Prose before hos

Gurgaon is culturally vacuous; what it lacks in the structural integrity to hold for art and culture, it makes up in its sub-par experience of shuttling between an urban town and a decaying village all at once. My favourite part about the city is trying to hail an auto and getting a reality check—I wouldn't last a day here on my own, unlike Delhi or Pune, or Mumbai. It's a bit like Karnataka that way, you're on your own kid, as Taylor Swift sings. 

The water is a-okay and KFC can do with some improvement in popcorn chicken. The theatre needs a crowd (I miss the one near university where everyone's saving pennies cause they're out from the auditorium at the university to catch a breather in the nearby mall; nobody saves pennies in Gurgaon). I mean, I feel poorer than ever in this city; culturally and socially as well as lacking financially to ever be able to be where everyone is. A colleague who bought an iPhone and a pair on sneakers on a whim can do so despite living out of Gurgaon rental is an aspiration, the kind that I don't want but I am compelled because wow, I buy some fancy groceries and two takeaways a month and I'm broke. 

In a scathing response to something I wrote recently, I was told that I need to stop wallowing in self-pity and try some other writing style. Truth be told, there will always be some sense of frenetic, anxious and tiring energy in my words. Maybe, because I'm trying to bring alive the 13-year-old me who's absolutely clueless about what's happening when things are just happening around her—someone on the death bed, someone crying, someone wondering how many breaths are there in a lifeless body laying in the bedroom—and then there's 31 year old me, wondering if chasing calmness meant taking a quick shower after a late morning workout in a twelfth-floor apartment and feeling a fresh hit of serotonin when the shower gel leaves a subtle fragrance behind. In both cases, there is sensory overload but none has any self-pity. 

There, I said it. 

I'd be lying if I said I don't have the intention but let's just call what white people call kismet. 

Or I could write and tell you all about it. 

-----x-----x-----

This dates back to 2009. I had a crush on this guy, a senior in college, and a friend who was a classmate with the said guy was trying her best to set us on a date for a few months. It so happened that he wanted to show up on the day of my school farewell but due to some unforeseen circumstances (his friend, later girlfriend asked him to come over or some such) he couldn't, and well, let's just say that was a sad end. 

Why I bring all this up is because the next time I was asked to join this group of people, I was writing board exams and there was no way in hell I could let him or anything distract me. The goal was to land up in this guy's college, and not just cause this cute guy was there, but also cause lots of cute guys. 

Anyway, back to the story. The group of seniors was going to a film. The film was based on this comic book. That's the first I heard of it. I was also told the film was okay but the nerds loved it and well, that piqued curiosity enough. Enough for me to summon an order at home in my list of things to do after the completion of writing board exams. 

I did get the CD but it was in Hindi. Some error ensured that I had to wait two months before I could get myself so watch the pirated copy in Hindi. 

Needless to say, it wasn't half as much fun or intriguing as the prospect of watching that with the group of people I was asked to join. 

Cut to over a decade later. I'm told this comic book has made a reboot in form of a TV show; one of the best from 2019. I'm intrigued. I'm also reminded of that gorgeous introverted guy, the one who I had a crush on at 17 and that went nowhere. Never mind, I tell myself. I'm gonna watch it and re-write this story. 

I start streaming it. I think two or three episodes in, I get a text, "Are you watching...?"

I ignored that text until my next conversation with the said person. I think it was outside a bookshop where we stood and discussed the TV show. 

"Have you read the book?"

Nope. 

"Okay, stop watching the show and read the book first. You're going to love the show more then. Infact you should take my copy. Why don't you come to my place and pick it?"

I take this person's this advice seriously. Mostly, cause he disseminates the advice outside the bookstore and that he reads but also cause I get it, some people are authorized to shove words of wisdom for the certain pop culture and interest-based nuances and he's one of them. However, no thank you on that offer. If the book is indeed the best comic book, I'll add it to my collection and buy it soon. 

I take it off my download list for the upcoming work trip I was saving that for and instead download a bunch of films to catch up on. 

I return from the trip to find this person texting me to wait for him at the airport. Only, I read the text at home. No bump-ins at the arrival. 

Over the next 48 hours, we find ourselves amidst situations around us including riots, student and civil rights activist protests, drunken camaraderie with our respective friend, events and more action than all of 2020 has seen thus far. We also find ourselves trying to make a plan to watch some fuckall film/show together. To mope in solidarity about the state of affairs and maybe to banter some more on other obscure things that make us warm acquaintances friends. 

Here I must establish, this person doesn't quite live in the country. He's supposed to leave for his hometown in a hot minute. On the eve, I ask him for a drink. He agrees. 

"One drink. I have relatives from overseas."

Yeah, I have other plans too. I'm supposed to meet my other friends after. 

I request this person to carry a copy of the book. I might as well take him up on that offer cause I've a week off for Christmas from work. 

He tells me he's planning to take his copy back with him. He plans to read it over Christmas. 

Shit. 

By the time, I'm out of the shower, fashionably and painfully late, I see a barrage of texts. Among that, 

"In my infinite generosity though i have decided to VERY TEMPORARILY lend it to you."

Great. I'd have the book with me by Christmas. 

(To be continued. Title track reference)

I think my most underrated memory from the grad school has to be a candid discussion of a certain professor being invited for Saif-Kareena's wedding.

The said professor is in good terms with Apa and I don't know how this came out to the students but man, watching a video of Kareena and Saif romancing from their peak in Tashan just reminded me of that happening.

On the contrary, I remember the time where another professor lost this shit on a guy from our class (now a huge, upcoming influencer himself) on how mocking Kabir Khan's new release (of whatever it was back in the day, some Tiger film) was extremely pathetic on part of this classmate. That he should achieve something of equal stature to comment such nonsense.

Talk about bad valuations and a bad memory.

I've been doing a writing thing with this person, we'll call him K.

We also don't know if he wants to be identified here yet, hence, we'll assign him a name conducive to me.

K's a rather gifted writer himself. He's criminally talented and, if anything, puts the fear of God in me when we do our thing.

What's the thing, you ask?

Right.

K and I have been writing 'newsletters' to each other for a bit now. It's not been a month, and honestly, if something like this lasts a month, I'd consider sending these to a publisher. K, if you're reading this, I'll split profits, I swear.

I'd tell you more but it's so incredibly personal that I also don't want to share this with anyone.

I don't know if he'll feel violated or what but this has been raw, intimate, and every bit wholesome.

For over a month, I'd been in my bed, sulking and playing silly games. Somehow, this exercise is the only thing I look forward to in my day and our writing routine has set me back to some disciplined life. Where I know, I have to write by a certain hour.

Years ago, I recall, someone close to me at the time had said, how I made him want to be a better man.

I'm finally able to pay that compliment back and take it forward. K, makes me want to be a better person, a better writer, and certainly someone who feels motivated enough to do something, anything.

I have been seeing people around me who have absolutely given up and then there are those who are struggling. To be able to have some discipline in writing and then keeping it up, it truly takes a person to do that.

Because I've neglected this page and I don't want to, here's one whole letter that I wrote. Feel free to skim, skip, or ignore.




-----

"Do you have a man in your life?"

I had been chasing a fat ginger cat at the party, a work event, and had just perched myself on a couch- one of many at a plush flat in central Delhi. The families in the neighbourhood were most likely aware that the owners amongst others have (amongst many) spare houses and have converted the said property into an exhibition space. The owner was hosting a pre-public viewing party for selected friends. The crowd had poured in from one party to the other. Some familiar faces, others page 3 familiar.

The large verandah could be good for playing with a dog, hosting a bake sale, heck even lawn parties. I've seen 8 member families stay in smaller spaces than the size of the back lawn but here I was, in my pencil skirt and blazer, clutching my kulhad filled with qawah tightly. I had stopped to pet the cat, chilling with the artist seated across me. The cat escaped me and I remembered the words, "network, talk to people. This is appreciated."

"Haha, well, if you must know, I don't."

The artist raised a glass to me, "I hope you get someone who deserves you, soon."

"Do you have someone in your life?"

"No, I don't. That's why I was telling you. Take a break. From everything and everyone. Just disappear for a while. I did for six months after fifteen long years in Delhi. You know, everyone outside knows me and I know them but I don't want to go out. I want to be here, by myself. Sometimes you need the space, and from all that you have just told me about your life in the last one month, my darling you need a break."

"Are you the sign I'm looking for?"

"Maybe I am. You should really just get out for a week, or try to cut people out and see the difference. You'll feel light-headed."

I took out a strip of medicine from my bag and popped out a pill.

"Well, I'll be light-headed in no time and it didn't need wine."

"Darling you have glowing skin. You could use aloe vera and get off medicines. Just take care of yourself and put yourself up. If you like a guy and he doesn't like you back, just cut him out. You'll see he'll come running back with more intensity."

"I actually don't, not really."

"No, I mean cut things out. People, work and respect your body. Your mind and body are pretty much giving up on you because you're not treating either with respect."

"I think, I will."

"You deserve to be loved, darling."

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 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. 

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.

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.