Toto Wolff needs to walk the ramp for Gucci

Sunday, August 16, 2020

I had a spectacular weekend. It feels like Kimmy Schmidt with the world except it's SnobO learns about the existence of F1 content outside of the sport and begins wondering the future of content creation. Also, fucking great community and why did she never take to that considering this level of game and pace is something she digs and how. 

Also, how has the world hidden Toto Wolff for so long from her eyes? 

Anyhow, to recall-

I recovered from cold, possible fever (not COVID, yay?) and got done with my period. 

I spent every spare minute, which is to say, in sickness and in health some 16-18 hours daily watching and reading F1 content, more specifically the highlights of old races and radio box commentary. 

I have also decided the final speech of what I'm gonna tell the 18-year-old me if I ever have a chance to revisit that idiot,


Don't waste time studying for the fucking exam. You can cheat from the guy sitting next to you. Go for the fucking India GP and do not make excuses that you have to read or whatever else. 

Also, lose the guy you're into. You'll have terrible rebounds all the way till the Summer of 2018."


Anyway, I don't know how much of life coach bit did I mention here, but I did manage to get my sleep cycle in check courtesy an old friend, who also in '13 helped me get over the said guy I'm leaving my 21-22 year old that fucking note for. The said friend (who shall remain unnamed or alternatively you can dig 2013-2014 posts to know more about him) has helped me recover from the trauma that was not getting the US tourist visa, not getting a thesis topic of my choice ("Dude film sounds interesting."— "NO, YOU MAKE THE FUCKING FILM IF IT SOUNDS INTERESTING!")

As a part of his advice slash what started this was the act of disconnecting and switching off. 

No, box-box. Only beer and champagne on the yacht.

However, since my industrial-grade anti-anxiety (the kind celebs OD on) does not permit drinking, I brewed a batch of Man Friday special Green Tea. Man Friday specifically requested his identity to be withheld, thus previous posts/tags are never going to be hyperlinked, not since his colleagues got hold of this page and it became a bit of a cover issue for him. 

I digress, but the day involved Vettel's radio commentary over glasses of Iced Green Tea, some vegetable cutlets I prepped earlier today just in time for race dinner and topped it with ice cream from the jar while watching Saif being exceptionally charming in Agent Vinod (2012; dir Sriram Raghavan).

Another note for my 20 yo ass, 

"Please don't diss that number. You'd be making notes about how happy it makes you for your next therapy session, only to check with your therapist with you indeed self-sabotage. Also, bitch, you like Saif. Why are you hating on the men you like?"

The answer to self-sabotage is no. I don't need an external agency telling me that. For if it weren't, I'd be chugging whiskey shots with ice cream right now and singing out of context lyrics to my crush over audio messages (about that) from Munni Badnaam Hui (cinema hall hui, darling tere liye— highly inaccurate cause the man hates films among other things—hella sexy). What can I say, I have a personal Kimi Raikkonen to fuss over. Or so I hope. 

I finally got around to doing what homework my therapist gave me, or well started so that's some progress. Also, learned that you can't hate people who like ice cream. You just can't. 

Tomorrow is a new day and we gotta take one step at a time. Baby steps, baby. Until then, some reading, little more disconnection (and all that crush missing cause no texting). 

My two moods on and off anti-anxiety, an illustrated representation. 

Not illustrated: current life status. If anyone's wondering, it's Vettel in 2020 with Ferrari. Literally, the last time something good happened to me was September 2019. 

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