Prose before hos

Un-used ISBN number. 

I grew up when she eye rolled, snapped back at me for asking a question and then another, at a meeting.

When I replied with the name of the destination, and she chided by saying, "that's not what I mean by 'where we're going!'" (I was told a rose by any other name would smell just as crap as your behaviour but here we are.)

With another eye roll, I was old enough to understand that money doesn't grow on trees. It comes from taking shit from people who consider themselves superior. Just because they're born in a certain class, in a certain family and you're not. Fuck everything they told you at the Value Education class on hard work and loyalty and other virtues.

That a part of growing up involves working under someone who checks the list for being bad to the waiter, the equivalent of those in other spaces you encounter together. (I still don't understand, that man's not on your payroll to take your shit and yet you'll insist on giving it to him so mercilessly.) The Ethics lectures are coming live as I tell myself, "Ethics won't feed me my luxury or the lifestyle I'm used to." The money will. And babe, that money's gotta come if you adult well.

With every incorrect name she called me by, insisted I give up my private number to a team of corporate hos on my behalf, without letting me speak for myself, I grew up. I aged when I saw her use me to extract stuff on her behalf, on maintaining bad blood with people she couldn't afford to with her name.

I became old infront of me when I allowed them to treat me like crap. Time after time. To yell at me when it wasn't called for, to blame me for not taking complete orders when I was supposed to be an equal stakeholder. To abuse me, to tell me that I'm illiterate.

Or when they rolled their eyes after they missed giving out the instruction and put the blame on me, "I told you so."

No you didn't. Nobody did, you twat.

You are stronger than what you believe for yourself to be.
Every minute of the day, I question myself if that's true.


Then I think it is. I see the reflection of the same in my ageing, my crowfeet and my candour around you.

And then I see myself reacting with nothing at all. To nothing at all. Except maybe I hope the worst for you, but only until I realize it will backfire.

I prefer responding in silence, to your jabs, eye rolls, sarcasm and unnecessary garbage which deserves a book of rants, edited by me ofcourse (because it can be done in 2 minutes only and I should take that kind of time out). Because, I wasn't as priviliged as you. Because I wasn't given the good fortune of taking my priviliges and rubbing it in the face of someone with a brain of its own. Grapes might be sour but I would never, ever do that. Maybe that's why I'd not make a successful entrepreneur.

And I hope to all things in the universe that I never become you. Despite the uncanny similarities I see in the two of us, I hope with all my heart and might, that I never quite become an obnoxious individual like you.

Someday, you'll know you've been a real dolt. And it'll probably be too late. I can't wait for that day.


Hope it arrives at your doorstep real soon.

I started my weekend with hiring Subhash.

Subhash, a grandfather to two kids, is an auto rickshaw driver in Delhi. He's seen better days, he says. The kind where his grandfather worked as a clerk at some government division, and he too was promised a job. The one which he never picked.

Ambitions are the end of us all. It doesn't matter what caste, creed, colour, sex, or even social strata. If, like Subhash, you have ambitions, be prepared to feel bad about being downtrodden all your life.

Much like me. A research scholar in cinema, people don't understand why I did, what I did. I don't understand their ignorance. They win, because they are all hiring managers, brand managers, business development managers, manager managers.

I'm a glorified Editor of sorts. Add some prefixes to that, it doesn't mean nothing. At least that's the sense I get. The day I feel satisfied, is the day I'll rest in my grave. To be alive, is to be digging with your fingertips, deeper until you scratch the surface of satisfaction. The deeper you go, the better it feels. Just the idea of being in constant motion. Which is what brought Subhash and me to the level of exchanging phone numbers.

Subhash, a Gujjar, lives in Tughalakabad Extension in Delhi. He's from around here. Born and raised, grew up in the same place. Our similarities baffle me. We're both at strife with peace. He has a son, who he trained in Hotel Management. The son works at a prominent five star hotel. He also received an Alto Car in dowry, which he doesn't drive. Bike will be cheaper, my son tells me, says Subhash. Almost as if, he's embarrassed on his son's behalf. Even less for himself, for driving the auto and ferrying people like me around.

Me? I was carrying two half full bottles of Vodka on me. Half an hour past my dinner time, when Subhash asked me to pay him ten additional bucks over and above the usual fare, I said no. Then I said yes, before he could agree to my price. "It's a Friday night. I look like a million bucks. I'm meeting the people I love to death. I can pay ten extra bucks, sure, make someone's evening." Sulking as I was about the uncredited salary and having no money, I found a friend in Subhash who was even less glum about having made less than five hundred rupees that day.

Subhash, a Congress party supporter, hesitantly told me he voted for Modi. His entire family, all his friends, his neighbours and everybody he knew voted for Modi in 2014. He was asked to do the same by the people he lived with. And so he did.

"Do you regret doing that?" I tried my best to make him talk. His soft spoken candour turned to a loud mouthed Punjabi aunty's as he distrated me by saying how the cops suck monkey balls (in the Haryanvi equivalent of those words) and are the reason why we were stuck at a signal for over an hour. It didn't help our case when he got a call from this Good Guy who he drops on regular basis. It didn't help my case when he pointed at the location where he picks that guy from, daily- outside the house of a guy I dated.

The Good Guy, though from Bihar, is very well educated and a good person at heart, Subhash informed me. He also told me about this professor who is from Rajasthan and around my age (early 30s he speculated) and gets dropped to the university in the morning.

Subhash, a retired gentleman, rents out autos to other individuals and that helps him run the household. His son makes some from the Hotel on the side and together they keep the family afloat. While filled with equal part guilt and equal part regret about not making it big, Subhash wants to continue driving. He doesn't care much about dignity of labour, although he does like his work enough to do the same thing every day from 7 am to 9 pm, all through the year.

Subhash's quite patriarchal while being ever so liberal together. It's a combination enjoyed exclusively by Delhi men and Subhash is no different. He insisted that I should get married. "But who will marry me?" I cried in my defence as the signal hit red and we missed our chance to escape the traffic the fifth time.

"Don't you have friends?"

Subhash hit a nerve. I had half a mind to tell him that all my friends deserted me and have new and fabulous lives in different cities, but I kept mum and nodded in disapproval. In my head, my answer was, "Negative, Subhash". Nobody's marrying me, I'm marrying nobody. That boat was never meant for me, and my committment phobic self anyway. However, like his political act, I didn't really find words to explain myself without making myself sound like a total asshole. Never reveal your asshole self to anyone who's driving you around, rule of thumb.

At this point, he and I had run out of conversation to make. But we had two kilometers of distance to cover in 30 whole minutes. I didn't mind it one bit, except that I was starving and thirsty and upset at the fact that I'd forgotten my Ruby Woo at home. Selfies will have to be done before I hit the dinner and I was an hour late for my dinner at that point.

Subhash too got a call from the Good Guy to have him picked from the same spot (kill me already), after which we only discussed politics and the cops, both of which, if I reveal about won't leave him in a state to drive his auto rickshaw and me, with a well paying job ever.

We parted our ways after spending good hour and a half to cover a four kilometer distance, all thanks to the same set of people Subhash's family forced him to vote for, and the one that my family was never up for.

The decision we make come to haunt us, be it our career choices, or our votes.

I spent the last weekend reconnecting with my double chin in the beautiful city of Pune. Over many a toasted slice of white bread and bun slathered with butter, I grinned and fawned over every little thing. Namely, the terrible two-wheelers, who without a care in the world would drive like the Pearly Gates are shutting for the night, and mannerless cab drivers, who needed an excuse to cancel the ride. In the midst of such stunning imagery, I found myself being oh so angry at male folks. Bless their excretion organ. The world is nothing but a large toilet for all the men folk.

Years ago, I had a meeting scheduled with one of my professors to discuss a photography assignment I was due to present later that month. Each of us had to pitch an idea and I went ahead with this photo story, of how men can take a piss in public. The idea, ofcourse, was to see this culture proliferated across caste, background, colour- nearly everything- a unifying factor for menfolk. The idea that unites the gender- take a piss anywhere.

In a total anti-climax, the professor shot the idea down. He claimed this was a normal phenomenon across the world and wasn't specific to 'Delhi' and 'India'.

Well, nobody had said it had to be India/Delhi specific.

"You're into music and gig photography. Why don't you cover the jazz fest? Besides, men across the world do that. You know, in Europe- Germany, London, everywhere. It's not unique.", he had said, as though in response to me having accused him of doing something totally unacceptable, say snorting coke off a Japanese prostitute's navel.

Years later, (to be precise, yesterday) I was reading Mia Khalifa's book- Special Lassi. She spins the most beautiful words together to describe her backbreaking misadventures across the Himalayas. I don't easily endorse things, but when I do, I go all out. Her book is all kinds of wonderful- complete with astute observations about the things around us- especially in India- which we take for granted. One of them, as she lists, is the ability of men to take a piss anywhere they want. That marked a befitting end to my trip. As I was trapped in a godforsaken city with little to no public urinals access to women, it seemed Mia Khalifa's words were mine.

Through the course of the bastard trip, my host and I would exit the house in the morning, only to return in the wee hours of next morning- absolutely constipated. With sharing a washroom between us two, the details were exchanged and intimately so.

"Are you constipated as well? Shit man. I've not crapped in a day and a half."

"I wanted to take a dump but I can't in public toilets."

"Wait, there's no health faucet?"

"No man, you have to use the mug and water."

"Shit. Shit."

"I can't take a dump with full satisfaction. You know what I mean? It's like I've done it but I'm not satisfied."

"Dude, I'm eating too many carbs for me to be able to take a satisfying dump. If I don't, I'll want to shit at the drop of the hat."

"Yeah don't, there's no place where you can."

These were some of the stray sentences exchanged repeatedly over the weekend. The issue with us both? Privileged, women of colour on a vacation not being able to pee/poop as they pleased.

Which essentially made me look inwards and realised, we still have it easy. We can always come back to our respective place, comfortable spot to take a satisfying dump or a piss. Whereas, for a significant number of people, this privilege can never be realized or attained simply because they don't have the means of affording it.

Which makes me go back to question, what is it about this being so 'global'? Do women globally suffer from UTIs or whatever it is, constipation, because they do not have means to provide them with sanitation and hygiene? Or does it have to be only us where, after over seventy years of the country's independence we are still battling eyelids on who ate what part of cow meat or goat meat and how dare a musical outfit call themselves "Bhangi jumping"?

I guess, I'll never know. At the end of the day, if not a jazz fest, I'll be asked to shoot or commission something equally banal and distracting and I'll go back home, holding my piss and poop to only relieve myself eight hours after a day's work.

In the midst of my Invincible Summer, a man entered. Brave enough, he tried to shake things up by asking me out for dinner slash drinks slash both. To my misfortune, carbs, by ginormous quantity prevented the execution of his brevity. Date stood cancelled, and well, the fever saved me the dreaded trip to the parlour lady.

I could have within me an Invincible Summer and all that jazz. Only, I won't have in me is the metabolism slash courage to face the wrath of the parlour and the ladies who make the experience there, worth writing about. For all I know, that fever may have been up against my arse because of the thought of facing the parlour and the ladies in the morning, but I'll save the man that information (for all you know, he doesn't care).

I know, there are too many desi parlour tropes floating on the internet. BuzzFeed, Mallika Dua, ScoopWhoop and almost everyone with a voice and over thousand followers have written and contributed to the large repository of the parlour stories, memes, jokes and some such. However, we don't have people talking about parlour aesthetics amongst us. The sheer act of wanting to spend close to an hour with other women, half naked, willingly in a cramped room full of the nauseating scent of armpit sweat and talc. The joys of being born with an invincible Summer!

The thing about stepping inside a beauty parlour is, stripping clear of shame completely. For years together, I used to have a woman come home and tend to my body hair removal. I don't know why exactly that stopped, but I distinctly remember what re-started my trips to the parlour.

It was the Winter of 2014 or maybe 2013, and I'd accompanied May to her parlour in Amar Colony. A hole in the wall, the parlour ended before it started. There were two ladies handling the show for an aunty, an elderly lady who was most interested in knowing why their regular didn't show up for a whole month. The thing that I liked the most about the place was that there was no small talk. The whole reason why I decided to get someone to come over and avoid staring into the eyes of the person who's just witnessed the ingrowth of my pubes and other things. There's also the public watching you display your armpit which you've been coyly hiding for a fortnight now (where are those days now?). A healthy mix of embarrassment and shame added with the fear of living through small talk is what put me off for years.

This place was different.

The ladies handling your business were only interested in the 4x4 TV screen. Channel was selected as though someone was in a state of comatose and their relatives had lost the remote to the television. Each time I dropped by, these ladies were completely enamoured by whatever was playing on that screen. It was almost a relief to see them interested in something other than my blackheads, my tattoo, my discoloured feet, my pudgy stretch marks- everything. Going to them was like having a lover who wasn't interested you to ask for head, but just interested in going down on you and getting done with. That's how easy it was. Go, tell them what you want, let them do things to you. Next thing you know, you're set for the date. (as long as you top with a shower before stepping out of your house, please do that- please.)

That parlour where I used to go was analogous to single screen theatres, which are now getting extinct faster than the meteor that hit the dinosaurs. A rare phenomenon in a constantly shifting space like Delhi, these parlours are now a thing of ancient history or well the 90s.

A case in point, these parlours will not provide you magazines to read, coffee to drink or an unlimited supply of fresh towels. They will not have the ladies recommending you underarm wax strips at INR 500. Instead, they'll insist that you go for chocolate wax on your arms which cost only INR 30 more than the regular wax at INR 100. I have been paying 400 odd rupees to get my body squeaky clean and have survived. Meanwhile, the parlour next to where I work may just ask for that amount only to tend to my armpit hair and sweat.

Which means, there is a distinct class divide in these varieties of beauty parlours. For starters, INR 5oo for armpit places call themselves "Salon" or "Ladies Room" and the INR 2o for upper lips and eyebrows are still the humble parlour. The outfit to change into at these salons are clean, ironed and definitely worn once. The outfit in which they propose to wax your armpit hair off at these parlours have been worn at least seven times in a day. The rule of thumb is that if it smells clean, you'll be asked to wear it again, as the eight customer of the day.

Pro Tip- Like me, if you have been going to the dying breed of the parlour, carry your boxer briefs and vest to change into, better still wear it under your outfit. It truly helps with your mild case of OCD.

The other visible difference in the parlour and salon divide is that of visibility. In Pune, during my last trip, I'd dragged Ashmita Guha Neogi with me to get her waxed. We went to a parlour in a student colony, which was more chic than where I work at present. Not only did they have a designated space for waxing, they did not allow others to join in there to wait. At the parlour where I've been going (since 2014, where I accompanied May once), you strip almost publically. By the end of the hour, you'd have seen atleast half a dozen sets of legs with varying hair growth in and around. The most amazing part of that place is this table like thing, where you're made to stand, your head touching the room and the lady scoops out wax and slathers over your leg. The perfection with which she does, she puts me to shame, reminding me of the times, I missed a corner on the slice of bread while slapping marmalade. Utter perfection.

As all good things go, the ladies at the parlour I used to go to quit. May found another place, before that happened and switched. I was left with the choice of following the ladies or following May. I decided to go to the new space which is now owned by the lady who used to wax me. It's even smaller than the previous place (which is a miracle that such a space can exist), it's got no table, television or magazines. Just two chairs to service you, and a door to show yourself out. It does the job, almost as discreetly as you'd like for it to be. Nobody to judge your armpit, the boobage popping out while removing hair on the arms.

As for my pubes, they're not seeing the light of the day, cramped room or the eyes of anyone anytime soon.

No wax in over five weeks. Date night gotta wait till I'm mentally prepared to bare my soul legs to the ladies.

There are few things in life which are as therapeutic as walking down an aisle full of products in a well-stocked store.

Disclaimer- I love burning money. I love to shop. If I have it, I've gotta spend it.

Which makes me for an interesting case study. Here I am, I love to spend. However, when I do go to 24/7, literally every day, and come back without buying anything, I sound like one of those pathological liars on Facebook- you know the kind with the fake boyfriend's fake account writing them sonnets in the forms of memes. That, in itself, is quite an amazing blog entry.

Anyway, where was I? That I love to shop.

My absolute favourite is alcohol shopping. Possibly Delhi's best-stocked liquor shop is at 5 minutes distance from my place and there's nothing ever that they don't have. The queues are insanely long and the assistants helping inside are as kind as Mirra Alfassa.

It's inside the alcohol store that I come alive. Which is strange because I wasn't exactly conditioned into buying alcohol as a child or anything. My closest association with buying alcohol is at the airport. Usually left with a decent wad of cash, I burn all my money (not leaving enough for the cab home) at the Duty-Free. It helps when it's my scholarship funds and not what I earn. If you're the agency that gives me the scholarship money then please stop, look at the pigeon coming right at your face from the East. Look!

Something bothers me about putting things online- say for example on this blog. Here am I, telling you something about myself. To what extent do you believe this something?

My alcohol story is kinda farcical. I love to shop, sure. I love burning money, yes. I also spend all the remaining cash at the Duty-Free but does that mean it's my favourite kind of shopping? Perhaps not.

I've trivialised a really simple thing which has been bugging me for a long, long time. How far do you, as audience/reader/consumer of the content on social media believe what goes online?



Let me simplify this.
There's this person on my list, who has my renewed interest. For maturity sake, let's call her "X". Miss "X" happens to have a thriving life, her social media appearances are very dramatic and touched up, almost as if it's a framed painting by Goya. She keeps a record of where ever she goes by doing a "check-in", which are interspersed with places where she "actually" goes and you know, hangs with her two and a half friends. Look, I'm not the one to have a problem with having few friends and no life. I advocate that shit. However, I will, never, for the life of me understand what makes people create fictitious Facebook accounts for fictitious characters in their lives. How do I know this? Well, the boyfriend has no appearance and none whatsoever for at least eight years.

Yeah, sure, he's not a Facebooker. But then, he's always the one person showing "love" react to all her posts, all her nonsense and continues to post things on her wall, all day, every day. He lives abroad and conveniently has no friends, no internet self and definitely yields no search results if you look him up. Why does that bother me? I think the girl needs therapy. But that's my opinion. As a concerned flanéur, I need her to understand it's not okay to have a fictitious life.

In the Summer of 2011, my friend KneePee and I had stumbled upon another one. This was amazing because she'd not only created a fake boyfriend but a whole fake family. There were family members, each with the profile picture of a different flower from a generic garden. There were 17 people in total that this particular woman, let's call her "Y", was interacting with. Why would "Y" do that? I wouldn't know. But our friend "Y" was amazing. Pure genius. At this point, I wasn't even trained in identifying scams and fake profiles (yeah, there's such a thing and yeah, I'm trained for it- whatever you may say).

So, coming back.

There's this man I was crushing on at 19-20, and sometime then, I remember a picture of him which popped up on my feed. It had a familiar face with a different name. That was "Y"'s supposed boyfriend standing next to my crush, with a name I wasn't familiar with. Now, as curious as I was, I clicked on his profile and what I saw next blew my mind.

"Y" had lifted images off from this guy's account, since all those pictures existed and as did the comments, but only given by people with same names and different surnames. After having given generic flower photographs to the family and the man, she'd proceeded to post his family and personal pictures on his account, in the various album(s). Incidentally, they were stolen from that man, who shared the same name but different surname as "Y"'s fictitious boyfriend.

Guess who was the mutual friend between that man and me?

Turns out, "Y" was absolutely obsessed with the guy, to the point she had claimed it was her in the pictures, next to the man (wherein it was actually his real girlfriend, a journalist/fashion enthusiast). Her face, completely different than the girlfriend's (you know, round, curly hair and stout whereas the girlfriend has poker straight hair on a long, oval face and was skinny and tall) and yet she went with the version, "Yaar this is me only I look different now" under the picture as a friend had proceeded to ask that it doesn't look like her.

Soon after we learnt about the real guy and his existence, KneePee and I weren't exactly mature about the whole thing. We put up a troll birthday album and a troll birthday video and proceeded to celebrate a whole day of celebrating their love (a video still exists somewhere on Facebook). We never got around to doing the same with "X", since it's rather tedious and more so, we have both lost interest in having 'fun' or whatever version we think it is that we are trying out.

This afternoon, Mumjane asked me if I thought X had a boyfriend she was faking. It was right then I knew I wouldn't be able to control this "cheap thrill". If only, I could have the balls to put out a front and a Facebook check in such as "feeling great while indulging in cheap thrills".


For all you know I might just.

My academic advisor successfully taught me one thing about writing- and that is- don't let your work be dated. Much like me, she's trained in the craft of filmmaking and thus, as an academic, she knows how critical it is to produce something out for everyone, which doesn't age or have a time earmarked on that piece.

Given how blogging is perceived to be a certain kind of writing, it's hard to then, keep your work relevant.

However, if there's one great work of art (as in the written word) that adds retains snobiety, while keeping the work relevant is Gossip Girl.



Yes, I love the show. I have no fucks to give on how much you judge me for this confession, but god is that great fucking writing or what.

GG is a simple show, so to speak. If I've to loosely explain, then just know that everyone in the show sleeps with everyone. When they don't, they're in fabulous outfits making love to New York. It fits right in with all popular academic themes such as 'cinema and the city', 'existential crisis', 'po-mo', 'bourgeoise struggle'.

I'm not kidding.


Okay, fine. But they did make six seasons (when's the damn movie out?) of everyone sleeping with everyone and not an episode where you get up and say, "SWITCH IT OFF. I CAN'T TAKE THIS." They brought incest to television and made it totes normal, before Game of Thrones ever did.

GG is perhaps one of the rare shows where writing a blog as a premise can make and break things. But here's what. Not every TV show which trivializes fashion can use writing as a tool to scandalize the audience. Because technically, all that's happening is that there are people who fear this 'Gossip Girl' figure and go out and do stupid shit. I'm putting my best step forward in ruining the show for you but this is one TV show that probably will see the test of time.

Just as how any good blog should go, there's a lot to learn from this series (and its writing).

• If Gossip Girl has taught me anything it’s that, not everyone can and should be Blair Waldorf, there will be Jenny Humphreys and Vanessas but you gotta do your thang. And stick your guns. There can be one Queen B and that won't be you. Thank you. 

• Psst, you daddy's lil girl. I'm talking to you. Don’t be stuck up on wanting to be a princess. Not everyone manages to snog Monaco’s monarchy and that is OKAY. You can live without it. Just be a bloody Raina and move on. Nobody cares about you. 

• Blogs and Bloggers make and break friendships, relationships. If they don’t, they are not good bloggers. If they do, you were never meant to be. I'm ever so proud of losing a few friends and foes because I once decided to be outgoing and trash them for the piece of shit they were. Ofcourse, we never got back to each other.

• Unless ofcourse, you're Chuck Bass. Chuck Bass is everything. Let’s face it, it’s not Serena or Blair or even the lonely boy from Dumbo. It’s Chuck Bass and that, as you should know, is reason enough to have as your role model. Drop your panties. Chuck Bass with a dog is immortal. No blogger can pull that down. 

• Following from Mr Bass to real talk. Never trust a man who can write. I’ve been getting that for many years but it’s only solidified in a year or so. If you’re dating a writer, run in the opposite direction. You don’t need their words in your life. If your girlfriend/wife is a writer, don’t leave your unpublished manuscripts in the open. If they’re anything like me, those will see the light of the day and how. Go Vanessa. I’d do the same with a great piece of writing and then head out to shoot a documentary on the Thai Orangutans. 

• Ideologies are good but you know what’s better? Decadence. You’ll give up on ideologies as soon as you experience a 400 thread count bed sheet. I’m talking to you, Rufus. 

• Speaking of which, people are fucking cunts. Don't try to win them over by cooking for them. Waffles don't help. 

• People can surprise you. Most of the times for good. Let’s face it, if they surprise you for the worse, then you totally deserved it for not having seen enough Gossip Girl and knowing it’s about to hit you. 

• Rules of feminism are farcical. Sleep with everyone. Your step brother, your other step-sister, your best friend’s ex and her current boyfriend. Your ex’s best friend who roofied her.

• Having a threesome when all three know each other is possibly as bad an idea as masquerade balls. Don’t indulge in either. 

• Let Lily Bass plan your party. Some people are naturally gifted. You should have a Lily Bass in your life. This blog's anniversary party card is loved by everyone. I'm Lily Bass minus her five and a half husbands. 

• Film festivals are totally cool. Blair Waldorf approves, as does Dan Humphrey. 

• Write about everyone- your sister, her cocaine dealer of a boyfriend, your step-mother, her husband and your step-sister/girlfriend, your dad, your best friend and threesome partner, your best friend and his ex. If you don’t then you’re wasting stellar writing opportunities. 

• Where there’s smoke there’s fire. And Thorpe. And Jack Bass. Stay away from men in suits. Unless they’re named Chuck Bass. 

• Between Eleanor Waldorf and Lily Van Der Woodsen, I’d pick Cyrus. He’s the best. 

• Don’t let any Jenny Humphrey tell you that you’re not cool. She’s from Brooklyn. I’ve met her counterparts in men who have said shit to me. It’s their insecurity that drives the venom. Stay strong and research the shit out of them. Bring them down and tell them off. 

• if Lady Gaga doesn’t perform at your party then you’re not cool enough. We have to bring her to my blog party in the next ten years. 

• Be mean. Georgina Sparks didn’t evoke Jaysus out of nowhere but she did put the fear of god in man with her appearance afterwards. Be horrible, your worst. Let people know you. I am yet to pick one character from Gossip Girl and say in all honesty that they’re good.

• If everything fails, go shopping. There’s nothing that plastic money can’t solve. 

• Have secrets. Lots of them. Tell different ones to different people, in permutations and combinations you can’t remember. Fuck your happiness. Self-destruction begins at home.

• Always be ready to take down people in sequins. I love sequins and none of my friends gets why. You need to shine when you show people their place. 

• If your family has political connections, you’re never going to get any. Case in point Rahul Gandhi Nate Archibald. 

• In the end, love and fear your resident blogger. They love you just as much as you love eating cheese croissant and don't really mean a lot of harm, even if they've written shit about you. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I'll fight the urge to watch Gossip Girl on Netflix. Having Dan Humphrey as your spirit animal can be exhausting on days when you want to excel in academia but also want a social life.