Prose before hos: love is a losing game

Post-nap, Pre-bed sedatives

Feels like 90s supermodel in my head; strike a pose

Milk Chocolate Matte > Nutmeg Lips > Candy Kisses > Stolen and sloppy

What would Ghungroo have been like and would I have probably met the love of my life there, or would I have gone there post-divorce? Should I run a google search to understand the interiors so I can imagine that solo-fantasy land better?

Would have been a different life if my parents were the socialising kind and would do Ghungroo dates instead of cheesy, intimate shit they did

Should I convert ~~letters to him~~ journal into a web series skeleton? Who will play me? Ugh, I hope it's not a moral lesson on being fat and being in love with yourself because nobody including myself is in love with me. Ugh.

Man, how do I break the ice? Should I even break the ice? Is he genuinely sick of me or what the fuck? Should I ask him? I don't want to be an ass.

A warm touch of nutmeg coloured lips on the cheek, kissing me, an expired bath-oil fragrance that I hunt for in every person's touch and rarely ever find in my comfort zone

Old houses in South Delhi, comforting to know love exists even when people cease to

Liquid eyeshadow triumps all but my eyes have aged, I can feel it when I use make-up

Almost don't want to use make-up cause I can feel I have aged, with the skin really not behaving the way I'd like to

What happened to Natasha Singh and why didn't anyone write scathing pieces on the people who compelled her to do what she did and why did they instead hyperfixate on an SSR to the point it made me want to give up on the internet?

Why and how have I sucked at F1 fantasy this bad?

What did I have to google?

Why do I think the birthday gift I got is kinda lame and shitty. UGH.

WHY AM I ACTUALLY BROKE THIS MONTH AND HOW DID I SHOP LIKE THIS TO BE AT A POINT WHERE I OWE MY PARENTS MONEY AND HAVE MORE EXPENSES LINED UP?

What do I wear to my old school friend's wedding? I can't believe she invited me, what a doll.

Ugh, can't believe my friend from college turned out to be a sour puss. Wonder what everyone's wearing at the wedding?

Ugh, do I have anyone from college in my life besides Sinner? How have I become the Anurag Kashyap of my group when everyone has Barjatya lifestyle?

Shaloo is a dumb name but Sheetal is a pretty name.

I wonder if kids with the name "Shit" are bullied at school?

Why do I think of my school so often?

Sister Joyce telling me, "your eggs are flying" will never not be legendary. Especially around Easter.

Should I crash without wiping my make-up off and brushing my teeth? I'm sick and not like my boyfriend is caressing me to sleep so I need to look good in my comatose after-life.

That 5 pm nap was solid but waking up to a dry phone was like someone shot me in my head, unannounced. Bet Mr G felt the same way.

I'll miss my sister and I barely spent any time with her.

I barely did anything except be fucking sick and give everyone a scare about my health.

I should sleep.

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, by Snobster

Please Please Please

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.

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, by Snobster

In love is a losing game,

Love Language

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, by Snobster

In affect, art

Bacon My Heart- Inviting Entries!

As a part of my resolution which includes productive writing more than feeling, I intend to spruce this space up with things. Starting with the one that I know the best (also universally applicable) - heartbreak.

A broken heart is a work of art. It is performative, in ways you repeat the story over and over again. You narrate this over an 11 pm phone call to that friend's friend who doesn't know your second name but he knows you had a pregnancy scare with the guy who's now responsible for smashing your heart in smithereens. Heartbreaks render an affective turn, the kind that makes you gaze inwards and change your line of thought- towards heteronormative relationships. The kind that makes you realize, if only sexual orientation could be a choice one could simply make. The same kind of choice as one makes with a crisp toast- do I want salted butter or mixed fruit jam or both to go with this toast? A wailing heart finds joys in multiple cups of strong cappuccino knowing very well that it's going to cause digestive problems in the next few hours but holding that cup warms the cockles of their hand and heart, the kind which was only possible with absolutely nothing a night before the showdown with the supposed affection of their life.

There are no right words that could be said to help someone get past the pain of losing another individual, who to the misfortune of the owner of the broken heart, is very much alive and kicking and prancing around us. Unless one takes the bold move on social media to block them, they continue to haunt us, ghost us and terrify us with their presence. In the recent past, I've come to realize that most people who are sinking innit and trying to swim and save their lives have absolutely no support. Mostly because there's rarely someone who knows what to say to make one feel better.

I'm inviting entries and curating a post full of anonymous stories, with the aim for us all to find some sense of catharsis. One from you, about you; to finding that closure or helping someone find one. God alone knows how many of us keep these feels bottled and find ourselves engaging with banalities to pass this grief.

I know, I write my grief out. I hammer the words down until I feel nothing. For all my self-destruction, I know how to rise like a phoenix from the as(s)holes.

Here's what I'm looking for-

1) Prose, haiku, rap, on your worst/funniest/most terrible/truly terrifying heartbreak tale you've lived to tell.
2) Prose could be anywhere between 350-500 words. Haiku and rap just about enough to make sure people are not leaving the post to go window shop on amazon.in
3) Keep it simple. While I love me the details of what brand of alcohol bottle did you take swigs of whiskey out from before he hit on your friend, I would encourage you to dig deeper and see if you would like to share how you felt when you saw it happen. The more you're in touch with what you feel, the closer you would feel to a cathartic experience.
4) Have fun writing it. If this is the worst that's ever happened to you, or will ever do, know that it's over and there's nothing you can do to prevent it. Unless you have a self-destructive gene like me, in which case, good luck and godspeed. Breaking the heart is so 2005. Bacon your heart and make it delectable for others to stop and take a bite.

Here's how you can help-

1) Write. For me, to know I'm not alone. For yourself, to know this will make you stronger. For others, to show that we have all been there.
2) Share this post. Someone somewhere is experiencing gut-wrenching pain about someone who doesn't give two hoots about them. Fuck them. Instead, focus on those who truly hurt themselves in process of getting attached when they shouldn't have, for whatever reason there may be.
3) Be fabulous. Don't let anyone tell you about your eyebrows being too thin or your hands being too big. You know what they say about people with big hands? I don't know, but if you do, keep it to yourself.

Submit your entries and encourage your local Spiderperson to share their entry on snobrellaATgmailDOTcom. Last date for submission is 20 January, 2019.

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, by Snobster

In Am I The Only One? Yeah, beach please

Dancing with the dolts

"I'm hormonal and sick and fat and want to quit my job right this minute."
"Let's get a drink?"

I get done sending these texts to BoDa, Gurugram's answer to grumpy Yoda, and keep my phone down as soon as I hear my name being called from two directions. Can I Whatsapp images instead of emailing them? Can I also upload the same graphic meant for a cell phone screen to upload in 1x1 square frame on five different Instagram handles our workplace is running?

Why the fuck not.

BoDa calls me back in under four minutes, a delay from his standard under-two-minute rule of receiving texts that he deems to not address in the written word.

"...listen, the other day I had this girl over...someone I'd been texting and you know it was fine, okay. We're chilling at my place, she's got a drink, she gets up and puts some music on and comes and sits close to me. Next, she whispers in my ear, Do you want to dain-se? and I ask her "What?"

"Wait a minute, what did she say?"

"She said dain-se. Do you want to dain-se? I even asked her again but she said the same thing. I gave her the benefit of doubt. Do you think I've high standards? Is that the reason I can't date?"

At this point, I'd heard my name being called thrice from three different directions. BoDa, that bastard, has more dates in a month despite the arm candies he lands up with from time to time. Naturally, I ignore all the rest of them at work calling my name out and get up from my chair. This was getting interesting. BoDa's radar at an all-time low meant my priorities to this conversation had to be re-arranged.

"WHY DID YOU HAVE TO CALL HER OVER? WHY ARE YOU DOWN TO OUR LEVEL? DATING IS FUCKING HARD AND YOU RUINED YOUR SHOT AT THAT. YOU KNOW WHAT DO I HAVE TO MAKE DO WITH? MOPING ABOUT THAT MAN WITH DISPROPORTIONATE CALVES AND BODY. Look, there's nothi--hello? Hello?"

Motherfucking reception.

What is it about single people and their invisible yardstick of obnoxious, tight-assed standard that always remains far too high for other hot singles in the area to match? Is it the obvious stick up their arse that prevents them from taking a shine on others? Is it because they're floating in the ether to look down upon mortals who make themselves vulnerable around others? Is it because they would much rather prefer dying of loneliness than being with someone who can't pronounce dance?

The case has been going on for far too long.

Strangely enough, I've been looked at purposefully by people as someone who has things to say. By default, anyone who is single has things to say. I can pitch multiple pieces as to why I'm a great fit at this.

Been single for a little over 26 years and counting, I can count the number of heartbreaks I've had caused by men on a single hand. However, the number of heartbreaks caused by me in my own head (including mispronunciation of words, bad grammar, bad punctuation, no punctuation, bad breath, disproportionate calves to body ratio, belief in astrological rings, lisp, bad hair, no hair, grey hair, girlfriend, wife, bad human are some of the examples) is a little too high and the list, far too long.

A couple of nights ago, I was bantering with an acquaintance who I had the pleasure of matching with on a dating app about two years ago. We found each other at several Delhi do's and ultimately stopped feigning ignorance after I vomitted one too many times at his place during a house party he was kind enough to host to ring in a friend's big thirtieth birthday. The guy is every bit loony and delightful, a charmer and a total keeper. Last week, he shared a screenshot with me. This girl made a plan with him, to call it off fifteen minutes later and in the next fifteen block him out. This girl apparently only dates academics or oncologists.

newsflash- he's neither.

That was her selling point to him. "Hey, I can maybe date you despite you not being at my level."

I don't know the man very well and I definitely don't know the woman but man, you can't throw your weight around like this if you're in the wrong side of 20s in Delhi.

What used to be my standard to go out is now just a filter of the past. Is he an asshole? Okay fine, don't mind. Is he a sexual predator? Okay, I do mind.

What my committed friends don't get is that the market is dry. There's nobody left. The good ones are taken. The idiots are taken. Bad breath holders are also taken.

The ones who are left are all those of us who overthink. Who waste time on details. Those who unmatch the minute someone says "Hey!" because no matter how single and lonely I get, no great dating story begins with a bloody "hey".

The only "hey" that works in this world is for fucking horses. "Hey" by default is not for human consumption.

If you skip past the bloody hey, it's not as if the battle is won. The standards continue to torment.

If he/she's needier than you- which is to say- shows the need to be with you, your own snooty self will dump his/her ass because how dare someone show vulnerability to you when you're praying to all agnostic gods together to hide your vulnerable, lonely ass infront of everyone you know at the restaurant, including the server who's now seen you come in with eight different men in the last quarter of this year.

That monologue has been me for the last one month. Minus a few details here and there, but it's true.

I can't get myself to date people who like me. I can't get myself to date people who don't like. I can't get myself to date people who can't type properly. I can't get myself to date those who can type (because the ones who can write put together an exquisite heartbreak- like no other).

What I'm trying to say in this convoluted, verbose, giant piece of turd like writing is that there's no hope for those of us who read this and can identify with the shit I have said.

If you don't identify with this, consider yourself saved and visit a church/temple to celebrate the same.

As for the rest of us, I'm going to hope for men to rain in every hallelujah I say.

It's not raining cats and dogs. It's definitely raining inappropriate men. Hallelujah.

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, by Snobster

Pages

Prose before hos

Post-nap, Pre-bed sedatives

Please Please Please

Love Language

Bacon My Heart- Inviting Entries!

Dancing with the dolts

About the Author

Lurk Here

Pages

Prose before hos

Post-nap, Pre-bed sedatives

Please Please Please

Love Language

Bacon My Heart- Inviting Entries!

Dancing with the dolts

About the Author

Lurk Here

Hos in Different Area Codes

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