Hi Bye

Hello.

This is new blog

http://billyhasthisblog.wordpress.com/

Love

– Billy

P.S. – and bye. 🙂

 

Bye College – The Funny, The Ugly and the Amazingly Emo-tastic

Statutory warning – this may be a bit of a ramble due to injured feels. Inconvenience is regretted.

When people leave they tell you about the opportunities this place gives you and how you shouldn’t miss them. About how much you can achieve and learn in NALSAR. All of these things are true. However, what people don’t talk about is what this place can mean to you when you don’t make the best of it. Honestly, it’s not half bad.

I’ll be talking about several aspects of life in NALSAR. I call this The Funny, The Ugly and The Amazingly Emo-tastic.

So in the interest of optimism and not being a complete bummer in life, first…

The Funny

My first set of friends here were made while staying up at night chatting like fucking fourteen year olds – about boys and home mostly, but strangely enough, also about parents and books and school friends. It was one of those nights you can only have when you’re young enough in NALSAR to be open and honest with someone you just met that week. We were all friendly and social back then. We all liked people almost instantly unless they were specifically rude. Believe me, that doesn’t last. But the strange part is that growing from that into a normal cynical disengaged-emotionally person is what brings you closer to these friends you make in your first week, as you sit and pontificate heavily on your rather uneventful lives.

Perhaps you are a hippie and you don’t think that is healthy, but that is the nature of life, jack – you get cynical. Like I was telling S a few weeks ago, we would hate our first year selves, but honestly they were better people. They made better choices, were more driven to do good, and definitely had more scruples. NALSAR in some ways, ruins you. In fact, we all sort of ruin each other for other people over time. But there is something magical about meeting people, having a long chat with them that lasts a whole night and knowing that you’re going to be friends.

The second significant moment of frandship was when a future friend of mine somehow perceived that I would be shameless with scoring kaju barfis at a college farewell for the vice chancellor. We found courage in mutual shamelessness and had at least ten each. Then we hung out outside the mess with previously mentioned friends – the ones whom I forged bonds of eternal frandship with over giggly all-night gossiping and pontificating. Keep in mind that this was our first or second week in college and seniors were a very real threat. I was sitting on the railing on the ramp outside the mess and talking to my three new BFFs.

The following is a representation of the events that transpired.

I remained like that, – my friends trying hard to exert some physical strength through their laughter, me laughing my pee out while hanging onto the railing only by the previously untested strength of my thighs (what are thigh muscles called? Laterals?) a bunch of seniors watching us whilst drinking coffee with expressions ranging from amused to flabbergasted, till one of them thought they should put an end to this madness, and pushed me back up from behind. That was my first laughing memory of NALSAR. Afterwards, people suspected that I got high off kaju barfis.

—

Then there is that moment when people realize how weird you are. This may be different for each person who knows you, but the moment you know that everyone knows you’re weird, and how you’re weird is something you’ll remember.

One of these was with regard to the mild OCD I have previously shown with regard to neatness. My friends realized I was arranging books on my shitty NALSAR shelf – that is very easily topple-able – as per order of importance, size and in ninety degree angles. So at one point when we were all sitting and having a large group talk session in my room, they toppled the shelf over about twenty times, and watched me put it back in place each time. They also took pictures and posted them on Facebook. I was cry-laughing very hard by the end.

This story is also very ironic given the current state of my room.

The next one was when Ips came into my room at about 10 at night to find me with my laptop and the lights completely off. This wouldn’t have been such a weird thing if it weren’t for the mask. The mask belonged to a friend of mine who had gotten overly enthusiastic about a possibly masquerade themed Freshers party we were going to throw for our direct juniors. And that wasn’t all. I had worn spectacles over the mask. Needless to say, Ips screamed her lungs out when she saw then. Then she did not stop laughing for a good ten minutes. I joined her for the most part. This is an inaccurate representation of what she saw.

Centuries later, when they wonder who pioneered the trend of wearing one’s spectacles over a dramatic, shiny mask in dark rooms, some know-it-all will say with a reverential tone – “That was Billy Thomas”

—

There are too many nights where the brain is not alcohol ridden and yet, everyone is entertained. Everyone talks and listens to everyone else. Zingers follow quips; Quips follow jokes; and yet, there’s no alcohol. There is no awkward silence, because we can’t possibly be awkward with each other. Not after five years of drunken conversations and confessions and confrontations. We have finally understood each other, all of us, and there is absolutely nothing left to think about in the silence between when one person stops talking and the next one starts. As far as I can see, this, this is to be treasured. These are the kinds of moments and nights that one should remember because if the VC dinner is anything to go by, we may all just become excessively boring.

And there are too many nights when you need alcohol and friends in order to get by, and the friends will always be there. Some time in your law school career, one gets to the point where getting drunk with or around our friends does not mean you have to keep yourself in check for what you might say or do. Your friends will not judge and that is something you will not even have to think about before you blurt out that one time you made out with someone in a garbage can. While you were sober. And he was wearing a gimp costume. Or maybe he was just a gimp. You didn’t bother to find out.

Your friends will ask, “How far did you get?”

“Third base”

“Why did you stop?”

“Fucking security guard cock-blocked me”.

*Laughter all around.

So make sure you find that, and you appreciate that, children. Because once you enter the adult world of marriage, having children, and your parents and relatives visiting, nobody will listen to you talk about your forays into becoming a dominatrix.

Enough fun, you guys?

Well, on to….

The Ugly

I sat for my last class ever in NALSAR a while ago. Well, I say sat but really I leaned against the desk. And yesterday, I gave my last exam in NALSAR. A lot of lasts are coming by awfully fast even though I was expecting them to. I’m trying not be cliché or to keep saying “my very last this” or “my very last that”, but honestly, some things are just absurd.

For me its absurd beyond recognition. I have thought about leaving this place for good at least once for every two days I spent here. And I don’t mean leaving campus for lunch, or like the localites or people from Bangalore.  I thought about simply picking up and pulling a Matt Damon from Good Will Hunting albeit without a Skylar. I have actively thought of killing myself for at least four months while here.

I was speaking to my oldest friend in NALSAR a while ago and I mentioned that I don’t think he knows what it feels like to suck, and to fail, and to want to leave so much while knowing you cant. I didn’t elaborate because I was feeling a bit raw at the time. But if gut-wrenching candor is what creativity demands, then I’ll try and not be afraid to create something ugly in the process.

I come from a normal family, economically speaking. We don’t have the kind of money that justifies me flailing about like a used tissue in the wind. We have more than enough for anything we bother to think of, but I suspect that’s largely because we can’t think of larger things. It’s not the kind of economic situation that allows me respite.

And so when I found out I was coming to NALSAR I was ecstatic. It meant that the money my dad was happy to spend on tuition for CLAT did not go to waste. Then of course I noticed the fee for NALSAR. Suddenly, even though I so wanted to come, the initial plan of spending five years in college while I figured out what to do did not seem like a good idea. Suddenly, things depended entirely on how well I did. That did not terrify me at all.

As I have previously mentioned, I have grown to not love this place a lot. But it honestly didn’t start out that way. I didn’t see the point of ragging and that was annoying, but for the most part, I was fresh-faced, rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed and full of good impressions and hopes. I know its hard to imagine that for people who have known me in the past four years, but I used to be quite the optimist. Then, as I mentioned previously I noticed quite a few things that put me off. How did I come to loathe thee? Let me count the ways. (And I know that’s not how the line goes.)

Everyone seemed to want a job. People started figuring out ranks and CGPAs the moment we came out of our first surprise test. There were such things as “surprise” tests. Someone told me that the only way to be anyone at NALSAR was to moot. My seniors said ragging happened so that people lost their egos, but they seemed to have egos indirectly proportionate to their looks. Their egos may have been based on their having won moots. Most importantly, the law was less interesting to me than I thought.

This list of rather petty grievances has evolved and changed over the years, but its essentially the same. Highest on the list of grievances currently is that nobody (including me) bothers to tell idiotic 18 year olds that its not a bad thing if they find out that they’re not cut out for this, or that this is not cut out for them, and they want to leave. I may not have listened, but when I eventually understood it I may not have tried to fight it with self-loathing and depression.

Someone asked me the other day why I was sad enough to think suicidal. Honestly, its because I couldn’t think of anything else that would be better. I didn’t bother to talk to anyone because from my twisted point of view, as soon as I mentioned my situation to anyone, I’d just be a dumb quitter who couldn’t keep up. Hardly the most charitable opinion I could have had of my friends.

And the Amazingly Emo-tastic

Which brings me to better things. The better things in literature and movies and songs are never something we want to examine. Nobody wants to know that Holden Caulfield got better. Nobody cares that Faizal understood the pointlessness that male bravado, false honor and egoism had led to. Nobody wants to think about the fact that Elizabeth Bennet was actually joking when she said she fell for Mr. Darcy after seeing how big his estate was (not a euphemism), or how she criticizes Lydia not for being a flirt, but for being a thoughtless one. Segue over. And this being the case, I doubt the next part will be what people find interesting.

Eventually, my friends got me drunk and talked to me. From which point onwards, I realized there were at least three people who didn’t think I was a stupid quitter. Sadly, I wasn’t in the list of three people, but I got there eventually. Which brings me to what I choose to take away from NALSAR, which has honestly given me a lot of things it never intended to, but I am grateful for anyway.

NALSAR taught me how to deal with fear. I have eye juice that comes out every now and then and moments of crippling terror about the looming unknown, but I can always remember a time when leaving my room in the morning was a scary thought because of all the imaginary mocking glances, and it seemed like a better idea to stay in bed and think of ways to die. And once I remember that shit, I feel good because now, I don’t want to leave my bed because I want to write, or research for a project on medieval punishment or obscenity or humor, or watch Doctor Who, or masturbate, or finish some art project because someone asked me to do it. Not for some paltry reason like believing that everyone I know secretly hates me.

NALSAR also taught me how to shut up when the time comes. Granted, I really don’t shut up a lot when I should, but NALSAR has taught me the hard way about the value of staying quiet when people lose their tempers in arguments and debates. Given that I don’t know how successful I am at this when it comes to my friends, around whom I shoot my mouth off like a bond villain. But you get to do that with friends.

NALSAR also accidentally gave me the ability to make reasoned arguments. For the feminazis out there who love my feminazi perspectives, my ability to write cohesively and with clarity is entirely owed to NALSAR. I can’t say for sure if I owe it specifically to the education or to people like my Mallu friend who gives me a complex and N, but it definitely came from here.

—

But really, all of this is blither when it comes to what actually matters. Wear your helmets people, there is going to be cauldrons full of hot molten mush coming your way.

I found friends here beyond what I ever thought was possible. Maybe it would be easier to understand exactly how ecstatic and grateful I am to life for this if I explain some stuff about my past. I have avoided relationships like the plague, but I always had friends. However, my earliest memories of friends also involve specific moments when most of my friends decided they didn’t want to be friends. There were no fights or confrontations, and there weren’t periods of gradual drifting apart. It was always over a span of about a week when they would succeed in amputating me. That did not stop till eighth grade. And I know now that this is something that’s not entirely unheard of during your teen years, but that didn’t really help with the sadness.

By the time I made actual friends from the ninth grade onwards, I was pretty cynical about all friendships. I remember really hurting my friend N in school when she casually mentioned that she loved me and I froze up, got awkward and got angry (“What do you want me to say to that?!”) in that order. I eventually learnt how to pretend to be normal with the friends I did make.

But always at the back of your mind, there’s that nagging doubt – one day, you’ll find out that they don’t want to be friends anymore. They don’t like you because you’re lame or embarrassing or stupid or weird or because they found something in you that is just repulsive to normal human peoples. And when friends have occasionally left without an explanation since after school, that part of me would rear its ugly head and I would start to wonder if eventually all of my friends would just come to the same conclusion and leave. This has happened about three or four times since college.

But since then I’ve learnt to be a bit better with the trust thing. I have friends who pretty much saved my life, although they didn’t know it when they got me drunk. These were the same friends I had in my depression suspected of secretly forming a “We Secretly Hate Billy Thomas” Club. In my head, they practically had meetings, and daily quotes and also a banner.

When I told S last semester exactly how bad a shape I had been in, she was shocked. N hit me so hard she gave me a red welt on my leg. M said she didn’t know it was that bad but she knew things sucked. Ips understood because she had been through her own kind of crap. Mal was there with her general aura of caring and supportiveness. They said they’d kill me if I didn’t talk to them next time I felt that bad. Which I sort of did.

—

NALSAR has brought me some deep anxiety and moroseness. It also brought me the kind of friends that I would actively want to keep in touch with. I don’t tell them often, and I don’t make public declarations at Farewells because I can’t even begin to express how much I owe them. People create themselves every day, but it really helps if you know there are people who’ll like whatever you make out of yourself, no matter what it ends up being.

Friendships are sort of like those Dove Real Beauty sketches, which I don’t have that much of a problem with, thought I think they could have been so much better. At some point of time you realize that your friends are weird in their ability to think of you as amazing, even when they know the thousands of reasons why you’re not. They will know all of your character flaws and your irritating idiosyncrasies, but will ultimately think that you are a creature worthy of amazing fate and adventure. We all see each other to be brave, smart, creative people who will get wherever they want to go. I remember someone mentioning that they hoped one of our friends goes to film school. One of my best friends told me I should definitely go to grad school that has nothing to do with law because I deserve more in life. We would never say that about ourselves. It would be so hard to give yourself that benefit.

I have no idea if real life is going to be harder or easier than NALSAR for me to handle, but I do know that every single person here has gone through a stage in NALSAR where their self-esteem is shot and where any and all happiness is lost (and gone forever). NALSAR can drown you, and what can keep you up are friends who care enough to be honest with you. God knows if the real world is anything like NALSAR we will all need someone. I guess I’m just grateful that I got to be here and have this – the people who are my people.

—

If it wasn’t obvious already, I have a lot of regrets about NALSAR. I regret not working hard and giving up and being angry and being afraid. I would also regret not leaving the first chance I got, but I really fucking can’t. I was talking to Ips about how maybe all of us need that one unhealthy involvement with someone who is bad for you, kills your self-esteem and makes you choose or think about things as acceptable that under normal circumstances, you would have walked away from. I don’t mean an abusive relationship, just an immature and simply wrong one. Once we’re through with that, we realize what we want in life, and what we deserve. And the friends who help you through that really help glue you back together.

So NALSAR kicked me in the asshole repeatedly, and honestly I poked NALSAR with a toothpick several times. I definitely walked away with more egregious hurt than NALSAR, I’m stronger for it and gave me some solid friends to add to that.

And I won’t be taking no mo’ of NALSAR’s crap now, girlfriend. But who knows, maybe NALSAR and I can meet at a ten year reunion, get drunk and not be awkward with each other.

—

I have never endorsed the idea that your college years will be the best years of your life. If our plan is to make these the best years of our lives, and set the bar at some weird low for the rest of our lives, then that’s not a very ambitious goal in terms of self-actualization or emotional and/or creative fulfillment, is it? It is an important part of life, and I will miss everything about it. I hate to leave this place, but god knows, its time. It’s time to take the friends and the memories and all the cruel lessons and jokes life here played on all of us for five years and lead a better life for it. Or at least try.

I always knew this would be my song for leaving as soon as the oldest friend sang it a few months ago. Along with Semisonic’s Closing Time.

 Agar main ruk gayi abhi

Toh jaa na paaoongi kabhi.

Yahi kahoge tum sada

Ke dil abhi nahi bhara.

Jo khatm ho kisi jagah

Yeh aisa silsila nahi.

– Billy

P.S. – If you must know, this is how I’ve been feeling.

I DON’T WANNA LEAVE!!!!!!!!

And I need someone to do to me what Jon Stewart does with the puppy here. (Pablo Neruda omage/ reference. Anyone?)

P. P. S. – This is last post. I’ll add a link to new blog once I start that.

People who like reading this and tell me often – I owe a sizable portion of my self esteem and confidence to you. As I mentioned previously to some of you – you guys are my favorite. You’ve given a lot of meaning to my life. Thank you. So much.

 

Things happen. Of a faecal nature.

Not one of my sob story blogs. Also not a reference to recent non-existent or existent sexcapades. For those who wonder, as humans are wont to – I lie a lot when I drink. Largely by omission, but also by being willfully unclear with my declarations.

But this is actually in reference to certain decisions I have come to regarding this blog, and more importantly, my life. Things are not as settled as I would like them to be, but I doubt that will ever happen. But to a large extent, I have considered my options and have settled on what I would do depending on how things pan out. Am I being cryptic? Yes, but it gets better. Slightly. For those of you interested in what I think about my life and Delhi, this will be passable. For other more normal folk, hopefully the writing won’t suck.

I had a conversation with a friend recently concerning people who read my blog. To begin with, this particular aspect of the conversation concerned was brought up and sustained entirely by me. I wouldn’t want to give the impression that my friends are at all interested in theories about the mental state of the four people who read this. We were already talking about the blog and I mentioned that at some level, I don’t trust the… affection? regard? Whatever it is that you have for me.

Don’t get me wrong – I love that people like what I write about and presumably, the manner in which I write it. I have naught but respect for your good taste. Tee hee. What I don’t trust is your ability to like me after you meet me. I would hate to meet one of my favorite authors and realize they were mean or bigoted or unfriendly or worst of all, boring. Something I told an old friend a long time ago comes to mind – I think people who know and like me from minimal and limited interactions expect an eternal fountain of wit and knowledge. Once they get to know me a bit more I’m afraid they’ll find out that I already used up my best material – those were all the cards I held.

But that’s largely my self esteem talking. I’m sure that in real life, I must be just a treasure to have around twenty-four-seven. But all of this brings me home – literally and figuratively. I was in Goa when S, N and I got to talking about Delhi. We were wondering where we would live our lives before eventually retiring in Goa, and I was the only one who said Delhi. It’s not a very popular city and it probably never will be. And I tried to explain my reasons orally, but as usual, failed. Its a lesson I have learned over time and it bears repeating – if I have anything more complex that “I want that” to convey, I should write it down first. Talking is not my forte. So let me try again.

I told S and N that as far as I’m concerned, Delhi is the best place for writers in India. Which started off an argument that sort of derailed the conversation. So I will elaborate. The Indian writers I like and the ones who inspire me tend to settle in Delhi. Admittedly, there is no great number of Indian writers that I’m a fan of but of those ones, the majority live in Delhi. And I’m not just talking about fiction writers.

That of course is not enough reason to want to live in Delhi, certainly. But I think the reason it appeals to me as an aspiring writer is that it is rich with people. The most unfriendly, unhygienic, unhelpful and lecherous people you’ll have the dubious honor/ misfortune of meeting. And you see, that is the stuff of legends.

I hate to admit my dad was right about anything, but living amongst Delhi-ites makes my writing better. There is nothing better to write about in the world than people who don’t realize they could be written about. Or people who don’t realize exactly why they could be written about. People in Delhi are the least meta people I have met. They live up to their stereotype as much as people in any other city, but their stereotype is more colorful, more grotesque and brash and fun and real. Interacting with people in Delhi is like interacting with caricatures – entirely human, complex and utterly heartbreaking caricatures.

Spending a day around Delhi for me usually meant writing at the speed of… Boleros in Delhi after twelve – in a notepad that I had to keep beside me at all times. People very rarely see me do that in college. In college, inspiration comes slowly – through books and movies. Sometimes, through incidents, and very rarely through sheer people-osity. In Delhi, even as I hated parts of my Court internships, I would literally write while walking from one courtroom to the next. Once you get used to the people, you also begin to understand them. And as far as I can see, understanding is the key. Truth reveals itself through conflict, and there is no conflict unless my perceptions are challenged. Which is why I go about clinically asking questions like, “So how do you reconcile your faith with conflicting knowledge of science, or philosophy if that’s your thing?”; or “What exactly do you guys do for Ugadi? Do you do anything?”; or “Explain to me your thought process when you purposely hurt someone you love?”; or “what do you mean its five bucks more?!”; or “Who’s that? And why are we talking about them?”; or “Do you want to go get jiggy with it?” – that last one was a lie-joke. I stopped propositioning people like that after I turned 12.

I have a lot of questions, and if they’re answered well, I remember the answers. If they’re not answered well, I get a bit internally angry. When someone doesn’t answer honestly when they said they would, I tend to feel like I’m being patronized. Most of my angry posts stem from not getting answers that satisfy me.

So coming back on point – I plan to stay in Delhi unless inconceivably good opportunities from other cities present themselves. That they are inconceivable should indicate the probability of their actual happening in real terms. It may not be the best, happiest version of life, but I don’t really want the happiest version of my life right now. Later, probably when it’s too late to have , I’ll want it, but for now I want the life version – where I make mistakes and feel unhappy sometimes, where I fight with friends and laugh at TV shows, and possibly cry in the shower after a shitty day in at a job I don’t like. And I plan to write. And write better for living in Delhi. And for getting out of college.

Which sort of brings me to my long ass absence from this space. Many things have contributed to this – I went to Goa a few weeks ago and as amazingly splendiferous as it was, I came back without a functioning power cord for my laptop – which due to the obscurity of the laptop company has been a major set back. After Goa I was busy with college fest stuff, which was a surprisingly fun thing to do. After that I got wicked wasted at the Farewell thrown by juniors and said some stuff (very little of which is actually what happened, sadly) which is apparently one of the various talks of the town, if the town were an unbelievably pseudo bunch of five hundred people. After that I got roped in to “decorate” at Southie Fest, which like all Fests was pointless, as far as I can see. And right now, there is project submissions. And the looming threat of yet another drunken episode.

But more importantly than all of the above shenanigans, the main reason for aforementioned long ass absence is ennui. I have not been feeling good about what I have written over the past few weeks. As previously elaborated, I think being too happy is not good for my writing, which ultimately is not good for my mental state. I don’t plan to be depressed or heartbroken or to use hard drugs, but I think a reality check in the form of Delhi, outside of college will be a good thing. Everything I have written in the last few weeks and even before that, including posts I have actually published sort of seems … meh. I don’t think they mattered, least of all to me. I wasn’t enthusiastic while writing them and I wasn’t looking forward to or happy with the results once I did.

I think it may be because as someone mentioned to me recently, when you know you’re writing for an audience, and even worse, when you know who that audience is, you’re less honest. Not in terms of revealing details about your life, but in terms of what you do decide to write about and how you write it. I have been writing keeping college in mind. Knowing that people see me here every day. That they’ll see me and who I interact with and how I behave and will come to their own conclusions. And I think at some level, my last few posts have been about trying to mold those conclusions. Not consciously, but at some level, my writing has degenerated to commentary on what people in college are already seeing or experiencing.

To be clear – I don’t hate my writing. I just know it could be better. And less… conventional. So I have conclaved with myself and come to the conclusion that I will not be posting here after college ends. It’s time I made a few changes – I’ve been in limbo for too long. I’ll put up a couple more posts – probably one about the incident with the media at our farewell party, and another about leaving NALSAR. After that – new blog. It’ll still be me writing about stuff that I come across, but hopefully, a little less self-consciously. I’ll still put it up on Facebook when I do write, and I’ll drop in a link to the new blog here. But yes, I’m leaving college after five years – I need to work the atrophy out of my system; and maybe a new start, with fewer WordPress notifications of how many posts I have, and far fewer badly written posts about inane crap would help. If not, I reserve the right to come back to this blog, and live in the past for the rest of my life.

Okbai.

– Billy

 

Vignettes or What I Think About YOU!!

ME from the future: Billy, you will probably not publish this. I would like to tell you that its because you have low self esteem, but let’s be honest, its because you don’t know what this post is going to be about. Except now, you have this idea of writing vignettes of people you’re incapable of understanding [*cough* judging *cough*] right now. And here’s the fun bit – some of them may or may not be from college, though they are largely composites of a number of people. You will probably regret this, you coward of a writer, but if Lizzie could post the utter and complete rejection of Darcy, I could do this much, right?

Also, yes. You are doing this entirely because someone on Facebook said they miss your posts. And no, its not because it reminded you that you have to post, or it gave you confidence. It’s because you are entirely driven by your ego and narcissism. Your juvenile need for approval is exposed, Billy. Kindly adjust your clothing. None of us want to see that nasty business.

—

The Girl Who Will Always Be Boring And Doesn’t Know It

She’s always had it all. Her hair falls like Rachel’s; her butt to waist ratio is practically perfect; she can understand complex theories and concepts almost before she encounters them; her boobs are only just short of Jennifer Lawrence, which is as close to perfection as normal people get; Her legs are probably longer than my entire body; she probably has 2 percent body fat; she has the aesthetically pleasing back dimples, the skinny arms that Liz Lemon had nightmares about and no armpit cleavage. In the Photoshop enabled world of today, she may just have gone unfiltered. Probably not, but there was potential. Her face was ok.

But perfection comes for a price. The price in this case, was NOT her ability to know interesting stories or people. She always had something to add to gossip or a non-boring story to tell. She had that. What she didn’t have was the ability to tell any story without making me think of sour milk and cleaning my room. She could bitch about people well enough, but it fell short of entertaining by a mile and skipped right to unnecessarily mean. And mean in a sneaky way. As if she was thinking of ways to be mean without letting people know.

She could run into midgets having sex with a bunch of zebras one day and want to talk about it, and I would still be…

Her inability to interest me does not end there. She will spoil things. She can kill a conversation in the least creative manner – by saying something lame that sadly enunciates two things – her inability to understand the point of a conversation and her inability to say anything interesting. It also does not help that she’s quite the raging dog of a female persuasion – about practically everything but herself. She is…. the least interesting conversant in the world. She doesn’t often drink beer. But when she does, she’ll take shots, because that’s what’s awesome.

Conclusion: Nobody can have it all.

—

They’re Not Greek Gods

Some people have it made. They are practically gods. They have everything most people would be comfortable and even satisfied with. They are as close to gods as life could get in all its dreariness and its uncertainty for mere mortals. They are the gods. I don’t really know how.

But then of course, there are Greek gods. Not Hrithik Roshan or Paul Newman. Zeus and Hades. The Greek gods were very human. In fact, they were sub-human and super-human in their abilities to be utterly human. They could feel passion that made them and the objects of their passion slaves of their loins (and on occasion, their hearts; but mostly, their loins). They could be ascetics beyond what blood flow and biology allows and they could love beyond what poetry tries, although that isn’t very hard. They could be Caligula for all their love of humans – they could call upon whomever they wanted to make the hours go by faster, to make themselves more human. They were not usually refused. If they were, they normally responded by transforming people into trees, like Apollo did to Daphne. Often, even when they weren’t refused, the mortals were transformed into other kinds of objects once they came in contact with the gods. Like Zeus and Callisto, who was transformed into a bear first and into a constellation next. That’s not exactly an object but it is a thing, if nothing else.

Of course, the Greek gods were never condemned for their behavior. It was expected of them. What else are gods supposed to do, if not have their pick of people; and of standards of decency; and of scrutiny? All of which could be molded to suit them. They were gods, and people were supposed to worship them, love them and do anything at all to get in their good books.

And of course, the Greek gods were not real. God itself is not real. And if they were, humans could never pretend to be gods. They could try, but it inevitably meant Tartarus or the continuous eating of one’s innards by an eagle whilst chained atop a mountain over centuries. Which in the real world would mean that if people acted like Greek gods, especially to their friends, they’d usually get a very clear and unmitigated –

Conclusion: Remember girls and boys, David Copperfield thought his school senior Steerforth was magnificent and the epitome of everything golden that could be said of humanity. He really, really wasn’t. He was actually less awesome than most people in the book. He was shitty to his friends, shitty to his girlfriends and died young, fulfilling tenets of poetic justice. That’s not a good sign. He was very human. But not a very good human. And not really worth debasing yourselves over.

—

Too much? I did inform some of the concerned people that this was coming. Let’s face it, I informed the people in the second one. First one is just a fun composite of a number of people I’ve met. Or is it? You’ll never know

Also, I wanted to write a bit more but I haven’t had a very good day. I am very, very pissed. I have literally never been this angry in my life. I can’t even begin to express… And since I refuse to write about why I’m angry because fuck you, that’s why, I can’t really be judgy or sufficiently pissed about anything else.

But just to beat a bunch of haters to the punch (in case there are any out there), here’s a little one talking about a few of my faults.

—

The Girl Who Is Writing This

I always think I’m right. I very rarely am. I’m often cruelly honest to my friends. I have a very high opinion of myself despite having very few parts of my life settled. One of the parts that are not settled – jobs and future plans. Despite this, I am almost always pleased with myself, which I combine with an inane self-loathing that no doubt drives my friends crazy. I have no feelings when it comes to romance. But I care excessively about the friendships I have and try practically everything to preserve them, no matter how much it flat-lines. And I pretend I don’t. My good opinion once lost, is lost for a long fucking time. I am very lazy, and I am never sure if I have enough brain to compensate for that – I very likely don’t. I always analyze and categorize people and inform them of it, while never bothering to do it to myself. People are rightfully pissed about this. I see things from several perspectives and I sit on the fence for most things because they’re not interesting enough to have an opinion about, according to me. As if the shit I do care about is that important – they’re not.

That’s all I can think of now. I don’t want to be too self-involved.

—

On a different note – The Lizzie Bennet Diaries. I have no idea how they made a tongueless kiss that hot, but FUCK ME. Literally, Daniel Vincent Gordh, I request fucking by you. To me. In my private parts.

—

Ok bye.

– Billy

 

“The importance of Kisses on the Lips and the non-existence of karma – A disjointed look at this stuff”

Just to be clear, this is not going to be post about different types of kisses. Nor is it an expose on the people I have bestowed the honor of clumsily waving my tongue in their mouths. In my defense, it was dark, I was drunk and I thought it was the crook of my arm. And again – self-deprecating humor. I bring it every time.

I watched some Louie, which seems like a strange place to get in touch with emotions, which is what I did, but it helped. Louie got asked for a kiss on the lips by a cop who saved his life. The cop said he wasn’t gay, but he’d just like a kiss on the lips. I thought that was funny. I thought, “Oh yeah, you’re not gay. You just want a kiss on the lips. Who doesn’t? Where would we all be if it weren’t for kisses on the lips?”

And then I thought of romantic feelings and how I’ve never really paid attention to them. I have come to realize that that may be very selfish and idiotic on my part and that what with recent mishaps, karma (which is not a real thing) may be trying to even the scales.

I’m going home today. My one mid-sem is done, most people from my batch are going home, and those who are left behind have to study for their exams. So my friends convinced me to go home. And the closer I get to putting on my pants, packing up the laptop and other last items, the more I realize how much I needed this. However…

If I believed in karma, I would say that mine is finally showing its true colors as a class A cunt. Or maybe more like a class A penis. At least a cunt doesn’t go about sticking its nose into anything it can stick it in. So my non-existent karma is a penis – glad that’s settled. But just to be clear, this is no normal penis. Not for it the simple pleasure of causing indignity via ejaculating on your face without a warning or something. This is a penis that will not only come with the risk of parasites (babies) but will doubtless leave you with an STD. Or at least a Urinary Tract Infection. It’ll find a way to do that somehow. It’s a very resourceful karma-penis.

I am back home now, went to the hospital and my leg is once again in a cast. And this time it’s pink. Apparently AIIMS ran out of the resin/ fibre glass/ whatever the fuck this is except in bubble gum pink. My left foot right now is a bubble-gum pink lump that if you look closely, nearly resembles something that’s not at all like a human leg. Maybe it looks like what a humanoid-elephant en-condom-ed leg would look like. On the plus side, I’m home, there is a bathroom that I can go to without feeling like I’m undertaking a long hazardous safari and there was a very Punjabi-cute, firm butted air-host guy who was friendly/chatty/flirty and offered his hand for me to hold as I gracefully hopped from my seat to the wheelchair. I only held it for a minute because his accent turned me off. Don’t ask for logic there.

However, despite these perks, my mind is not at rest. The mind is full of this feeling that reeks of something akin to guilt. I was about to completely dedicate myself to being depressed on the way back from the hospital when in a fortuitous twist of fate, “I Dreamed a Dream” by Susan Boyle started playing. You’d think this is a bad idea on a basic psychological level but apparently, you’re dead wrong, hypothetical reader. I nearly teared up, yes. But then I realized that life has not  killed the dream I dreamed. I just have a fucking plaster cast. Unlike a certain fictional character I know, at least I didn’t get left by the guy who got me pregnant, forced to leave my kid with some cartoonish innkeepers, lose my job, had all my hair cut off for money, give my teeth for money and then become a prostitute. For money, obviously. I just have a bubble-gum pink plaster cast on my leg. Oh, and a comically large shoe that I could apparently use to walk with. I realized that if I started crying about myself while listening to “I Dreamed a Dream”, I’d have to shoot myself for excessive involvement with self. So that cheered me right quick. Then Let Go came up, followed by Accio Deathly Hallows and a few old favorites. So why am I bad-mouthing my karma? Because

And then I watched some Girls, some Louie and I felt the emotional void thing again. This is something I have come to realize of late – that people have way more feelings than I ever thought possible, let alone ones I could feel. I’m not saying I’m asocial or a sociopath. I have as many, if not more feelings for friends and family as any other scared shitless twenty something. I just haven’t had any of the romantic kind. I have of late, understood that I may not even know the surface, let alone the depths of relationships and feelings as they exist in real life. I always saw movies and cried at them but, largely because I have yet to feel anything akin to that, I had never even encountered the possibility that people in real life also feel that much.

But really, it’s a bit weird that I didn’t know about this, right? I am not entirely emotionless. I have been to a shrink a long time ago and she said I was normal. I just haven’t felt anything close to what I feel in movies. And I always thought that was normal, and Lawrence Liang said it was normal. But apparently, people come close. I just did not know that. But then, some unspeakable stuff happened a while ago. Then I talked to some of my friends about this. And then I watched some vlogbrothers.

I still have no personal understanding of it, but I have found a significant amount of behavioral proof for the existence of romantic feelings of a deep nature among human peoples around me.

Take for example, this –

http://fishingboatproceeds.tumblr.com/post/44507026079/carlosbaila-marina-abramovic-meets-ulay-marina#notes-container

Read the shit below the gifs, check out the video, and weep motherfuckers, despite knowing that these are some post-modern performance artists. No offense to them people, I don’t mind Marina Abramovic, generally. I just don’t like calling turds “art”. But yeah, this had a nice shaming effect on me – S found me in my room, with my shirt soaking up tears and snot. It did not help that she’s secretly more of a robot than I am. Her response – “What kind of morons walk half way down the Great Wall of China to break up? The fuck is this, a Yash Chopra movie?”

But despite what S says, it has become clear to me that sane, smart, normal, adult people apparently feel a lot of things in lieu of relationships and romantic love. So many things and I don’t have personal experience with any of those feelings. And not only that, they apparently act on those feelings. And because I didn’t know this stuff existed in real life, I have in the past trivialized and in some ways stamped over them (the feelings, the people and the actions) if not in my actions then in my head.

And this is why I’ve been thinking that (non-existent) karma is catching up to me. Because for quite a long time apparently, I have been mean about relationships. And now that I realize that they’re like one of those things that exist because people believe in them, I feel bad about it. So if karma existed (which it doesn’t) and it wanted to make me its crying, begging bitch-slave, it couldn’t have picked a better time than at a party, in my last semester in college, after or during a random sexcapade, and with a fucking bubble-gum pink cast. Having arrived at that much, I feel like I have some amends – practical ones, not karmic – to make. And by that I mean I will feel terrible for quite a while and also try not to talk derisively of relationships.

I want to die. Now that I Dreamed a Dream is not playing, I’m allowed to feel negative. Go fuck yourself assholes.

Cheerio.

P.S. – to my lovely, caring friends – Please know that it is normal to be negative and mildly depressed when one’s mobility is restricted. You need not try and cheer me up once I get back to campus. But you also need not continually think of pushing me off ramps or depositing me in dust bins.

 

Lindsay Lohan nights, Amplifier vibrators and Fractures

I know I have been missing for a while, and most people who read my blog are from college so they/you know why. I have been having a pretty crock-of-turds kind of week, and for once its not because of my continuing battle with depression and the making of life decisions. Oh no, this is about actual physical problems. I left my phone at a parlor which thankfully did not overcharge me for a trim. Then I went to Liquids to party it up in my fifth year, you know, as one does. And as one does, I discovered that the amplifier on the floor is akin to a vibrator if one leans against it just so. Having said that, its not a very good vibrator; but beggars of sex toys cannot be choosers of sex toys. Next, I tripped over a hookah pipe at Liquids. I don’t even smoke hookah – my lungs are more precious to me than my liver. And clearly, my foot is even less precious to me than my liver because despite knowing in the en-liquored corners of my brain that something was very, very wrong with said foot, I got back up on that horse, adjusted myself against the amplifier for a while and danced/ hopped around for at least an hour. I also met a bunch of white people, and was VERY social with them. I apparently have a winning personality when I’m drunk with other drunk people. Some of them wanted my number and I gave it up, but I’m pretty sure I gave them a mixture of my Delhi and Hyderabad numbers. On the way back I puked all over the driver’s shoes, very considerately sparing the ballet flats my friend had loaned me for the night. There was also a drunken apology to S, who was taking care of me.

—

 

The next morning I woke up to a swollen foot, memories of vibrating amplifiers, unmentionable deeds of a pornographic nature and a queasy stomach. I hopped on over to S’s room, informed her of the minor predicament I was in and eventually got to the closest hospital, which like all hospitals seems to take a special interest in the billing process. I got a shot of painkiller on the bum from a smirking nurse and dozed off for a while. I woke up thinking of silver linings – the Orthopedic doctor was there and was more of a fox than I am used to with Indian doctors. Not George Clooney in ER; but a respectable, graying at the ears, trim body, tight butt, speaks without a vagina killing gult accent kind of hot. He asked me how I got the fracture and I said I fell. When? Last Night.

You didn’t feel pain last night?

…….. I was drinking. So I just went to sleep.

Ah. Smiles

Nearly swoons

My niece parties a lot in London. She’s studying to be a Doctor.

Oh.

……………….

Getting ready for application of plaster

So, what’s your favorite drink?

Errrrr…. Alcoholic?

Alcohol, yes.

Err… I’m not sure. Beer?

Chuckles

Swoon

Not cocktails?

 I like cocktails, but yeah – beer. Stupid, stupid Billy. Why didn’t you say whisky? You won’t sound like a college party freak.

I mix a few good cocktails.

Oh, Mister Doctor! Do you now? Won’t you make me one some time? I bet you can shake a drink really well. Make me a screwdriver, and then you can screw my BEEP BEEP.

Oh. Cool.

—

 

As is obvious, I was keeping it cool, sounding like a vaguely interested, mature beyond my years sophisticate. One who happens to have been caught in a web of circumstances that led me to being drunk off my ass, proposition people, use industrial grade vibrators and get a broken foot. I will be going back to Mister Doctor some time this weekend, and hopefully, the hair on my plastered leg will not have become too gruesome for human (hot doctor) eyes; although I have been informed that that is an inevitability. When people ask how I got injured, I reply with “I partied too hard” – a joke that is apparently worthy of being repeated on my batch google group.

However its not all laughter and medical marijuana. Having a fracture is pretty depressing. Yes, I’m a bit depressed, what else is new? Well, what’s new is that now when I cry people have to know about it because I can’t keep my door locked in case I need help. Also, when I do go to the bathroom to try and discreetly wipe snot off my face, I end up being utterly conspicuous. Whatte fail. Further, tears or the threat of tears, come on every time I realize that I can’t move from one building to the other without someone helping me out, such as moments after my friends turn up at lunch, rescuing me from having to depend on the kindness of batch-mates to escort me back to the library. I don’t like being immobile. If this experience teaches anyone anything, let it be that people who have to start living the rest of their lives in wheelchairs should be closely monitored for depression and suicidal tendencies. I don’t have either and that is owed entirely to the fact that I’ll be fine in four weeks. On the other hand, I guess its not a total bummer to know that practically anyone you know will be kind to you once you’re in a wheelchair.

So overall, the week has not been too good. I forgot to mention that my laptop conked off so I’m writing this in one of the systems in the library. As I say to my friends, everything about me but for me loins has been pitcher of piss. Me loins are having it alright. Which usually would not be a bad thing, but given the fact that that the erotic device in my room cannot be used properly because I really don’t want to fuck up my leg even further and miss out on Goa, its not as amazing as it would otherwise be. I should perhaps stop advertising my sex life on the internet. Duly noted and probably ignored, says Future Self.

So there you have it. That was this week. Well, this past weekend. Given that all of that happened, I’m letting myself off for not writing anything in a while. I was entirely stupid and drunk, but at least I didn’t get thrown out of the club or get into trouble with the police. Again. Silver linings, people. Me and Bradley Cooper are going to go bye-bye into the sunset.

–       Billy

 

P.S. – if any of my students read this, please know that given my crabby state of mind, I will not be tolerating people who don’t pay attention, don’t read, smile too much, have no hair, have too much hair, make smart comments, make no comments, or wear blue jeans. So watch out, whores of the education system, the cast has taken over my personality and you will not escape the wrath of an irritable, immobile and frustrated fifth year who has never exercised power over juniors in all her three and a half years as a senior. Fuck you, and your little brains too.

 

Writer’s block, sex fantasies, social awkwardness and writer’s block

I have writer’s block. Which as you know, is the most stellar of all stellar ways to draw a crowd of readers to your blog. Other than to talk about anatomy or a tongue in cheek account of all of your failures and bad decisions in the past four years. Chetan Bhagat was on to something apparently. I don’t like that I have mentioned him more than once in the history of my blog, even if it was with derision.

Anyway, that is part of the reason I didn’t write. The other part is that I have been shit busy what with all of my elective classes starting and having to teach 2nd years stuff they largely don’t seem to want to know about. This is an impediment to them actually listening and learning something, but I still seem to enjoy this whole teaching experiment, oddly enough. All right, let’s not be coy about these things, I fucking love reading about literature and being able to talk about it, even to a reluctant and largely silent audience, even as they desperately wait for an hour to pass by so they can learn some real law. I may be being very negative about them right now because I may or may not be in the cranky time of month.

Since I do have writer’s block, I will be using the three embarrassing confessions I have to make to fill in this blog, lead me to things I can write about and hopefully, bring it together cohesively in the end. If I fail, then I take full responsibility for any pain I may cause you. I don’t really. Don’t piss me off today whores.

First confession – The rape fantasy was more than once. It wasn’t recently and before everyone starts handing me feminist literature in the nature of Andrea Dworkin (we referred to her in class recently), let me explain to you the nature of fantasies, at least for me. [Side note – this came up because someone asked me about rape fantasies recently. Not that it counts for much, but I think people should know I don’t casually start thinking about rape fantasies on a daily/ weekly basis.] And very likely for a lot of girls. And maybe guys too, how would I know? If you fantasize about something and even get off on it, it does not mean you necessarily want that in real life. And if you don’t fantasize about something, it doesn’t mean you don’t want it. I have done a lot of things I never fantasized about, and don’t particularly like the thought of while fantasizing. Mind you, I have never really fantasized about women, children or animals, so I really can’t say about those… although if you’re fantasizing about children or animals, you should probably see someone. Just a suggestion. Not NAMBLA or any of its known associates, but someone.

Coming back on point – just because I fantasized about a threesome once does not mean I actually want one in real life. I may, but not to my present knowledge. I think that counts as confession number two. Should I be worried about how many of my confessions are sexual in nature? And how willing I am to tell the world about them? And again, we segue back from potentially psychologically damaging introspection to the slightly less potentially psychologically damaging content – fantasies.

The thing to remember about rape fantasies when a girl has them is the fact of narration, which is also something I keep bringing up in my tutorials. By the fact of narration I mean that the simple fact of me creating and narrating the fantasy to myself is in and of itself the consent that makes the whole scenario not rape, even in the universe of my imagination.

If you want to know how this whole situation would play out in the real world, in the case of actual random guy raping me, it would go like this-

me: No! No! No! Fucking hell no!

And hopefully, that would be followed by this (I’m the one with the knife/bow/gun/ btw) –

 

 

 

Let me be clear – this is a situation where I was about to be raped. I will be claiming self-defense and/or temporary insanity.

In a real life consensual sexual situation, this is what would happen at the most – me and whatever guy would have a BDSM arrangement, wherein the safe word is not “no” or “Stop”, but something like “Unicorn” (no phallic imagery intended but go ahead if you like). So in the fucking process, even as I say “no” or “stop”, the guy shouldn’t stop. He should stop when I say “Unicorn”, however. This is hypothetical, believe me. If I were in a BDSM relationship, I wouldn’t have time to write. Or eat. Or live.

I hope we all learnt something about human sexuality today. I feel like I have come to an uncomfortable place in this post….

Third confession- I may have lied to get out of dhabha plans just now because I’m uncomfortable in certain social situations unless certain friends are not around. And once those friends refuse to go to dhabha because he/she is busy with tax work, I may resort to barefaced lies like “I have loosies” even to people who would technically be qualified as my oldest friend. I feel a bit bad. Not too much, but a little bit.

That little cryptic confession leaves us nowhere to go…. which brings us back to writer’s block. I have it because I haven’t read or watched anything new in a while. Reading things inspires me to write. Which is not to say that I copy ideas or styles of writing – at least not consciously. I just have thoughts in my head because of book and am therefore able to write. For example, reading The Great Gatsby led to my thoughts and post on rich people in Delhi. Hyperboleandahalf cites watching and reading funny stuff as her writer’s block cure, and you know…. Hyperboleandahalf – your argument is invalid.

I can’t believe I wrote one thousand words worth of nothing while I have writer’s block. Eh.

 

– Billy

 

Doubt Clearing, Egos and Book Therapy

From what I have seen, there’s something we’re all obsessed with and before you go there, its not sex. We all want to belong and at the same time, we want to be special. I want to be special. I want to be special to myself, and I also want to be special to the psychiatric wards at all hospitals. I would also settle for being special for people I consider to be an important part of my everyday life. When I think about people on at least a weekly basis, and I don’t think twice about doing something for them, and saying nice things to them while I’m drunk, I would very much like those people to think of me as someone special. Its about the same logic as “Unforgettable” which not coincidentally, is one of my favorite songs.

We all want to be liked by the people we like, right? And I think at some level, all of us are afraid that it’s a trick – that you’re one of the unfortunate people whom friends talk about behind your back. That one day, you’re going to turn a corner and everybody is going to be there, like its an intervention, and it begins with, “We’re all here because we abhor you and think you should stop trying to do anything.” At least I feel that way sometimes, and Charlie McDonnell and Michael Aranda and Hank Green, all assure me that its not an abnormal feeling. That doubt is a part of the lifelong process of creating yourself from scratch every day, every week, year after year, with person after person. But then, I suppose when you really get down to it, this idea of everyone you give two fucks about dispassionately informing you of their indifference and their loathing is one of the doubts with a capital D. As far as I’m concerned, the only doubt bigger than that one is my own massive doubts about my capabilities.

To wit, I will be figuring out as I write about the many neuroses I have. I will intersperse this with neuroses I believe other people have more than me. You can play a guessing game and figure out who has the most acute case of each of these. This way, you can follow my example in not ending up in the green pastures of insanity, and merely have a rest stop in the hills of absurdity. I know you’re at the edge of your seat with excitement. You should take a Xanax. I’m watching Silver Linings Playbook as I write.

The first major fear is of course the one I spoke of just now. The fear that everyone I like will one day turn around and inform me that what we had is not really worth any time and they don’t really care. For the few friends who do read this blog, let me assure you, this has nothing to do with you. As with most problems that concern me, this is all about me. I have this fear from early adolescence. I think everyone does – I just have a bit of it left over. Don’t get me wrong, its not something I worry about every day. More like on a quarterly basis, or around times when I feel useless and I subconsciously project that onto other people.

I deal with this by remembering all the times I have been an asshole to my friends. This makes me feel better because it reminds me that my friends have stuck around when I’ve been a huge pain, so logically they would probably stick around for normal days when the only thing wrong is that the moon is in the wrong place in the sky. Or that you feel like an ugly person. Another thing that helps in this situation is this thing called sleeping. Self doubt is self doubt, but doubting your friends usually comes around when la vie is not en rose (I know that’s probably incorrect usage – blogger’s poetic license to desecrate languages) and you really need some serotonin. Also, watching Grey’s Anatomy and crying deeply helps.

Chop chop to the next neuroses – fear that all people I come in contact with can see through bravado into the part that makes me want to curl up in the fetal position sometimes. This of course has a lot to do with career plans. I am very afraid of what will happen what with unconventional and risky career choices and sometimes the fear is a bit paralyzing. It’s nothing like the fear of not knowing what you want to do when everyone else seems to, but still pretty bad. Add to that the people who seem to think you have it together, and the fear that they will find out how afraid you are is a pretty toilet feeling. One way of dealing with this is to be loud mouthed and vocal. Pretend you have it covered and that you’re never afraid. Make sure everyone notices you as you do things that exhibit very clearly that you don’t care, you’re not afraid and you have everything under control.

While there is some merit in this strategy, it could backfire very easily if one is surrounded by people who are able to observe you for more than two days. After two days, if you’re still too loud and obnoxious, people in their amateur shrink ways will know you’re full of shit. I recommend a different strategy to get through this – ignore it, keep working at what you have to work at, and tell jokes about the fear. It helps because then people know it exists, you don’t have to hide it, and you’re not deluding yourself into believing that people can’t see you’re nervous. My personal favorite is – “I’m meant to be poor. It’s practically a requirement in my future career as ‘struggling writer’”.

I’m constantly afraid someone will find out when I’m going commando. Its something I do every now and then to take the edge off. Underwear is restraining and sort of purposeless if you’re twenty two and have some basic hygiene. I recommend a long loose sweatshirt for this.

I’m afraid people will find out about white lies I have told in the past, whether its in exaggerating stories or lies I told to excuse myself, including but not limited to – “My parents refused to let me”, “No, I’m sure he’s a nice person”, “Sure, I like your boyfriend”, “I can see why other people are friends with him/ her”, “I read that book”, “I have to go because I have to go pee”, “I don’t really care”, “I don’t like porn”, “I’m sick so I can’t do that”, “No, I never fantasized about that”.

For this, there is nothing you can do. You can not lie as much, but that’s just crazy. If and when shit hits the fan with one or more of these lies, the best thing to do would be to own up and immediately apologize if need be. Or you could make up an even more elaborate lie.

I’m afraid I’m not as smart as I’d like to be. One day, I’ll realize that all the things I have cultivated and trained my brain to be good at are useless, a sham. Even worse, that the things I think my brain is actually good at, its not really good at. Which basically puts my whole existence and perception of myself into question. The way I deal with this is to read a book.

In this unfortunate and unimaginative world, people ask me only too often why I read books. The answer I came up with recently was taken from Paths of Glory – because it’s there. But it’s a bit more than that. I read because when I read, I understand more about anything and everything than when I listen to someone speak. When I read, I understand the significance of my life and the insignificance of it in the measure of billions of years of lives lived.

Reading means that I find out how people thousands of years before now thought and felt and did things like I did, and it also means I find out what is unique about me. Reading means I find information and it also means I find people, even those who are not real or dead and buried, who felt like me and thought like me and made the same mistakes as I did – which means that I’m not alone. Which means that I’m only as smart or as dumb as anyone else and I really don’t have to be afraid. Really, reading a good book or watching a good movie is a solution to all neuroses.

Also, there’s alcohol. And music.

—

 

I finished Silver Linings Playbook. The strangest thing about that movie is that I can’t find anything wrong with it and I want to watch it again and again. Note that I didn’t say it’s an excellent movie and I loved it and it gave me goosebumps at times, which is what I say about Les Miserables. I liked watching Silver Linings Playbook and there was no part of it that I didn’t like. This has never happened before.

I’m currently reading a really old copy of O. Henry’s short stories. It smells amazing. I also love how there are some lines in stories that you know are going to be special – “It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.”

—

 

I may not be able to write something tomorrow. I’m dull and bored.

 

Cleavage, Bootybreaks and Sessuality

The reasons for writing this blog – (1) The subject came up; and (b) My bossy friend (who will live a long life) suggested I may be good at deconstructing sexuality. Also, the title may be misleading you pervs.

Last night was one of the good nights with friends. It was one of those nights where you sit around and talk and joke and everybody’s in sync with everybody. Punchline follows punchline at the speed of sound and by the end you’re falling off beds laughing and getting yelled at by neighbors. And you didn’t even need alcohol before you laughed so much you nearly peed. So of course in the midst of this discussion, the subject of boobs (brreasts! – Jeff) came up, as they do in all girls hostel conversations. I am not making this up – they do come up every now and then.

Which got M and S and everyone else talking about the possible pornographic implications of me talking about bra shopping on the web, where men presumably read about it. I personally did not think of it as something gratuitous and don’t really care if others do. We did however end up taking a picture of me right after I got a champi so my already shabby, in-between hair looks like a chipmunk on my head. We believe that if I were to post said picture on this blog, it would be a boner killer bar none. Coming back on point, it got me wondering about the lines between storytelling/ word-vomiting-about-your-personal-life and pornography; and how much responsibility an author (Yours truly. That’s right, I’m an ‘author’ for the purposes of this post, bitchas) would have. And as you whores already know, I have a slip of paper from all of my gay/bi and/or promiscuous friends that qualifies me, in an academic capacity, to talk about sexuality and expressions of sexuality. I keep it in my cupboard next to the thing that qualifies me to say “You can suck my dick, asshole!”

And as usual here’s the disclaimer before I approach a potentially dicey subject – I consider myself a feminist (The way I define feminist is none of your business. Ok maybe, but that’s for another post, about two years after I run out of other things to talk about), and therefore will probably be coming at this topic with prior knowledge and literature that is largely from a feminist perspective. I have tried to get myself acquainted with opposing viewpoints as well, but clearly not as enthusiastically. I will try to be reasonable/ fair. If I’m not its too bad, and you can go fuck yourself because its my blog, comprende?

I begin with a few situations.

I write about bra shopping. It’s a rather fluffy piece of writing that has more to do with the difficulties of engaging in conversations with the shop girls and the problems of trying out the bras when you have four layers of clothing on. Very little mention is made of breasts themselves and only where it qualifies and explains the irritating banality that is bra shopping for a minimalist shopper. I have no idea if this is the sort of thing that gets men off. I personally doubt it, if for no other reason than the fact that with most men, actual images of breasts are a few clicks of the mouse away. If you need my blog about comfortable underwear to get you off you clearly haven’t explored the internet properly.

On the other hand, if for some twisted reason said post does give you a boner (or get you wet – I didn’t get that nod from my LGBT and horny off their minds friends by ignoring the possibility of lesbots liking my blogs) how much of that boner am I responsible for? Am I responsible for it at all considering the fact that the sight of a bra strap can set some men off? And more importantly, am I expected to censor myself in order to avoid being labeled a pornographer/ writer of erotic realities? And am I expected to stop writing about stuff like that because it may give someone a boner and that’s not considered acceptable behavior/ writing on my part?

God knows the internet/ wordpress seems to think I will be only too interested in pornography – most of the computer generated spam comments I get are from sites called gratis-sex or something like that. Not that there’s anything wrong with pornography – there’s just something a bit wrong with labeling something to be nearly pornography when its not, because the leeway and qualifiers for both are different. Its like how one shouldn’t call a science fiction novel a religious text, because it just doesn’t make sense, and nobody would ever do that, right?

Here’s another nail biter. If a friend of mine wears something that shows a certain amount of mammaries (I’m not being pornographic – I’m using the term Howard Hughes did in The Aviator), disregarding any opinions one might have on the aesthetics thereof, what – if any – amount of concern is appropriate for other people to express when it comes to ogling? Does she (or he – I didn’t get that nod from aforementioned friends by ignoring body types either) have to necessarily be held responsible for any and all boners/ wetness this may cause? If so, is she expected to be ashamed of it or embarrassed by it? Nothing wrong if she is, but if she isn’t, is it expected of her to act and adjust herself accordingly? And taking that one step further, how much care should be given to the concerns of her significant other with regard to said boners/ wetness?

What I’m going to do is try to look at this from the perspective of someone who does get a boner/ wet because of something presumably unintentional done or said by someone else. It makes this more coherent and clarifies my train of thought.

What I find to be arousing on the internet would have to be straight up erotica or erotic fanfiction about Rochester and Jane, Jayne and River (see what I did there?) and others. Also, please don’t judge – I can’t help the Jayne and River thing. But this is porn. The people who write this intend it to be pornographic. So I guess I can’t do the reader’s perspective well. Whatte fail. I should just explain myself – I don’t think writing about changing rooms and underwear shopping is tantamount to pornography. And I don’t feel embarrassed by it. If people do get horny about it, well good for them, but its none of my concern or business. For the record I want to say I don’t intend it to be pornographic and that I will be very surprised indeed if it actually does get people horny. This may just be something my friends tease me with. But it makes a good, personal-story style intro into the subject and I’m just a whore for that shit.

I can talk about the viewer/ reader’s perspective when it comes to the whole checking out/ ogling problem. When I check out a man, my internal monologue is as follows – “Fuck, that guy is working it! He should wear that shit more often. No intense staring Billy, just watch by flitting your eyes in that direction every ten seconds or so. Damn! That boy should know better.”

Admittedly, my monologue does ascribe some responsibility on the guy by its very language. On the other hand, I have never been caught staring or even looking. Also on the other hand, I don’t think that the guy is somehow to blame for my thoughts. I don’t see the logic behind finding someone hot and then expecting them to do something to avoid being found hot. To begin with, I don’t consider the fact that I found someone hot a shameful one. I don’t have to ascribe any responsibility to them. I’m quite comfortable with and a wee proud of the fact that I am a green blooded female and I know where my sexual tastes lie. As far as I’m concerned nobody else is bothered by it and frankly, its nobody else’s business unless I choose to tell them over a few beers. And I definitely don’t think that the guy should feel uncomfortable with his expression of himself through clothes or the lack thereof simply because I find it appealing. If on the other hand, he does feel uncomfortable, I am subtle for a reason. I may take a booty-break in the library but I don’t ogle at real live men.

I guess it will be too ‘feminist’ for you motherfuckers if I say that you can’t define what this guy or my friend (who in this situation is a female, really) should feel about other people sexualizing them, but more often than not, my friend will be expected to feel bad about it, and consequently feel responsible for whatever ogling or more she has to deal with, and the guy will be expected to feel proud of it. Neither expectation is a reasonable one to place. One’s own expression of self image and sexuality should ideally not be subject to that of others. Responsibility for boners/ wetness should ideally and logically lie with the getters of the boners/ wetness; not with the objects of sexual attraction and definitely not with anyone else.

And this brings me to the diceyness of the issue. A batch-mate of mine who likes picking arguments mentioned that while he doesn’t want to dictate what girls wear, he still thinks it’s a ridiculous idea to wear short clothes in areas where you may get ogled at, eve-teased or worse. This was in the context of a conversation about the rape. Our response – “We know you just want to pick an argument, but really, none of us are going to take the bait. And you should seriously shut the fuck up before we are inclined to.”

My batch-mate (who I sincerely believe/ know was playing Devil’s Advocate just to get a response) let the subject go with “You wouldn’t go into a battlefield without a helmet.” Our response was “It’s not supposed to be a battlefield! Our problem is with the fact that such an analogy can even be drawn. You walk into a battle voluntarily. We don’t want to walk into the street thinking of it as a battlefield just because our genitals don’t hang.”

After a few beers I explained to the guy that the problem was not so much the fact that he thought it wasn’t safe. We all agree its not the safest decision we can make to walk around in Shameerpet (that’s the hamlet where our campus is nestled) in short shorts.

The problem with saying that it’s idiotic is simply that half a millimeter past that concern is the idea that a bad decision to wear said clothes makes one responsible for any unwelcome sexual accosting. And a little further down that line of argument is the idea that men are driven by their hanging genitals and therefore cannot be held responsible once a certain amount of skin is exposed. And thus begins the argument of contributory negligence in rape, which is as unreasonable and logically ill-founded as any of the threads of argument leading up to it. I hope that was made clear with this…

Is this too feminist? I don’t think you have to consider yourself a feminist before you disagree with people about whether a girl was “asking for it.”

—

 

In other news, I have found people with whom to fangirl over the Lizzie Bennett Diaries with. This is good for me because I really need a buddy for this or I’m very likely going to bite my knuckles till they bleed.

Also in other news, I will be going to Vizag and all warnings are welcome because whenever someone warns us about where we’re going we invariably have a good time.

Oh, and this is a bootybreak, for those who don’t know – http://www.bootybreak.com/ Earphones are reccommended in the library and other public places. I like the guy in the formal clothes. He is surprisingly enthusiastic.

Okbai.

– Billy

 

Why I have a shitty law school career

It’s because I don’t study. And when I do, I am so unused to studying, my brain retains nothing. It can remember things such as “Laughter, like love, is stronger than death” – an obscure line from The Cardinal Sins (a book which made me realize that not all catholic priests are diekholders), but it cannot remember Section whatever of the Companies Act, or Section some-other-number of the Workmen’s Compensation Act. I am not trying to hide behind my brain, believe me. I don’t have an actual mental problem. I am just supremely lazy when it comes to things that are not fun for me. It’s a shitty way to live for four years, and I don’t recommend it for anyone.

For what remains of law school, I will most likely have to give only one exam before I get out of here forever. And hopefully I will be able to take what seminar I like so that shouldn’t be a problem. In the meantime, I am sharing my average to above average knowledge of and immeasurable enthusiasm for literature with packs of second year students as a Teacher’s Assistant for a course called Law and Literature.

In some ways you could predict that this will end in naught but endless grief. Naught but grief! But the way I see it, I could either help a little or totally ruin some poor second year’s life via law and literature grades. And either way I’d be having fun so I’m cool with both likelihoods. Haha. Ha. Just kidding. I really don’t think I could ruin a life with Law and Literature. Hehe. Seriously though, I only want to help mold the mind of the next Chetan Bhagat.

Getting back on point, I also have shitty grade because I really don’t try. I didn’t like law school much as an institution a few months into it and I didn’t try, at least subconsciously. To be really honest, I didn’t like the institution form the moment I sat in a classroom where a senior was introducing us to the concept of mooting and the first words out of his mouth was – “If you want to be anyone of significance in NALSAR, you have to moot.”

Don’t get me wrong. I know that’s not true. I knew even back then that the guy was talking out of his colon. But I hated the institution and the people in it for thinking that this was the right guy to introduce first years to any extra curricular activity. I didn’t like NALSAR as much as I had thought I would. Except for friends, I actively disliked it and that combined with a requirement of hard work did not do me good. No sir. Again, this was entirely on me. I had high expectations and when they got blown to smithereens, instead of taking it like an amazon warrior I just retreated into TV, movies and the personal lives of other people.

The thing I most regret about this stage of my law school pussyfooting is that I stopped reading. The one thing that kept me sane through a good three years of hellish adolescence and I just left it. It was as though I decided that if I wasn’t going to be good at reading required readings, I wouldn’t be good at any reading. For anyone who knows me or has seen me in the past year or two, it would be hard to think of me without a book. That was me for the first three years in law school. The horror!

Another reason for the shitty grades was of course, that I am very lazy.

I also got shitty grades – and this is the only place where I will concede some responsibility to “the system” – is that I’m not good at memorizing dates, numbers, names, etc. So you can imagine the hellscape that remembering more than seventy sections was to me. Add to that case names and the importance given to remembering sections and dates, and it was like struggling with my seven times tables again. I don’t often admit it, but it took me at least two to three years to memorize multiplication tables up to ten. Up to five was only marginally easier. Once I had memorized the tables, math wasn’t as big a problem as it used to be.

Also, the laziness was a huge impairment to the getting of good grades.

Another mistake was going off acceptable standards on unhealthy lifestyles. I ate a lot more than I ever did and I wasted a lot of time being fat (heheheheheh. Whats-her-name lip biting woman from Dabangg can eat my poo and fucking die), and I hardly ever slept enough at night. I normally got to classes on time but I did spend quite some time either sleeping or using all of my energy to not sleep. the fact that whatever was being said/ taught in class was boring as dead babies only added to the sleepiness. I always say that if ever you have to live an unhealthy lifestyle, it might as well be in college. But I could also add that when it starts to make concentrating on anything substantial hard, its a wee bit too far.

Of course, we shouldn’t forget that sloth is my middle name/

Then of course there was the really depressed stage of life which I have already talked about in the blog titled “Perspective…” – I forgot the rest of the title. I I have to write that shit again I will have to drink Sangria.

ME: And again, cue uncomfortable fake laughter…

I will add this much though. One of the saddest part of that whole situation was that I stopped talking to myself. I know most people consider talking to oneself as not very healthy, but let me assure you, if I didn’t talk to myself, I would go quite mad. If I didn’t talk to myself, all the things I imagine and all the weird thoughts popping into my head would have no release.

Of course, the lazy did as the lazy had to do too….

The I got better at dealing with myself. Nothing to take away from the damage done over the years, but I started writing and figuring out what to do. And people seem to like reading this crap especially when I talk about the nonsense of my life. So I may not live a life worth writing about but my depressingly comic take on myself sure may make it worth reading about.

And adieu!

– Billy