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Monthly Archives: December 2012

Christmas, Romance and Underwear Shopping

It’s Christmas week and as a closet sap buff I always think you should spend time with people you love on Christmas. Unfortunately, my family is boring at Christmas and my friends are not in my immediate vicinity and I don’t want to step out of the house any more than absolutely necessary. I know its easy to assume that as a Christian household we would have something to do on Christmas but as a household that is at least fifty percent atheist and ninety percent dull, Christmas is like any other day except colder, and with better food. Usually one extra person is around (this year it was my sister’s friend) because of whom we wear presentable clothes; which in my case involves an actual bra and pants to hide my unkept winter legs. The church thing is on Christmas eve which I didn’t go to this time. I like the singing but I really wanted to stay home, watch Grey’s Anatomy and not wear a bra.

I officially took leave last week giving Christmas as the excuse and yet here I am, refusing to let myself quit. I am rather proud of myself in this regard. I seem to be at a likely short-lived phase where I seem to be doing the things that are good for me without someone telling me to. I jog even though I don’t have to, I write though I don’t have to, instead of leaving a really boring book and reading a Terry Pratchett I soldier on even though I’ve been reading it very slowly, I don’t talk to people who would piss me, and I’m spending more time actively planning for life as a non-bum. As a small token of appreciation, I am letting myself have a ramble blog post. Hopefully, the things I ramble with will come together in the end. And if it fails, I will still have written when I needn’t have, you dear reader, would have wasted the time you wanted to waste, and I would write an extra paragraph which would purposefully tie things together like the last monologue in a documentary with multiple threads.

Around Christmas, I always watch a lot of television. You may wish to look at this as the sad state of family affiliation in these trying modern times, but I see it as the ability of the modern world to provide solace and companionship to people. As I mentioned, we’re not the kind of family suited for holidays. We spend the day at home, but we’re not in the same room for most of it. And you would think that I would have no affiliation towards Christmas what with this and the atheism, but you would be wrong. I don’t talk about it or make a big deal, but I actually love Christmas. It means that I eat food, stay in bed with hot water bottles and watch Christmas Special’s on TV. I like how on TV, Christmas is a bigger deal to The Office, to Jon and Stephen, to Community, to Parks and Rec, Friends, Scrubs, than it is to me. There are no presents because we don’t do that either in our family, but there’s cake in the house and I wear red clothes and I feel toasty. It may seem sad, but I like it. Living vicariously through television is better than actually having to spend a whole day listening to my dad talk about nothing, my mom and sister fighting about something inane, and the maid being a singing idiot from you know where.

I drew my friends’ faces, and now I hate them. Whenever I draw a face, unless it’s a particularly beautiful/ distinctly angular one, I continually curse the person I’m drawing. “What the fuck is wrong with your smile?” “Why are you so white, bitch?” “Why is your hair like that?” “I will pull out your teeth so you never show them again” “Do you have eyelashes?” “Motherfucking whores want smiling pictures, I will kill them”. I will really miss college. And I will never again speak of it in this blog till the end of this coming semester.

I went underwear shopping the other day. This is one of the worst parts about being a girl as far as I’m concerned. I know its easy if you want to spend money, but as you can guess from my last post, I very rarely like spending money on essentials unless it’s a really good dress or really good food. Further, ever since S told me to stop thrusting my chest out when I honestly wasn’t I have nothing but confidence in my ability to get by without underwire or padding or demi cups or any of the other contraptions. All of which makes underwear shopping in a rich-ass mall a hellish experience.

You walk in and the first thing you notice is that M was right and by the time I start earning I would have to be spending four hundred bucks on a bra which is just wrong. Next, with a cursory glance at the Jockey section, you note that people don’t seem to believe in basic black bras made of simple material without underwires or overwires or corsets or crinolines or whatever else they have decided to bring back. You also note that your size seems to be missing from the rack, pun intended. You wait five minutes for one of the assistants to be free, seething because you hate asking for help in shops. When they are free, you ask them about your size. They give your twins a fleeting glance and mention a bigger size. No. You know your size. You know what’s comfortable.

You mention your size again. They bring you underwired, satiny pieces of material for you to pretend to glance at for the sake of politeness. Then you explain – “I want a basic bra. No lace. No padding, Seamless. No underwire.” They bring you an underwireless but still satiny, lacy one. They don’t seem to understand that when it comes to bras, you’re not looking for Messrs Right Now who will make you feel sexy for a while but eventually you’ll have to let go of. You’re looking for Messrs Right who will be there, supporting you through thick and thin, rain or shine while you live your life, knowing that there will never be a tear, never an unwanted protrusion, for years to come. You want the lifelong gay best friend when it comes to bras. I have been rocking my current bras for the last two to three years and I would like some to keep them company.

Then comes trying them out, which is a new level of hades in Delhi winters. Take off jacket, take off sweater, take off t-shirt. Take off bra, put on shop bra. Holy god, this one is too… much. Put on the next one – too much side boob. Put on the next one – Good, but you need it in your fucking size. Take it off, put on your bra, T-Shirt, sweater, jacket. Adjust your hair. Come out and specify your size again. Repeat till satisfied with results. And sports bras are no better with their hidden hooks and their side boob and their general lack of appeal.

Which is another reason I like the winter holidays. I get to stay home without a bra and its never noticeable what with the layers of sweaters and jackets and quilts and what not.

I re-watched Before Sunrise and Before Sunset. I cried and I’m not even PMS-ing. They’re the most romantic yet realistic love stories, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving them. A DVD set of the two would definitely make my list of movies to take to the desert island. I couldn’t possibly decide with books. I’d just take the Kindle. If they have a DVD player there, they would definitely have a charger. But I found out Before Midnight is releasing in 2013. I am apprehensive yet exuberant. I’m also in love with the Lizzie Bennet Diaries.

Darcybot Malfunctiom

I have been reading Raiders from the North for the past week and a half and I just finished it. If I never have to hear or read about another stupid battle or military strategy, it will be too soon. I will be reading something funny now. Either George Carlin or Terry Pratchett.

Happy New Year mofos. I don’t make resolutions.

–        Billy

 

P.S. – I may write something next week about the protests, largely because I find it’s the best way for me to understand what I’m thinking.

 
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Posted by on December 29, 2012 in Bakchodi

 

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Gold Bashing and Stuff

Perhaps its because of The Great Gatsby, or perhaps its because of certain gatherings of people I have been to recently, wearing clothes that are not mine and which make me very uncomfortable… I was at a party, alright? And I did not particularly want to be there, but there are lots of things I do and places I go to that I don’t want to except for friends. I was at a party, and I was with certain people, and I was talking about some things… and I couldn’t stop thinking about The Great Gatsby and wealth.

I think for sheltered, middle-class to upper middle class twenty-somethings such as me, poverty and hunger and destitution is awful but understandable. It’s something we comprehend and perceive and living in India, we can’t really ignore. But most of the times wealth and consumerism is a little beyond what I can make sense of. I really, honestly don’t understand some of the things said or wanted or owned by people with money. Maybe Oscar Wilde had it right (though he was probably being funny. I never really know. I didn’t do English Honors) and I’m deluding myself into not wanting some things simply because I can’t afford it.

But that doesn’t take away from the fact that rich people puzzle me.

The fact that you are happy about having bought clothes that almost entirely owe its value to how much it costs and how famous its designer is, puzzles me. I don’t understand why it is a thing to have a conversation about. Don’t get me wrong, I understand pretty clothes. I have myself partaken in the joy derived from buying something pretty that you look good in. The awesomeness you feel when you like the body in the mirror while wearing something that makes you feel like you’re in your skin. I understand that joy. But when people buy only the expensive brands, they don’t talk about how good it feels on their skin. They don’t talk about feeling that you won’t forget the day you wore that dress just because you wore that dress, and eating a slice of bread in that dress feels special. They talk about where they bought it from, how much it costs. They talk about the very specific symbol of that dress; the fact that people in the right places will know where it was bought and how much it cost. Nothing about seeing the dress on the hanger and knowing immediately that it was yours and you will forego next month’s allowance in order to have it. The romance seems lost.

 

The idea that you will eat at expensive places where the portion size is abysmal at best and shell out a grand for it is puzzling to me. That you would dare to eat pizza with a fork is not puzzling, though; that is infuriating. I understand food. I do. I understand expensive food also, but only when they give me my money’s worth. As an (un)established hipster, I know I should complain about Big Chill and so forth in Delhi. But honestly, I don’t have a big problem with Big Chill. The people who go there regularly and talk about it may be the cast of my worst teenage nightmares, but I have no problems with the place itself. I can eat there for about 300 to 400 bucks and have my stomach filled with good food. I won’t have a problem going there once or twice a year. I don’t understand going to Big Chill every month. The fact that you go to Ruby Tuesday to have your weekly gossip session puzzles me. When you go to a coffee shop and spend more than a hundred bucks more than once a month, that puzzles me.

 

I had a chat with someone recently who informed me that a big ass expensive camera costs less than a Mont Blanc pen. Don’t get me wrong, I knew of the existence of Mont Blanc pens. I had assumed they were like an adult version of Parker pens and the appeal they held when I was in school. It took half a minute before it hit me to ask, actually expecting a correction, because how could a pen ever cost more than a high end camera; any high end camera? It wasn’t possible. Except it was. I was informed by my friend that I had never had a more disgusted look on my face.

Me: What the fuck, is it made out of gold or something?

Friend: It’s Platinum actually. And I’ll buy it some day.

Me: You do realize I can buy a pen for two rupees and it would perform the same function as the one you would buy for more than sixty thousand bucks?

Friend: It’s not about that… God, you have never looked more disgusted in your life.

Me: Sorry… but I am.

 

The same goes for cars. Unless you plan on being late everywhere and expect empty roads so you can drive as fast as you want, you will get wherever you want to go in a less expensive car; or a bike which does not scream ‘Classic Freudian Compensation’. I understand if you want to buy an expensive electric car or something out of concern for the environment, but other than that, you’re just pointless. And it’s one thing if your conversation or your arguments or your ideas are pointless, but when you spend money I could travel round the world with in order to buy something pointless… you should try not to procreate because clearly, we have enough of you in the world.

When you forego a perfectly safe, faster public transport like the metro in order to drive a car, just because you want a car, and a second hand one will not do despite the fact that you will no doubt wreck it, it puzzles me. I’m sorry. There is a lady’s compartment, which happens to smell really nice, and it gets you most places in about half the time it would take you by car. You are clearly a snob.

 

And it’s quite alright if you’re a snob. But then don’t pretend it’s about anything but snobbery. Don’t like facebook posts about stuff you don’t care about. Don’t give shitty excuses like “It’s because the car gives you independence.” If you wanted independence, you would be trying to get a job. I admit, I would like to be independent, but I sure as fuck know that the route thereto is not asphalt and fast cars. I need a job first.

Eh… talking about this makes me dumb. Which is why the completely average analysis I had of the book and the life I have been witnessing for the past week, has not really come together cogently in this ‘discussion’. Let me just say, in what pompousness I can muster up – There is an excess of vapidity in some circles in Delhi that I find hard to live with. I don’t mind talking for eons about people, no matter how insignificant; but I have nothing to think or say when you talk about your cars and your clothes and your trips abroad that you spent shopping. The sad part is that not counting a few people, this is all that consumes conversation. Talking is always about things; literal physical things. For me, it’s another version of Zooey Deschanel’s conversation with models in New Girl – “That is a lamp. This is a table. It is very flat.” Clearly, a career as a rich Delhi housewife is not for me, even if I had the qualifications, which I don’t.

I may not post next week. Christmas is the excuse.

 

Embarrassing secrets. I pooped in my pants once in college. I was in my room and I had a cold, and things happened that made me question my life and its meaning. I had always thought that once I get to the point where I pooped myself, I would be reaching for the gin bottle and the sleeping pills. But I had assumed I would be old by then. So I soldiered on, after I spent a day locked up in my room because I was afraid it would happen again, this time in public.

I get hit on by people I really don’t like and it is very bad for my self-esteem. On the internet, at parties… always by people I can’t stand. So on the rare occasions where its people I like, I may or may not secretly get really flustered.

 

I’m trying to stay away from the news because it’s been reported already and we’re now at that stage of news about a tragic incident where a bunch of people give their crazy ass opinions be it on news channels or in Parliament. Then the people who are not crazy retort and thus an hour of television passes by in which no decision is made, and everything is the same. I will say this much – Something is wrong with the world when people affiliated with blaming spicy food or interactions with the opposite sex or blue jeans for rape or any number of insane ideas, actually think and say that castration is their big solution to the problem. There are no words for how far we have fallen and how insane things have become.

 

I’m watching Before Sunrise again. It’s one of the few movies that make me want to fall for someone. It’s the only movie where it seems logically sound that two people should fall for each other.

 

That’s all.

 
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Posted by on December 22, 2012 in Bakchodi, Random, Rant

 

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Violent Fantasies and some other stuff

Ok, let’s try writing.

I know I have something embarrassing to reveal. Technically two embarrassing things because I forgot to mention last time about my hiatus on the jogging out of respect for my unwillingness to get up at 6 AM. But the internal monologue hasn’t been particularly chirpy this last week, so I’m postponing coming up with something embarrassing that I can afford to let people know about till next week. Nothing in the rules prohibit me from such postponement under special circumstances.

Le’s ge’ to it, sha’ we?

 

I remember countless times in the past when I would cheesily point out November rain for being November Rain. It’s not unusual to have a light drizzle in November in Delhi. However, I don’t remember cheesily reminiscing about December rain. Except this time it’s happened. The only time I saw the sun today was once I left the office, when it was a rather weak orange ball of powerful nuclear reactions behind some clouds around the dome of the Supreme Court. On a completely unrelated note, I’m going to start pretending to be British, that I don’t like rain, and write an ode to weather and how it affects our mood. I’m sure it has never been done before.

But today has been one of those weird days when you start out in a pretty bad mood, owed partly to hormones and partly to circumstances, but things conspire to try and get you in a better mood. None of them work completely, but by the end of the day when you’re walking home in the rain with your Kindle (The Great Gatsby), your stomach digesting delicious food, with a purple umbrella, you’re not entirely angry at life. Every now and then, just to keep with the cliché and the weather, you play Singin’ in the Rain in your head and click your heels in mid air. You are not happy, but people will think you’re a crazy person. Some might argue that’s nearly the same thing.

But once you get out of the rain, into the metro station and in the hurry to catch the train, brace yourself and enter the men’s compartment. Brace yourself not because you will get raped. Oh no. Brace yourself because even if there are very few people, so few that there are actually seats to sit on, the place will stink like the depths of a Neanderthal’s asshole. Then all the tiny little details about people that piss you off come right back.

There are people in the world you just cannot like. While in my case, the people who fill this category may be more than with other people, I think it’s safe to say that everyone has a few things they instantly hate, constantly and irrationally hate to the point where you unceasingly fantasize about shooting someone’s face off, quite literally. Personally, in my killing fantasies, especially with people I really dislike, I don’t shoot. I get up close and personal, with poisonous darts or samurai swords. This may seem like a joke, but I assure you I’m not exaggerating. I have very high definition and intense fantasy sequences in my head about killing people. If Tarantino or Nolan or someone could get into my head, I’m sure they would pay me for the rights. I know it’s a surprise to people who are well acquainted with my charming personality but I do dislike some/ most people I come in contact with when around lawyers.

I hate it when someone doesn’t enunciate. When you’re trying to say “proclaimed” and all I hear is “prolvved”, that is not my fault, it’s yours; especially if you’re a full grown human being. And when I ask you to repeat yourself, you are not allowed to be annoyed. Because so help me god, if I am too scared and everyone else around you has been too much of a sycophant to tell you that you sound worse sober than what I sound like when I sleep talk; I will ask you again what on earth you mean by saying “grirrnal prussezur core, prolvved offendr”, and you  will reply. Slowly and enunciating at least every other syllable. If you passed the bar, and you talk professionally, you can do that much. You will not tut under your breath and say the same thing again, at the same speed and expect me to just go to the shittiest law library in the world and take a wild guess about what you were saying. Though that is what I did. But my lack of gumption does not make it right. So there.

I hate it when people look earnest. And I wish I meant when people look like Colin Firth (He was Not Earnest in the movie of The Importance of Being Earnest) but I mean I hate it when someone mixes innocence or lack of experience or awkwardness with being completely dull and witless. I understand innocence or inexperience or awkwardness. I don’t understand having nothing to say. I don’t understand when over the course of a month, you are unable to say or do anything to me that makes me think that you understand anything, be it some small phenomenon, a tiny piece of information, something about yourself, something you like, anything.

The people I don’t consider friends are not divided into people I like and people I dislike. If I like them enough I would be friends with them. No, my non-friends are divided into interesting and boring. One kind of boring is when you say a lot about stuff but I couldn’t care less about any of that stuff. That I understand. But when you’re unable to say anything at all except a few terribly delivered cliché one liners, then I start imagining wearing gloves, pulling your head back, plunging a knife into your neck and just slitting your head off. The blood would be everywhere.

I hate it when people have an accent from a certain part of India. Sure, I have a few friends from there. One of my best friends in my first school was from there. But they didn’t have that accent; or those words. I know it’s not really excusable, but it is just a fact – if you call the number one “ikthhu”, I will find it very, very hard to not imagine stabbing your face. I will grit my teeth every time I hear you talk. I’m not proud. And I don’t know where this stems from. Ok I know. Our maid is from there. And she is one of those maids about whom your parents have actually had the following cliché conversations about –

Mom: Oh my god. I can’t take it anymore. I told her not to add the *random food ingredients I can’t even think of* for the fourth time. She wants to kill us. WHY is she so stupid? Why? I have to fire her!

Dad: Well, you know, if she wasn’t stupid, she would probably be doing something else, so don’t complain.

Again, I’m not proud. Also, as I mentioned to someone I recently met, I try to be aware of m prejudices and not let them affect my manner or behavior if I can’t get rid of them. Except when I’m drunk. So please don’t come near me with your You Know Where accent when I’m drunk.

I hate when people tell me to reconsider my decisions. Especially when they don’t know that I made those decisions after months and years of self-doubt, weighing options, looking at myself in the mirror wondering about a career in before picture modeling (I would be the before picture. Someone fairer, thinner, straighter and with longer hair would be the after picture) and actually trying things out. And then you come and tell me about what you think I should do, acting as if I haven’t spent a significantly large amount of time worrying and thinking about all the arguments and insights you put to me as if you’re the first one to ever consider it. I would get it if you bothered to ask me if I thought about a particular argument. I really want to punch your kidneys to death when you tell me.

When you look like you think you’re laying down some hard core bad-ass knowledge, but it’s actually a reiteration of a very old and oft used adage, I imagine peeling off your face with a samurai sword. The sword would be held horizontally at your forehead and with one precise slash, your face would no longer have to be a burden to people with eyes. Then I would hit your faceless head with a hammer as you try to make some noise with what you have left of your tongue and mouth.

 

In other news, I have rediscovered Dean Martin. As my cousin put it – that was back when men were men. I have also rediscovered my love for men with beards because of the Man of Steel trailer. Also, I have been watching Homeland recently. I have wanted to marry Mandy Patinkin since I saw Criminal Minds, and then realized it was him in The Princess Bride and heard him singing on Youtube. But its not just Superman and Mandy whose beards have gotten me hot and bothered. There are scenes in Homeland where Brody is a POW in Iraq and he has a scraggly unkept beard. And while I find him hot anyway (I have had a thing for redhead ever since Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge) I really, really wanted him when I saw that. Conversation with myself.

ME: Oh yeah! Please, please don’t shave it off. Just give it a trim while you’re cleaning him up, but don’t shave it off. I don’t care if you don’t stop torturing him, just don’t take off the beard. He looks like a red-headed Jesus, and there’s nothing hotter than that.

me: My god, what is wrong with me? The guy’s a POW. He’s dirty and tortured and wounded and raped and peed on and what not. This is not healthy. He looks fine without the beard.

ME: Shut up. He’s not a POW, he’s an actor playing a POW, and I want to fuck him like a trapeze artist.

me: Yeah… yeah.

 

I will be drawing people I like in show business and putting them up here afterwards, along with all the other pictures because I just discovered tagging on blogs. This will be in between drawing faces of my friends if they ever actually bother to send me the pictures they want drawn.

 

I haven’t read as much as I would like to. I read Romeo and Juliet again for Crash Course. This has always been my favorite line from the play –

“Young men’s love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.”

Really telling of my optimism and joie de vivre.

I also read Life of Pi, which I liked better than the movie though the latter wasn’t so bad. I have no lines from it because… I don’t know. It was excellent though.

I also read Interesting Times by Terry Pratchett –

“_____ had a language of twenty-six unexpressive, ugly, crude letters, suitable only for peasants and artisans… and had produced poems and plays that left white-hot trails across the soul. And you could also use it to write the bloody minutes of a five minute meeting in less than a day.”

I can’t imagine what culture which has a famous curse about Interesting Times and its script this could be a comic take on.

I also read The Great Gatsby, which is just heartbreakingly beautiful. It makes me want to read more and more books, and there are no better stories than the ones that make you want to read more.

“So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.”

“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter – tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther… And on fine morning —– So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

Seriously, this book made me think, has some touchingly sad moments that makes your heart ache but doesn’t make you cry, and it affords you a smirk or two in the subtle idiocies of everyone in it. And it makes you want to read more. What more could one want?

 

That’s all.

Ta.

 
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Posted by on December 14, 2012 in Random, Rant

 

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Family Courts, Life plans and Getting Flexible with Yourself

Embarrassing secrets. I think my dog is very beautiful to the extent that from a purely objective point of view, without feeling that way myself, I can sort of see why some people may be into dogs/ animals, specifically my dog. I’m not allowed to be amusing or eloquent while telling you this stuff, but I think I should add that this is not an open invitation for eligible sex partners for my dog.

Second embarrassing secret – I once gave myself a sprain behind my knee because of some vigorous “exercises” I did in in my room, at night, in bed. No further comments.

I’m sitting in an empty office I don’t want to work in, in clothes I don’t particularly like (I’m in touch with my inner goth more than most people but black and white is monotonous and stupid. And wearing it every day is a fucking pain), with people who I don’t mind, but not more or less than other people (they’re lawyers so maybe I mind them a little bit more than other people),contemplating a future hereabouts that at this point seems like a terrifyingly dull hellscape. A duhllscape, if you will.

But wait, stop, come back. This is not a rant! This is not my depression post, but is once again, touching upon whimsy. It also may or may not have a pinch – read, oodles – of over-analysis and pontification. I am staying true to who I am, I declare as I walk to and fro the Family Courts and the office.

The Family Courts are so blatantly trying to cheer you up, you get depressed; because if they’re trying to cheer you up so intensely, you must be depressed. There is a small well-maintained park next to it,with colourful swings and slides and what not. Usually this may not cause cynicism, but how can you not imagine kids playing there with tears pouring down their ugly mugs as they think about their broken home. Personally, I find it awesome. Largely cause the kid I’m imagining is crying, but doing it silently.They also have a giant mural on the front of the building with the silhouette of mom dad kid. The holy trinity of family liff. That is an intentional spelling error. Cool people will know the reference. The rest of you will probably die young and unhappy. Coming back on point, the kid in the mom dad kid silhouette is annoying without even having a face. This is because its androgynous. It seems to have Prince’s hair and also be wearing a skirt. I am vehemently opposed to kids trying to have personalities.

By the way, they keep calling the judges “janaab”, even the lady judges. I always find it a bit weird because I know of the word janaab because my dad used to tell me stories about the polite abusiveness of people in U.P. where they would serve your ass by saying, “Janaab, aap toh %£@&?#£%@&”.

The Family Court is a little different from other courts, demographically speaking. Instead of the even distribution of congenital assholes and pathetic idiots that roam the other courts in their inexhaustive greed and desperation, the Family Court has a majority of pathetic idiots, and I do use that word scathingly with only the slightest intent to amuse you the reader. They’re not idiots because they want divorce or maintenance or custody or whatever else. They’re idiots because they got married without knowing things about their ball and chain without finding out things that one could easily find out in a year’s worth of friendly dating.

Things like the ball and chain having a flimsy locking apparatus making it likely that the said ball would just roll around and attach itself to any other leg or some other appendage to which you kinky bastards want to attach your ball and chain. Things like the ball and chain is made of steel and not gold.Things like the ball and chain not being particularly good at swoodlypooping. What’s wrong with taking a year or two and actually finding out some basic stuff about a person before marrying them? They’re also idiots because most of them spend a lot of money on lawyers and court fees when what they should really be doing is not be such babies just because they’re breaking up. I guess what I’m saying is that despite its annoying mural and park, the Family Court provides some ammount of entertainment and quite a bit of relief at not being in that sacred institution “that is the triumph of imagination over intelligence”.

Which brings me to a weirdly similar conversation I had with two of my very different friends over this past week. One is a die hard romantic and very bad at being that. The other is morally decrepit (not as much as me), mildly asocial (again, not as much as me) and good at being that. And when I say “good at being that” I mean that the latter is able to act in accordance to their notions competently, whether romantic or cynical. And yet, despite the light years of difference in their romantic sensibilities, at one point in their conversation with me, they both mentioned doubts about wanting to grace the institution of marriage with their membership any time soon.

Its a truth universally unacknowledged (Anyone? Pride and Prejudice? Hehe) that a person only starts having to worry about other people and things and responsibilities till they get married. Before that one can do any job one wants (as long as one does have a job).This is paraphrasing what my dad said in the presence of my concurring mom. And they are two very competently married people. The word of the week is definitely “competent”.

Of course having waxed ineloquent on my plans, my friend’s plans and my other friend’s ‘plans’, I have to admit that we really can’t presume our life and choices at the ripe old age of 21 (average age of me and the friends). The punctuation of the week – or perhaps my life – is the bracket. That slut of language, she is used everywhere and by everyone, often misused and overused. (!!(?)….?) And yet her bounty just keeps on giving. Let me segue right back now. So while we can’t know what we’ll do or like or what choices we’ll make, but we do have an idea. We have a steady plan. At least me and the cynical one do. The romantic one is a bit flighty.

Which brings me to discuss the slavery of employment rather than the slavery of marriage. A rather surprising, irritating and yet empowering discovery I made recently is of so many of my friendly acquaintances/ friends/ long lost friends who actually bothered to follow their passion and do what they liked doing succeeded in making a life out of it. All the way from drummer to film-maker to animator to therapist to artist to photographer. I remember a friend telling me that our generation should not and can not be satisfied with jobs that give us no space and time for our hobbies. We need passion in our employment. I don’t know if its our generation, but we do seem to need more than just a job we can do but hate doing every day. And this is not just my hippie friends. Its my non slacker serious friends as well.

Being thus reassured as well as racked with non threatening envy, I am trying to make an effort to not just do what is safe but do what I like. Which in my case happens to be diametrically opposing things. This is a long drawn out process and I can only hope I don’t pussy out. I can’t bring out my gutsier alter ego to take care of this because I have her out constantly these days without letting her talk to anyone else. I am constantly my alter ego. I’m The Hulk-ing this bitch motherfuckers.

What’s strange is that I remember at least two of my teachers from school and one friend telling me that I should write before I left for law school. That’ll teach me to disregard the kindly advice of people I like. Bah. Either way, baby steps; followed by giant leaps of faith in the land of pure imagination; followed by baby steps.

 

The reason I didn’t jog is a combination of leg pain that came from spending pretty much an entire day on my feet,be it running, jogging,standing,walking, etc. There was also added pain because I got a back pain after I tried to be flexible with myself despite such leg pain, if you know what I mean. I tried that largely because despite being dead tired, the leg pain didn’t let me go to sleep and the best way to get me to sleep is if I get flexible with myself. It was a horrible cycle of exercising, pain, tiredness, “exercising” and pain.

I finished Brave New World, which I loved reading. I’m usually not a big fan of the dystopian sci-fi but this book and Vonnegut are the exceptions.

“What fun it would be if we didn’t have to think about happiness”

I knew as soon as I read that sentence that it would be the pivotal one in the whole book. At least to me it was.

“One of the principal functions of a friend is to suffer (in a milder and symbolic form) the punishments that we should like, but are unable, to inflict upon our enemies.”

I also finished Faust Eric.

“Hell heeded horribly-bright, self-centered people… They were much better at being nasty than demons could ever manage.”

“Multiple exclamation marks are a sure sign of a diseased mind.”

I also finished Lady Chatterley’s Lover, which took me more time than anything I have read in recent times. It started out slow, got better around the middle, but was still the hardest to read. Largely because I was reading it on the Kindle with PDF which is not a good combination because it strains the eye. About half way through my sister came back from whatever hamlet she was cooped up in because there was a curfew there and informed me that a hard copy was right there on her shelf. Motherfuckers! I read the second half of the book in a quarter of the time I took to read the first. What is pretty great about the book is how familiar the thoughts and ideas are at this point. Which makes you realise all over again that every feeling you have has already been written about and examined. Reading can really put a dent in your ego. On the other, hand, it makes you feel less alone. You’re not the only crazy one who wishes, quite stupidly, that money wasn’t a part of life.

Also, I kept thinking every now and then – “Huh. So this is how they fucked in the good old 1920’s.”

“Conscience was chiefly fear of society, or fear of oneself. He was not afraid of himself. But he was afraid of society, which he knew by instinct to be a malevolent, partly-insane beast.”

 

What the fuck is people’s problem with me biting my nails? It’s not an accident or a live sex show. It is very possible for you to avert your eyes. So please do.

Bye.

– Ambili

 
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Posted by on December 1, 2012 in Bakchodi

 

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