I really want to get shitfaced, high out of my mind and be on a date while I do that. Talk shit, and hope to god (despite that agnostic status on Facebook) that the bar I'm at is playing Arctic Monkeys while I laugh and look sideways, and wonder if my hair is looking just as glorious as it did when I blow dried them before leaving. Realizing I was worrying for nothing about not coordinating the lingerie because it's not as if this is going to go anywhere besides our respective home and he'll possibly jack off to his last girlfriend, and I'll crash in bed without brushing my teeth and that's as much fun I'd have had from these numerous drinks and a joint and a half.
Sometime this week, a colleague asked me to shut the hell up about the Retrograde. It's not the first time, and probably won't be the last, however, I find it easy to pass the blame about everything on the blowing up of the planetary positions. Never mind, science or logic (that I actually fucking studied in college, thank you very much). Truth be told, she invoked my PhD card and told me that it's embarrassing to be speaking about and expected to be taken seriously given my line of work (academia!). Who the hell wants to take a babbling researcher seriously who's pinning all possible issues on a fucking planet (again, why aren't too many people doing this beats me).
Apparently, no one takes this seriously. This in a country when we have a designated astrological column in the newspaper.
This story somehow takes a worse turn when a date in Delhi decided to "fix" the birthday, by taking me to the café that does the same fucking cake slice; only to make me pay for it and eat half the fucking slice himself claiming it's his birthday month as well.
(on a side note, people in this city truly deserve to die a parched death.)
This afternoon, Mia K had called to tell me she's alive, a fact I'd resigned to believe otherwise. Her dog- Ziggy- chewed up her phone charger and she had to survive the weekend on 10% battery, naturally ignoring every single IM and call that was made, including mine. A part of me was convinced this is a sabbatical, or as people in the city call it Sawan. Motherfucking Sawan. Keeping my notoriety regarding the dates and months, I tried convincing her that it all made sense cause the retrograde affects technology and communication, and her dog chewing up her phone's charger was all of Mercury being a bad bitch in her life.
"Yeah, tying all the problems in a bouquet and blaming it on the Retrograde or Modi is how we're surviving this year." my colleague added her two bits, before letting me sulk in isolation.
Perhaps, it's not the Retrograde, and it's just us that's fucking us over. Perhaps, it is just the poor decision to study social science in this economic climate. Or maybe, just being born in this country and not doing anything about leaving this place. If it doesn't rain in Jaipur by next week, the city is facing drought. This is real. As is Chennai not having any water. Not one single person in Delhi seems to be bothered that we're six months short of facing acute water shortage in this capital. We're running out of natural resources; we're being lead as a nation by a team of buffoons; instead, we are trying to ignore everything and keeping it together.
I guess, I'll never know how people do it. Part of my anxiety and depression stems from the fact that I've failed as a citizen to do anything about anything despite having spent an awfully long time in a social science degree collection endeavour that started a decade ago. That I've failed to the degree that I couldn't even get myself out of this mess, let alone help anyone with it. Everyone around me seems to have a thing keeping them going. I have nothing, and nobody.
However, going back to looking at how eventful July usually has been, I'm just going to take the blame and pass it to the damn Mercury.
Let's see, 24 July was the same fucking date I met my best friend in college a decade ago. Three years later, I graduated today after having topped the final year at Delhi University. I also made it to an institution where I stopped to do a Master's degree on today's date. Never mind, that Master's degree changed the course of my life and I spent all my time since doing cinema. Last year, I got the visa to go to London on this date.
Since morning, I was hoping for a miracle. Anything. An unexpected letter, a friend to show up in the city, a life-changing opportunity, a billionaire aunt dying, old delivery from Ali Express that hasn't shown up in 3 months, trip to Thailand, trip to anyfuckingwhere...pretty much anything to take place.
By lunch, I'd gotten myself two desserts in the absence of a fucking miracle. Who the hell wants some joy viz a vis people returning to the city or even INR 3 crore when you can have a cup of Vanilla ice cream?
Me. Mostly cause I wanted French Vanilla cup and after having repeated that six whole times to the same colleague, she bought regular Vanilla.
Gotta say, I'm absolutely blessed with people in life who will go an extra mile to fuck all my food and beverage preferences no matter what.
You must know that one cake story from my birthday in 2018. If you don't, stay tuned.
The one in London, where my friend baked a cake, and ate it himself cause he didn't feel like coming to the party in the evening. I found myself scouting for a fucking cake along with my other friends at 10 pm at Tesco's. Nevermind the dude who was supposed to be my date for the night, showed up with a bag full of tubes of toothpaste for himself, and not a single cupcake for me.
You must know that one cake story from my birthday in 2018. If you don't, stay tuned.
The one in London, where my friend baked a cake, and ate it himself cause he didn't feel like coming to the party in the evening. I found myself scouting for a fucking cake along with my other friends at 10 pm at Tesco's. Nevermind the dude who was supposed to be my date for the night, showed up with a bag full of tubes of toothpaste for himself, and not a single cupcake for me.
If that doesn't get any better then I returned to my parents denying a birthday.
"You weren't in the country for your birthday. Why do you want to do it now?"
Jeez, mom, I don't know. Maybe because I was actually presenting a fucking paper at Cambridge on my fucking birthday and I spent the majority of my day alone, eating alone and drinking alone in a town that shuts at 8 pm.
My sister took pity on me and decided to do one better. I wanted one specific chocolate cake slice from an overpriced bakery in the city. I explained about 24 times about the cake, the slice, the description - everything. She returned with a fuckall mousse cake.
There's no such thing called a mousse cake. It's a fucking half kilo mousse set like a cake, and was presented to me. My family made no effort to even pretend like they fucked up. You celebrated your birthday in the UK was repeated all evening.
This story somehow takes a worse turn when a date in Delhi decided to "fix" the birthday, by taking me to the café that does the same fucking cake slice; only to make me pay for it and eat half the fucking slice himself claiming it's his birthday month as well.
(on a side note, people in this city truly deserve to die a parched death.)
Somehow, since the mousse cake fiasco of 2018, every fucked up food order seems like a blessing. It's only helped me get used to the fact that I'm cursed to get all my food orders wrong, ever.
Much like I'm cursed to go down in the next three years. I don't forsee returning to employable life after this gig, given this city isn't going to survive the next couple of years.
2019 is rotten, but I expected some fucking miracle today. Heck, I got to know I was not going to be in town for my birthday last year today and that was worth it all. It's something that I read today, appreciate the fact that this is the best worst year that's in line of the next few coming towards us.
Keeping that merriment, I'm going to stop sulking about life being ordinary, and food orders being fucked left right and centre, and naturally stop blaming it on the fucking retrograde cause I'm a fucking PhD in making and I can't act like a normie from South Delhi.
Instead, let me blame my anger, grief, rage, betrayal, and isolation, all on my fucking PMS.
How has it been a month already since it last happened? Why is my PMS so fucking bad that I have to sit in the cramped washroom at work and cry my eyes out until I realize my interns must think I've IBS?
Can't blame it on Modi or Mercury.
Genetics, perhaps?
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.
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.
When I was significantly younger and things didn't go my way, I'd often come close to this state of funk.
The funk would last anywhere between a fortnight to months and would end in a big achievement that either I alone or coupled with family would celebrate. It could be anything, a byline in the newspaper, or a letter to the editor of a national daily. It could even be passing the math unit test. The point being, I would snap out of that funk, and only go back to remember it the next time I'd be in a funk.
I've been in a funk since the beginning of this year. All year.
Each time I came close to believing it's over, something else went down. In some cases monumental, in other, not so much. My state of being was paralyzed about two months ago. I landed in the hospital with a severe anxiety attack. My family was convinced it's because of my degree being withheld by the university, my employer believes it was an "innovative excuse for Monday" (may she get genital herpes), my friends think I should "widely scale down pride". I'm pretty sure the dude(s) I've been coddling online would have some opinion but I largely can't care. It comes down to not giving a fuck to anything and anyone.
I've self-diagnosed this to be depression. For over a month, even doing something as basic as brushing my teeth or taking a shower takes copius amount of effort, wherein I've to force myself out of the bed, and against my will to do it. In a way, if I don't move out of the bed, it won't be real. It'll be another day of my thoughts and I, before they become real and come back to bite me in the ass.
I hate to list, much less admit, the events this year that lead to this state. One after the other, every single thing I had going for me, has gone against. Each and everything I wanted to achieve has gone awry.
Few months ago when I discovered a gaping hole in my long term plan, I burst out crying for over two nights. I called a frenemy who is always down to showing me the worst, and in a way I forge that relationship to do one better. He admitted, finally, "The cards you've been dealt with are all bad. What can you do?"
Exactly my point. What on Earth can one do when the life allocated to you is rotten and going against you in every fucking aspect.
It's 11:40 pm on 30 June. Six whole months of this year has passed and I've barely written here, for that matter cared to see the stats or have an idea.
I don't know how will I continue and even for how long. There's nothing, absolutely nothing working for me and I've no will to write or read or even be.
For all those times when I've been physically sick out of my mind and wondered and hoped to stay alive, I'm going to go against and hope otherwise.
This one's on you, Universe. You've fucked me over. I hope you're happy.
The funk would last anywhere between a fortnight to months and would end in a big achievement that either I alone or coupled with family would celebrate. It could be anything, a byline in the newspaper, or a letter to the editor of a national daily. It could even be passing the math unit test. The point being, I would snap out of that funk, and only go back to remember it the next time I'd be in a funk.
I've been in a funk since the beginning of this year. All year.
Each time I came close to believing it's over, something else went down. In some cases monumental, in other, not so much. My state of being was paralyzed about two months ago. I landed in the hospital with a severe anxiety attack. My family was convinced it's because of my degree being withheld by the university, my employer believes it was an "innovative excuse for Monday" (may she get genital herpes), my friends think I should "widely scale down pride". I'm pretty sure the dude(s) I've been coddling online would have some opinion but I largely can't care. It comes down to not giving a fuck to anything and anyone.
I've self-diagnosed this to be depression. For over a month, even doing something as basic as brushing my teeth or taking a shower takes copius amount of effort, wherein I've to force myself out of the bed, and against my will to do it. In a way, if I don't move out of the bed, it won't be real. It'll be another day of my thoughts and I, before they become real and come back to bite me in the ass.
I hate to list, much less admit, the events this year that lead to this state. One after the other, every single thing I had going for me, has gone against. Each and everything I wanted to achieve has gone awry.
Few months ago when I discovered a gaping hole in my long term plan, I burst out crying for over two nights. I called a frenemy who is always down to showing me the worst, and in a way I forge that relationship to do one better. He admitted, finally, "The cards you've been dealt with are all bad. What can you do?"
Exactly my point. What on Earth can one do when the life allocated to you is rotten and going against you in every fucking aspect.
It's 11:40 pm on 30 June. Six whole months of this year has passed and I've barely written here, for that matter cared to see the stats or have an idea.
I don't know how will I continue and even for how long. There's nothing, absolutely nothing working for me and I've no will to write or read or even be.
For all those times when I've been physically sick out of my mind and wondered and hoped to stay alive, I'm going to go against and hope otherwise.
This one's on you, Universe. You've fucked me over. I hope you're happy.
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.
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.
"Why can't this building burn to ground? Why do we have to come to this office everyday? Why can't we be like Sri Lanka and get into a Civil War? Did you know they declared Emergency, they have more vision than us. Wish they declared Emergency here. We wouldn't have to come to work. Wish I could add to this to my Amazon wishlist."
-
Unnameable colleague
-
Unnameable colleague
On my birthday eve last year, I found myself going through a rather moving experience. I have been thinking about it, if not every day, at least once a week since the episode. I had a revelation about it recently.
During my brief time in London, I decided to schedule a visit to St. Paul's Cathedral. Friends, convent school hangover and sightseeing porn together, I was on a high to include as much as possible. However, if I'd planned better between sleeping and wasting my hours drinking, I'd have managed to attend the Sunday mass. Clearly, planning my life isn't a priority in my case.
After changing two buses and walking a fair bit, I managed to reach the place and stood in the queue to get the ticket. It was the only ticketed space beside the musical I paid for and didn't quite mind paying to get in. Again, call it the convent school hangover but I'd have probably not done the same for another religious institute doing the same. My first impression of St. Paul's was extremely underwhelming. This is what these two friends were raving about? Sure, it's beautiful with all the art and the architectural design but man, it was underwhelming.
Somehow, after checking about the entire space, I found myself kneeling and crying loudly. It was surreal. I'd not done this, insofar as going inside a religious space to "pray" and I did not plan to do this. It just happened.
As soon as I kneeled down to offer a prayer, I burst out crying. All of the past year, my family, people I love and everyone else came to my mind and how everyone conspired to make the trip happen. What seems so trivial to people when they say they "travel" took years to happen and for me to experience that. I found myself in the church a few hours before my birthday and it seemed like an occasion just as good as any to be thankful to that imaginary man or woman we apparently pray to, to hear us and apparently answer for our wishes.
It was heavy and moving and all-consuming. It took me a long time to get out of the place in a state where I wasn't embarrassed to walk out with a face all puffy. When I got sloshed out of my mind that night, I recall mentioning this to a friend in a pub's washroom. My guess is that she doesn't remember and I'd have it that way.
I think about that day a lot. The last three months when I was bummed, I would often go back to that day and think that if things had to be a certain way, it would be. Causation is the guiding force here. We can't make things happen out of thin air, every little thing has a solid reason behind it - for its existence, for its purpose to be fulfilled.
It made total sense to me then, when I realized, I burst out crying in the church because I was pms-ing unknowingly. My cycle had fucked completely and I got my period in exactly three weeks. In this case, three days after that incident when I was 35000 feet up in the air, crying and drinking about this whole journey coming to an end.
Sometimes, I wait for an episode in entirety to end, just so I can have the last laugh. So what if I didn't get the Commonwealth Scholarship to study Anthropology of Media. I went to a film school and learned puppetry and did theatre and met some great people who I know call friends. I don't have a loan to repay and I certainly don't have a care in the world, if it means for me to quit my job and sit my ass at home because it's not worth my time.
I guess I gave Jesus a lot more credit than he deserves when it was all about my unfertilized eggs. Years ago, when we were in school and working on "Easter" themed Bulletin Board design competition between classes, I recall Sr Joyce walking past and telling me, "Your eggs are flying" while signalling to the paper eggs I'd drawn. Never has anything made more sense than her premonition about this entire episode.
During my brief time in London, I decided to schedule a visit to St. Paul's Cathedral. Friends, convent school hangover and sightseeing porn together, I was on a high to include as much as possible. However, if I'd planned better between sleeping and wasting my hours drinking, I'd have managed to attend the Sunday mass. Clearly, planning my life isn't a priority in my case.
After changing two buses and walking a fair bit, I managed to reach the place and stood in the queue to get the ticket. It was the only ticketed space beside the musical I paid for and didn't quite mind paying to get in. Again, call it the convent school hangover but I'd have probably not done the same for another religious institute doing the same. My first impression of St. Paul's was extremely underwhelming. This is what these two friends were raving about? Sure, it's beautiful with all the art and the architectural design but man, it was underwhelming.
Somehow, after checking about the entire space, I found myself kneeling and crying loudly. It was surreal. I'd not done this, insofar as going inside a religious space to "pray" and I did not plan to do this. It just happened.
As soon as I kneeled down to offer a prayer, I burst out crying. All of the past year, my family, people I love and everyone else came to my mind and how everyone conspired to make the trip happen. What seems so trivial to people when they say they "travel" took years to happen and for me to experience that. I found myself in the church a few hours before my birthday and it seemed like an occasion just as good as any to be thankful to that imaginary man or woman we apparently pray to, to hear us and apparently answer for our wishes.
It was heavy and moving and all-consuming. It took me a long time to get out of the place in a state where I wasn't embarrassed to walk out with a face all puffy. When I got sloshed out of my mind that night, I recall mentioning this to a friend in a pub's washroom. My guess is that she doesn't remember and I'd have it that way.
I think about that day a lot. The last three months when I was bummed, I would often go back to that day and think that if things had to be a certain way, it would be. Causation is the guiding force here. We can't make things happen out of thin air, every little thing has a solid reason behind it - for its existence, for its purpose to be fulfilled.
It made total sense to me then, when I realized, I burst out crying in the church because I was pms-ing unknowingly. My cycle had fucked completely and I got my period in exactly three weeks. In this case, three days after that incident when I was 35000 feet up in the air, crying and drinking about this whole journey coming to an end.
Sometimes, I wait for an episode in entirety to end, just so I can have the last laugh. So what if I didn't get the Commonwealth Scholarship to study Anthropology of Media. I went to a film school and learned puppetry and did theatre and met some great people who I know call friends. I don't have a loan to repay and I certainly don't have a care in the world, if it means for me to quit my job and sit my ass at home because it's not worth my time.
I guess I gave Jesus a lot more credit than he deserves when it was all about my unfertilized eggs. Years ago, when we were in school and working on "Easter" themed Bulletin Board design competition between classes, I recall Sr Joyce walking past and telling me, "Your eggs are flying" while signalling to the paper eggs I'd drawn. Never has anything made more sense than her premonition about this entire episode.
