Thursday, May 19, 2011

Why men can be annoying

There are some hits that you will take because you probably asked for it. There are some hits, however, that come your way because the universe is pissed off with you and your happy place and decides to put a stop the simple pleasures of your life - I’m having one of those days.

It’s amazing to me the circularity of some things. Why people won’t let go of you because three or more years ago you were connected to them and since you’ve moved on and have turned into a healthier, less-neurotic self, it’s not cool any more that you’re no longer connected to each other. Why? Seriously, why? Is it not enough that I’m happy without you? Do I have to struggle with a nasty thought and then think about how happy I am? Do I need to validate my everyday happiness by comparing it to the mindfuck you were? Do I?

One of the most appalling things about the series of random events that have unfolded since yesterday afternoon is one fact – men, the attention-seeking ones, are trash talkers to the very extreme. I mean, hello! If you’re not getting any that don’t mean you make up a nice little story with me as the protagonist you chooth piece! Stop lying about things that never happened. Just stop.

When more and more shit like this is unearthed, the bigger my reasons are for not liking men. Yes, I was consensually involved with a few at some point in time, but if they didn’t act like trashbags post the event, I’d be less angry about this. Act like complete douches after, why don’t you? Give me reason to inventively tell you to fuck the hell off of this planet. Being classy, being adult, being mature was never part of the agenda. I guess that’s precisely why a lot of women indulge in man-bashing that almost always ends with – “what the fiuck was I thinking?”

I think, I wasn’t thinking.


On a more happy note – post 150 approaches – and with it the dilemma of how to make it memorable. I made 100 a very interesting subject. How do I usher 150?

Saturday, May 14, 2011

How some human beings are idiots

Protection of oneself from harm or destruction.
The instinct for individual preservation; the innate desire to stay alive.

Here’s what I want to do to self preservation – I want to chop it into tiny little pieces, then sear it in burning hot coals and then use it as fishing bait in the Cooum River until it gets eaten completely by the strange bacteria and other toxic chemicals in the water. If there is any remnant of self-preservation after that, I would like to flatten it under a speeding train and then have it crushed under some heavy machinery that is currently constructing the Chennai Metro Rail.

The only reason I’m undermining the dictionary meaning is because this word has been abused by idiots that I have the extreme displeasure to be acquainted with. If a turtle employs this method, I am completely okay with it, because without this instinct, a turtle would, well, die! Same goes for the touch-me-not plant.

However, when human beings, whose lives are in no danger whatsoever, use this “technique” to avoid communication altogether, I have some very serious problems with this so-called survival tactic. How the hell does friendship/a relationship/love call for self-preservation – Are you being mauled by political gundas because you’re a good friend or are in a relationship or are in love? Does someone have knife to your jugular? Did someone threaten to crack your skull open with a rock? If the answer to all of these questions is no, then you simply do not have the right, constitutional or otherwise, to employ self-preservation. It’s that simple and there is no fucking way around it.

I don’t care if you’re a post-modern junkie who has issues with the basic existence of the human race. I don’t give a damn if complication seeks you out and fucks you ass ways because you are too much of a spineless shit to stand up and do something about it. Self-preservation kicks in when you are at your lowest and you find the need to be alive more than the need for suicide. When you find yourself grudgingly making the right mumbles about everyday mundanity? That’s self-preservation. Your inability to reach out? That’s called being a total chooth, in all your choothness.

God! I hate moronic nonsense like – my soul needs soothing because the world we live in is messed up. As per every religious text, we live in a time of strife, pain and heightened callousness; hence, we are fucked up by virtue of being alive in this time, so take your needs-soothing soul and jump off a snowy peak and freeze and die in the cold because the world doesn’t need you.

If one more shitfaced idiot, male or female, comes to me with this self-preservation nonsense, I am going to turn into a serial killer. Really. The only way to deal with this problem is to employ the method of slow and carefully carried out elimination.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

One more Chennaiite bitches about the heat

When I was young, there was this fascinating thing called gum. It was sold in a blue bottle and was used by all school-going children indiscriminately when they wanted to cover their school books and for their craft class.

The image should tell you what gum means exactly.

When it’s summer in Chennai, the humidity, which is at 56% today, coats itself on your body like the gloopy gum in the blue bottle. The trouble is that with 36˚C temperature, the humidity adds to this strange burning feeling. And, 36˚C actually feels like 46˚C. In the coming days, it’s only going to get hotter.

This heat is something I’ve never really understood about this city. We’re coastal with an unbroken coastline, and yet, the weather here is this bizarre heatwave-ish thing that everyone is constantly bitching about.

I don’t mind the sweaty, but, when my body feels like it’s been coated with a finely brushed-on layer of Camel gum, I don’t like it at all!

To make things even more wonderful are the timed power cuts across the city, the mad voltage fluctuations and the fact that most electronic equipment cease to function in this weather. When you work in a glassed-in office like mine, a non-functioning air-conditioner only means one thing, torturous hell.

I just need a ceiling fan to get by. One working, fast-moving ceiling fan.

My friend the poet

There's someone I know, who is this amazing woman. Super friend and the light of my life since 2005. No kidding. We met during a two-year course that was marked by disillusionment and theatre. They were two of the best years of my life and two of the worst.

We watched the rain come in from the sea. We talked, endlessly, about what we thought and how we came to those conclusions. We shared so much, we held back so much.

Two years later, when the time came for goodbyes, we wrote letters. All that's stopped now and I think on some strange level, we don't need that conversation any longer.

I met her recently, a couple of months ago, and it occurred to me that friends like her are rare and even if I think Facebook is a great way of keeping in touch, as long as the feeling is the same when we meet, it's all good.

My only problem with her is the fact that she never shares her creative writing. This time, however, she went ahead and got them published. Do read.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Shruthi is somewhere else

Ladies and Gentlemen,

I've written, or should I say - I sent a Facebook response to someone's note and it got published? Either way, I had mentioned Writing Caste earlier and Malar has published my response to her here.

Thank you for reading, and for linking, if you have.