Beware. Red Whine ahead

Sunday, August 21, 2011


Two glasses of wine and pizza slices down, I'm sad. No Eudaimonia in my life. Boo.



My dream job position is open and fuck, I'm not a graduate yet. Also, my alcohol intake has considerably reduced. Rash is haunting my life and I'm not suppose to drink but I had red wine. Does that make me a bad person? Ethically? My ethics are not my..Um fuck that.

Reproducing here are series of texts exchanged between me and a HighClassMate (you'll know why).

HighClassMate:
Bottega Veneta invites you to view its Fall Winter 2011 collection over Cocktails on August 18th, 5:3o at it's exclusive boutique at DLF Emporio. Please be my guest.

Snobster:
Is this a joke?

HighClassMate:
No loser... M serious...

Snobster:
Dude. Um I don't have clothes good enough for emporio.

HighClassMate:
My Masi d channelizing their new gold clutch... So it's over a cocktail ...But... Clothes have to be good .. There will be a class out there....

HighClassMate:
*is into

Snobster:
Ohho. :D till what time will it go on and who all are coming?

HighClassMate:
No clue about the time...Maybe late... But since mom is coming from Meerut we she would reach early... Crowd would be good...

Snobster:
Acha. I've doctor's appointment for rash at *insert super-speciality hospital's name* tomorrow at 4:3o. If I'm able to wriggle out early, I'll wear something chic and join you. Can we come late also?

HighClassMate:
Ya.. I will msg u what's the scene when u reach ..

Snobster:
:)


You see? This is what my life has been reduced to. Text messages that make my day, give me a good laugh and I can use :casm font. Yet, people are stupid enough to think I'm serious. Fuck, there's something wrong with me.

You know, sadness descends when you're birthday is in 3 weeks (or whenever, basically soon) and you are not kicked. I'm turning 2o. The big 2-o. I can't blame things on my hormones. I'm still dependent on my folks, financially and I can't wait to earn some and move out of here. This is why I'm fucking sad. I live under their roof and I can't do what I wish to. Leave that, I've friends. Yaye. I'm happy. Not.

I get 1oo mails each day from the conversations people make at this college level union thing. Okay, yes, It's an honour to be part of the best liberal arts college in India but fuck. My life is all about answering queries to dumbfucks in college, convincing people to help us out and answer stuff to extra curious kids asking me what option to take as their IDC concurrent. Whatever. Fuck. I don't get paid for this and you know, what I really, really want? I want to sit alone, with a book. Without my phone ringing/people pinging on chat/sms whatever fuck. I want to earn for myself and fend for myself and write till I exhaust myself. I want to cook for myself and do yoga later in the day. Play bass professionally and write music. Someday, hear from one, just one vague person how they look upto me. Okay, no, cancel the last line. I don't want to hear that line because usually it ends at plagiarism. I, too, have such inspirations but I try very hard to not copy them. I look upto them because they've achieved what I aspire to someday. Probably their folks let them have the driver or their friends were not as big selfish piece of crap or probably they didn't have friends and were happy alone, ever after with the cat as their pet and ordering hot dog for dinner.

I want to write and read for the rest of my life without any intervention from humans. Relationships are farce. They're conditioned by people around us ever since we attain consciousness to say that we need to be dependent on someone to be happy, to take care of us and to be with us. NO, damn it, you don't need people to be happy. Whatever happened to good ole loneliness? Solitude? Fuck your ideas of being with someone and living happily ever after. I may suck at personal relationships. I may not be very cordial with my family and I may dislike my sibling for all you care. I'm happy being with myself. Some of the best times I've had are in my own company. You know, when I'm travelling back home from college, I cherish that time. I've far too many people, telling me far too many things that I do are, which are wrong/doesn't make them happy. Fuck, does anyone care what makes me happy? No? No. Exactly, this is why I love being alone, where no one tells me what to do. I do stuff that keeps me cheerful. I read. I sleep. I watch movies and I even end up studying. Fuck your stifled mind.

This goes true even in reverse. I hate when people cling to me, when they text me all the time and when they expect me to reply saying, "I am there for you." No fucker, I am not there for you. I'm there for myself. Selfish reasons. I crave for company, when I'm nervous or slightly agitated. I blow up on people and when they're confessing love for each other, I get the line, "I hate you because I'm scared of you." Very well, why do you bother talking to me in the first place? "I don't like sharing it with you." Very well, why the fuck do you bother telling the antecedent. The problem with human nature is, it slips. It slips in the void of loneliness and craves company. This is where bonds are formed. Sometimes both the sides respond but more often than not, it's only in the head of one side. You conceive beautiful ideas of the parties being together and it doesn't work. You know then what happens?

Then you're sad.

Red wine is wearing off and I'm transcending to reality. Reality, where all I have to look upto is fucking 1ooo mails waiting for me to respond, people I've to be diplomatic with, lecturers I've to answer and students who are ill informed along with hearing from parents, things which are not so pleasant and bear the friends who claim I boss them and I'm a cynical, pessimist and that I suck and that my boobs cover my face. You know what, fuck you all. I really hate you from the fucking core my boobs/heart/over protruding belly/fungal infection ridden, dog poop like feet and ugly fingers.

Damn, I hate my fingers. I've inherited world's ugliest set of fingers from my paternal side. Thick, bobby and clumsy. I picked up bass and I was terribly conscious of my fingers. Still am. To top it all, I had picked up terrible habit of chewing my finger nails. I gave up in 11 grade and had a relapse recently. Not only my fingers hurt but they look so ugly that it makes your mamma look like Miss Asia Pacific. They're thick, like potato wedges. Each time, I pluck the strings, I become terribly conscious of how ugly and fat my fingers are. I was conscious even during my bass lessons and fucked up most of them. Christ, I am sure my teacher believed, he was dealing with a slow learner or someone with mental level same as a gnome. All because of my fingers. I've always hated them and the worst is, the things I do, involve their use. I write, type, play bass- all involving them. One day, I hope, I'm able to give up this, and chewing nails and be less self critical.

As for my birthday is concerned, I want to do what a friend mentioned she would do (but instead ended up having a party where the love of her life profused his love for her infront of all the guests and they're happy ever since. Aw.). I'd roll a joint for myself, get a cupcake (her version had butterscotch pastry) and eat it while getting high on a see-saw. Or a swing, alone. Since her version involved doing the same with her best friend. I'll probably end up attending college (fuck Monday) and hanging out with family and friends at different time with a pasted smile and thanking people over text (since they prefer boring me with fucked up spellings and grammar, not that I'm good at it) and claiming in a sober state, "thank you guys, I love you sooo much."


Now, that the wine has completely wore off, I am guessing, I should dash towards assignments (3 this week). I swear, if I get one more mail on a lame ass thing, I will start to worship Lady Gaga.



You Might Also Like

0 comments

Hos in Different Area Codes

Subscribe

Stalker Count