What Not To Write When You Write About What Should Have Happened Four Years Ago
Saturday, May 06, 2017
A disclaimer before you begin reading this- I'm at an all time high. Endorphins are fucking amazing; you know what they say, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Channelizing my inner Kelly Clarkson just this minute.
During my last bout of PMS, I attempted a whole bunch of things. Some of these amazing things include yelling at people (who I brush shoulders with on day to day basis), eating a fuck tonne of crap (pretty usual), crying with swollen eyes and then some more, flaking on all my pencilled plans, deleting Tinder. Just the kind of things a boring ass individual such as yours truly is capable of.
At some point, in the midst of aforementioned fauxticle, I found the time to crap on another one of my pages. I ranted, almost cried my heart out. Concluded that writing with a list I'd like to achieve. Ofcourse, now that I'm about three odd weeks away from my period, I find that list insane irrational. No way in hell can I read 150 books starting now till December. It's like writing to finish PhD from May to June, 2017.
Although, that's a more realistic goal than the ones I listed. For an instance, "Eating healthy and losing 15 kilos." (hahaha what?). I'd burn Bridget Jones down if she were in New Delhi, for giving me a visual memory of an unattainable blogger/writer goals. Have your heart broken, eat out of plastic and proceed to lose weight (or at least plan to).
As Winter makes way for Spring, my PMS moved out in time to accommodate my bleeding uterus (poetic-fuck yeah I should be a published author now-hells yeah-where my homies from Random Penguin at).
I digress. But somewhere between my PMS and period, I learnt about seven friends moving to different times. This when I have fucking ten friends.
Which means, in the next quarter of this year, I will be left with no one in the city. Sinner's already moved to 'gaon, Madeline, K, AJ- these guys are moving out to the UK. eM is in New York, and mostly off the radar. I'm quite literally left with nobody in Delhi.
That hit me close home.
To compensate for the friends leaving, I decided to pick up a talent. Such as, run for ten seconds without feeling the need to look for Oxygen cylinder. It's a fucking achievement because I hit 16 seconds without dying.
When I did actually run the idea with Bum she was kicked. Which, if you know Bum, is an oddity. In the last six years of knowing her, she's never (willingly) agreed to any workout regime/suggestion.
Here's what you need to know about Bum- She loves food. Loves to the point that I found it hard to believe that she left food to go on a Ketogenic diet. She lost over ten kilos and many inches in no time. That's the kind of dedication we are talking about.
I, on the other hand, come from a school of thought where I'd like a slice of pizza to accompany a giant pack of fries, on my third day to workout because I'm craving it.
Between her and I, and Fergie (because t-t-t-t-t-tasty, tasty) we are quite a duo to be watched at a public gym. Bum has fucking brilliant insight into how to utilize the space, and I return the favour by reciting her things that go on this page (and their consequences). She's off social media and the rest, so I literally take saved memes to her face and ask her to react.
Yeah, I should be more exhausted than what I am now. But then again, I don't want to mourn about my friends leaving this hard. Or for my feeble heart. Or for the lack of having had momos in the last two weeks at least.
Life's hard. Working out is harder. Awaiting MFail Viva is the hardest.
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