one.

She wished she could be that one. The one who believed in happy endings. Only... what happens when a movie ends, when you close a book, when the singer breathes a final sigh?

Prozac

Listen Up Birds, Bees Sting

This rhyme is meant for educational purposes only. Any resemblance to real persons, living or wishfully dead, is non coincidental.

I'll love you till eternity,

And baby, it's not you, it's me.

I hooked up with my ex last night,

Surely that's no reason for us to fight.

Also I just realized I have a job,

Oh plus AIDS, syphillis, and a third nob.

So hon, you deserve better than me,

I just don't think I can keep you happy.

I need some time, we rushed too fast,

Let's not get caught up with the past.

I'll love you forever, till the end,

But post-sex, lovah, will you be my friend?

Over and Out

How do you get over someone? It's a question I've been asking a lot lately, and I've figured the answer out: you don't.

You try to get over the idea of being with them. You try to let go of the them you see all around you. You try to get over yourself.

Does it work? I don't know. I think moving on may be a farce. I think the least love deserves, if it was ever real, is for a little bit of you to never really move on. Horcruxes and heartbreaks are really quite similar. Falling in love's a cruel business where bits of your soul are irreversibly taken, almost against your will.

Ah well. Live and learn. Amen.

Status Updates

Angry red dot

Silence stop

Wart on a witch's nose

Angry red dot

Lazy summer siesta

Noone home, try again later

Not here, floating maya

Lazy summer siesta

Harvest green, annoying happiness

Misplaced joy, flaunting availability

Gray. Dead. Come back.

Resilience

Our best defense against life may be the ability to stay fickle in the face of all that could grow to matter.

The Pursuit of Happiness

That light in your eyes when you see me before I see you, the one that mirrors what I'm feeling.

Zig-a-zig-ah

Hi. Has anyone seen my ego? I'd like it back please. Alternatively, can I maybe have some of yours?

Kthxbai.

PS: I'm sick of saying I'm okay. Of course I fucking am. That doesn't change anything.

Consumer Complaints

Google may be God, but the Almighty's clearly headed for hell given He deposits my salary with Citibank each month - could it be perdition for my sins or do we actually trust in Citibank's ability to bank? It must be one of our April Fool's Day gags. After all, Citibank, the bane of all brands, is notoriously known (thanks, in part, to my ranting) for their general ineptness, as proven by their taking a month to complete a 24-hour transfer of money, and, to summarize, are about as effective as a paralyzed rabbi at a Nazi marriage. With the rabbi winning the effectiveness contest. By a long shot.

The simplest place to begin this rant is by pointing out that Citibank, with remarkable astuteness, seems to realize every person on the planet with half a brain is banking with ANYone else, and, therefore, they don't need a big support team for their pitifully small user base. Having exhausted their quota of brilliance for this lifetime, Citibank then proceeded to set up one, let me repeat that, ONE office across nearly 17K km with a population of 3 MILLION. And this is a calculated estimation from a business that handles your loan estimates and interest rates. I'm just saying.

Anyway, given Google decided to be evil in this one respect just to counteract all their employee friendliness, there I am, stuck with a Citibank account (having, by the way, signed for their reading pleasure 58,000 times to set up the account because though I was RIGHT there signing up, they wanted to make sure I was me; and though I had JUST signed two times in a row, they thought a different person had signed the second time, so could I repeat for their entertainment?) Hand broken, brain boggled, and overall befuddled, I figured my troubles were behind me and I'd just use their debit card and withdraw money at periodic intervals since my money IS all there and I DO need SOME of it every so often.

Unfortunately, like the villainous allegory for Life in one of those artsy movies noone ever watches, Citibank doesn't believe in happy endings. Rather, they DO believe I need their holy permission to access my OWN money with my OWN card and so they decide with no preamble whatsoever to stop my card from working. I've seen pregnant women in labour that make more sense than Citibank on their best day. Now let me clarify at this point that my debit card works on every other ATM in town. It's just Citibank ATM's that decide to act pricier than Rakhi Sawant with a new nose job. So I figure I'll go for relationship-counseling with Citibank some other time 'cos hey, atleast I have my money in SOMEway, right, why dispute and divorce.

But. And I admit sloth kicked in having worked 14 hour days for the last month or so - there's a Citibank ATM at office that I thought I may want to use rather than prowling the 17K km of Hyderabad in the dead of night hunting down another ATM having finally finishied working for the day. Let me clarify this isn't a particularly unreasonable demand - I wanted to use MY Citibank card on MY Citibank account on a CITIBANK ATM to withdraw MY money that was WITH Citibank. So, I trot on over to aforementioned singular office to see if they'll see my point, a process that involves waiting in line for an hour, signing various forms again (Citibank should probably quit banking and start selling counterfeit signatures instead), talking to sundry wondrously pleasant people who were clearly not getting enough sleep or food or wanted to use the loo or SOMEthing. To cut a story short to what I thought was a happy ending I managed to communicate that I would like a new debit card please, thank you and goodbye; the happy part being, I don't need to talk to you any more.

Or so I thought. Dum-dum-dum. Three weeks later. Since of course the debit card was promised in two days. THREE WEEKS later. I receive a pin for the card in my mail. Where's the card you ask? Well, it's not in thiiiis pocket. And it's not in thiiiis pocket. Sorry, I stooped to Citibank's level of intellect for a minute there. Anyway. Onward. I do not have the card, I have never seen the card, the card, for all practical purposes, does not exist. So, having spent enough time with Citibank to prefer visiting the mortuary, I called their support instead, and having pressed 1-1-1-1 several times (Citibank likes the numer one clearly) I finally got to talk to a human being rather than Shakira on a vibrator repeating insanely 'Please press 1.'I then asked if they knew where the card was because I didn't although I DID have the pin. They said to backtrack and asked what my birthday was, how old I was, where I lived, who I was. We then indulged in a brief tussle as they asked when I withdrew cash last and I told them I knew the amount but couldn't confirm it because I didn't print receipt slips because their insane little receipts have killed trees and I disapprove of such heinousness.

Just in case you thought this was all established over a pleasant tete-a-tete with one Citibank rep, let me inform you this information was painfully extracted and communicated over 25 phone calls (10 of which ended with Shakira saying 'Please hold' and then running away) and with 5 employees. Having concluded the pleasantries, we sat down to business, and I asked again, if they'd seen my card. They said they'd check if it was delivered. I assured them it had most definitely not been. They asked again for my date of birth - I think it's the phone equivalent of asking for your signature - and I advised them to change their career. After twenty minutes of assuring them I was not kidding and that I didn't magically want two debit cards just for kicks, I understood we weren't getting anywhere, and, having advised them to kindly change Citibank's profession as well, hung up.

I then went to withdraw money and found that in the enigmatic mind that is Citibank, "You didn't send me a new debit card" = "Please cancel my old debit card." And, unfortunately, for once, I actually NEED the money, it isn't just spilling out of my pockets and my bag and my wallet as always. So I called back my new favorite speed dial number and asked if it was okay if I took out my own money and if so how they proposed I should manage this since they seemed to have shut down all my resources to do so. In all seriousness, I asked if I should perhaps write a cheque to myself, travel 12km in the middle of a workday, and get it encashed, since this seemed like the most efficient fix given the situation. And of course it was simplest to withdraw all the millions in my account and carry it in my jeans pocket as compared to leaving it to the mercy of this brand of irrational lunacy.

Surprisingly, the answer to this reasonably worded request was, again, that they'd check if it had been delivered. I assured them I would physically deliver serious injury to each of their heads and was transfered to their 'senior' official which means I suppose that she has a louder voice than the previous employee. Having negotiated with her in a manner the Godfather would have been proud of, I got her to concede she'd make a new debit card for me in a day or two and that I could pick it up from their office since of course I'm not waiting another three weeks to find out they can't do this either. Moral of the story being: Thank God there's only ONE Citibank branch in 17K km for 3M people. There's a chance they may be able to get this right. Then again. Maybe not. But that's a story for another post.

Monsoon Evenings

thunder

lightning

our own little storm

Oooh, Snap

This is nonsense irrelevant post because really what about life is relevant? I think the trick's to laugh at it and not take it too seriously, kinda like a child when it falls over, if you look at it, it bawls, but if you pretend not to have, it picks itself up and resumes sticking a finger in its nose or whatever.

To summarize, let life stick a finger up its nose.

Coming to point now (having put my finger allllll the way 'round my head to touch my nose!) my (ex-dear) laptop Wendy is having trouble keeping up with my pace these days. Look what she drew when I tried toggling windows too fast. Pretty huh?

Devdas Wall

With the disclaimer that I've been just a little bit sad this week.

I Swear!

You know how every epoch in your life comes with a swear word? Back in middle school, it used to be 'idiot.' This slur on my intellectual personality reduced my sixth-grade self to tears every single time. Then we discovered 'fuck' in senior school, with some of us discovering it literally, while the rest of us non-promiscuous souls took our own sweet time understanding why such a pleasant-sounding easy-to-say widdle-wordlum was abhorred so.

The first swear word I liked, related to, used with abandon, and knew could be used on me with great honesty was - wait for it, not that there's any surprise - bitch, a word that trended with some modicum of success in college where I studied with - shudder - women. Emerging from that hornet's nest of viciousness, I entered Google where, to my dismay, I've recently noticed an alarming trend amongst the (near-extinct) male segment here to call me 'dumbo.'

Now, Smruthi will bear testament to the fact that I've put on a rather shocking amount of weight lately, but nonetheless, to be addressed by the name given to an animated ELEPHANT is really a bit much. Nor, in case it isn't sufficiently obvious, do I discuss cartoon-like things with aforementioned male species, unless we're discussing manga of the adult variety. So I figured the childishness must all be from the males' side - a thought which makes sense given I've been babysitting little Googlees a lot lately. But then the thought thunk some more as so many thoughts will and I thinkeded that one balding old man here also calls me 'dumbo' and by no stretch of imagination can balding old men and little Googlees be categorized into the same species.

However, if one were to plot a Venn diagram - not that I still get the point of drawing intersecting boobage but mathematicians must have their hoohaas - what unites the bratty Googlees with the old sottai* is - they all come from Chennai! Now let's go back to Chennai, the land of my - not birth, but the land of my growth - which was repressed somewhat severely by the TamBram forces, who unitedly chant Abacharam-Abacharam at any bad word harsher than (cover your ears now Googlees and the likewise-sized) STUPID. Yes, in Chennai where my heart is, STUPID is a bad word. You can only use it if someone puts dynamite up your arse without saying please first AND lights the flame AND you die. That's right, when you're dead, you're allowed to say 'stupid.' But sparingly 'cos God's watching. Oh, I'm going to hell. Never mind that.

So then just as my Venn boobies were bouncing in content glee, I realized there was an unnecessary lump in the mix - one more buggerance calls me dumbo (remember Puneet? my Cuttack husband who's going to die and provide me funding for my paani puri stall?) and he's from (as I mentioned in the earlier paranthesis) CUTTACK not CHENNAI. Now Cuttack and Chennai have similar weather, and what's interesting is, nearly EVERY place that starts with a C (in India, duh) has similar weather. So, every C-City has men who believe 'dumbo' is a legitimite swear word.

Doesn't it all make sense? That's why Calcutta is now Kolkata - 'cos Bengali men HAD to swear 'cos they're narrow-minded bigoted chauvinists whom even my overtly masochist soul cannot condone. I can't believe I haven't made a Mallu joke in this post yet. Oh wait, Venn boobies.

Bwuddddder!

While every sworn bachelor's nemesis is a woman asking him to marry her, I've found three little words which can petrify even the most committed men silly - Be. My. Brother. Indian women, tortured over centuries with the threat of Sati and needing to demand that the ground open up and swallow them to prove their virtue, finally get their own back with this nifty invention that makes men voluntarily run towards the former two.

Honoring the timebound tradition with Rakshabandan coming up in August, I've been getting my daily yeehahaha's out of asking unsuspecting men out of the blue if they'll be my brother. Hey, a girl's got to have some fun.

Apart from causing any man to choke on what he's eating, forget what he was doing and actually be rendered speechless (helpful trick!), the question-threat has the added advantage of establishing platonicness in the manner of an iron-crested chastity belt. You should go out and try it today!

Afternote: Gentlemen. Please don't. Don't even ask girls if they want to be your sisters. Despite the nobility of the sentiment it just comes across as sounding like a potential hump temporarily positioned on the workbench.

Whisky, Vodka, Nightmare

Ghost Survival Guide

1. Never investigate noises in the night. Neither commonplace noises (eg: gas leak hiss) or ghostly noises (eg: saxophone playing Mozart). You can die from a leak but it'd be less trouble than being killed by a ghost who's using the hiss as a decoy.

2. Never open your eyes. If you don't see it, it won't kill you. It's only after establishing eye-contact and playing background music that ghosts close in for the kill.

3. (Assuming you ignored steps 1 & 2) Never run up the stairs to get away from a ghost - what'll you do on the terrace anyway, jump? No no. Always run towards the light. Not the white light. The street light. And towards crowds. Of real live people. Not imagined people or dead people.

4. If your phone rings after 10 PM, open one eye, and if it's an unknown number, CUT THE CALL. Don't open up messages that come in at 12 AM. If they came from humans (that are still alive), they'll still be there in the morning. And if they say things like 'Now you die!' then well, it won't be valid any more in the morning.

5. Don't touch anything that isn't yours or curiously pick it up and turn it around wondering where it came from. It doesn't matter if it's a disguised bomb. Remember: bombs are less painful than ghost-deaths.

6. Make sure you and/or your roommate and/or your respective families didn't kill anyone/have anyone commit suicide over them in this lifetime or the last three-four lifetimes. Ditto with landlords and other residents of your house.

7. Don't move into houses where the lift doesn't work or creaks - in fact, don't move into houses that require lifts. Stay on the first floor always. If you stay on the ground floor, don't run out into the forest when you hear ghost sounds.

8. You do NOT need to drink water in the middle of the night. That's how you die. Just shut up and wait till the morning. Children in Ethiopia haven't drunk water in days and they survive.

9. Don't have sleepovers. They're the surest way to get killed one by one. Also, don't go to resorts in group or rent a ship to go stay on a remote island. If you must hump each other, do it in the light of day in public areas. That's how to survive ghost deaths.

10. If you've ignored steps 1-9 above and somehow managed to kill (well, exterminate) the homicidial maniac ghost, do NOT sit down to cry or kiss your boyfriend - that's when the ghost will come back alive and come kill you. Instead, once you've killed the ghost, just kill yourself and get it over with. You should've just followed steps 1-9 you know.

Resurrections Don't Change Death

I kid you not, Wendy's a laptop so tiny that a t-shirt for 10-12 month olds is too big for her (immature pun fully intended). The first time you hold her in your arms you can't help but feel a protective surge of emotion and forgive her all her flaws - not that she ever had any, for she'd go on for five and a half hours without the charger on, never whimpering or whirring.

So you see, when she expired on me without warning, without so much as a flicker to prepare me for the bereavement, I was left to wonder... was it my fault? Did I do something wrong? Sit on a button maybe? Surely she wouldn't JUST leave me, who does that?

Tremendous soul searching and lip trembling later, I realized - it wasn't my fault the bitch decided to abscond on me. She just got up one morning deciding to fall sleep in the evening and never wake up again. Well, never being till I replaced her battery. Which I fully did, because apparently I'm responsible enough to follow through on the relationships I invest in.

Anyway, she's alive now, but she's no longer my baby. I'm not proud of the woman she's grown up to be either. It's kinda ironic that I'm using her keyboard to type this out, but there you go. I think of it as a 'keyboard,' not as a part of the beautiful baby girl I fell in love with the first time I saw her. Love's overrated and, realistically speaking, tends to come with an expiry date.

PS: This post, while heartwarming and so on and suchforth, is, in reality, a warning. You know I'm glaring at you mister. FEEL the pressure. I'll give you till Monday. Your obituary's up here next.

Long Time No Read

The librarian at the Club where I borrow books from was naturally pertrubed by my proclamation that I was tired of the superficial and wanted to READ. He was more worried than ever when I marched over to him holding about two thousand five hundred pages in my hands. Okay, we all know me, I held them for about two seconds before I started to tilt to one side from the weight and he chivalrously came to my rescue.

'How long are you in town?' he asked, discreetly as he began the laborious process of checking the books out for me.
'Oh, I'll get done with these by tomorrow and come take more.' I responded beaming.

It's like I'm twelve again and just discovered my one true love. Reviews coming shortly - maybe. When you're in the mood to read, writing seems superfluous.

Legendary

Long overdue because it's easier to believe nothing's changed.

Do you remember the sounds of your childhood? You probably heard icecream sellers and traffic. I heard jackals howling and the river laughing back at them. But those were background. In the foreground, I heard voices, voices that grew stronger with time, voices that rung out telling stories that have already lasted forever and will continue to do so.

I grew up listening to stories of Zohrasthra as well as Osiris, Orpheus as well as Muhammad, Krishna as well as Jesus. It must have been an interesting sight, my grandfather, an upright octogenarian, and me aged an impressive three, pouring over scriptures to understand what opinion leaders made of life before heatedly debating our own ideas and opinions (I can only hope mine have gotten slightly more sound with time!)

In old men, I've found an acceptance and a sense of belonging I rarely find anywhere else. It's not unconditional, it comes with the expectation of a self-perfection they demanded from themselves through the course of their lives, and it seems natural to replicate it. I've learned to sit with my back straight, to hold candles up regardless of whether they drip hot wax on my hands, to enunciate, to be fanatically punctual - and, though I've often hiccuped and cried to my mother, there was no question of not following what they implicitly held up to me as a standard.

I had just one grandfather, but sometimes, looking back, it seems like I had very many. They blend together in time, their gentle advice and gruff pride shining through to remind me of the best that they took for granted I'd work towards. Looking back, I remember the sound of tradition - not of religion or of dogma, but of simple belief. In life itself and all that it encompasses. It's overwhelming the love and strength that emnates from the very memory of these men. They're all missed and remembered in one way or the other every day - and, since a few days ago, Agarwal Uncle will be too.

'However men approach me, even so I accept them, for the paths men take from every side are mine. They are in me and I in them.'

~ The Bhaghvad Gita.

Ri-ight.

Excuse the criticism, but how much pride is being too gay? Rainbow boas and feathers are all well and good, but hello, do we really think every homosexual in town likes to cross-dress, or that given the freedom that's the idyllic state of being that everyone's hoping for, where straight people wear pants and gay people wear skirts? Apart from hahaha, what are we saying about Scotland then?

I was looking at the Queer Pride clips from Delhi and Chennai (sue me, I'm a fag hag with friends who work at NGO's) and... well. While I get that there are extreme dickheads (har! pun!) who say that everyone should aspire to be Rama-and-Sita and that it's a genetic disease ingrown from the West to believe anything else, isn't it just as random counteracting that by dancing in the road wearing Spandex masks and chanting what seemed to be fertility hymns?

Where the fuck is the normalcy in any of this?

Pétiller

The bridge between what you need, what you want, and what is there seems equivalent to the gap between being needed and wanted versus what there isn't.

Love's in the Air... As is Swine Flu :P

How can I put this without sounding like too much of a douchebag? I'm not in love. And I don't think being bombarded with emails, SMS'es, and phone calls is going to change that. When it comes to - cough - relationships, I think I'm as allergic as the most steadfast sworn bachelor. I freak at the thought of committing to one person in a relationship that isn't bound by law, and, slutty as this sounds, why does anyone need to??

Being me though, 'no' isn't a word I manage to use more than once in a row, which means I end up seeing bags more douchey than me, who, when hinted to that they're putting you to sleep, respond 'Go to sleep, I'll carry you home.' Much as that may make me roll my eyes till they hit the ceiling of the moon, I'm afraid I have this weird notion that you don't have the right to tell someone to shoo till they really deserve it.

And so, until provoked beyond my patience threshold (which seems, to my surprise, to have exponentially expanded), I pretty much grit my teeth and endure it, from calls at midnight ranting that I don't have time for aforementioned lunatic, to weird voodoo'ey flowers that I think are punishment more than anything else. But gah, I'm old and this tires me more than it would have even a year ago.

I've had just one question all my life though - wouldn't it be simpler to just pee on my foot to stake territory instead? Whyyy the elaborate charade? Movies and romantic literature should be filtered and provided only to those that have the maturity to understand they don't HAVE to replicate it.

Figures, Huh?

I escaped from office today like I'd just discovered I had a home and, as when I stay at office like I don't have a home, the reason, as always, is you. Which got me thinking. And equating. And formulating. And I've summed it all up (har, pun!) into what I believe is the one thing of value Math may EVER have to teach us.

There's you, there's me. And then there's me-you, the me I am with you, which is more me-me than me ever was. And then there's you-me which I love 'cos it's the you that you make for me, which in turn puts the me in you. We were two separate wholes, each complete enough even without me-you you-me, so now do we factor in the additional powers or do we round them up to preserve the neat whole? Even considering that rounding it up will never really REMOVE those extra numbers that were there for however brief a time, there's only one real question in every relationship problem - given our equation, are we more or less than the sum of our parts when put together?

Fractions coming shortly to a blog-post near you. And don't miss the wisdom in the affixed figurey.

Haiyya!

For Andal, part one :D

There used to be this time when we didn't wake up with broken beer bottles in our rooms and ash in our beds. Times when we used to get our kicks out of biking up and down around Chennai in mid-afternoon heat hunting down the ONE soda boy who we believed could give us immediate and indefinite ecstasy. He was our hero, the relief of our parched throats - the rendra rubai soda boy! He's probably a soda man now, but back then - ah, when we rounded the IIT signal and saw his rounded ass, Aj and I used to feel a sense of joy unparalleled by all but the vegetarian cockroach-macroni served at Sweet Chariot (sigh, college days.)

To get our love, you must get.... (a) how hot it is in Chennai, (b) how stupid it is to be OUT in that heat, (c) the value of rendra rubai, (d) the kicku of the soda clamp going fsssscth. Just in case you missed that, that was 'fsssscth.' And it's a kicku, as in, yerudhe. Plus, of course it always helps when your soda boy has a fine ass. There are many soda stands in Chennai and around the world. But this one was - for some reason I'm not sure you'll get even if I could explain - THE BEST. It was inconveniently out of our route, there were flies everywhere, there was no view to look at, nowhere to sit as we drank it, and, let's be honest, you don't get 'soda' for that amount, you merely get a 'fsssscth.' Yet, every day that we got a chance, Aj and I would go, 'Hmmmmmm, lime soda!' and make for him like we were off to the Cannes for summer break.

It's soda that we've snorted through our noses giggling, soda we've dropped tears and snot and on occasion nearly even our mobile phones into. Soda that's seen us through culturals victories and seething anger, through bitching sessions and long internships, through pointlessness and epiphany. The soda.... the soda's practically a member of our family! As for the soda boy, well, to make him family would be incest, so never mind that. I wonder why we didn't get his phone number, it's rare for us not to flirt with a man that has an eligible ass, a decent vehicle (the pushcart) and the ability to cook (Uh. Well. Whatever the art of brewing lime sodas is called.)

Gravity Sucks

Okay, here's the first of my 'on request' posts. This one's for Smruthi and it's about Wednesday's high-low.

The thing with falling down too often is that people around you, heck, even you, get used to thinking you'll pick yourself up. That's all very good for minor skip-trips, but there comes a time when you fall down hard and you look up to realize noone even noticed you fell any differently than usual. Unfortunately, when the people you need don't know you need them, it becomes harder still to admit you do.

Ego's often spelled i-n-s-e-c-u-r-i-t-y, and one of the quickest ways for trust to go down the drain is when you realize you can't need someone who wasn't there for you the first time round. Much as they wanted to be there. If they weren't there, it isn't ever going to be.

That's a thought process so depressing it can't even be converted into constructive anger. And then there's the troubling thought - why pick me up or neglect to when you can stop me from falling at all if you were only paying attention? Do we always have to ask if we want to get? Is unconditionality only as real as Kannagi - a legend everyone knows of but noone actually thinks of emulating?

Finally, most important - is asking all these questions or rationalizing it ever going to change the fact that you weren't there? I think I know the answer to that question. And it's a lonely one.

Popular Demand

Since my blog comment window was starting to resemble a Gtalk group chat widget and my heart brimmeth over with joy at the thought you actually wanted to read what I wrote... well, okay, new post.

And that's it, I'm out of thoughts. I believe this would be called a block, not writer's, not thinkers, just solid walled block. Find me a topic and I'll discourse wisely. Or you know, blab.

Cynicism & Dynamite: Delirium

I'm tired of saying no and tired of all that comes with saying 'Yeah, okay.' I'm sick of charades and formalities and the need to say sorry yet again when all you mean is 'I (used to) love you. Maybe.' Downward spirals of repeat fuck-ups 'cos we never bloody learn that we expect history to repeat itself and change our responses accordingly.

I'm upset that the British left and the Americans descended. I'm more upset that I can't say Indians as a whole are better off left uninvaded. And if I hear about Ronaldo one more time, I will scream. Similarly so with ZooZoo, IPL, T20, and anything else that's a trending topic thanks to its being on TV.

I don't have a TV. I don't have a house. If I could have one - I'm not sure I'd want it. I don't know what I want. I don't think anyone does. I think that's 'cos if you say you want something, you're admitting you don't want the other option. And we always need the other option, don't we.

I'm too old to climb rocks just to clean shit that people keep throwing so they can see you bend over to pick it up yet again. I'm too old to have children that grow up with children who are capable of looking down your shirt everytime they make you bend over.

I'm frustrated with expectations, mine and other peoples'. It sucks that frustration doesn't stop you from expecting anyway. How long does it take to forget? Why is it other people can't remember? These aren't my hormones talking. Self pity is so righteously addictive.

I have a blanket I've had since I was one. It's my only friend and even it doesn't fully cover me anymore.

What's in a Name-a?

- 'Babe' is a farm animal that poops and snorts and stopped being cute long before it was compared with Tamil Nadu's siren aunty Namitha.

- 'Sexy' is only a compliment if you know how to pronounce it. 'Sykasseee' is a Russian author with hay fever abandoned in the rice fields of some village in Andhra.

- How many waist sizes does it take to make a single person 'babes'? Or is it five Melloo drinks?

- Do you suppose they call girls 'chicks' 'cos they presume their eggs aren't fully fertilized?

- Is 'sweets' used when you're too lazy to complete the thought 'sweetheart'? (PS: I'm not sweet, singular; let alone sweets, plural. But thanks for the boost to my anorexic ego. I feel like twin-rosgullas now.)

- 'Hon' and 'sugar' are ingredients best left stewing in a Dolly Parton number. And they're about as genuine as her boobs: knockouts though they are, she's having an operation 'cos they're a literal pain in her ass.

- While honesty is remarkable and 'Bootyfull' certainly sums it up like nothing else can, I'm sure even Gandhiji didn't say to turn the other arse.

Uncals of the world unite and listen - we're not breakfast or poultry and if my name's THAT hard to say (full empathy, btw, I can't say it either), just sneeze and you'll have my undivided attention. And also the attention of the swine flu police but that's a risk every male takes when he's born into this chauvinist world.

Achacho

Rule number one when you're hitting on someone: know when to shut the fuck up, ie: don't mix sex and talking unless you KNOW you're equally good at both.

I found the last marriagable guy on the planet yesterday and, being me, blatantly and blithely picked him up (it's been a while but I suppose it's a skill you're born with if you're essentially shameless). Unfortunately for all mankind, I lose all interest when any man is in the least interested in me. Don't psychoanalyze that, it just means the man has bad taste is all!

My committment hang-ups aside, a word of caution to Iyer women looking to marry: ladies, they don't make them like me any more. I'm afraid you either get Thachimammam Thamarai or Pervy Prakash. I actually got Horny Hari, who makes gay men everywhere seem like devout nun wannabe's. Maybe it's Arians? Are all Arians horny? My Arian aunt, aged 65, was reading the Kamasutra when I went over to her place last week. (FML.)

Purely Maddening Shit

To Egghead With All my Angst

Imagine an idyllic Saturday in June... you wake up to the leftover breeze from a rainstorm that happened the night before and you've absolutely nothing to do for the day... you can lie in bed and look at the ceiling, watch TV, browse the net, or, if you're really ambitious, maybe even get out and go for a walk... no hurry, the weather's going to stay the same all day and everything you need is within arm's reach. As you lie in bed, listening to Pink Floyd, imagine a freight truck with 5 kilos of hot coals runs over your body with particular emphasis on the nether regions. Now, that's PMS. Then it runs down, and proceeds to jump up and down, gathering momentum with each jump and absolutely no prospect of stopping. That. Is a period.

When someone with a uterus say we make this shit up as a reason to be bitchy, it's a big joke, because it's like saying the Holocaust didn't happen. When someone who's a dickhead says it, particularly when one is experiencing afore mentioned freight truck joy ride, well, one's tempted to hire it to go over his balls a couple dozen times.

Just so we're clear - it's NOT just a bad mood, it DOESN'T happen everyday, and it IS SO a big deal!

Angels and Demons and Popcorn, Oh My.

The thing with Angels & Demons is that for every pro you can think of, there are atleast two cons. But who has time to think about anything other than the plot when it's so tightly wrapped and well presented? That's the saving grace of the movie - that it moves and you've to move with it, so you don't really think about critiquing it till well after, by which time the director can (well-deservedly) go chuckling all the way to the bank.

- I think the movie does a fair job approportionating science and the church their due rights, not pitting one against the other. When I think of the immaturity that a lot of Sunny Deol anti-Pak movies are, I thank God we didn't make movies on, say, Ayodhya and Demons.

- We know it's the 21st century and you have access to kickass editing softwares, there's no need to whoosh-whoosh blue light at us everytime antimatter's mentioned. You may just as well throw in a Bollywood dance number if you're going to dumb things down that much.

- It's so hard to concentrate on the movie if you've read the book because every now and then, a voice in your head goes, 'Whaaaa? What the fuck?' Let's just say the movie's VERY loosely based on the book. I'm not sure why that even rankles, it's not like Dan Brown's ever really written a book that deserves you to stand up for it's rights, but still.

- There's ample eye-candy in this movie, even without the churches. The villain, not the Camerlengo, but the assassin, was beeeeyond hot. It made you forgive all his sins and he more than made up for the visual za za zsu that Tom Hanks was most definitely not.

- The Camerlengo has more chemistry with a dead pope than Tom Hanks does with Ayelet Zurer - I understand they've a murderer to catch and tight one-hour timelines all night, but they make holding hands seem like a deathbed ceremony at the funeral of a dead fish.

- The Camerlengo's speeches, reminiscent of Hitler at his finest, make him a convincing hero... but surprisingly, he's a disappointment in his 'mad' avatar. He makes his confession towards the end as though he's only saying the words because they were on the script and he's being framed. Kinda ruins the effect. They could have atleast dubbed for God's sake.

- The Preferiti were heart-breakingly convincing, you really really really didn't want them to die even if that meant you had to deal with Tom Hanks being alive to rescue them.

- Tom Hanks' numerous neck folds make him look like a cow let loose in the Vatican. Add the crow's feet by his eyes and the (not so) subtle graying sparse hair on his head and you almost feel like he's one of the Preferiti rather than the one rescuing them.

- While I appreciate the irony of the media getting nothing right, it seemed like such a pity that EVEN if you're the Preferiti you don't get a decent half-second of mourning, not even a semi-chord or a prayer in the distance, before Hanks and the Israeli woman say 'Yeah, okay, bye!' and start running again.

Love, Actually

One half of me is yours, the other half yours--

Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,

And so all yours.

~ Merchant of Venice

We say 'lou' when we mock it, 'lurve' when we mean it, even 'luv' if we're being all Govinda-Govinda, but we tread oh-so-softly around 'love' because 'love' takes away the buffers and puts it all right there in the open. 'Love' means there's no hiding behind decoys ranging from the cutesy to the cheesy. Love's sending your crippled dog of a heart out onto a main road during peak traffic hours and trusting it'll get to the other side. I read a piece by Louis Caroll the other day; well, not a piece, a love letter; only it was so crafted, it felt like a piece. An amusing, intriguing, quirkily sweet piece, but a piece nonetheless.

Now, I've no problem with pieces. I adore filmy declarations just as much as the next girl brought up on a healthy diet of Bollywood drama interspersed with M&B's (if you just turned up your nose and scoffed, honey, you've no idea what entertainment potential you're missing.) That's the thing though. At the end of the day, this stuff is just that - entertainment.

Long division about whose anatomy belongs in what proportion to whom, while aww-inducing, is about as relevant as a property settlement when there is no property. Or you know, a GMAT sum. (And that's the second - and third - metaphor I've used in about as many paragraphs so I suggest you shoot me now, as I'm clearly growing old.) Sometimes, all a girl wants to hear is what you perversely refuse to tell her in so many words, despite your MANY superfluous words otherwise.

And, sometimes, try as you may to clam your mouth and do your bit towards promoting the urband legend of the straight male species being an insensitive self-absorbed bunch of coots who'd rather watch cricket while intently scratching their crotches than acting their age or agreeing emotions aren't necessarily drunken hallucinations or excuses for sex, you unclam against your will and end up saying it all even if you're saying nothing at all.

Boot-ie Call

A foot and a sole in a shoe

Grappling for space, didn't know what to do.

Said the foot, 'Fold that sole!'

Said the sole, 'Can't you shoo?'

Size nine fetished feet in the shoe.

There are some shoes you need a Prince Charming to come and put on your feet. Then there are those for which you willingly kick Prince Charming out of the way, because dammit, you know a sole mate when you see one!

Ah, Anthony, whoever you are, you sure know what I want in a shoe.

Rama

The perfect man is loyal,

Never cruel or mean.

He's completely honest,

And he always thinks you're lean.

He helps old people across the road

In him you can always confide.

As for reciprocating trust, well,

There's nothing he'll ever hide.

The perfect man loves children,

He doesn't mind their snot and goo.

He'll do everything it takes to prove

He's hopelessly in love with you.

He would never make you cry

Or fight for longer than a day...

Bloody hell with this rotten poem

The perfect man is CLEARLY gay.

God's In His Heaven

Okay, I know I've made rational speeches before, but forget them all, because yes, yes, yes, I DO believe in love at first sight and I've flipped harder than I've ever flipped for anyone ever before! My heart literally filled up till it burst out my body and soared away into the stratosphere - oh God, that smile!!!! I'd do anything to see that smile!! And when a warm hand latched onto my foot, by God all I wanted to do was stop in the road and hug the little schmudlum while 'Happily ever after' played in the background!! I've never exclamated this much about anyone in my life - but sigh - I'm so completely in love, I can barely put a sentence together, let alone a paragraph.

I've wanted to kidnap every kid I ever see, but this one - ah, she practically kidnapped me. In vain did I point her home and go 'Mummy ke paas nahi jaana aapko?,' she just grinned up at me and giggled an angel's giggle running down the road and gesturing 'Chalo, chalo!' hands on hips, knowing I was entirely her slave already. In vain did Tulsi tell me I didn't have a house, let alone place to keep a child - the kid and I were already acting like lovesick don't-separate-us types.

When her mom finally caught up with us three roads later, the kid chortled and pointed at us while her mom gave us strange looks. 'Woh vaapas nahi ja rahi thi,' I tried telling her, but given the adoration in my eye, I doubt she believed me. She said bye with so much joy, all the while refusing to move, my heart broke in a zillion pieces. I'm still totally grinning and I told Tulsi two second later, 'I miss her!'

This is one time I'll happily become a lovestruck stalker. 

Wanted

Much as I can never get out of any closet, particularly one with incredible clothes, I've to admit it - I'm gay, I like men.* In fact, hell, I don't understand straight men, particularly those that say they love women and will do anything to make them happy. I'll say one thing; they've a lot more patience than I do. Which brings me to my favourite funny from this week.

Why are lesbian relationships so complicated?

'Cos even women don't know what we want!**

I was asking Smruthi today and being the wise little oomphudum she is, she said with sage-like composure and no hesitation at all that what we wanted was attention. I was all, 'Oh my God, you're so wise, marry me!' before I realized wait.... there's no challenge there at all!

Then I heaved a giant sigh for the brave souls that come my way. All I know is what I don't want. Hands up, who knows what they do?

*Oh hey, free plug, Chennai Pride 2009. Apparently homosexuality isn't entirely abacharam anymore, Shiva Shiva. I hope you got the Shiva Shiva pun. If not, I can elaborate, in graphic detail. Ping me ;)

**Bet you wish that funny poll to the side of my blog wasn't closed now. 

Thank God it's Friday!

Ei so much I wanted to write about ya. But meanwhile, hehehe, this made me giggle, so here it is. Sauce and.... paneer pakkoda I think. Or potato wedges. Picture captured by a drunk Mellu and made near human again by my expert photo-editing skills.

I decided I like the blurrrrr heart better than a perfect heart so I let the wrrrshtoo effect stay. Ok, that's all folks! 

Pakao II

I'm ignoring work and all to post this subah subah for bebbis. I lurve you way too much, babe.

See what they mean about Scorpios cooking for cameras? If anyone suggests it's Google Image Searched, I'll find the bowl (still at more or less 3 degrees mind you) and chuck it at your head.

Pakao!

From Ocean Park manchurian on Saturday to climaxing over a rooftop momos-and-pakoda dinner Sunday, dinner out Monday and Tuesday and cooking desserts Wednesday, this week's been an unexpectedly orgasmic culinary experience. No faking. Which leads me, inevitably, to this highly scientific bunch of insights on zodiac cooking.

Capricorn: Capricorns cook like cavemen, basic, wholesome, food that does the trick. With typical chauvinism, the men find it a novelty, but stick to salads (and thank God for that). 

Pisces: With their unending capacity to surprise, Pisceans put all they don't put in their relationships into the food they create. A Piscean cooking for you practically amounts to foreplay.

Aries: Aries cook like roadside vendors, exciting but not exotic, and stuff you'd always want to eat - though they rarely offer unless you're on the road with them. Rite of passage.

Taureans: Incredibly comforting sickbed food, Taureans really know how to cook like assistant chefs - chef food being arrogant and showy, assistant chef's food is always the actual best.

Gemini: How can I put this. Better left ordered in. They don't enjoy cooking except once in a rare while, and it shows.

Cancer: Ah, when Cancerians cook, they probably guilt the onion into crying. Food served by them is a martyred affair that quite kills any potential enjoyment from the food itself, much as they'd like to think they're good cooks.

Leo: I adore Leo cooking. It's such an unexpected thing for them to do well, and it's an immense high having a Leo deign to cook for you.

Virgo: Virgos all cook like mommies. It's the best food in the world and to a Virgo, what matters is that you enjoy their food, so you can pretty much call it the way you want it and slurp your way to their proud epiphany.

Libra: Librans cook like Gandhiji only, Dandi. And you'd better hope they don't accidentally knick themselves with the kitchen knife or that's the last you'll see of that meal.

Scorpio: Scorpios cook like they're being taped for some exclusive cooking show. Frankly, for us, the process ends when the food's served, not when we've burped over it.

Saggitarius: Very self-sufficient cooking. They cook like their bloody faces, like it or leave it, and usually, it's really tempting to just leave it 'cos it's stuff only they'd eat. 

PS: My mom's a Virgo and my brother's a Taurean. Plus, I live with a Leo :)

Once upon a time

Men & Their Balls

All these years, feminists have thought sex was all there was on men's minds - but recent trends suggest to me their obsession isn't with sex, but with balls. I mean, where in the world would you find women huddling together to watch other women run aimlessly up and down giant fields with sundry miscellaneous equipment designed to better facilitate the movement of their, cough, balls? And yet, we see this actually constitutes entertainment in a man's world.

Throwing them through hoops, kicking them into goals, hitting them into wickets... we thought it was Freudian, all this, but what if the converse is true? I haven't a skirt short enough to prove it at the moment given how much weight (I think or otherwise) I've put on, but I do believe if it was a choice between their balls seeing some action and watching other men's balls on action on screen, I'd have more chance of being laid by a straight nun past menopause, short skirt or no short skirt.

Famines and droughts wiped out civilizations, IPL may just end ours if men can't take their eyes off the screen long enough to dutifully procreate.

Come back

Mama Me-a?

Have you noticed married women are more annoying than single women? See, they know they don't get to randomly hit on everyone anymore, and all that built up sexual tension gets them randy enough to jump their man till they get pregnant - and when they have kids, duuude, forget about it, they just metamorphise into shrill whiney screechy monsters who're pissed at the world because they can't erase the stretch marks away.

Plus, now that they've an excuse for all the weight they can put on, they just become bitchier than ever, while society says, 'Yeah, okay, they just pushed something the size of Akshaya's mouth out their vaginas' (now there's a pretty image) so they don't just lock them away in a sanotarium where they probably belong since they're clearly not contributing to society meaningfully being far too decibally strengthened.

Case in point: Jahangir. He married thousands of women and they all gave him kids. Then he married Mehrunissa Aunty, and fell in love - 'cos she just refused to give birth to his kids! It must have been a fun game 'Whee, stick in, stick out, anything popping out of you? No? Try again!' Just like a kid with a debit card but no pin number at an ATM. 

Now that I've been my usual chauvinist sexist self, a nod towards feminism - whether they're banging their husbands or ejecting their sons, women, poor dears, are probably just thinking, 'God, get that pokey thing the fuck out of me!'

Battling the Zodiac: Scorpio Style

When you fight with a Capricorn:

Capricorn: You have done more than enough damage to my ego, I think. I shall just leave.

(A minute passes.)

Scorpio: Jaan, if you wanna block me, you should block me across all your messengers or it won't be any use telling me you've left.

When you fight with a Piscean:

Pisces: You're... you're such a... tease! And a motherly figure! You just like provoke men and then you... you baby them! And then you just ignore them 'cos you've never taken any notice of ANYone but yourself, you're a self-contained frigid bitch.

Scorpio: Ok, how can I POSSIBLY be all of that together child? Do you want to pick one?

Pisces then proceeded to - I kid you not - twist my hand and sprain it. 

When you fight with an Arian:

Scorpio: I hate you! Just, like, go away and never come back.

Aries: Okay, take care. Oh, and for how long shall I stay away?

When you fight with a Taurean:

Taurus: You think I'm bullheaded? You're a frikkin insect!

Scorpio: Lol. Chillax.

Taurus: You suck man.

Taurean freezes Scorpio out for a maximum of two days.

Taurus: Ok man I fucked up. Pissed?

Scorpio: Now I am.

Taurus: C'mon babe, don't be like that. I'm sorry, I'm an idiot, I suck.

When you fight with a Cancerian:

Cancer: Hi! What's new.

Scorpio: Not much man, life's fairly boring. Oh but I got a new (proceeds to talk for half an hour interrupted by sniffs and sighs). So sup!

Cancer: (Hearty sniff) You never tell me anything!

Scorpio: What? But, I... okay, let me think. Meanwhile, how are you?

Cancer: (in tones of great joy) Hurt! And sick! And I'm always the only one thinking about our relationship!

(Next day)

Cancer: Isn't it great how we never fight no matter what? Let's always stay this way!

When you fight with a Virgo:

Virgo: Ok, I'm off, byeeee.

Scorpio: You're done being pissed at me kya?

Virgo: No time now. Bye.

When you fight with a Saggitarian:

Saggi: (Insert deeply libelous thought that makes Scorpio wail her eyes out)

Saggi: Awww, you know I love you. I was just kidding. Come here.

Scorpio: Right. (Giggles). You love me.

Saggi: You're always like this!! Everything's just a joke to you!

I don't have memorable fights with the remaining signs. 

Marry Me?

Yes, Rakhee Aunty looks like she could well have been a man in this lifetime before she underwent a sex-change operation that didn't enable the most subtle transitioning. Yes, her biceps would make Arnold pee his pants; and if those lips pouted any more, goldfish would keel over. The tattoo is prisonlike, and the ghoonghat makes her look more like a eunuch than ever.

Nonetheless, duuuude, hosting a swayamwar for yourself on national television, man, I SO want to be in her shoes! (Not her bra though. I think the shoes should cover it. Pun intended if you get it, sod you if you don't.) Getting back to the point I'm sure you thought I'd abandoned back there, that is EXACTLY the kind of exhibitionism that would satisfy my incredibly yadda-ya soul! Plus, the clothes, and the jewelry, and the, the, the, yay. Man, she totally stole my marriage's thunder. 

Plus, I am so pure like Sita. Can I help it if I think Rama was quite a prick with the whole agni pariksha bit? I think it was Sita's problem really for testing the totally wrong things. I'd have looked for bank balance, car, house, mother and father (both dead preferably), and fertility, minus AIDS. And also, I think, sexual orientation, because the Perfect Man being straight? Hah. Dream on. 

Some More of the Potato Pie

Live action, but struck me as so funny I had to throw it in as  a sequel to my last post:

M: Unwaba is this all omniscient chameleon

A: repeat that in English for me please, I'm purely decorative. 

My Venn-Pongal Chakra-Mittai Boy <3

After forty-six appearances on my status message, I figured he deserved a blog post. Give it up for the African stringbean and the many profound things I inspire him to say!

'If you insist on spouting crap early in the morning, you'd do all a favour by going to the toilet.'

'Such is the cupid's handiwork, deplorable no?'

'A synopsis of a porn movie? Sure you can handle all the deviously concocted plot twists and turns?'

'You vent too articulately.'

Let's not forget that I'm capable of producing some mighty fine dialogues myself, inspired by him of course.

'Pretty please with sugar on top and an evil bitch thrown in.'

'You-u-u lurrrrrve me!'

'Life's a sexually transmitted disease, and some people are gross mutations. Yes, you.'

Of course, my favorite is what happens when we put him and me together.

Now be a good little girl and sleep tonight or Santa won't come a-visiting.

That dirty old man, I'll sit on his lap and he'll come alright.

 

Ei does your happiness lie in mine or not?

Not particularly not. Not even metaphorically.

Oh well. Suck balls.

Ah, but then you presume your happiness lies in my mouth.

And the counter-argument to that:

 My happiness just doesn't matter to you no.

Look. Who's. Typing.

Of COURSE your happiness doesn't matter to me, but what about my happiness huh?

Ah, Screw It.

There's something clearly wrong with a nation when the categories on their sex story site read 'Anal/Kinky,' 'Gay/Lesbian,' 'Injury,' 'Intoxicated,' 'Sad,' 'Virginity,' and, my personal giant turn-off though this could just be me, 'Vomit/Poo/Pee.' Reaffirms your faith in the good ol' nosher, what?

Six American Pies and several Scary Movies later, the world realizes that Americans are not intelligent enough to 'just do it,' and that they get their haha's from people banging into walls, into cars, and the like; preferably while they're in the process of getting banged. Har. I get the joke.

How many ways can you fuck up fucking? The problem, it seems, is there are far too many holes on the female body (not even counting the piercings) - no wonder most men would rather get a blow job, it's such an OBVIOUS hole. 

Shwetha and I concluded that the job's simple enough with the dick and the hole, the problem is when you're with an asshole (and we mean that in an overall sense not in an anatomical sense.) We also figured this is probably what's deterring the Indian Government from embracing (haha) homosexuality - they're worried assholes will be involved (with no disrespect meant to gay men 'cos hey, we wouldn't want to be with a female either).

One more Amen, with an appadi podu on top. Which, if you think of it, is how we do it in namma naatu.  

Things to Do in Kolkata

- Wander around with your luggage on your back. This will cause the locals to think you're a firang prostitute with next to no worldly belongings and they'll kindly guide you to roadside motels to eat for really cheap rates.

 

- Go round and round open-to-the-forty-degree-sun pavement 'malls' in the middle of the day buying nothing but ogling what can only be described as a shiva-shiva outfit with - I kid you not - a whip. (Do I need to add here 'I wannnnnnt!' or is it implied?)

- Ignore all the cheap shops you just wandered around, saunter into Pantaloons JUST because they'll confiscate your luggage, and then throw a fit when they refuse to keep it for you!!! Who shops one-handed??

- Decide you MUST visit Moulin Rouge... and end up pole dancing outside the bar when you finally get there 'cos dude noone was getting any action otherwise.

- Zigzag across chops and puchka shops on either side of Behala with Moam giving you astute instructions such as 'Don't get killed!' while you comparison shop between 1 rupee and 3 rupee chops.

- Decide you HAVE TO eat at EVERY place on Park Street on ONE night even if it takes you all NIGHT - and it very nearly did.

- Go to Fluries.... yes the place given the MTV Lycra style awards... and enter and exit forty seven times in rapid succession because you want to capture the first 'oooh!' moment as the doorman watches in amazement.

- Peeeeter Cat! I'm too choked with emotion to proceed. Yes. Go to Peter Cat. You may want to take a minute to point at Saurav's on the opposite side of the road and laugh a mean laugh. We did.

- Dinner parties at IIM with celeb profs, fifth standard games, ninth standard flirting,oh man, I'm all emotional now. Why did we come back to Hellabad again? =(