Sunday, December 20, 2009

Burn. Destroy. Make an omelette.

I like burning things. Actually, I like watching things smoulder quietly. And I don’t just mean things like Gael GarcĂ­a Bernal, though that in itself is quite ogle worthy. A piece of paper, set on fire which has been stomped out, though not completely, which has a tiny orange hypnotic bead of fire still inside, running through it quietly and stealthily, making that piece of paper curl and blacken and disintegrate. Destroying from within, without an actual external manifestation of a flame. Neat.

When I lived near the sea, a window overlooked the beach and an old distant lighthouse. Whenever I was down I would go stare out that window into the darkness. This is not to say that I was only down when the sun went down. Pliss to understand. On staring into the distant darkness I would see a faraway pinprick of red coming from the lighthouse. It would disappear. And reappear. 4 seconds later. Counting those 4 seconds again and again till that red dot appeared again was peace.

Now, when I’m down, I find a friend online who realises the importance of finding a random word and brutally assassinating it. The word of the day was egg. What followed was an eggsagerated eggstreme discussion on the eggsistential nature of the eggsplanation of the eggsplicit nature of the egg. Said egg is huge, laminated, has graffiti painted on it and is rolled menacingly at people we don’t like to scare them away. Also, it is called Hugo the Angry. I just heard the oh-so-distinctive sound of all eggs in the near vicinity giving up and dying of eggsasperation. I feel so much better now. My friends are awesome. Also very kooky. Kooky is good. It's a funny word. Kooky. Kooky. Ok then. Bye.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Divya versus Divya

Without further ado. Divya versus Divya.

Act I:
Dibba: This is my cat. Shrimati Jane Iyengar. She began life as Jane Eyre. Then I Tamilicised her.
Me: You should have named her Iyer na then.
Dibba: Wtf. I’m Iyengar. *pride*
Me: Bloody caste obsessed. You changed the cats caste!
Dibba: Iyers are our sworn emenies...enemies...emenemies...whatever. They secretly practice witchcraft. And do black magic.
Me: Yes I love you too emenemie o’ mine.
Dibba: You're Iyer eh? Er… when I say witchcraft, I mean, of course, the HAWT kind. And er… black magic is in fashion also. Also, I love black. Black is good. And magic is always hawt. (Reminder to self - must stop nervous chatter) Er… I LOVE YOU DIVI!
Me: Sigh.. You just say that because you don't want me to turn you into a newt.

Act II:
Dibba: Oh no. Everyone thinks I am a social mongoose :( Er... or mole. Mole, yes. Mole. Not mongoose.
Me: No I like mongoose better. Social mongoose... Sounds so cute. Like a mongoose taking a day off from killing snakes and going for a party and meeting all its groupies. “Ooh you kill snakes... Dangerous… What a turn on… Your hole in the wall or mine?”
Dibba: But mongoose is not technically correct. Mole is the dude that digs and is mole-like...
Me: Correct shorrect. I like mongoose better.
Dibba: Social mongoose just sounds 'cute'. Cute' is not HOT. Would you stop trying to take away from my great and steamy sex appeal? As, er… a mole? (Shit that didn’t work).
Me: Fine... You want to be an unsightly black mark on someone’s body, suit yerself. YOU could be having hot mongoose sex right now but nooo…
Dibba: My dear zoologically challenged woman... I was picturing the hawt black-as-midnight, velvet skinned. silent-as-death antisocial animal, and you HAD to pick the grandiose freckly things.

The end. For now.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

I don't even like cricket.

"Ooh aah I want my bra, I don’t know where my undies are."
No, this is not my life’s anthem. This is apparently an ad for a lingerie store. Sounds like the transcript of a Lady Gaga video to me. Props to that woman. She wears no clothes, still manages to cover up the important bits and gets away with lines like “I wanna take a ride on your disco stick”. Oh, what an image. It’s like those morbidly fascinating things which you MUST stare at. Like a gory car accident. Or the sight one of my wannabe-alpha-male friends hitting on women way out of their league. Only, in the latter case, you point and laugh. If you try that with the car accident, some people just might resent it. Unless you happen to be in the accident. In which case people will just be very worried.

Yesterday I heard the best slang term I’ve heard, ever. T20 khelna. Meaning, having a fling. What a brilliant term, boss. Hats off. Umpire wala, even. So much potential with this one.
“I’m playing the field. The pitch if you will.”
“I’m looking for a player who really knows how to handle his bat.”
“What’s needed is a man with a lot of experience with the balls.”
“A maiden over would be appreciated.”

The one type of cricket that sounds like fun, apart from India-Pakistan matches.

Ah the joy of being ridiculous. Unmatched. Un-‘match’ed. Ok, never mind.

Sometimes, you just want to communicate and let the world know you still exist. Feel like blogging with nothing to say, feel like tweeting with not even 140 characters to share. In such cases, what works best is getting slammed and communicating so much that the next day you never want to speak another word ever again.

You know what sucks? Yes? Do tell, I don’t feel like typing it out.

Thursday, December 03, 2009

Yes, no?

In chemistry we used to keep learning about some reaction called attack of the nucleophiles. Not only did I fail to understand the concept, but I always invariably conjured up War of the Worlds images whenever I heard about it. Just look at the phrase “attack of the nucleophiles” and tell me you don’t imagine vile green creatures in phallic spaceships attacking the empire state building with laser weapons. If you don't, I'd advise you to do so. Keeps life interesting. Wouldn't go so far as to say it kept chemistry class interesting but I did get encouraged to refrain from jumping up and jamming my blue ball point pen up the teachers nose. No offense to the teacher. Or blue ball point pens.

A few weeks ago, I opened my umbrella and held it up against the sun. It tilted, just a little bit. I paid no heed to it. It squeaked softly. I twirled it merrily and continued on my way. I paused to talk to someone, holding it in front of me, to shade us both. It creaked. And then it cracked. It suddenly broke into two and fell down. Then I was left holding a broken metal stick with a plastic handle and a red and white candy striped umbrella head with a three inch handle and looking absolutely stunned. In such circumstances, you improvise. You stick the striped umbrella part outside your door to provide an amusing, yet aesthetic showpiece. You propose making it into a hat. You make unsuspecting passers-by dance with it. The perks of being slightly less than sensible.

The first time I saw Robert Sean Leonard on screen, he was the super cute guy in Dead Poet’s society who killed himself because he was adamant on not going to medical school. Now, he’s acting in House. Still looks the same, very cute albeit perpetually a tad sheepish. He’s playing a dedicated oncologist. Irony. Delightful.

Yesterday I saw a Youtube clip of some band who said that they are inspired by shiny things. Whether or not I like their music, I profess undying love for them just for saying that. Speaking of shiny things, I saw an ad for a bling argyle dress yesterday. Extreme hotness. I have an unhealthy fascination for argyle. Anyone who gives me a bling argyle dress shall be duly rewarded. That also goes for anyone who rescues me from the horror of working an eight hours shift for six days a week. SIX! Weekends, be mine once again! I shall honour and cherish you forevermore, I promise.

Those who ought to have remembered my 21st birthday and didn't wish me, may there be flustered pigeons flapping around your head wherever you go. Bye then.