Prose before hos

To be fair to you, the resentment has been wildly public. It showed up in intermittent conversations and check-ins. My therapist knows nothing of the lad so it also explains hiding, and keeping it away means I'm locking up a part of my life that is very clearly bothering me. 

He said some hurtful shit last night. The kind that made me sick the same minute. My mum thinks it's the mall aircon and he thinks it's seasonal viral. I think it's him but I had been sneezing all day yesterday. 

In a way, I have cut myself out from my anger. I've cut the bleeding organ and kept no parts of it as memory. My effort, resilience, anger all washed away and all I am left with is grief, vacuum, and the courage to make peace with it. It comes with nothing but god it's an exciting space to be brave and bold and idiotic. I can't write anymore, I don't read anymore, I don't have a single valuable insight but I'm fucking free. I can be myself, wholly cringe and unacceptable, basic as hell and fat as fuck. 

Honesty is telling yourself you suck so you can cut some slack to your inner critic whose first response after watching you burn three months' salary on jewellery was—"Bitch, why?"

On one hand, I'm telling my therapist I can't wait to quit and run and on the other side I'm ensuring financial ruin so I'll be forced to work for at least a year before I can take a brain. Just fucking wow. 

I've been wondering lately, where are my friends? Not like in life but more like we don't hang out, we don't even talk, it's not like they're busy with their kids (most of them are in healthy relationships, with/without marriage) so really, if it's not their toddlers, then what is preventing us to have ragers?

I've spent more time at home and at the airport than I have spent with my friends and that's not a monthly average but more like a year's worth of quota—took more flights than met my friends or vice versa. 

Maybe my friends hate but I do definitely hate them so what do I even say. It's okay to let them go and if they don't come back, likely that you (in this case—me) are an asshole. Yippiekayay. 

I bought my first fucking piece of gold, diamond, platinum all at once 2 days ago. While platinum was on the list, I felt fucking greedy around the other more, like some weird form of FOMO when I don't even wear this stuff. I think partly it's just coming to terms with what my life is looking like—no man, no marriage, nothing of the serious adult kind so might as well fake a reverie. Bought gold and diamonds for myself so nobody's crusty son can ever be the first to say he bought me my first ice. At the same time, to feel like you don't fucking need to produce someone's sons to be able to buy yourself those. I don't even care that much for these things and yet it felt like the time was right. 

Something in my heart screamed wanting to do it because I wanted it and I didn't fucking want anyone else to satisfy that urge, scratch that itch for me. Nobody does it like you do it for yourself. 

I read this quote earlier today that when I find a boyfriend, my boyfriend is gonna know what he missed and I never resonated more to a line. But again, I've gone from a "ahaha" person to "grief is upon us" in 14 hours of work and 3 hours of sleep. Life feels fucking hard. The only person who truly wants me to show up daily is my corn on cob guy, "Aap itna late kyun aate ho?"

Fuck even my boyfriend doesn't care for me as much, and none of my friends have asked me about my well-being or whereabouts, although I can confirm I've been a missed call in their list at least twice in June, if not more. 

The other day I burnt some sage and while blowing to extinguish, I accidentally burnt my hand. The embers lit my right hand and for the last two days it's been hurting like a bitch. Never thought demon resides so close to me. 

Anyway, I'm in a flop circle. No job, no friends, no salary, no respite, no love, no time from the man, no validation, nothing. Everyone is still continuing to suck so I don't know where that promised glow up is stuck. 

Love looks like an old friend; who's always stopped shared public transport to bring me ice cream. He doesn't eat sugar anymore so the Sundae was all mine. 

Ten years ago, there was peanut butter caramel ice cream between work. This time it was a local specialty, "Ice Apple Sundae, just try and tell me"

It's about surrendering yourself into the hands of someone who knows the city and knows you. That's the spot where magic happens. "If I can't take you around the city I've known all my life, what else am I good for?" I did the same, I would have done it for anyone, but he always surrendered, always gave in and trusted me. That's why we made a great team. 

Surrender, I did. 

How is it that your old friends know you better than anyone else in the world? My food, habits, fixtures, everything was unquestionably palatable. I was unapologetically myself- unbearable, impulsive, chaotic and loud and he complimented my ways- validated my unbearable lifestyle, and added to the impulsiveness with bad ideas ("Let the expert among us figure where to find a spot to smoke"), he was the calm to my chaos. Made me feel cared for (No, you need to eat dinner, just get something; Let's go to Town for breakfast, it'll be worth it) when I had abandoned myself (I was on ibuprofen, coffee and two Vada Pav). 

When you meet people from back when you hadn't undergone severe traumatic events one after the other, your old self comes to life for a hot minute. Bombay, between work, felt exactly like that. I was on fumes and caffeine but this man and his love for me kept me alive. When I look back, we befriended each other over a work project and little did I know I'd have found myself a person who'd be a walking antidote to my severe depressive state in 2024. "My mum can't make you Sabudana Vada on such a short notice but she's sending yous some Puran Poli you can take home."

I am so glad the butterfly effect of not having to go to the UK meant I met my old friend during this work trip. I realised that I must have done something right in my life to meet a friend who went above and beyond for me years after I dropped nail paint on his bed during our initial work meeting. 

I'm cold. It's 45 degrees indoors and I'm cold. My tummy hurts, everything hurts. I attempt to cry but I'm all dried out. No tears left to cry. 

I finally shed between number crunching when I see his hands. I don't know why I do it. I swear on all things holy, this never affected me, but I suppose I needed any excuse of a reason today. His hands, the ones that were always holding mine, all mine. 

I don't know, something about his hands broke me and I bawled. It's long overdue. I've kept a straight face for over a day and a half and if you were anywhere near me in the last 48 hours you'd know that I was a mess. I fucking hate living through transitions and sitting through dread and grief. I'm grieving his loss. I want to be alone for a while. I want to be jobless for a while. I keep going in circles, I told myself I'd never be jobless but my present self is begging my old self to let me be jobless for the foreseeable future or we'll land up with broken bones in a jumping off the building attempt. I ask my colleague if she'd help make a case for why I jumped. Before she can answer in earnestness she's pulled into a meeting. 

Am I sad because I'm dealing with a narc for a boss? I don't know. I think about how I've lasted over 18 hours working without a single thought. I miss my sister, I reckon it's the real reason why I'm miserable. I've learnt to detach from things like these so why is it affecting me? I told myself through the last weekend nothing matters and yet I keep thinking through how we are breaking everything that is sacred.

I'm asked thrice about how are things with the boy. I ignore that like I ignore all the questions about my well-being and if I need help. I begrudgingly accept help but still don't come to talk about how are we. I feel I'm not supported by anyone including the one who should be rooting for me but that's a P3 grouse. P0 is that I need a new job, P1 is that I need to get out of this situationship and look out for myself.

We wouldn't go a day without talking. Now it's a weekly ritual. We barely talk, we barely even acknowledge the other person has gone missing. I was reading about three stages of situationship, where the third stage is mutual ghosting. I wondered if we'll get there together or individually. Looks like it's happening at once. I want to talk but I'm tired. We also always go in circles. "Oho", "Oh Damn", "rough", "cold" and the last time I brought up my grouses I was told nothing. There was no response. I'm tired of bringing my grouses. I am told nothing and my ability to raise issues becomes an issue.

I miss my therapist but also I think I can no longer afford therapy. When I got to this point, I wasn't able to afford therapy without a job. Today, despite a job, I can't afford therapy. I can buy my sister a meal worth more than 2 sessions but would I plunder that amount on myself to heal? Never. I'm the problem. I'm cold. It's 45 degrees indoors. My tummy hurts, my ribs hurt, everything hurts. I finally cry my eyes out. I've a lot more in me. 

I miss being myself. I miss having hope. I'm all out of it. Except tears, that's a supply which never fails me. 

Shiv Roy wouldn't, I just know it. She wouldn't be this sad even while she's pmsing. 

There's not very much to mark and say in the 17th consecutive year of writing here. I started my career on this page, unknowingly. Today, 17 years later, I am ever so grateful, to myself, for doing that. It's the one relationship that I'm still deriving value from. 

I think my 30s have brought a whole new crop of people, the majority of whom have no idea I do this or that this page means a whole lot to me. I intend to keep it this way. I intend to keep my life as low-key as I can because what did we get after opening up for all these years? I have no regrets about the love(s) lost but friendships, those fucking hurt. 

It's also not to say that I like most of you cunts and can't stand you but god knows, even when Logan died, everyone cried. I feel a big anniversary or anything to do with this image is imminently like an anti-hero's demise written by Jesse Armstrong. Only, it's too real, and I'm the Waystar RoyCo CEO here. 

I'm not about to make big promises like last year (cause god knows that blew in my face and I am so tired of it all) but I'm about to do what I do best. Write, even when it makes no sense or head or tail to you. I did it at 15, without a plan and I'm here at 32. Not the wisest and also shows little tendency to move on, but hey, you knew what you were signing up for years ago.

We love people the way we want to be loved. Or, so I believe.

A friend at work, prompted shortly after lunch, "Why are you this patient with him? Do you like him that much?" I was distracted by the smell on my nails; a lot of pickle and a lot of oil meant that my pastel pink manicure was reeking of Gongura Leaves and Mustard Oil. I had finished explaining a long fable on my back after a rather early lunch—why I ended up making a steep purchase earlier today and how I needed to be a knight in shining armour for a fintech situation in my personal life, as a "woman in STEM". I don't end up doing either anymore—explaining myself to people and oversharing. I shed parts of me like a snake changes skin every season and that is the only reason why I state this. I find it odd to articulate any part of my personal life to anyone, even to those closest to me. Naturally, that has extended to this page and by default logic, people in my life.

I used to think so too. And maybe, the egg in my basket was rotten so I can't say this is a shared experience, but I felt a lot of me was eliminated, lost, and washed out in doing that. And maybe, that's not how this is supposed to be. If Goldilocks found the first bed too soft, then she's now finding this bed too hard, but that's not such a bad thing for her spine or back overall. I am still using my brain to fend for myself and look out for myself and if I have to include another person intermittently in that, why not? 

To be honest, I don't think it's the man or his potential, it's all me. It's always been me, my sparkle, my love and my love that's made others shine bright. Without that, he's just another fish, another egg, another brick. It's the bricklayer who decides the pecking order and she has to be patient with her art. 

You know when you feel the blues in all corners of your life, you have to pause and ask yourself, is it denim-tinted glasses, or are people farting indigo? 

A week ago a dear friend told me to treat people like these like I'd treat a set of car-wiper; let them be and only use them when it rains and I need their shield to protect me. Unfortunately, some of us who've volunteered to be jesters are cursed to be the wipers ourselves; we exist to make everyone else's life convenient at the cost of us dealing with the rain and sun all day every day till our existence. 

A friend remarked that my vacation plan sounds very "Eat, Pray, Love" like and you know what—maybe, he was onto something there

Sure, I walked like I was trekking to the EBC around Soi6, with a backpack full of Sanrio merch, taking pictures of a salon past working hours. Found Pooky for Pookie, who ordered the cheese? I also ate like I was on a remote island with no food left for dinner. 

I didn't think solo travelling could be this fun, and to think, a year ago, I was willing to give it all up for a person who wanted me to be an airport princess and waltz with him to his vacation dreams (one where we travel business, stay in only 4* and above resorts, don't leave the room, order room service and sleep). Hey, that's not a bad vacation and he wasn't a bad planner, but that life isn't just for someone who has a larger appetite of life—three breakfasts and four dinners and just some juice for lunch, thank you. 

January me and March me are completely different people. 

In between the difference, there is February me, who booked me on a flight with a baggage limit smaller than my personal baggage (been in therapy four-ish years). What the fuck was I thinking? 

In all of this, I forgot the Sept-Oct me, who was so fucking determined to not look at any man that while spring cleaning today, I realised how down bad I've been.

One thing about me— I will let you treat me like shit when I'm down bad. 

Anyway, here are my affirmations that should go in my diary but I feel like typing them out to make sure the universe is reading on 40 mbps or something:

I WILL ACCEPT THE LOVE I THINK I DESERVE

I WILL HAVE TOUGH CONVERSATIONS IN RELATIONSHIPS

I WILL BE SOFT WITH PEOPLE I LIKE AND NOT BE A BITCH TO THEM

I WILL NOT TOLERATE ANYONE BUT ESPECIALLY A LOVE INTEREST TREAT ME LIKE SHIT (friend's wife is unacceptable)

I WILL NOT BEG TO BE LOVED NOR BEG TO BE TREATED RIGHT

I WILL MOVE IN SILENCE 

I AM DESIRABLE AND THAT VALIDATION CANNOT COME FROM A CRUSTY MAN WHO WON'T MEET ON A WEEKEND 

I WILL NOT WASTE TIME ON POTENTIAL NOR WILL I WAIT FOR SOMEONE TO MAKE UP THEIR MIND ABOUT ME

The most affirming word in the minds of forelorn lovers, separated loved ones; whether it's between working hours or actual miles between two people, soon is always arriving. 

For a long-time in the last 60 days, I hung on to that word, every weekend. "Soon enough," is when we were supposed to meet. Today, that tied into my Covid recovery. Third time's the charm so we can hope I recover soon enough; the marker that I once interpreted for the distance between our synced calendars is now a distant future for my recovery phase. There's peace and hope but there's also history. 

For us, soon was always incoming, every weekend as we worked our asses off. Now, soon is a year or maybe two. It took me over two years to go back to working out without killing myself and building my strength, and now the soonest I can do is "soon enough". 

I really do hope I'm happy soon enough. 

 A question I get frequently is about my writing process—what is it?

My first instinct is a clip-on-loop, playing in my head- a body, bareback, under the shower head, crying. Like a fever dream, conjuring that memory is low-res in my head at best. You cannot tell if the person crying under the shower is me or someone else but someone is definitely wet under the shower and crying at the same time. Is it a familiar entity? Is it a fictional character? Who knows. The location remains static, my parents' washroom. I trust very few spaces with my intimate thoughts and while my folks may not make the cut, their washroom definitely did. 

Truth be told, a good washroom is a great space for thinking. It's a better spot for ideating than the overhyped notes app. However, coming back, thinking of my artistic process puts the fear of god in me; I'm able to think through words and ideas during my lowest lows. I could be howling my eyes and processing my emotions while I come up with what to write. I think through the men I've loved and the few people who I trusted, and how they further broke that chain of trust. I think about the filler scenes of Fleabag in S2, Ep1 when she's rummaging through her memories of how she's overcome the filth that her existence stood for in S1, I filter through the man who I thought held me when I talked to him about my lowest lows and then another who caused it (there are usually only two—and if you think you know either, you need to stop reading this page cause you know nothing). Both let me down and both come to mind during the question of my artistic process. I find it easier to write in hurt than when I'm satisfied with life. 

I've been waking up a lot at 4 something am. It's usually a dream; something about a traumatic episode, my mom, dimsum, and a friend. I turn my phone on, look at the time, try to catch my breath and calm my heartbeat, stare at my phone a little more, and hope I get a buzz from [redacted]. A minute later, the phone is turned off and I tug my plushie as tightly as I physically can; I don't have the physical strength to write that I just went on an un-consented adventure with familiar characters in my head, but if I could, I'd beg for the rollercoaster ride of my dreams to stop.

I often daydream about how the guy will hurt me. People live through happy fantasies and mine are about how he'll destroy me. If he ever reads this, he might actually be drop-dead disappointed in me but knowing the people in and around my life, he won't be the first to feel jaded because of me. If anything, this goes to show it's mostly me, I'm the problem before there's a problem. 

I went for this film recently (Holdovers), where the protagonist is every bit despicable and I never related to a fictional character more. During a small talk scene, when he's asked to relay a happy fantasy, he implies he dreams within means. To this, the opposing character points out how his fantasies are also short-lived and incomplete and that he is allowed to dream in full, with hope—I'm exactly like that. Even in my fantasies, I can't hope for the best of me because it's better to lose the hope of it all. Some would say it's a problem of lack of faith or trust in people but I don't think so. What they don't get is that I have more faith in them, in the actions of anyone who is halfway compassionate to me than I have in those who claim to look out for me. Those who've made these proclamations to be there have done nothing but destroy me should look at themselves first and their lack of actions. We should be safeguarded from our well-wishers, well, at least me.

It's almost done. Winter's done another round and nearly out of my way for the foreseeable future. 

I'm amazed at people, including myself, who can plan ahead. A few years ago, I couldn't look at an hour later into my life and today I'm accounting for plans over the Summer, or lack thereof. I don't know what I'm doing over the Summer so I should do it now. 

It's surreal how I'm focused on one area of my life, and in my experience, that's when shit blows up in my face in the most grand fashion ever. Last year, this time, I was thrilled to be dating, thrilled to be writing for a living and keeping my chin up. This year, I don't know if i'm going to have a job in the next six months and what will the nature of the job be, obviously know zilch about dating anyone and doing nothing about changing the status quo. 

Sometimes I wish I were running a vintage thrift store (not the kind you're thinking) but a curio store with beige interiors, minimal with accessories and posters as a part of the collection and a fat, sleepy cat snoring by the glass counter, against which I've stashed my most prized possession, button badges. I am so far away from that dream that it sounds like a lie even when I write about it. 

Lately, I've been seeing those posts a lot—you have what you were chasing five years ago, and true, I do. A diagnosed history of living with PTSD, a heart that's been broken so many times that I could be an influencer running that Japanese art of gold-filling broken pieces and selling you gold jewellery made from the pieces of my heart alone, a salary that is roughly the same that I was drawing (what a shame) five years ago and an overwhelming desire to change my whole existence, which is currently at an all-time high. 

I've not worked out in almost 5-6 days and I know I can feel better, just a bit, but I also know restarting sugar after 40 days has done a number. I'm already dreading the bloat and fat (and at this point, it's a fair assumption to say I'm probably on an ED-spectrum). What was once a theory is now a fact— I've lost my friends to my lifestyle—shutting inwards, quitting alcohol and being a recluse, which I know, doesn't show up but it also does. I'd rather run to a stranger's apartment to see a spare bedroom on 21st floor than check-in with a close friend and tell him I miss him. Instead, I find people have moved on, as always, all without me and I've made my peace with it. One Amazon book order at a time, one Nykaa nail paint at a time. 

The way I shed the skin of my selfhood after each heartbreak needs to be critically studied by scientists researching on sustainability. I'm a new person in my heart and yet, it's never enough for me. I always feel like I'm swimming in the same water when that's hardly the case. 

It only sinks in, how I'm a new individual when I have a run-in with someone who didn't walk the mile in my shoes during the said transition. It's even better when it's someone who knew me 5-6 heartbreaks ago. They're usually in shock to see the 'new' me and I'm usually gobsmacked to hear about the 'old' me and how I was perceived. 

It's usually the parts that were perceived are the ones that are first to be rewritten. I don't know how that happens, but it's unconscious and when someone brings it up, that's when the first realisation hits- oh shit, oh fuck, I used to be that. 

But, what about those parts that remain? What about the filthy sleeve full of the same personality and the choices I carry today? What about the outtakes I measured and engaged in and safely bubble-wrapped to be indulged in another day? They're simply there, in ether. 

There is a no-man land where they exist parallel to my new self, in an archival state, and I don't know what to do with them. Those are the things I liked way too much to let go of during my transformation or allow to be discarded in my transformation or memory rewriting. 

I find their existence similar to those of pre-teens who face divorce and watch their biological parents go through new partner(s). That's how some of my opinions and choices feel—they were a composite whole in the company of another individual, who is now seemingly missing, but those opinions, which were once mine or ours still remain. Some are unclaimed and some are claimed with a disclaimer, there's some context that I don't have the bandwidth to get into right now, I hope you'll understand. 

Some, such, unclaimed, unlucky and orphaned thoughts linger on the regular. Every time I see a certain car, I'm reminded of a man who once cheerfully gleamed at a stranger on his good choice cause they had the same model. Another time, I saw the model of a car and thought to myself, it's an apt name for a car owned by the man who was driving me to his home that night. I don't know why it was the first time ever that I chose to notice but then it stuck with me, and how he was exactly like that in person. I remember another nuance, one where you can tell who's texting you by the number of times your phone rings. I've visited that thought a million times since we parted ways, and now today I can count by the pacing of the notification buzz who's texting me—there are only a handful who do anyway and it's easy to pick between them. 

There was one I encountered recently, on giving preference for a new phone, I parroted what someone once told me, without jumping into extensive context and felt sad when I chose to rewrite the version, "friend" told me this. 

Then there are those thoughts that I shared with them, that have absolutely no home whatsoever. One morning, when I was bed-headed and trying my best to leave the sack (before his parents arrived to meet him), I announced how we'd go and see Taylor Swift together if she were to do an Asia Tour. That was probably the first time when I discovered I liked her enough to make that trip and he must do that because I like him just enough too and since he likes me just enough, we must make it happen. 

I was listening through Lavender Haze a lot, during that time, a track I could never go back to after we parted ways. It recently played on my shuffle and I felt nothing, until I was reminded that it was while this track was playing is when I told him that we'll see Taylor Live. Now that she's performing live in Asia next month and I'm not going, it doesn't bother me at all. It felt like a shared goal, even though the guy had no part to play. 

Similarly, this one time I saw the car number of the guy I really, really liked and it was the same as a driver we both fancied. Awkwardly, between goodbye hugs, I had pointed to him and he hadn't noticed. I think about that moment a lot. Did he play coy because there was an awkward moment or did he truly not register the similarity in the car registration and driver number? I don't know; I'll never know.

I don't want to know. 

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I have this friend at work; she's great at personal questions. I mean, for real, I don't think she knows this but she's led me down rabbit hole each time our conversations transcended work to personal life boundaries. 

COURSE I FUCKING DO. 

It's not the weather, I know, well, not all of it. It's also me. I am feeling the gaping hole in my heart and despite best attempts to fill it with hobbies, people, passions and overworking the day job till it kills me, some days it just aches for plain old familiarity. 

Ovulation is INSANE. 

What I hadn't accounted for, was the weekend. 

Truth be told, it really doesn't. I'm past it. I was past it. 

I asked my extremely reluctant Winter cuff, "Do you think I'm insane—y or n?" 

I suspect every time I talk to him he likes me less and this definitely felt like "Will you fuck me if I were a worm?" redux chat. As much as I'm coming around to him liking me less by the hour, I do want him to stand through Winter, another 5-6 weeks if not more. But people, you can't count on them to be there for you.

I never want to feel like that kid waiting for the cob seller on a hot summer's day. I'm tired of staring at chat windows in the anticipation that someone for once will show up just for me, and what I bring to the table and value that. 

That I come on too strong

That I should have come on instead of checking in if there's a reason they didn't

That I could have made the first move 

That I don't have to be so angry

That I don't have to be aggressive

That I could look pretty if I waxed 

That, they're not sure what they're looking for

That, they're looking for something casual

That, they're looking for a wife

That, they're looking to start a family

That, they're not sure what they're looking for

That they'd rather focus on their YouTube career than spend time dating me or keep me as a long-term option

That they're not sure since they won't be here in the mid-term

That they're not into me cause I ask questions

That I am scary

That reading lots of online articles doesn't mean being well-read and having an answer for everything doesn't mean that I am smart

That I am quick-witted

That I am famous

That I could be famous

That I deserve to be famous

That they'd never be around me if I were famous

That they're not putting in an effort cause I'm not putting in effort

That I don't put enough effort

That I put myself out too much and there's no mystery

That I'm so good

That I'm so bad

That I'm fucking mean

That I am so cool

That I'm evil

That Taylor Swift fans are a cult and anyone who likes her is just an attention-seeker

That women who game only do so to attract men's attention

That women who are into F1 are into it to win the affection of a man who's watching it

That I called them my boyfriend when we were nothing more than passing friends who shared intimacy

That I was hesitant to call him my boyfriend despite us being in a co-habitual routine

That I am dating too many men

That I only write about men

That I only obsess over men

That I don't obsess over men

That I am too cool to be someone's girlfriend

That I'm not cool enough to be their girlfriend

That my body count is pumping

That I haven't been around enough