Prose before hos

Where, apparently, hangover lasts two days. I wouldn't know. I'm 25 for the last three years. A fair amount of fat does help tackling the meanest of hangover. That, and a plate of Chole Bhature.

Me - "I'll see you soon. have a good one this year since..."

Neha Berry, an intellectual - "THANK YOU, YOU TOO!"

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.