Prose before hos

Apparently, spending it on a hospital bed with a hyper, frazzled mother is something I did not take into account. Neither did I imagine an arm with infection spreading to my arteries and veins. Guess we can say, what a welcome to the decade that will hopefully see me through my 30s. 

Hope is injurious to health. 

2020, I'm onto you. If you let me, that is. 

"I really think it's a make or break for me the way a guy dresses. I've literally called things off once cause a guy showed up in a green t-shirt."

"What's wrong with a green t-shirt?"

"Nothing's wrong with a green t-shirt and he actually showed up in a nice jacket but then he took it off and there was that eyesore of the t-shirt. It's very hard for me to take anyone seriously in a t-shirt like that. I also can't deal with a badly dressed man. I get your aesthetic and over time if we become friends or whatever I learn to deal with it. But the worst kind of problem is when you like a person's aesthetic and they show up in a terrible outfit. I think it's the easiest way to get over someone. Like this."

"Who is this green t-shirt person?"

"You know, that one."

"I don't know this one."

"Everyone in English speaking world knows of him and this outfit fail. For fuck sake, SSD was there with me and he saw it in person. I'm sure Pantone has the colour of his t-shirt under 'The worst green' and the t-shirt had Taj Mahal. No wait, it didn't have Taj Mahal as it is. It was a face with glasses and you could see the Taj Mahal in it.""

"No man, you didn't tell me."

"He is the same person who sent food for my entire office when we were all working late and everyone around me was head over heels for him except me."

"No idea."

"You know the one who was really nice to me and I was a complete asshole."

"You know you are an assh..."

"Before you say it, can you just say it, 'you're an asshole to every guy who likes you' and please get it out of your system?"

"You're an asshole to every guy who likes you."

"Thanks."

This is as close to a public apology I'm going to get to for our friend in the green t-shirt. I'm sorry for me not reciprocating to your bad memes, advances and efforts. You're a nice guy but only the Dude gets to dress bad and get away with it.



In the meantime, if you hear of a publicist who is willing to take up the role to improve my public profile on how I'm an asshole to one and all (been getting a lot these days), hit me up.

About two months ago, I booked myself a solo trip to the hills. To the ordinary, it may seem like another coping mechanism by an average day job slave. But to those who know me, they were appalled.

"Are you sure you're okay? Do you want to maybe talk about life?"
"Who on Earth is making you travel to the hills? This person must really mean a lot."

Well, technically she does.
D's been ferrying my cosmetics, mists and the sundry for my luxe-life from the Big Apple for the last couple of years. Sinner confused her as my 'school friend'.

Here's what: our foundation for me to travel to the hills goes all the way back to all the food consumed during 5 weeks of having lunch together. She may have been the reason I survived NCR for a month. It doesn't mean a lot yet it does.

I think the idea of travelling for someone no longer goes down well with me. I do it, sure, grudgingly but I can't feign a tiny bit of interest in the same. Naturally, weddings require a lot more effort. As much as I'm willing to put in the effort and time, the deterrent here is the hills.

I mean, I don't think I'll travel for a person anywhere, anymore. And perhaps that's going to cost me my upcoming review and appraisal (if I get out of probation) but no, I shan't do that for anyone or anything.



In a larger scheme of things (as I was told today 'you're not thinking THE BIG PICTURE'), I foresee losing people because of my obstinacy on not travelling for anyone. But I also see this as growth. Not giving a damn and a sense of ownership to my upcoming 30s.

I including 'moving' in the gamut of travelling. Do I allow myself to be moved by people? I would like to think yes. However, I can name people here who would not agree with me. Then again, those are the same people who read this page and I don't want to give them more importance than I do.

Speaking of my hypocrisy, I can't even get myself to travel for myself. I don't know what prevents that, and I have in the past, tried to address it. Yet, I struggle to put words to this situation of helplessness, anxiety and stalling decisions.

Let me give you a background; I'm expected to be on a work trip to a beach town (yay!) when I'm not getting to see the face of the beach whatsoever. Just before that, I sm supposed to be wearing a new Indian outfit to my friend's wedding in 3 degrees, which is this run to the hills trip of a lifetime. As explained in great detail, I'm probably getting out of that only to find myself initiating a plan out of the city with P. Which is also something I have stalled long enough and literally on a deadline. In the meantime, I have solidly dug my grave with a lot of people. Case in point.

Exhibit A.

"Let me know about DDN by Thursday?"

We are supposed to leave on Friday.

On the other hand, I find saying yes to unplanned plans easily.

Exhibit B.

"Hey, want to go to eat turkey tonight?"

"Sure."

(Narrator: no turkey was had. The name of the restaurant is misleading and they serve no turkey.)

Similarly, for the wedding weekend.

Exhibit C.

"Let's hang over dinner this weekend? Let me know asap."

*takes three business days after confirming three other plans and comes back with*

"Yes, let's do Friday night!"

Exhibit D.

"Don't you dare think of cancelling your trip. Go on that train and take pictures and send me some. You'll have fun."

Essentially, business is open for Friday night. I'm all over the place and yet nowhere. Certainly not travelling for anyone and if I do, you are either a terrible decision or a result of one.

Flight attendant: Is there a doctor on this flight?

Dad: *nudging me* that could have been you if you did not spend all that time hating on the right-wing and JNU administration did not fuck your fellowship application over. 

Me: That could have been me if you had completely funded my admission to an Ivy League college as opposed to leaving me to figure my own higher education plans out.

Dad: ...

Me: ...





Yeah, should have thought twice about dropping out of that PhD that my life now resembles a fresh meme format on Twitter.

Couple of years ago, a friend repeated her outfit to recover from her breakup. The sweatshirt became a symbol of her entering into the cold, dreaded winter alone and she wouldn't part with it.

Earlier this year, after the colossal fuckfest of what Bangkok was, I found myself withdrawn and completely resigned to work. I'd hang out with P and ask her,

"Do you think I'll ever be happy again?"

Patiently, she'd tell me, that I would find with me the strength to grow out of this misery.
I recall afternoons of us sitting in the park after lunch, with a bowl of salad and staring into the oblivion. In hindsight, I'm more than grateful to her for being there in silence. It's the most difficult thing to do, to be there for someone, especially when they are trying their best to push you away. Just the sheer of act someone sitting with you in utter silence, that's true love.

We'd get atop this structure and sit cross-legged, only to be told off by random passerby's to dress well. This is the time I'd either show up in fishnets and a skirt with a faux leather jacket or my old college sweatshirt.

If I think about my sweatshirt, I almost never wore it while I was in college. It was thick and shapeless and I hated the design. I only bought it cause everyone was buying it and everyone liked college merch.

Earlier this year, I spent half my time wearing that, even publically, at work, on evening outs, after the workout, sleeping in it. Everywhere, without realizing that I had done that. The first time it hit me is when I was asked out by someone and I was wearing it. I checked myself out in the mirror right before dashing out. I had wrapped a freelance assignment and I hadn't bothered to even comb my hair that weekend. I was in the same thick sweatshirt for 48 hours, with the exception of taking two showers. It was shapeless but for the first time, I found myself looking good in it. Maybe, I had no fucks to give. Maybe, I misjudged the garment.

Safe to say, the sweatshirt was attractive enough for us to see each other again, routinely.

Tide changed.

For the last week, I had been trying to organize my closet and shove Summer outfits in. During the process, I came across the old sweatshirt. Each year, I tell myself that I'll reserve the garment for bedtime and then conveniently forget about it.

However, yesterday, I wore it to work. After months, I found myself resigned about life the way I was earlier this year and had no strength to get out of the bed and change clothes. I forced myself in the shower and grabbed the first thing from the closet.

The damn sweatshirt.

This morning, I spent 20 minutes, coordinating a formal sweater, a pretty hot winter camisole, and skinny jeans to make it look like, a terrible Pearl Jam number. I'm still alive, contrary to what my face says.

The thing with putting together a good outfit is you want to do things at the end of the day and feel good. Let me run you through my good day outfit post work.

I got yelled at by Mia K when I told her I can't decide between buying a pack of cigarettes or a single stick. This went over two phone calls (and a solid 10-minute howl by both her and my dog when we were trying to speak to each other). I came home, ashen white face and low BP, a marker for can't deal with anyone.

My father read my pale face and tried his best to seek answers. An effort I appreciate for the most part, given how inactive his interest has been in comparison to my other parent in the picture, all these years. The most fun I had this evening was the dinner he put together, garlic fried chicken, an instant mood lifter.

Didn't help.

About half an hour back, I decided to call it a day. Just as I was changing into shorts to sleep, I saw the sweatshirt on a chair. I'd kept it for laundry but I decided to put it on and dug out my hidden berry flavoured cigarette stash at home.

I smoked one wearing the shapeless garment and everything made sense again.

I am wearing all that was stripped off me and all that I am left to be. I recall my most vulnerable side and wearing this reminds me of how I survived it. In this, I am home. I understand my friend and her sweatshirt obsession.

All I can say is, if you've a piece of shapeless hideous garment that you feel nothing towards, then stay the hell away from it.

That garment carries the potential to change your mind, take over your life and convince you that this abusive relationship is all you need for your survival.

If you're me, you would buy everything on face-value and proceed to live your life believing in the silly garment. However, I hope for your sake that everything you decide and have the courage to decide, including deciding your future with that sweatshirt, stems solely from you.

Don't let a sweatshirt allow you to become a supporting character in your own life. Don't fucking wear your grief, no matter how solid you're let down.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'll smoke another cigarette and maybe crash.

On Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think:

This is nothing. you’re high on the charm and the drink.

But the juke-box inside me is playing a song

That says something different. And when was it wrong?

- Wendy Cope

In the last 24 hours, I found myself be at two whole, different dates, both of which were unplanned and completely effortless for both the parties involved.

The only surprising thing in the aforementioned statement is the usage of the word 'date'; which is no longer in circulation in day to day business.

Which is to say, while I've been out quite a few times this year, and didn't think anything about it. In most circumstances, it didn't qualify to be labelled anything at all. Nobody wants to be weighed down heavy with the burden of seeking answers to banal questions and putting labels. Is this a date? Are we on a date?

Then something changed. I'd be lying if I said I know what, but I found myself on the first date of the year last weekend. Followed by the second date of the year (this morning) and the third (this evening).

Incase you're curious, they're all with different people. Yes, I worry about it, about myself.

The date itself should be a regimented activity. M's friend, J in the UK explained her idea to me,
"It should be no longer than 90 minutes if that's your first date and he should definitely get the cheque. He took 90 minutes of your life and nothing will ever get that back."

The clairvoyance she has is worth writing about; clearly, the 90-minute strategy allows you to understand if the date is worth seeing again. J's philosophy is the reason I loosened up slightly about the whole clearing the tab situations on a 'date'. As a rule of thumb, I don't offer to split or take the tab now especially if I sense the other person's wasted my time. You only gain such wisdom after you spend an hour in a queue with friends of friends to get inside a pub in London on a Friday night.

Coming to my three dates, I found one worth writing multiple hate posts about, while others totally forgettable and then some, the kind who wraps a 3:50 am date with a 4:45 am text 'I had fun'.

Likewise.

I think my only real contribution in this decade insofar as growth is concerned has been going label-less and being okay with it and finally coming back to realizing no, I'm not.

I used to compartmentalize 'dating' vs 'hanging out' vs 'going out' vs 'platonic hanging' vs 'chilling' quite anally until I decided to fuck that shit since everyone was uncomfortable with the usage of the term 'dating'. Where do you start and where do you end?

That is exactly where I stopped labelling this act as going on a 'date'. I dropped 'date' a little over a year ago and it just became the verb, 'I'm going to meet...'

This duration was marred with people questioning me about my previous 'dates' a lot more than ever.
I recall some months ago, I was questioned by the Ice Prince on account of whether I had a scene with a friend, often listed on this page. The scene is another clusterfuck term that weighs heavy but is a close synonym to the dating term. Again, it involves a spectrum from going out innocently a few times to cardio in bed. One doesn't know but at the same time does know that the people involved in such a scene have a mutual understanding of what they want and how they are getting that from one another.

I found it odd that he framed the question that way. I explained that we did go out on dates, but there was no scene at all. If anything, it was a blink-and-you-miss appearance for a hot minute. We had indulged in the physical act of going out for a film, a gig, coffee, drives, etc but that was about the extent of our 'scene'.
I don't know to what extent the Ice Prince was convinced but we can fuck him and his curiosity for the time being.

At this point in my life, my standard response or understanding of courting people (a clinical term that encompasses these wretched labels) was all expressed under one term, 'going out'. It could be long term going or literally an evening long going out. The innocence and the versatility of the statement resonated with me and it became a regular thing. Sure, I use the term 'my date' loosely but it doesn't describe the act of 'dating' them. Dating and date are not mutually exclusive. You can't call someone your partner if you're casually seeing someone but you can call them your date. Confusing for one and all but simple for those who deal with more situationships than 10 seasons of Keeping up with the Kardashians has seen.

Until last night, outside Kumon building, my 'date' had parked his car and we exchanged notes on what brought the two of us to make the 'date' happen.

For him, he found my effort of throwing out of the blue 'do you ever plan to meet me?' endearing. I proceeded to tell him about the circumstances that lead me to take that brash step. I won't get into the details here, but for the most part, it involved day drinking. For the rest, some tales are best unwritten.

"No wonder you just took that initiative. That's why you set this date up!"

I'm certain my ears went red. Nobody, in a long, long time has used the dreaded dating term around me for anything.

The thing is, I should have seen it coming but I did not.
Earlier in the course of the drive, we had talked about his old 'dates' and he told me all about them, some with fondness and some just nonchalantly. I have been discounting myself from the label to make myself believe, I'm not dating and naturally, I did not imagine anyone being the next in line in terms of talking about 'us'.

Again, my double standards have no limit and this is a great example- we went on a drive, stopped for a snack and a cloud of smoke- all of it is a date-ish but years ago when I another person- who chilled with me in his car and we bonded over a warm beverage- was not a date. I think that has to do with how much fun I had with the person, but it doesn't solve my problem.

I think I was a bit queasy with the usage because I wanted to go out as long as I could without using the word, 'on a date' and making things real.

You can always move on faster, than your ex who you're still in love with, if you don't make things real. Everything in life fucks up the minute you make things real and talk about it. I'd much rather keep it bottled than to tell someone, 'hey, I think you're hot and we should go out.'

Instead, I limit my suggestive statement to, "Do you ever idk like want to meet?"

Using the term 'dating' is making things real and if this decade has truly taught us anything it is that we're all always seeking someone/something better than what we have. This is my one true outtake for specimens across Indian males and females seeking one another. You guys might be with your soulmate but are always in a sense of what's better and how far is it. The only people I'm willing to discount from this theory are all Marie Kondo worshippers. Bloody minimalists is the "Dude they're nihilists" of 2019.

I think it's a good space to be when you can loosely use these terms as per your convenience, much like how my double standards and I have been doing. Earlier today, the act of 'going out' ended in a handshake and suffice to say, it didn't qualify as 'date' cause there was nothing date-like about someone who called himself a 'boring kind of person' (yawn) to my face out loud for Pete's sake.



Can we all ban handshakes when we all go out? Please?
We're a month short of 2020 and even clients hug you if you've done semi-decent job. Contrary to what the Beatles said, nobody wants to hold your hand. Not unless it's caressing you while you're making out. Which is something you don't do when you're on a date? I mean, isn't the whole point of distinguishing a date from the act of 'going out' the very essence of these two sides of the same coin?

You do what people on dates do, you grab a fucking drink or two, have a meal and look exceptionally nice and if you're lucky the guy/girl on the other side has some put some effort, enough to resemble a blind Sunday school teacher and that is worth working around that label.

I'm going to hell, aren't I?

On a side note, I accidentally gave a 2:38 am missed call to the 'date' from last night while trying to see the exact message I sent out to type on this post so now you'll find me moving cities and changing identities as a whole. 

"I can't confirm or deny."

Growing up around an agnostic parent meant there were no consistent rituals or customs when it comes to the celebration of "festivals". It has always been a moment of intrigue when I'm demanded accountability by acquaintances, "what are your plans for XXX?" with XXX being any important festival.

It does not help the cause that my other parent who practices some skewered version of religion decided that a convent school was best for me. Maybe they predicted my serial dating habit years ago or maybe they were just lazy. I have other theories but I'll keep them to myself.
My background into mythology and understanding of religion largely comes from the practice of storytelling; a hobby that advanced into writing and reading, I was obsessed with listening to stories as a kid. Most people don't know this about me, but I would bully my grandmother into telling me ten different stories each night as she put me to bed. Storytelling as an endeavour did one thing right- I imbibed to make my own narrative. In this case, come with my set of rituals for every important occasion.

As a part of my Diwali ritual, I finish a book from cover to cover as the world is going ham with their respective festivities. No matter how drunk, busy, tired or crabby I am, I grab a book on Diwali eve and wrap it in a few hours.

This Diwali, I'd been drunk for a week. I started smoking again and essentially, I was in a haze of intoxication. To cut it short, in no mood with keeping up with traditions. I have theories on why that transpired but that's not critical.

Coming back, as a part of my anti-social asshole regime this year, I made faces and threw shade on one and all. That's hardly new by my standard but I have learned to keep that monster tamed. I think largely it had to do with my patience being tested all around, from work to personal life.


I was particularly snappy all of the last week. The highlights of which include calling a friend "Ice Prince".

Don't raise your eyebrow. The term is self explanatory. Ice Prince is a dude who is cold, and inaccessible and only soluble at room temperature at carnivals.

To be fair, I've been using the term in regular conversations for a while now and have not bothered to remember the etymology. It just describes some people rather well and somehow, it stuck around with me as a phrase that I use when I want to remind people to be kind especially when I think they're being obnoxious. On a side note, I should maybe, take a weekend and sort the definitions of these insults in my head to avoid any further embarrassment.

As a good save, I do think of an Ice Prince as a chill guy who slips in and out of his mold and mixes well with a spirit or two.

Anyway, I don't think this went down well. In my defensive mode, I explained that I had read this in a book long ago.

Upon further prodding, I confessed that I didn't remember the name of the book where I'd read this. However, I skipped the details. It took a grand total of 2 minutes, with the help of my nuanced research skills that I employed, to learn the name of the book.

In absolutely no time I had assessed everything there was to the context of the usage. Man, why would I continue using this for years?

Keeping up with the merriment, I decided to read this again as a part of my only Diwali ritual. I dug out the copy of the book and read the whole thing this past weekend. I think I would have been better without this reminder, but no, I had to invoke the ghost of Ice Prince and throw shade. The entire process made me look and feel stupid and how. Let me explain why.

It's hilarious and I'm partly ashamed to admit that an absolutely pathetic book is mirroring my life in godawful ways. I remembered certain portions, well but for the most part, had completely forgotten about the things that went down in the book. This includes the protagonist's job, her friends and their story arcs coming a complete circle, an old friend reconnecting just before her wedding (eerily described to be similar to what went down when I reconnected with my long lost best friend from school after 8-9 years), old crushes losing sheen, new ones being totally hopeless and a general sense of displacement amongst others. At the end of this re-reading, I was embarrassed for myself. Why is my fucking life resembling a godawful chick-lit?

If I add another punctuation up there, even my blog will resemble one, if it doesn't already remind you of that. Not cool at 28. Not cool at 17 either but I'll be kind to my younger self.

What's worst is that I was impressed with the book when I first read it eleven years ago. I recall I was writing this blog and extensively writing about my time around the guy in the neighbourhood who I crushed on. When I read the book and how painstakingly it covered the protagonist's crush and so on, my 17-year-old self felt validated. Not the best role model at the time. It doesn't help one bit that with time, the crush in the book and mine in real life have unfolded to resemble just as lame. That's a parallel I can live with.

Now that I think of it, I don't think I'd have fully understood what the book was trying to do as a 16-17-year-old when I first read this. The entire novel was recreated as a part of the author's blog and was the shite amongst bloggers at the fag end of the noughts. Ofcourse, today, writers do gigs on independent digital publications and nobody reads books or even those pieces. Instead, the ritual demands everyone to Instagram the front cover. There are video book previews, a joke since every serious reader at some point prior to the descent of internet television looked down upon the moving visuals as a medium when compared to the written word on paper.

I don't know what's worse, writing deals scored then basis blogs or the interpretation of books today. Whatever it is, one needs to seriously reflect upon that and action. In my case, cease reading garbage and calling people by those names.

For what it's worth, the back blurb added to the charm of the ice prince "...(he) who thaws at his own convenience".

Move on Annabelle. Some of us have to live with completely eerie book-life situations mirroring real-life, instead of having the luxury to play with cursed toys. Meanwhile, now I truly believe that all rituals should be open to customization. To that end, I now propose burning stupid books instead of crackers on Diwali.

Where do you draw a line with friends who will be nothing but honest with you, at all fucking times?

I'm struggling to pick up the chalk and redefine the Radcliffe line here. The same stuff is what went down during Ethics in Philosophy III; the ad-hoc was really nice to me and I was grade A bitch. I was consistently eye-rolling at her and side-eyeing half the class or some such. I can confirm this as whole truth. A testimonial, if you may, from a bunch of people, who I call friends.

It's nothing short of a miracle that I have friends from college who stuck around, or for that matter, took my bullshit for 3+ years. Credit where credit is due. 



If at all, truth is to be told, then, we would be blessed to have people in our lives who would be nothing but brutally honest to us. Apparently, all my friends are brutally honest. Do I have a type? Yes. Are they emotionally unavailable? Only if I'm trying to bed them.

I digress. Coming back, a few weeks ago, I was telling a friend (let's call her K) about a minor fuck-up I did in terms of coming clean to someone about a certain situation.

What was this situation? Let's see. I was confronted with a question, and within seconds I point blank refuted everything. Instead of giving a detailed answer with facts, I chose the easy way out. I denied everything and took the shortcut.

Hazy facts equal complete denial of anything ever equal evading difficult questions.

I'd give you more details but you'll have to be nice to me and meet me over whiskey (which has thankfully given me no hangover so I'm back on my alcohol drinking ways, baby) and buy me alcohol until I am laughing like a hyena and can't type straight on my phone.

For someone who's a homebody, I digress a lot.

This entire episode was recited over lunch to K. As I narrated the hazy facts, my vehement denial and all the bullshit, I could sense her disturbance. Not as eloquently as I put 'bullshit', but you know, food spilling out of my mouth with some disturbing details.

"Do you realize, you've fucked this for yourself?"

"This was fucked up, to begin with. My coming clean about the facts and the variables would have added to more problems. I don't think I hav..."

"Save this. This is bullshit. You know you're saying all this to cover up and you should not have been dishonest."

For someone who's known me for just under a month (did I tell you that about K? I know her for barely a month), that was hard, and much needed.

Most of my friends have known of this certain situation and the facts which have been withheld for a reason. Not one pointed out the obvious flaw in the plan. Maybe, the situation today is so fucked cause I withheld the fucking facts and made the whole narrative dense instead of simplifying it.

I admit this hasn't been the easiest piece to write considering you don't know anything and are probably bored out of your wits. Heck, I've re-written this piece 3 times and it still reads like shit. I've time to kill and so I'll wrap this quick.

Truth bombs. That's what. What to do when your friends would be nothing but absolutely honest with you and push you to confront difficult situations and decisions as opposed to the shit they show on web series.

Do I know what to do? No. Am I attempting to figure this out? Also no.

On this subject, confronting truth and being completely clean, my old pal Mia K and I have gotten into hours of conversation leading to arguments. She and I have both said nasty things to one another, only to feel awful about it and being awkward the next couple of times around one another in times of distress. I'd like to believe she would have been more involved in my life if certain hard-hitting conversations had not gone down.

I don't mean this as disrespect or even with an iota of a grudge but being on the receiving end of brutally honest facts about yourself is disorienting. It really shakes your ground, especially when confronted by someone you actually care.

This was the case with Mia K, when she gave me her ultimatum, regarding a certain someone who she believed, is good for nothing wastrel. She had been opposing the alliance for a long time now and despite her subtle signals on the fact that she did not want to spend hours talking about him with me, and instead discuss meaningful things like work, life, hobbies (that exclude the hobbies she doesn't approve of aka Ludo or Tinder). All those points were fair and not demanding of me. I pushed her limit when my moping continued until the fifth month of the calendar year.

"I don't think I'll ever be able to get over it," 

I think that was the trigger. She blew up and rightfully, told me to shove it along with a long monologue, that I suspect she had been rehearsing in her head for at least a year.

I got yelled at and was asked to fucking straighten my act, not mope (lol) and move on with the remaining life aka focus on my fucking work, PhD, Ludo and whatever it is was adding positively. Okay, maybe not Ludo but the other fucking things.

In my defence, I did not want a solution. I just wanted support to lean on and cry to. Nothing more.

I was actively doing things with people at work, my friends, my family, heck, even strangers on the internet, and occasionally with the man in possession of good set of abs, who shall forever remain nameless (this city is far too small for names).

I was in a bad space personally, professionally and doing what I did with the situation, which is I worked so hard till I annoyed my co-workers, applied for all possible journals, did freelance, worked some more, and watched garbage on the internet. I did not want a reminder of what was the call of action. I just wanted a shoulder to cry on and apparently, not one shoulder around me was available. This would only happen in the hour or two post-work and before bed, considering I was spending most of my time working

For that yelling and consistent reminder, I'm grateful.

Over the Summer, we had multiple conversations on her keeping it calm and not getting overwhelmed with trying to help me, on both sides. I know what is to be done, I know how to do it. But do I want to do it? Maybe not. Maybe, I just want to fuck my happiness some more and see you be there for me and witness me fall down. Maybe that's all I want.

When I call someone to talk to, it's usually to unburden, and not to seek help. Call to action for help comes easy and I do directly ask. It's never beating around the bush for me. I understand the call to action is missing and I'm probably really dumb about this, but it'll come with time.

Now's not the time.

I'm essentially trying to say that this shit sucks donkey balls and if your friends are halfway as caring as mine, you'll know the entire narrative of being called out on bullshit even when the shit is worthwhile.

Meanwhile, on the subject of bullshit, did you know gobar sells like hot cake.

Mia K started selling gobar cakes and, apparently, those have sold more than her debut book, ha!

You can buy her gobar cakes on Amazon. She's better than your average home baker at cakes.

This post is not sponsored by the money she's made from gobar, which is a lot more than the royalty she receives annually.

"I lie. I do miss you a lot."

Accompanying a post, I read the caption which *this* artist had put up on Instagram. The post was a wall art in a contemporary type that read, "I don't miss you at all."

I was on her page locating some information for a business prospect, when I came across this cheesy, one hundred percent real caption. The ease at which she was vulnerable, I envied that.



It made me think hard. How I wish I could just tell people I miss them.

I fucking miss a lot of people and I wish I had the courage to pick up the phone and say it out loud to them. Get it off my chest. There, I don't fucking care anymore but I do.

Unfortunately for me, I come from that regressive school of thought where I'd much rather take that vulnerable thought with me to my deathbed than give the other person the satisfaction of knowing that yes, I do think about you a lot, and yes, you often cross my mind. I wish I could take that out and live with it.

It happens to me at all hours. Sometimes it's during a meeting when I'm staring at someone's hands and I suddenly think how your fingers are shapely, much like the person whose hands I've been staring at to avoid thinking that this meeting could have been an email. Even during the times when someone is acting clingy and my response is the same as is yours in a situation like that. Occasionally I'd imagine you and me in our prime enjoying lunch or just about wasting time on the road, in the dead of the night. How I miss 'you' and how this 'you' has done a number on 'me'.

Man, I miss a lot of things associated with a lot of people, and I wish I had the courage to just fucking say it to the concerned parties. 

To be honest, it would be much less dramatic than how I have made for it to be. One, because there's no reception inside my house, one can't lift a phone to dial. Second, do they even want to hear from me?

A lot of my "missing" is insincere. I say, 'I miss you' or add a cursory 'I miss you too' in conversations but don't mean anything at all by that. I think of it like saying 'thank you' or 'excuse me'. You know at this point, it's a conditioned response to situations, much like Our Father in Heaven every morning. To this day, that's the only thing that occurs inside my head in times of trouble (Mother Mary speaks to me, fuck me).

It's usually in those cases where the missing is a lie when I say it out loud.

Then again, there are times, when I do pick up the phone and dial the concerned parties to announce how I'm missing them.

"Missing" or their "absence" which is felt is a one-time thing. It happens in fleeting moments, it happens when you're unprepared to tackle it. In cases when you do take this forward, it backfires, thus discouraging you from the future practice of acknowledging the fleeting moment to the end of an action.

Don't get me wrong. I have truly missed people and told them and then again, truly attempted to establish contact after radio silence but I'm easily dissuaded. One jerk reaction and I'm out, to never try it again.

In some cases, I'm particularly obstinate and those are the ones where I know I can push my boundaries. Again, I can call those names out on a hand but for most people I miss truly, it goes with me in my skin. It never comes out. It never will. You wouldn't know if I missed you, cause I'd die with that fact.

You could be someone who's not been in touch with me for a few years and you'd be surprised that I remember every little detail about your outfit the last time we met. You could be someone I met once in a clandestine turn of events which left a long-lasting impact. You could be someone who I went to tuitions with and got terrorized by my Accounts teacher. You could be someone who isn't reading this nor will ever bother to read. You could also be someone I'm in regular touch with but would never say this out loud to. I miss what we were, even in that fleeting moment. I miss what we used to be, when we were the people we were.

The joy of writing this is that those who I miss won't ever think it's them. They probably know nothing about it or if they do, they don't give two shits.

Well, the demographic that doesn't give two shits about this page is too large so let's not use that.

I have potentially lost membership to leagues and bigger battles to that question of whether I should address this stupidity. Will I sound overbearing? Do people want to hear from me at all?

What is it with people today and being vulnerable. I can't get myself to admit anything to anyone unless it's someone I know I can confide in and be real with without inviting any judgment aka 3 people at best.

For the last two days, I've been in touch with a cousin and sharing matters of heart concerning these feels that have propped and how they need to be addressed. Fairly clairvoyant for her age, my cousin declared that I should pick up the phone and address the feels directly to the said recipient(s).

I've only disconnected her call and ignored her messages conveying the same to me on all the other platforms since.

Earlier today, I got a call from MK. She's been a regular feature here under another name. However, this is 2019, and I feel a change is in order, hence we'll go with MK.

Anyway, MK and I spent close to an hour discussing the state of affairs in our respective dating life and where we're headed as a civilization. We discussed these feels and came to the conclusion that feels are good for nothing. A girl after my own heart.

Them feels stem from a sense of vacuum which is created by the monsters inside one's head. Nobody addresses them feels. Feels are for the weak hearted. Feels are for those who end up taking a leap of faith, asking someone out on a knee with a ring or just about doing pre-wedding photoshoots or even celebrating their kid's 4th birthday together despite having only met each other 6 years ago, a month before their roka.

Essentially, I need to seek comfort in other people to avoid those feels. It comes from investing all your eggs in one basket. I can imagine why it's haunting me now especially since I have not entered the dating pool since the beginning to the year and naturally, there's a discomfort in seeing everyone around me with someone.

I am not going to sugarcoat this but people in love deserve a tight slap, especially when you as a person can't garner the courage to address any emotion, leave alone being in love.

Maybe, it's Fall and the need to find a body to cuddle and banter with. If the history tells us anything, then Fall is responsible for all doom. It wrecks total havoc on my common sense. It could very well be my need to deflect from learning data analysis or completing an ad campaign certification, or just going easy on myself for once. It's okay to put PhD on hold and focus on other, important things that secure the future in a manner more than another degree does.

Or maybe, I just need to pick up the damn phone and tell the people I miss just that. 

Sometime in March, I believe, I wrote about the first trimester. I could have fucking waited a month and called it a quarter but the genius that I am, decided to jump at the first instinct. Either way, this is Quarter 2's report. I'm pleased to say everything that was looking up in the last post is now down the dumps.

Also, please stop reading posts from 2008. They exist so I can be grounded about how terribly I used to write. And perhaps, still, do.

For reference, this is the "First Trimester" report. To enjoy *this* piece, highly recommend that you read the last report before you proceed with this.

Taking forward from where I left, I am no longer moping.
Well, I couldn't, in the last quarter, cause I was busy fighting severe anxiety. Cause? People who won the elections were the trigger. Each time, I'd read the news or watch the same, I'd be down being catatonic. Imagine, those guys coming to power in full majority. I mean, you don't have to imagine cause that's exactly what happened.

Anti-depressants are just as bad as Dementors. I think I deserve a round of applause for basically surviving the hell-whole the medication was. I finally understand why they celebrate folks who have fought depression/anxiety/mental illness'. This shit sucks and how.

I'd like to think I got out of the funk, that had taken over me sometime last year, during my trip to Bangkok. This couldn't have happened without P breathing down my neck each day at work, just checking on me whether I'm doing okay. I lucked out there.

Speaking of work, I quit my job. What was the center of attention in my life, and perhaps the only thing working out. I signed out for good, and well, I'm hoping it leads to better things. It was a difficult transition, one that resulted in a big change.

The change, you ask, is that I got a drink.
Fine, I got half a bottle of whiskey with an old friend who may or may not have helped me quit my job. I'm terrified that I might be enabling his narcissism if I give him any more credit on that. But, it was a lot of alcohol for someone who resisted alcohol for a little over half the year.
Following that, I got a bottle of beer and then some more with my old bass teacher, who has blocked memories of me sucking at playing the bass. Thank the lord for that.
I'd like to think there's been no looking back but I can count the total number of occasions during which I've had alcohol. Four. Each and every sip was worth it. Quality over quantity, baby.

I would also not beat myself up for alcohol because I think I needed it the morning after I found out that I got dropped from the book deal I got. Apparently, things didn't work out. Things such as my writing. I'd like to take a moment and acknowledge the WhatsApp I received earlier in the day when I got rejected, "I liked you better when you could write."
Me too, buddy. Me too. I liked myself better when I could.

On the bright side, I have a fantastic new rejection story along with the one where I got rejected from Fulbright Fellowship. My letters of interest from four different universities are a total waste. It's been a delightful month, really.

Lest we forget, credit where credit is due. Gotta thank Cuddle Boy for talking me into trying for Fulbright. He really seemed to believe in me, more than I did at the time. Nobody has ever looked at me with such conviction and asked me to pursue academia. Ofcourse, my friends would like to think it was a way of getting in my pants. Well, about that...

Safe to say, Cuddle Boy and I are a thing of last quarter. We parted ways amicably since he decided to be in a committed relationship with someone else. The fact that he talked it out and gave the notice to withdraw his services is well appreciated, to the point it should be normal but we don't get that normalcy in Delhi. Do we?

On other fronts, I've gained a total of 10 kilos back. My diet is at an all-time fail. I've nothing, nobody to blame for it but me.

It's also my birthday in about two weeks or so and I'm fucking off to Thailand again! Well, hoping to, since my connecting flight is in about an hour and I've to do visa-on-arrival at the first airport so pray for me, my non-refundable hotel bookings, my bank balance (which is really a thing to worry about in the absence of it being employed), my body weight and also my sister who's joining me on a trip after 3 whole years. Could have found a Tinder match and ruined my life for the next two years but oh well. We did that last year. Can't repeat our mistakes in under 365 days.

I'm so excited that I've added an exclamation in the subject title.

No, not drunk. Stone cold sober, been since this Thursday.

To be honest, two drinks don't count. Especially if you intersperse them with the conversation of 3 years long employment and leaving that without a degree. Whoever said I'm a commitment-phobe has not met me in three years. (to all the Tinder boys I've stood up after the second date)

Okay fine, two years and a dissertation didn't give me a degree (yet) and I still did it. A job atleast pays.

No better day than today and no better time than now to compile this wishlist cause baby, I have a writing deadline. I should be planning a vacation, eating clean ("I will STOP all carbs the day my notice period ends" has become only, and only carbs).

I'll stop. Long story short, my last day at work is round the corner. I'm nervous, for good measure. I want to squeeze in a lazy beach vacation but somehow everyone around me has suddenly become oh so busy and I'll probably shoot myself in the head if I travel alone.
Okay fine, I won't. But I can't come back with 30 kilos baggage limit especially when a beach vacation has to have a complete wardrobe overhaul innit.



Here's a concise wishlist for my upcoming birthday, that I was dreading all year long, especially since the last one was ahem, so eventful.

1) Chocolate fucking cake. Chocolate fucking cake slice from Big Chill. The kind with buttercream icing and the one that's kept on the front fucking counter. I can't remember what it's called but it's right up front (along with another that looks deceptively similar). Ask the server and get the one with the B-U-T-T-E-R-C-R-E-A-M and buttercream alone. Not the ganache one. You'll have to go to the store at Khan Market, it's on rack starting 12 noon. You can call them up for details but they don't take advance orders. Yep, I researched ALL this for my own fucking birthday cake cause that's what people who like cake do.
Alternatively, if that's unavailable then the Red Velvet with Cream Cheese that I love. Contact my family for details.
If you can't get these two right then try Red Moon's Double Chocolate Cake. It's the laziest option from this entire list and I won't hate you completely. Please don't forget sparkler candles.

Don't @ me. It was a shit year for cake and I won't take a repeat of that. Not on my watch.

2) Water brush pen for watercolour since I'm not going to invest any more in my hobbies. Some paper to paint and general watercolour supplies would be good. Hit me up if you're taking this up. I'll share my list of what all I need. Bear in mind this is a fairly expensive endeavour, which is why I'm not particularly keen on buying this on my own. Expensive for art supplies, not like that 3.5k lipstick expensive. We're looking at the paper, glass paper mount (don't eye roll, please), maybe an easel, a beret, the works.

3) Birthday card. Each of you please send a personalized birthday card/postcard regardless of what you bring or not bring along with it. Handwritten, please. No e-card business. Post/courier preferably. Don't bring it with you.

4) Any 2000 piece and plus puzzle set. I think these are quite steep, please pool in with someone to get this. None of my gift-giving friends are earning in dollars yet.

5) Bookshelf for my room. Been asking for over a year. Either that or a sofa set. This is for those earning in dollars if you felt left out.

6) A pair of new fucking sneakers. I pitched in all my freelance money this Feb to buy a pair of Adidas Continentals only to find they're giant for me and ended up wearing them for two months. As a result, nobody's buying them off me and I don't want to spend more money on that. My shoe size is women's 6 (I think?) or men's 6 (are these different?). I bought a 7 and it was too big, which makes me wonder cause my 7-year-old sneakers from Adidas are size 7 and they fit well. Help. No, seriously. Urgently needed. Again, this shit is expensive. Maybe 5 people can pool in money together. Have you started Snobster's birthday crowdfunding project yet?

7) Doc Martens. No way in hell am I spending my money buying those but man, they look so fucking good.

8) Shasn. Mia K thinks it's a terrible idea to put money into something that I won't get before 2020 but then I put 2 years of my life into MPhil and got no degree so I'm that person just about any-fucking-way.

9) A new swimsuit. Ooh, this is interesting. I've image references for what I'd like (text me) and I can't seem to find a place to buy online. I'm thinking black, understated, sexy or fuschia fitted or gold with just a hint of sexy. This can't be mass-produced or bought from a crap e-commerce website that all of Delhi Metro women compartment buys from. Please spare me that stuff. Come empty-handed to wish me if that's your instinct to buy. This is more research-intensive than expensive.

10) Uber gift card? I don't know why are you reading this if you want to get this?

11) Crockery. I'm that person now, yeah. I could do with chic whiskey glasses (please, please text me for image reference) or giant wine glass set. Maybe even blue pottery plates and serving bowls.,

12) Single bed black cotton bed sheets. Double bed would do too. Remember cotton and black. Plain fucking black. No embroidery or design or texture or anything. Plain black.

13) Gel fucking eyeliner. Check if my sister has bought this. I don't have an eyeliner. Can you fucking believe how the mighty have fallen? I think Maybelline's is okay unless someone has a better recommendation. I was told Mac does it well but they test on animals and ever since I found out I make it a point to avoid any new Mac purchase.

14) Victoria's Secret Body Mist. If someone's coming down from the US, catch hold of them. These are the cheapest there. Don't bring me Bath and Body Works Body Mist or buy VS' from anywhere but the US. They all suck except the ones listed here.

15) This calendar.

16) A backpack that looks exactly like this or better still this. The brief really is a classic black backpack. Don't make me cringe with your choice.

17) Body shower gel from Marks and Spencer. International outlets have the best ones. Even handwash gels are great.

18) Clothes are a great idea but only if you'd like to take me shopping. Socks aren't a great idea, I've too many of them. We could go to my favourite boutique in Humayunpur and you could get me more clothes that I have no place to wear except dates which I've stopped going on completely. On a serious note, basic 3/4 sleeve t-shirts are a welcome idea but in person, please. I like to feel the material and know what I'm signing up for.

19) A Bobbi Brown Lipstick. Ask AJ the shade she has that I've been trying to steal from her. It's steep as fuck, please don't buy it yourself unless you earn in dollars and definitely don't buy a replacement from another brand. Unless it's Nars. Nars has really cool stuff. Actually, a nice milk chocolate matte would be good. Don't get Lakmé, please.

20) Bunny.  a kitten would be good.

Consolatory ideas: skipping rope, The Office (US) merchandise (no round neck t-shirts), a new cellphone, cinnamon toothpaste, a paid vacation to Sri Lanka, my friend Lucas Moraes from Brazil, film tickets coupon, a tall man to cuddle this Fall, fix my laptop, gym membership, yoga lessons, rainbow cream cheese cake from my erstwhile intern's mom's kitchen, bedside lamp (check image references with me). 

Not sure if I should be glad that the universe spelt it out for me that research isn't going anywhere or unhappy that I'm still gonna pay my dues?

I really want to get shitfaced, high out of my mind and be on a date while I do that. Talk shit, and hope to god (despite that agnostic status on Facebook) that the bar I'm at is playing Arctic Monkeys while I laugh and look sideways, and wonder if my hair is looking just as glorious as it did when I blow dried them before leaving. Realizing I was worrying for nothing about not coordinating the lingerie because it's not as if this is going to go anywhere besides our respective home and he'll possibly jack off to his last girlfriend, and I'll crash in bed without brushing my teeth and that's as much fun I'd have had from these numerous drinks and a joint and a half.

Sometime this week, a colleague asked me to shut the hell up about the Retrograde. It's not the first time, and probably won't be the last, however, I find it easy to pass the blame about everything on the blowing up of the planetary positions. Never mind, science or logic (that I actually fucking studied in college, thank you very much). Truth be told, she invoked my PhD card and told me that it's embarrassing to be speaking about and expected to be taken seriously given my line of work (academia!). Who the hell wants to take a babbling researcher seriously who's pinning all possible issues on a fucking planet (again, why aren't too many people doing this beats me).

Okay, I didn't kill myself. I'm still kicking it in this 27 Club and hoping it's got more of a 27 Dresses ending than the former. Only since all my friends are oh so busy that if I give someone a call at 22:00, they're all exhausted and dying. Perhaps they'd be too exhausted to attend my memorial concert. Someone better fucking get Dave Mustaine to do a set before Cancer consumes him.

We're not even 30. For fuck's sake, stop sleeping at 11.

Meanwhile, to the one person who reached out to me reading my last post, thanks. I'm going to hold it together until all my interns are done working since they need the letter of recommendation that nobody at work will bother writing for them. Also, it's been a Summer to remember, alright. Reasons maybe notorious and even disturbing, but oh-so balmy. 

At this point, most of the internet is aware; might as well do a press release-ish. I had a nervous breakdown last month. Maybe it was two months ago, I don't quite recall. It had been building up since March, and truth be told, I'm surprised at my resilience. I read some of the old posts here before starting this and man, am I clinically depressed or what. Perhaps, self-deprecation leads to this or just wallowing in pity does, I don't know. I wouldn't know.

All I do know is it sucked dead monkey balls. I should have seen it coming when I cut every single person outside my family out for a solid month. Radio silence and meeting deadlines. Each day as I woke up, I was thankful beyond belief for having a job to report to, despite not quite feeling like waking up. I confused depressive spell for laziness. "I'm exhausted" was thrown like confetti. Never bothered to address or come close to explaining the exhaustion bit.

Have all the men lost interest and checked out the updated shot of me in that bikini on the right? Have they left the page? Good.



A large part of running away from explanation comes from mansplaining. Being mansplained at work. Did I tell you, I attempted to quit my job?

The only one stable thing in my life - and I decided to throw right out of the window. Well, still trying.

Trying times, these.

Jesus Fucking Christ, I have new found respect for every salaried, regular office going people who deal with men on a daily basis in their workplace. How do you do it? Where do you draw the line? I've recently encountered the first of (perhaps many?) gender disparity situation in professional space. Addled with a fair bit of idiocy being peddled to me as life-changing advice or just friendly small talk. I find myself trying to ignore and walk away without a reaction in sticky situations which are becoming an epidemic at large now.

"...you didn't hear from me..." and "...between you and I alone..."

Fuck right off. Nobody gives two hoots.


Without putting too much out there, I find it difficult to navigate my work life under the scrutiny of someone with less than obvious work experience in exactly my line of work; being told how to do my job; all this while, being a patronizing pig to my quips or straightforward responses.

The least you can do is be respectful of someone else's work, while I attempt to do the same. Our purpose or reason of being at the workplace is different. Perhaps, you need to fit in and buy yourself a lifestyle you envisioned whilst looking at the snooty kids in college live through the carefree haze of exams and deadlines. Maybe, it really is that you've lived a difficult life and find it hard to trust people at the workplace. Or maybe, you're just a terrible human being wearing the woke af and Queen Béy is my bff button badge on your batik kurta. The bottom line is, please don't be a cunt to the people at a workplace you join, and offend them by shushing them each time they're having a conversation about the work with you.

Most of my professional work experience inside an office space has been pleasant - and I realize now how awfully lucky I am to have had that. It has been every bit rewarding and without hesitation, I can say, it's been a safe space. This is one of the biggest benefits I find at my current workplace, I don't have to feel insecure about being who I am in my demeanour or professional self.

I also find this a problematic a statement to make that I'm judging men in professional space in a haste but believe you me, it terrifies me to imagine a workspace where I've to factor in how to negotiate sticky professional work situations. That which could potentially translate to a case of a sleaze fest work environment, in addition to the daily negotiations with the garbage that clients, slackers as co-workers, and dinosaurs who can't deal with technology, thrown at me.

I've personally seen sleazy shit go down, and women being okay with it just because they've had a household to run, bills to pay, family to raise and sustain. I respect for them for taking it, I do.

A couple of years ago, a man physically molested me and I couldn't bear to be in a room with men at all. It took a long time to change that. I have massive respect for people who deal with this on the professional level with grace. It takes a toll on you, and your boundaries. I appreciate their resilience more than anything else. It's taken me years to address it, heck write about it.

Coming back to this certain difficult individual; I don't quite understand his raison d'être to be this person when you can be yourself and drop all charades. It's the same as being 18 and trying to look cool by cheating on your perfectly likeable girlfriend with someone else. You do it to be someone you're not, but aspiring to be.

I've encountered a lot of things at the workplace but this is a first, and I've been told by other employed women friends, not the last of it. That this is fairly common and I've got to learn to live with this toxicity and gender disparity, right out there.

Maybe, this has been a strong factor for me trying to end my association here besides the obvious PhD deadlines, feeling in a rut, and more so, suicidal with my life leading nowhere except a block away from home, give or take.

It's the curse of my existence. For everything that's wrong in my life, I try to escape it at work, and whenever something goes off at work, I try and find reasons to end that right here. Maybe, it's all amplified inside my head. Maybe, I should really be okay with mansplaining my job at me. Maybe, even when I find out from the grapevine that who I'm bedding is the talk of the town, thanks to the speculative cunt of my co-worker.

Really, been a terrific Summer. Can't wait for the wettest July of this decade.

It me, in my bedroom. Crying the hell out every single day.

When I was significantly younger and things didn't go my way, I'd often come close to this state of funk.

The funk would last anywhere between a fortnight to months and would end in a big achievement that either I alone or coupled with family would celebrate. It could be anything, a byline in the newspaper, or a letter to the editor of a national daily. It could even be passing the math unit test. The point being, I would snap out of that funk, and only go back to remember it the next time I'd be in a funk.

I've been in a funk since the beginning of this year. All year.

Each time I came close to believing it's over, something else went down. In some cases monumental, in other, not so much. My state of being was paralyzed about two months ago. I landed in the hospital with a severe anxiety attack. My family was convinced it's because of my degree being withheld by the university, my employer believes it was an "innovative excuse for Monday" (may she get genital herpes), my friends think I should "widely scale down pride". I'm pretty sure the dude(s) I've been coddling online would have some opinion but I largely can't care. It comes down to not giving a fuck to anything and anyone.

I've self-diagnosed this to be depression. For over a month, even doing something as basic as brushing my teeth or taking a shower takes copius amount of effort, wherein I've to force myself out of the bed, and against my will to do it. In a way, if I don't move out of the bed, it won't be real. It'll be another day of my thoughts and I, before they become real and come back to bite me in the ass.

I hate to list, much less admit, the events this year that lead to this state. One after the other, every single thing I had going for me, has gone against. Each and everything I wanted to achieve has gone awry.

Few months ago when I discovered a gaping hole in my long term plan, I burst out crying for over two nights. I called a frenemy who is always down to showing me the worst, and in a way I forge that relationship to do one better. He admitted, finally, "The cards you've been dealt with are all bad. What can you do?"

Exactly my point. What on Earth can one do when the life allocated to you is rotten and going against you in every fucking aspect.

It's 11:40 pm on 30 June. Six whole months of this year has passed and I've barely written here, for that matter cared to see the stats or have an idea.

I don't know how will I continue and even for how long. There's nothing, absolutely nothing working for me and I've no will to write or read or even be.

For all those times when I've been physically sick out of my mind and wondered and hoped to stay alive, I'm going to go against and hope otherwise.



This one's on you, Universe. You've fucked me over. I hope you're happy. 

Snobster is twelve years old today.

There's a long history of the things I have done, celebrated, and learnt after failing. There's a lot of reflection and introspection to do, but not today. We've done that to death in the last two years. It's my fault largely, getting comfortable at a spot with an idea is never a good thing. Heck, even a post graduate degree gets over in two years.

In where I mark my personal growth, May usually amounts to a fresh start for me. Agreed, it has not been as bright as what things seemed twelve years ago but still, quite refreshing. I had goals- to get into a college of my choice, to get to a point in life where I wanted. I have crossed them all. I recall saying that out loud, "everything I ever wanted, material or not, I have it. What next?" Instead, I spent six months wondering, if what I wanted was really that easy and if I was unambitious.

I'm amazed to be one with my goals, insofar as putting things to my mind and achieving it. Ambitious or not, it is incredible to achieve all that you seek and put your heart into. However, the imposter syndrome is a bitch, whatever that is and and if it's real.

Just when I thought I had peaked, I learnt to appreciate what I had and all that I am yet to do. In the last one month, securing four letters of interest for a visiting Fellowship for my PhD is a testament to that. I did not imagine I would receive email(s) from the people who did, even the rejections. It's quite spectacular to live through that.

You should try it, just to know the high. It surpasses all joys of the world. Being validated and wanted is just as dangerous as a line of cocaine. There's a lot at stake and you're innit for the pleasure, the high.





Where do we go from here? 
There's so much to do and so much to look forward to. Things will not be comfortable or cushy, or even handed to me in a platter just the way it has been all this while but I won't let that kill me or stop me from setting goals. I am onto things which will shape the next three months of my life, which essentially means putting myself first and being relentlessly selfish. It's the need of the hour.

I spent three years paying my dues and despite what the universe might say and hold for me, I think we're done. We gotta call it quits. Gotta walk out of commitments that don't value me. This has been the outtake of the past year and I'm happy to say, it's reflecting across all the facets of my life. Or as much as I am trying for it to.

To revel in the present is to be stagnant, to say, this is it for me.

It isn't over until it actually is.

I may just be 12% done but I have the remaining 88% to look forward to - to be upset at the failures and to enjoy what is yet to come, despite all my grudges.

Here's to the last year of us being a baby. And to the last of me being cushy.

I can't wait to fuck things up, royally. 

"Why can't this building burn to ground? Why do we have to come to this office everyday? Why can't we be like Sri Lanka and get into a Civil War? Did you know they declared Emergency, they have more vision than us. Wish they declared Emergency here. We wouldn't have to come to work. Wish I could add to this to my Amazon wishlist."


-
Unnameable colleague

On my birthday eve last year, I found myself going through a rather moving experience. I have been thinking about it, if not every day, at least once a week since the episode. I had a revelation about it recently.

During my brief time in London, I decided to schedule a visit to St. Paul's Cathedral. Friends, convent school hangover and sightseeing porn together, I was on a high to include as much as possible. However, if I'd planned better between sleeping and wasting my hours drinking, I'd have managed to attend the Sunday mass. Clearly, planning my life isn't a priority in my case.

After changing two buses and walking a fair bit, I managed to reach the place and stood in the queue to get the ticket. It was the only ticketed space beside the musical I paid for and didn't quite mind paying to get in. Again, call it the convent school hangover but I'd have probably not done the same for another religious institute doing the same. My first impression of St. Paul's was extremely underwhelming. This is what these two friends were raving about? Sure, it's beautiful with all the art and the architectural design but man, it was underwhelming.

Somehow, after checking about the entire space, I found myself kneeling and crying loudly. It was surreal. I'd not done this, insofar as going inside a religious space to "pray" and I did not plan to do this. It just happened.

As soon as I kneeled down to offer a prayer, I burst out crying. All of the past year, my family, people I love and everyone else came to my mind and how everyone conspired to make the trip happen. What seems so trivial to people when they say they "travel" took years to happen and for me to experience that. I found myself in the church a few hours before my birthday and it seemed like an occasion just as good as any to be thankful to that imaginary man or woman we apparently pray to, to hear us and apparently answer for our wishes.

It was heavy and moving and all-consuming. It took me a long time to get out of the place in a state where I wasn't embarrassed to walk out with a face all puffy. When I got sloshed out of my mind that night, I recall mentioning this to a friend in a pub's washroom. My guess is that she doesn't remember and I'd have it that way.

I think about that day a lot. The last three months when I was bummed, I would often go back to that day and think that if things had to be a certain way, it would be. Causation is the guiding force here. We can't make things happen out of thin air, every little thing has a solid reason behind it - for its existence, for its purpose to be fulfilled.

It made total sense to me then, when I realized, I burst out crying in the church because I was pms-ing unknowingly. My cycle had fucked completely and I got my period in exactly three weeks. In this case, three days after that incident when I was 35000 feet up in the air, crying and drinking about this whole journey coming to an end.

Sometimes, I wait for an episode in entirety to end, just so I can have the last laugh. So what if I didn't get the Commonwealth Scholarship to study Anthropology of Media. I went to a film school and learned puppetry and did theatre and met some great people who I know call friends. I don't have a loan to repay and I certainly don't have a care in the world, if it means for me to quit my job and sit my ass at home because it's not worth my time.

I guess I gave Jesus a lot more credit than he deserves when it was all about my unfertilized eggs. Years ago, when we were in school and working on "Easter" themed Bulletin Board design competition between classes, I recall Sr Joyce walking past and telling me, "Your eggs are flying" while signalling to the paper eggs I'd drawn. Never has anything made more sense than her premonition about this entire episode.

I no longer know how to write or what to write or what to even write on. Keeping that in mind, I'm doing a report of a sort. Everyone likes reports. Corporates pay dumbfucks all the fucking time and professionals in the creative fields who are hired by these corporates are forced to do the same. Everyone has to report. Well, mostly everyone.

I got published! Double spread byline in a leading national daily on a subject dear to my heart. It got a decent amount of appreciation. I was stoked because why the fuck not. Finally managed to channel my rage of losing someone important into writing.

I also got a publisher. A leading academic publisher in the UK decided to take our collaborative research project on board. If all goes well, or well, according to plan, I'll be published in a book in 2020. This is subject to if I survive to write that paper.

We lost a cat. In a freak road accident, some motherfucker killed our stray and left her kitten orphaned at our door. She's a total doll but isn't fond of me. I try to cuddle the fuck out of her but she won't let me. Consent is kinda real, she wins.

To make up for the lack of cuddling a cat, I found a human who permitted me to cuddle him and vice versa. Our transactional relationship is the stuff of dreams. There is hygiene, respect, consent, and cuddling. If you hear of someone starting subscription package to cuddling people during difficult times and seasons, hit me up. The mofo stole my idea.

I got a raise at work. Which was scheduled to happen last Summer but I won't crib. It happened is all, and I was relieved because the intimation for a meeting seemed ominous. Either that or I was overthinking the fuck about where to stay in Bangkok. A conversation for another day (aka never).

I have been waking up for the most part of days spent in the barsati to a nightmare. Of how I booked myself to go to Thailand (last minute- as always) and how absolutely uncomfortable I am with the idea, that even in my dream I start panicking, trying to cancel, only to find myself in the Baht Bus while the alarm rings. Waking up in a cocktail of drool and sweat is disgusting.

I gained four kilos of weight. It's the only thing weighing me down. I am sorry. 

I survived three months without a drop of alcohol. Instead, I spent those calories on pizza, patties, kachodis. Basically, starting next month, I'm probably going back to alcohol. It was a shit decision. In 2018, I had pizza grand total of 3 times. In this trimester, I had pizza 4 times. I don't even fucking like pizza.

My mum started retailing some of her specialty food. She's down to treating the city with the best of Summer and Winter fermented food. It's been phenomenal with people reaching out placing orders with us doing bare minimum marketing. It's pretty much the only reason I survived January with a straight face.

I lost people close to me because it wasn't working out. For the sake of my mental well being, for the sake of my self-respect, and possibly for the sake of there being no love, respect or admiration from their side to me. It's okay. Shit happens. Worse things have happened and I've gotten out. These are just people, who are like furniture to my existence, just like I am to theirs.

It's easier to cut people out than to get over them. I wish someone had prepared me for that. No amount of resilience and pep talk can withstand the grief of losing people who meant something to you. Every commendable achievement or listing above is a testament of what I did in the face of grief to get out. Every unwritten post and writing here is a sign that I'm not past this and I am down the dumps.

I give myself three more trimesters to get past this funk. If it doesn't happen then we'll know something is wrong with me beyond normal, acceptable level of wrong.

90 days into this year: me.