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Monthly Archives: February 2013

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.

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Posted by on February 20, 2013 in Bakchodi, Random

 

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) –

 

Killing

 

 

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

 
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Posted by on February 7, 2013 in Bakchodi