Prose before hos

I wonder

If you tell your friends that you miss me

Or that if they ask you to stop and focus on your work, your job

—wait, that's why you called it off, right? You were finding it hard to focus a night before

I wonder if you remember my quirks. The Oscars are tomorrow

I will watch all the films I possibly can, and complain that people in the theatre lack etiquette

Will you remember that the two Award functions last year and one this year were fucked?

I remember your level of interest. You followed up more

than my boss and me combined on what caused it— I wish I could go back in time and bottle that concern

I'd unpack the care, the curiosity and the interest on a night like this

I don't suppose you wonder if I miss you

It's easier to convince oneself that the other person is a villain because you are tired of waiting for a sign,

a relic that breathes life into your dead relationship, other than wonderment

Then why do I sit every hour, between get together, engagement parties, long car rides and catch-ups with friends and cousins alike

Why do I ponder if you ever found the peace you were craving or the answers you were seeking

What broke it and what was it?

I wonder if you have palpitations when you get sick,

I keep thinking that there's some other pain other than the matters of the heart and that despite struggling to breathe, this is easier to get through

I don't have to remember you not being there when I was sick last,

or you pushing me away when you were sick last

I wonder whether you've already forgotten everything and me;

Did you cage the memories or pack them and stored away like everything that makes you uncomfortable

I wonder if you perceive me differently now? How did you perceive me? Is that negotiable? If so, I'd like to be remembered as someone who tried with all her heart and might

I wonder if you think of me and wish for things to go back, on a plucked eyelash

The grapes under the table were treacherous this year— it's been a sinking, losing downward battle in every way

I wonder if you were always intending to run away and it was your curiosity about me that kept you here

I wonder if you know this is about you. Everything has been about you, how we started and how we parted

I don't suppose we'll cross roads again, but if we do, I hope we think of each other as fondly as we once did on that cold winter night when I thought to myself, he's nothing like anyone I've ever met

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, by Snobster

2025, you fucking suck

I don't think I need to wait any longer to announce— 2025 has sucked dead monkey balls.

I used to think the year my grandparents died respectively were possibly the toughest years of my life. I don't quite remember the years exactly but losing two grandparents in the years when I was a teenager shaped a big part of my life outside school, and probably inside there too. By the end of it, I was counting days for school to end and to start a new life. Then, it hit again, in 2020. I lost my grandfather among other things including full-time employment.

Then, why is it that I'm equating a year like 2020 when the shit hit the roof with one like this? Half a decade ago, I knew this career option was closing in on me and ending and yet, the grief was short-term. Why me and what did I do to deserve this? Today, there is grief- long-standing, physically painful and mentally given up.

In a lot of ways, I see patterns repeating from 2019-'20 in my life today, there is an ending in the corner. One with this job, with the career I nurtured and the person I became. I'm probably mourning all of it while balancing the pain of coping through the trauma these have afflicted. The employment situation has let me down tremendously. A gross act of betrayal, if and when I get the courage to open this pandora's box. I haven't spoken to my therapist in months and I suspect the day I do, I'll probably be referred to a psych and depression medicines because we anticipated I'll reach here and in a way, my worst fears have become my very reality.

Sooner or later, this trickles into personal life as it did over the last few years. First there were friends, then there were dates, then the hobbies, everything has seen the exit in me trying to survive this shitshow. I live with a constant headache, my mouth parched and tears swelling my eyes at all times. I don't deserve this. I deserve to be happy.

The other day I got to a point of trying to have a day dream, what would my perfect day look like.

I couldn't.

I couldn't come up with visuals, words, images. Imagination was lost on me. I just couldn't get myself to think what would a day look like when I'm truly happy and genuinely enjoying myself. Clearly, shopping myself out of grief has stopped working. Buying 3 gold bracelets, a book, a flower subscription and taking myself for desserts and films has done nothing for me in the last 30 days.

I wonder if the girl at 15 who felt she had no plan in the future or no clue how to live her life would be scared to see where she is at 33 or be proud that we survived. I had hope in all those shitty years, hope that life looks better and gets better, and it truly did.

For some reason, life feels out of hope.

All of this, I was able to put forth with a single kernel of thought—VH1 is shutting down.

Last year, on my birthday vacation, I checked myself into a room in the seedy tropics and watched MTV on repeat high out of my mind. I drank Pepsi Blue, survived cramps after edibles and ate on the bed like no tomorrow, all because I could see MTV back to back.

Somehow everything going to shit in the last 60 days or so didn't break me down enough to write about it all, till VH-1's departure did.

VH-1 was my ride or die through school. I saw it knowing I've an ailing grandparent at home. I saw it through my well earned study breaks and felt I belonged in a world different from the one I was physically living in. It gave me hope in my darkest days at the time.

And today, it's probably the last nail in the coffin of me feeling hopelessly alone and tirelessly worn out. Instead, those who brought me here won this round.

Somehow everything about this job and state of affairs feels eerily similar to school, politics and tenth grade bullshit. I am reminded of living life through the lens of playing minesweeper with my academics and people I was forced to reckon with. None of it feels remotely safe or nurturing except being at home and placed in front of the TV set. Admittedly, there's no VH-1 but there is that telly, there is a sofa set and thar's probably the only thing keeping me going.

These two months have been the hardest I've dealt with so far, to the point I can see it greying and slowing me down. My metabolism is at an all time low and the fight to survive is dead.

Most days I've thought of dark things, of easy ways out of this misery and then numbing myself and those thoughts with a mindless purchase or deep endless scroll in the pits of the internet. I've stooped low and I know what it's like so I know I'm scratching the rock bottom and asking for help, I'm knocking the thin covering and begging myself to be taken out of this cause there's only so much I can take in the name of doing the right thing and waiting for results to take shape.

First step to recovery is admitting you need help. Here I am.

2025 you suck balls and I will need all the help I can to survive and outlast you.

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, by Snobster

In anxiety, convent school girls

Que sera, sera

The first time I heard someone sing and play Que sera, sera was in our school's music room. A tiny, damp, stinking cubicle with no utilities, we were made to sit on the ground and the lyrics for the new hymn would be on the board before we could settle inside. In a year, we probably learned 5 new hymns, even if we had a music class once every week. For one, the teachers would frequently resign, and when we did have the staff, some other teacher would take that class to finish their respective syllabi.

The music room itself is another story. The board was cracked and overused; you could smell feet and heaps of carpets, leaving little scope for learning after countering the olfactory instinct to throw up.

Yet, Que sera, sera was etched in my mind. As was Iko Iko. Two tracks I learnt at school. The most memorable of them all— one of the many—this music teacher was a young man from Goa, who was instrumental in getting the school to win prizes for several competitions for years. Despite that, he had little interest in nurturing any talent. Sure, he taught when he wanted to and passionately at that; but having the music room next to the most strict nun's room wasn't helpful in nurturing any wunderkind. I recall him calling her names and making the kids laugh. Probably his biggest contribution to junior school (aka my batch) was that he was sternly against the management, perhaps because he abhorred authorities.

In years to come, when I left school with half-baked bass lessons and got shortlisted to play for college in the year first year, I thought about my time at school a lot. My friends and others who I played with, had been taught. Their parents paid for lessons over the years and the other pals had attended institutions where the school paid attention to teaching music, or well, attempting to hone the skill. I lacked it all, but it was probably intent that put me on equal footing with the folks I met.

A few years after college, I learned that a senior who had become a prominent figure in music, had forged a sort of relationship (professional definitely, personal probably) with the erstwhile music teacher from Goa. He was, now, older and uglier but certainly full of talent. Cause why else would an impressionable young girl form an alliance with him. She was all sorts of popular in school and later in life too. One of those who don't stop peaking till they die kind.

As life goes, she ends up marrying someone else. Traded the mic for an editor in chief role at a top music publication in the country, ditched the old music teacher (or whatever happened between them god knows) but basically she was out with the old and in with the new. It was magnetic, her new vibe. Everything about her screamed a makeover and the teacher? He was lost in oblivion.

I don't know what propelled me to think about him yesterday, but I found him on gram. Complete with a story on how it's great to be single as an artist (it really isn't but sure), he's teaching/performing in Goa. I don't know what was I expecting, googling an old teacher after over 20 years but he was there. Performing Hindi covers, something I could not ever imagine him doing, at various resorts and hopping from venue to venue (to cover rent? alcohol?) doing the same thing. His old crew with the school senior abandoned (or did he abandon them?) and he found a new way of life in the new music; the kind I could never expect him to do.

Since yesterday, I hovered to his account several times trying to make sense of what is it that really changed. Did I imagine the whole music class experience with him as a fever dream or did he really change as well with the time? I wish I didn't think of these things in the middle of the day as I counter anxiety hourly. Or that, every step we take changes the course of our life. If my parents had put me to a school where they focused on music, I'd be a music journalist today; if I hadn't swiped right on my last boyfriend, I wouldn't have rebounded with the present one.

The future is always ours to see, only if we take accountability towards goddamn action.

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, by Snobster

In Bumpin That, corporate hos

Last minute rush

A few weeks ago, I (thought) I'd disabled this page and the last entry was in the same vein. Of course, women in stem had a late realisation that not only is this page active but that very embarrassing last post is fucking public.

Since then I've had a few life-altering things go down, including, but not limited to—

Seeing Dua Lipa live. I might swing the other way if she's an option

Hating carpeted hotel rooms. I don't know but it's finally happened

Pav Bhaji. Don't understand the fuss (anymore)

Embracing obesity. It's not bad when you accept you'll never fit in your hot clothes again

Accepting passive behaviour in relationships, it is what it is sorta thing

Baking cake(s) once every week, to have some semblance of control over my life, that nothing else seems to give besides baking

Cutting friends loose. Long incoming, so long

Smoking up with vertigo is a terrible idea

Getting stuck in a corset in a trial room is a worse idea

Understanding that promotion has nothing to do with your desire, effort, hard work, and capability. Everything boils down to circumstances, how liked you vs the other person and the budget allocation

It's not personal until your boss feels it is personal

Mad Men has aged well but is still a heartbreaking show to re-watch. 10/10 recommended while moaning and whimpering about the Winter rains in the city

Texting someone you once dated isn't the worst idea, as long as you keep it to non-verbal meme exchange

Wondering if I can truly be just friends with someone I once loved or still do. It's a difficult prospect but life doesn't always (or ever) swing the way you want and losing some people is harder than losing others

Watching your parents grow old is an uncontrollable, deeply upsetting and isolating thing that no one should have to go through alone but some of us have to

Accepting that there will be days you'll be sick in hospital alone and nobody will come rescue you because you chose your cards that way

Astrologers are always a bad fucking idea. Spend money on green

Some people moved from Olivia Rodrigo to Sabrina Carpenter while I moved from Sabrina Carpenter to Taylor Swift to Charli XCX to Billie Eilish and it is okay to guess the colour of underwear

F1 stops being fun when your favourite driver is thrown out mid-season

You feel like a child of divorce when you watch your other favourite driver and favourite team part

To more shitty realisations, next year.

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, by Snobster

In break up, my boy only breaks his favourite toys

Things that I would tell you, if we spoke like usual

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, by Snobster

In anger, dating's a losing game

Foam

I need to absorb my anger, I need to grow out of blaming people for what they've put me through and instead, look outwards and onto new things.

Resentment has defined the tonality of my relationships—nearly each important person in my life and I've had a moment of bitterness (a moment only if we're lucky) but it is transcending onto something stronger and I can feel it in my bones, burning.

It's trauma, it's a whole pile of shit that I've balanced for far too long and everything is coming down.

You know what's worse? It's all falling down to the tune of the least inconvenient bit, the one that is supposed to make no difference. I suppose the most silent farts are the smelliest so that's that. I'm currently in a room of rotting relationships, each worse than the last.

My heart bleeds when I think of where I am and how I've come here but I don't know how else to be. It'd be like doing a disservice to myself if I fake being okay with things or people or circumstances. Unfortunately, it boils over when I'm PMSing so I guess we knew today was going to be a day.

I don't know but something about being the person I was last year makes me miss myself the most. I was heartbroken and deeply sad but not angry. I was not reactive nor was I acting out of uncontrollage rage and pure hatred. I was operating from a space of tender love, care, thought and detail.

In a year, I've traded everything for anger. I've cut relationships, some important and most trivial without a thought, I'm in process of writing others out. In the last one month I've met so many people who probably did very little to irk me in the past and it made me realise how my anger got the better of me then to cut myself out and hideout. Today, when I look back at them, I see what I'm doing, but the best part is, I'm unable to stop myself. It's like participating in arson when you're in a burning house yourself. Let me burn some sage, why not keep myself warm in the midst of fire— like I can see I'm self-destructive and yet I'm on it.

This morning, I was burning with seething passion and trying my best to keep it in. I don't even know why, but I think this journey will last me a lifetime, everything I experienced through the 1.5 hour ride. Not a moment of it felt normal. Everything felt stretched and loud and I would wipe the whole experience if I could but I lived with it and everything reminded me of a time from last year that I wouldn't want to be in.

It's a loop, I get angry when I reach out and I don't get the response I am expecting, I cut people, I self isolate, I get angry when people reach out and I don't give the response people deserve and then I self-isolate out of hatred to myself. I lose in both scenarios, except in one I drive myself to anger and in the other to insanity.

I need to whack my uterus out of my body so I can feel like myself but I guess it'll take it's time. How many good fertile years do I even have in me now? 10 at best? Do I have to nurture this rage until then? I'll lose my whole fucking mind.

Anyway, the bloat and the medicines might kill me before so either way, it's an angry road to hell and I'm running to it.

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, by Snobster

In baddies get saddies, love and forgiving

Post-nap, Pre-bed sedatives

Feels like 90s supermodel in my head; strike a pose

Milk Chocolate Matte > Nutmeg Lips > Candy Kisses > Stolen and sloppy

What would Ghungroo have been like and would I have probably met the love of my life there, or would I have gone there post-divorce? Should I run a google search to understand the interiors so I can imagine that solo-fantasy land better?

Would have been a different life if my parents were the socialising kind and would do Ghungroo dates instead of cheesy, intimate shit they did

Should I convert ~~letters to him~~ journal into a web series skeleton? Who will play me? Ugh, I hope it's not a moral lesson on being fat and being in love with yourself because nobody including myself is in love with me. Ugh.

Man, how do I break the ice? Should I even break the ice? Is he genuinely sick of me or what the fuck? Should I ask him? I don't want to be an ass.

A warm touch of nutmeg coloured lips on the cheek, kissing me, an expired bath-oil fragrance that I hunt for in every person's touch and rarely ever find in my comfort zone

Old houses in South Delhi, comforting to know love exists even when people cease to

Liquid eyeshadow triumps all but my eyes have aged, I can feel it when I use make-up

Almost don't want to use make-up cause I can feel I have aged, with the skin really not behaving the way I'd like to

What happened to Natasha Singh and why didn't anyone write scathing pieces on the people who compelled her to do what she did and why did they instead hyperfixate on an SSR to the point it made me want to give up on the internet?

Why and how have I sucked at F1 fantasy this bad?

What did I have to google?

Why do I think the birthday gift I got is kinda lame and shitty. UGH.

WHY AM I ACTUALLY BROKE THIS MONTH AND HOW DID I SHOP LIKE THIS TO BE AT A POINT WHERE I OWE MY PARENTS MONEY AND HAVE MORE EXPENSES LINED UP?

What do I wear to my old school friend's wedding? I can't believe she invited me, what a doll.

Ugh, can't believe my friend from college turned out to be a sour puss. Wonder what everyone's wearing at the wedding?

Ugh, do I have anyone from college in my life besides Sinner? How have I become the Anurag Kashyap of my group when everyone has Barjatya lifestyle?

Shaloo is a dumb name but Sheetal is a pretty name.

I wonder if kids with the name "Shit" are bullied at school?

Why do I think of my school so often?

Sister Joyce telling me, "your eggs are flying" will never not be legendary. Especially around Easter.

Should I crash without wiping my make-up off and brushing my teeth? I'm sick and not like my boyfriend is caressing me to sleep so I need to look good in my comatose after-life.

That 5 pm nap was solid but waking up to a dry phone was like someone shot me in my head, unannounced. Bet Mr G felt the same way.

I'll miss my sister and I barely spent any time with her.

I barely did anything except be fucking sick and give everyone a scare about my health.

I should sleep.

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, by Snobster

Pages

Prose before hos

I wonder

2025, you fucking suck

Que sera, sera

Last minute rush

Things that I would tell you, if we spoke like usual

Foam

Post-nap, Pre-bed sedatives

About the Author

Lurk Here

Pages

Prose before hos

I wonder

2025, you fucking suck

Que sera, sera

Last minute rush

Things that I would tell you, if we spoke like usual

Foam

Post-nap, Pre-bed sedatives

About the Author

Lurk Here

Hos in Different Area Codes

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