Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Where I devise a new method to get free food from people.

My dreams always have erred a little on the cuckoo side. The world ups and swallows itself, people morph into other people and things, people pray to the God of unsweetened black coffee, people suddenly turn into Charlie's Angels and the laws of probability, physics and dairy products are repeatedly destroyed. Keeps life interesting.

However, the dreams I've been having for the past week have been the most disturbing of the lot. All of them consist of simple conversations with people I know and talk to on a regular basis. No fuss, no action. Just talking. About perfectly believable things at that, and in perfectly plausible settings.

Now when I wake up, I have no way of telling what people have actually told me, and what I dreamt they told me. You know something's wrong when you keep referring to conversations that never happened, to have people look at you in bewilderment. This has happened way too many times in the past few days. Now I hesitate before referring to anything at all. Highly inconvenient, this.

If I come up to you and start yakking about the latest insight you shared with me about the childhood crush you never had, don't mind me. Just hand me a cookie and send me away.

Friday, November 05, 2010

Yet another predictable Diwali post.

It's Diwali. And I don't really care. I've never been a festival person. I'm not one to either attend or enjoy pujas. I don't burst crackers. I only wear the perfunctory new item of clothing because it makes my mom happy.

I step out into the corridor of my hostel. It's dark because everyone's left. Gone to burst crackers, have fancy dinners, compare pretty shimmery Indian outfits. A very tiny diya burns all alone outside my neighbour's room. It's pretty. Makes me smile.

I go for my evening run and come back after an hour. The hostel lights are all off. The only light comes from the lit diyas now adorning the entrance of the hostel. And the little candles on each step right up to the second floor. And the small lamps on the corridor, now outside every other door.

I don't like crackers, they make me cough. I don't like the pujas, I think they're pointless. I don't like the glaring lights hung up everywhere, they blind me. The way this festival makes a silent empty building glow oh-so-prettily is Diwali for me. As it turns, out I do care.

Happy Diwali everyone.

Wednesday, November 03, 2010

... and Tim Burton scoffs.

There is a fence, a good distance away. A picket fence, but not painted white, not a Wisteria Lane fence, not a fence that belongs to a house which has investment banker dads and mothers who make cupcakes and kids who eat said cupcakes and roll off to school in the family SUV. This fence is brown, weathered, beaten.

You stand there and watch. Watch that fence in the desolate greyness of the drizzle that shows no sign of abating.

Slowly, the top of these cracked pieces of wood turns into dozens and dozens of grubby little fingers, all atop the fence. They beckon urgently, haphazardly. It's difficult not to panic, watching as those disembodied fingers draw you closer and closer. Just as you open your mouth to scream, you find yourself stifled by the feeling of damp earth stuffed down your throat.


So, boys and girls, the lesson here is: Do not fall asleep right after you watch Gossip Girl. It messes with your head.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Fever when you hold me tight.

Life has become one large Monty Python sketch.

I'm lying in bed, down with the cold of the century, and I imagine a 21 gun salute. The guns are loaded. They go off and kill a bunch of ducks flying in formation overhead. The ducks fall into a strategically placed cauldron. A trumpet plays an upbeat tune.

I want soup.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Life is a faulty cooler.

Nobody can guarantee you a place in the universe.

Here, I suppose we assume that The Universe is a fancy new uber cool restaurant that all the glitterati hang out at whilst they air-kiss.

Or not. That line just kept resounding in my head today at 6 am when the alarm was blaring in my ear, as I struggled desperately to not wake up. At the time, I thought it was a profound reflection on life.

The latest one is the title of this post.

My little 8x10 room in the middle of dessert is sweltering hot. Unless the cooler works. Which, for the last several months, was not the case. Now, if I open the cooler up, give the fan of the cooler a good heave-ho and then turn it on, tadaa. It works.

For a minute there I thought it could be a metaphor for life.





Thursday, October 07, 2010

Alert the Pentagons.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

The misadventures of Sly Sylvia Silver.

The woman in black paused. She glanced behind quickly to make sure she was not being tailed. This was not right, she never usually had such doubts. At one time, she was the best in the business. She was the best spy anyone had seen in a very long time. They called her Silver, after the beautiful silvery-white colour her hair had changed into, after an unfortunate incident involving a magnetic field generator and a sandwich wrapped in faulty tin-foil, that she happened to get in the way of. But she didn't mind, the name suited her just fine. Quick Silver, they said. You never know where she's going to go next. You can never see her coming. Which, for any lover of hers, was rather unfortunate.

Silver kept her back to the wall as she scanned the premises. As her very last mission, she had agreed to take on the jewelery counterfeiting case. It wasn't as glamorous as taking out an underground drug ring, but there were less chances of being killed, and Silver hoped to be able to enjoy a peaceful retirement.

As she rounded the corner, she saw something out of the corner of her eye. Too late. A black figure came flying at her and pushed her off the ledge. As she was falling to the workshop floor far below, she saw she was headed for a large vat being used to melt large quantities of a metal. She shrugged. If there was any way to go, why not this.

She fell and as she landed, she smiled. And why not? She was in her element.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Dark side of the dune.

The Pharaoh dined alone that morning. The slave who cleared the table had never seen him this restless. His foot was tapping a mile a minute and he seemed to be in serious need of a pair of boxing gloves and a speedball. If the slave had been so bold, he would have suggested a goblet of wine to take the edge off.

The Pharaoh met with his Chief Advisor. The first item on the agenda for the day was to discuss a suitable punishment for the new Chief Engineer's screw up with his first Royal Commission, the very first pair of royal tombs. The Advisor was of the opinion that anyone who refused to follow instructions and instead chose to get baked and listen to Pink Floyd all day long while delegating work to the slaves was in need of a severe reprimanding at the very least.

"I don't know", the Pharaoh frowned. "I sort of like the new triangular shape that this chappie has come up with. A set of these right next to each other would look mighty fine in an aerial view. Tell him to proceed."

The Chief Advisor was puzzled. Given the Pharaoh's unusually foul mood, he had expected a death sentence for the talented, yet scatterbrained architect for his unfortunate mistake. "Your Highness, not to sound too crass, but don't you think that an aerial view would make the two tombs resemble... er..."

"Say no more. Am I right in assuming that you are thinking of certain garments of a rather delicate nature of a female entertainer named Madonna that are conical in shape? You emphatic attempts at driving your chin ornament into your chest confirm my suspicions. Would you mind if I shared something with you? It's a tad TMI, but eh what the heck. "

"Er. No your Majesty. Go right ahead. You are assured my discretion."

"You see, the Queen and I have been having some problems of late. In the bedroom department, if you know what I mean. It's quite maddening to say the least, and it reached its peak last night."


"Yes. You see, I know she technically becomes famous later because of her bust and all, but honestly, that shrew. Her name should be legally changed to Never-titty."

Saturday, August 14, 2010

And now for something completely different

Under the apple tree
He pulled her close
Raindrops falling onto them from the storm just past.

He gazed at her with love in his eyes.
"Before they see us, tell me now.
Will you come with me?

To the edge of the universe
Where time stands still.
Just you and me, forevermore"

She looked at him, puzzled. Poor chap.
So earnest, so verbose.
Why wasn't he just saying "Wanna fuck?" like everyone else?

Tuesday, August 03, 2010

I miss Suppandi, in the Tinkle of yore.

If Clark Kent were to work in a soup kitchen for the homeless, he would be SouperMan.

If he had to go home for a formal dinner with relatives, he would be SupperMan.

If he were to become a hitman for the Indian Mafia, he would be SupariMan.

If he joined the military, he would be TrooperMan.

If he were to be the spokesperson for a breakfast cereal, he would be FruitlooperMan.

If he absolutely loved the movie Raavan, he would change his name to SuperManiRatnam.

Monday, August 02, 2010

Main hamesha tumhare dil mein rahoongi Raj.

Dear readers,

I imagine this post being read out to you in a voiceover, just like in all those movies where the male lead gets a senti letter from the female lead in which she tells him how much she loves him and how sad she is that she will never see him again.

Only, it might be slightly creepy because if you are listening to music, the music would have to unexpectedly stop when the voiceover begins or else it would be utter cacophony. If not, a sudden disembodied voice coming from nowhere might startle some of you. But not all of you. I’m sure a few of you are used to hearing disembodied voices. It’s like talking to yourself, only different.

Another problem I can foresee is that some of you might not know what my voice sounds like. For those who don’t, let me assure you I sound incredibly sexy.

Also,just for the sake of this voice emanating out of nowhere business: Lawnmower. Protractor. Valedictorian. Nihilist. Slartibartfast. Los Alamos. Fun words to hear randomly, yes?


Tuesday, July 27, 2010

I imagine

... that the Earth is a ball on a pool table. Our entire existence, leading up to the time that the earth will be destroyed, is just a break taken between shots to get another beer.

Soon, we will go spinning into the black hole that is the left corner pocket.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

Queen is a funny word. Kween. Kh-u-ween. See?

Thunderbolt and lightning, very very frightening me.
Bohemian rhapsody has been stuck in my head for the past week.

Rhapsody is such a brilliant word to say. And an even better word to imagine. When I say the word rhapsody I imagine beautiful firecrackers going off in formation over the Sydney Opera House at midnight.

Too firang for you? Sorry. Rockets phootoing over Machhar towers in Sardarpura, Jodhpur. Because yes, there is a Macchar towers here. It contains a shop that sells kids clothes. I'm not sure why that's relevant here.

Scaramouch, Scaramouch, will you do the Fandango?
Fandango, I presume, is some sort of dance.
I imagine a dog eating a mango.
Seated at a table, with a napkin in its lap. Holding a little fruit knife.
Whatay etiket.

Galileo, Galileo, Galileo Figaro
This song is so insanely trippy.

Placement fever is going on in my college. And there is a new Octopus Paul application on Facebook. Paul is currently informing me that my friends’ prospects of getting jobs range from "Houston, we have a problem" to "Fo shizzle ma nizzle!"

If I had an octopus, I'd name him Leonard. How brilliantly he would romance his octopus girlfriend. When going to meet her, he would hide five of his tentacles behind his back, like in those cheesy movies in which the guy holds a heart shaped box of chocolates behind his back for the loue of his life while the girl carefully pretends not to see it. Leonard would have flowers in one tentacle and a book in the other (yes, my octopus is quite literary. Why does that sound perverted?). Also, a pair of sunglasses (in case his date's eyes are sensitive to light), a laptop charger (in case they decide to stay home and watch a movie and her charger is conked) and a hip flask (for Dutch courage). Leonard is always prepared. He is a maverick. A romantic. The perfect person to sign an armistice.

Also, Old Spice is hot. It just is. What can I say?

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Rise of the Auto-man empire.

"Armed and dangerous" jokes have been made about my new template. Largely by me. But let us not take away from the brilliance nonetheless.

It rains in Bombay. Pours madly down on those hapless souls who clutch their umbrellas despite already being drenched. The very umbrellas then then go careening away. Makes a lot more sense, that. Unless, of course, you make the fatal mistake of wearing a white formal shirt to work. There was almost a vairy filmy Limca ad in the making on the way to work today.

I hate the new auto rates. Also, the autowalas seem to have this new sense of superiority about them nowadays. "We win, you lose, sucker" type expressions. I might be a bit paranoid. There is a distinct possibility of that, yes. They have definitely started acting more pricey than normal though. Noticed the pun on the word pricey? Notice it now then. Hah.

I encountered an interesting auto chap yesterday who agreed to take me to the station after half a dozen others flatly refused to, because it was too short a ride. After seeing me fume, he graciously told me he would take me to the station and then commenced ranting about his colleagues. He informed me that autowalas are not allowed to refuse anybody, and violation of this rule was subject to a fine of Rs. 1200. He didn't actually use those words, of course. I am a textbook case of "you know you've been in law school too long when..." - syndrome.

Anyway. "What right do we have to refuse anyone?" the autowala grandiosely proclaimed. He then took it upon himself to provide me with sneaky little tips and tricks on how to ensure that no auto would ever refuse to take me anywhere I wanted. "If you want to go to Andheri, say you want to go to Dahisar. If you want to go to Goregaon Station, tell him you want to go to Malad. Just get down mid way. You can never fail!" he said.

With the useful and amusing pontification continuing in the background, I was duly dropped off at the station. As I was hunting for change, a harried looking man in a crumpled shirt ran up to my auto and stated his destination. To which the autowala made a face and rudely refused. As he turned to take the change, he conveniently ignores my raised eyebrow and gives me the Hindi version of "Capiche?"

Whatay awesomeness.

Friday, June 11, 2010


I'll start off with- Look at my template! Look at it! Isn't it awesome!?

Ahem. Commence formal explanation.

People keep saying I am the global repository of the worst jokes ever. I snigger when I hear jokes that make people cringe. I get worked up and excited when I think of my next terrible joke. I'll leave the description to my loving friends, they will be more than delighted to provide crude and cruel imitations of me itching to share my latest bad pun.

So anyhoodle. Due credits for this BRILLIANT new template go to two people. Firstly, her, for coming up with the whole idea. She is also gradually progressing towards utter destitution in the humour department. For example, she recently said the following:
  • Bananas are ugly. Like pigeons.
  • I feel like I'm in a coffin. Only its *slightly* disturbing having you next to me.
  • I feel like a heater. I should be kept in somebody's room.
  • His name was... Something, something else. You know, like a name and a surname.
  • I feel so dry. It's like you can pickle me and put me in a jar.
In short, thank you Sindhu.

Secondly, props to him. The last proper template I had prompted him to say that it gave him the impression of a Hawaaian trying to go goth. So, out of the kindness of his heart and after a lot of nagging, he made me this template. Which kicks ass, to say the least. This man is brilliant. He is talented. He works (for me) for free. Somebody please give him a glamorous job and lots of money so he can stop cribbing about how he spent so much time on my template and didn't get any benefit from it. Cash or kind. So this is me being his official pimp. Give him work and/or give him some action. He is very much awesome. (At the designing bit, the rest I cannot vouch for.) Much love, Suk. I owe you a beer. Or three.


Tuesday, June 08, 2010

The one in which I see little birds flying around my head, like in those Tom and Jerry cartoons

The strangest accidents happen to me when I intern.

Today a box file landed squarely on my head. Where it came from, I have not the faintest idea. It was followed in quick pursuit by an extremely apologetic fellow intern. Which is not to say the intern landed on my head as well.

The file was around a foot thick. It was held together by some sort of twine. Which gave way due to the impact and gracefully spewed hundreds of sheets of green legal paper all over me. Of course, the partner happened to be passing by at that very moment and found me looking very dazed, attempting to gather several handfuls of paper without letting them, or myself, fall down, and failing miserably. I had quite a vivid mental image of Uncle Scrooge swimming in a huge pile of money at that point.

My head hurts.

At least I gave the boss a good laugh. Along with the rest of the office.

Let's hope I get paid now.

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Berry much sadness.

The last time I blogged, it was about a Blackberry. That very evening, I lost my own Blackberry. I was utterly irresponsible and am having severe withdrawal symptoms from the same. I suck. But not as much as the bastard who found it and decided to (presumably) sell it. He who kept cutting all my frantic calls and ultimately switched it off to avoid me. Hah. Hopefully, he got woken up the next morning at 5:45 am by my loud annoying incessant alarm which rings even when the darn phone is turned off, that I had kept with the vain hope that I would get my ass out of bed and into the gym. (Note: Not happening, rapid bloating is currently taking place). Some tiny floating-in-a-corner-somewhere shred of sadistic satisfaction. Sigh.

On a completely unrelated note, I would like to mention that there are few things as absolutely peaceful as hanging out of an uncrowded compartment of a fast train at night, with the wind blowing through your hair, watching the lights of the city streak past you in a blur. Joy.

Speaking of peace, I had a conversation today with JD about peace in places of worship. No disrespect meant whatsoever to anyone or anything, so please, control. Churches are not peaceful. Churches are quiet. Too quiet. The silence is so loud you can practically hear it. It's an overbearing, overpowering silence that makes you (me) restless. It's like it's building up to a crescendo that will never actually be reached. Kind of like the remixes they make of Akon songs, where they repeat the last line of a stanza again and again and again in higher and higher pitches till you (I) just hold my head and wait desperately for the chorus to begin.

I had a dream yesterday. There is an empty airport. More specifically, the baggage claim area of the airport. There is a stationary conveyor belt. The part in the middle of the conveyor belt is stacked with hundreds of small glass bottles of glycerine. Soon, they neatly arrange themselves into two rows and move onto the conveyor belt, which then starts moving. The rest of the dream is just the rotating conveyor belt with two rows of glycerine bottles on it, with not a soul to claim them. Deep, what?

I leave you now with a quote from a friend: "We need to go out and buy fruits. And tights. Which, if you think about it, sounds like the name of a gay bar."

Thursday, May 27, 2010

I want Superman chaddis

My boss has a hot Blackberry. Sleek and thin and unbelievably black. What is axshully very fabulous about it, and him, is its ringtone. Which is a extremely-familiar-but-I-can’t-quite-place-it-right-now cartoon type music. It's the kind of music I would imagine playing when Superman whizzes into his little telephone booth to remove his magic disguise glasses and slip his extra chaddis on over his pants. So every time the boss person's phone rings I feel full affection towards him. Like, aww. Till I remember I haven't finished his work yet. Then, The Great Switcheroo of pheelings.

Also, the cell phone of the adjacent canteen keeps ringing every 15 seconds. If I hear bachna ae haseeno once more I shall start a food fight in said canteen, and run around in circles pulling my own hair and reciting The Walrus and the Carpenter. Or burrow deeper into my seat, hum unintelligibly and grumble to myself. One of the above. Definitely.

(Update: I just found out that the phone extension of said canteen is 666. Tres apropos, I think)

No wisecracks about the title. I really do want it. And by it, of course, I mean with one the logo on the front. Tch. Must I explain everything?

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Old School

I used to be in day care when I was a lot younger. I was in a girls school then, so the very first boys I ever talked to, I met there. There was one particularly nice boy there, Bharat, possibly my first crush ever. He was really nice to me unlike the other brats who pulled my hair and then made fun of me when I cut it really short. He taught me how to do "fugdi" (I still kick ass at it :D) and taught me how to make roses out of ribbons. I completely hero worshipped him.

When I was in the first standard, he was in the third and I remember waiting impatiently till I became two years older so I could "catch up" (?) to his age and be in the same class as him. I'm not sure what exactly I thought that would achieve but well, I was 6. First standard done, I entered the second and experienced a rude shock when I found he had graduated to the fourth. Yes, I know, like duh.

So, when I was 6, I wanted to be older for some strange reason pertaining to the first guy I ever liked, presently unbeknownst to me. Later, I wanted to be older so I could be allowed to go out alone, stay out later, start dating, start drinking, start having my own opinions, start taking control of my own life. And now I have all that. And now, that's quite enough, methinks. This getting older business is overrated.

Damn you, Bharat.

Monday, May 10, 2010

Stay young, stay selfish.

It takes you more than enough effort to keep yourself happy. Or in any case, not actually unhappy.

Don't even try bothering about anyone else's happiness.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

As I am, as I was.

When I actually get enthusiastic about something, I go all out doing it. I also end up being good at it. Really quite good at it. Unfortunately, things that get me that excited are so few and far apart that they really seem like a novelty when they crop up. But then it dies out. Fizzle, crash, boom. Add general laziness and you just have a bunch of half finished projects that are really nicely done but well, could have been eons better.

Consistency is needed. Also, interest. Also, less thought and less sleep. Less chocolate. More drive. More dreams. More action. And definitely a lot more money.

Somebody, get me a job.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Why manicure sets are useful after all.

Hostel life. So much more educational than one would imagine.

This, I realised this afternoon when I had to change my cooler pump and the college electrician drunkenly informed me he would "be right there madam-ji", thereby letting me know that I needn't wait up.

Which led to Wonder Girl and I deciding we had to take matters into our own hands. Electrical work commenced and my cooler was restored to perfect working condition. All with a pair of dainty manicure scissors and magically procured electrical tape.

And of course, typical to the boy species, just after we were done performing electrical wonders, a guy friend calls to ask what I'm up to. When I tell him, I get this response. "Two girls changing a cooler pump? That's hot."


Friday, March 05, 2010


You hear nothing but the sound of your feet thudding away on the uneven grass. Dodge to avoid the odd shrub or raised patch of earth that comes in your way, leap over the raised water pipe that is a permanent fixture on the football field. It's nothing but a glorious obstacle course. The wind blows through your short hair as you adjust your earphones and are greeted by The Killers. Think nothing, feel nothing. Except the delightful twinge of pain in your calves as you near your penultimate stretch. Any minute now...

An upbeat song comes up and you make an effort not to sprint. Must conserve energy. The last half-lap comes up and you can't take it any more. You pull out your earphones so they don't fall out and hinder you, and you take off. Fast. Faster. Faster than all those painful, miserable thoughts. The need to feel good about yourself. The need to feel wanted, the need to feel loved. The need to feel attractive, to feel worthy. Of yourself, of those who love you. Of anyone's attention, of any love or affection that you already have.

You hear and feel nothing except your breath coming in heavy pants as you tear across the field. You reach the end and almost collapse. Who knew exhaustion could be so pleasant.

And as you gather yourself, gulp cold water and head back, you reflect on what a good friend told you and feel a faint sardonic smile creep across your face.

"He can only be your walking stick. He cannot be your rock."

Monday, March 01, 2010

Happy Halloween.

Yeah, so I went to Jaisalmer over the weekend. Good stuff. Sand dunes, camels, shopping, all that. Interesting places to see, whacked out people to meet. Stoned foreigners wearing tiger masks, vendors who tell you to add them on facebook, and shy old auto-walas who hand out posh visiting cards, all in equal proportion. On second thought maybe not so many tiger masks. I saw several Mickey Mouse ones as well. It's a quaint little place, nice enough. The following, however, just made my trip several times over, clicked by either this woman or this one. (Click on photos to enlarge)

Wattay marketing.

Wattay brand.

Ah wattay character.

Ok then. Till the next post. Till then, as the Dalai Lama would say to all you lovely people out there...

On the menu of a restaurant called Little Tibet.

P.S.- Mucho thanks to this man for help with the pumpkin heads.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Saga of The Permanent Chaddi

So I live in a girl’s hostel. My guy friends outside the university seem to have an unduly glamorous picture of this place. They imagine us girls walking around in sexy little numbers, taking our clothes off all the time, and having regular pillow fights and oil massages. Little do they know what actually transpires here. The wonder that is the “dad's tshirt” and loose pyjamas, which is what most people wear here. Except for the occasional odd character who, just for the fun of it, will wear a cocktail dress, heels and makeup and strut her stuff in the corridor. (You know who you are.) But that's not the point of this blog post.

In our lovely graffiti-ed bathroom, there is of course, graffiti. There are also a couple of post-its stuck on the loo doors, reminding people to please take their underwear with them when they leave the place. Someone clearly disregarded this piece of advice. Around 3 weeks ago, someone left their undies hanging in one of the stalls. No one knows who it belongs to, and obviously no one wants to touch it. The owner flat out refuses to claim it, clearly. So it just remains there balefully, abandoned, outcast, labeled "The Permanent Chaddi". It’s even become a landmark of sorts. When someone had to leave me their keys while going out of town, she left me a message that she would leave it hanging next to The Permanent Chaddi. Someone else suggested immortalising it by making a paper mache cast of it.

Ah, the joys of hostel life.

Hey guys... Sexy, ain’t it?

Thursday, February 11, 2010

What would MacGyver do?

Today morning, I had a test. Hence, I thought I would get up early and study. I dutifully set an alarm for 6 am on my cellphone and fell asleep.

6 am and my alarm rings. Snooze. Rings again. Snooze.

In the depths of my barely-there consciousness, I convinced myself that there were mysterious happenings underfoot. Why else would Shipping up to Boston be played right at me very loudly every 5 minutes? Adopting a proper MacGyver style, I made it my mission to hit the snooze button as soon as the alarm rang, so as to thwart The Enemy's plan of destroying the world, which my timely action would definitely resolve. Every time I jabbed that button, I felt a sense of accomplishment. Of getting the best of someone who was trying to bring me down. I single-mindedly focused on my Very Important Mission which would serve humankind. They would thank me later for my heroic deed. Or I would die a heroes death, unlamented. Unacclaimed. Sigh...

Needless to say, my test sucked.

The really sad part? I'm not exaggerating in the least about any of this.

I need help.

Friday, February 05, 2010

Hello boys

How times have changed. I've reached a point in life where I'm confident of myself, I'm trying new things, discovering I'm quite good at them to boot, my ego is nice and happy having been treated to a spa weekend, and I'm actually considering taking first steps, something I never thought I would do. No one could be more surprised that I am.

On the other hand, people think I'm a boy. Just so we're all clear, I'm not. A boy. To be precise. Three times this past month I have been told I look like a guy. A hot athletic guy. But a guy, nonetheless.

Gah. If actual straight (added for all you wise asses out there) bona fide boys did not attempt to hit on me from time to time, I might get some odd sort of complex.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

To cock a snook. Or three.

Recently, my hostel room got called an industrial godown. It has in it, among other things, a black plastic mask with golden trim hung on top of the mirror, with a yellow headband perched on one side and a black headband with two red horns sprouting from it on the other, the type which flashes red when you turn a knob. It's as though the mask has an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, just as they show in all those cartoons. Do it, it will make you feel so much better. Revenge is sweet and has an excellent consistently, with a delightful aftertaste of Irish cream, which makes you crave just one more bite or seven. Thus spake the horny headband. No no, do the right thing and you will get a 5 years supply of Hershey’s Kisses, said the yellow headband in parley. Tough call, this one.

Ok, moving on. In my room, there is also my guitar in its case, and propped up casually against it, a long wooden bow. Oh and on the windowsill, two wooden arrows, prettily painted, with sharp metal tips and peahen feathers at the end, propped up nonchalantly against my beautiful retro green and red truck horn. A dozen posters, including those of George Harrison, a girl on a Vespa and a fat man drinking beer. Also, a statuette of a skinny girl in skinny jeans and a corset holding a wineglass (The girl happens to be a full grown female skeleton, by the way. Who somehow has a huge pair of knockers. Go figure.) White fluffy earmuffs hung on a nail in the wall. A beer mug with a green planet motif painted on it and the words “Don’t Panic” written under that in large friendly letters. A stuffed white and yellow cockatoo on my bed (I've named him Cockathree). A huge garish sticker of a cartoon penguin. A duck keychain stuck on my cupboard that quacks thrice when its tummy is squeezed. A bumper sticker on my cupboard that says “Warning. Chocolate can make your clothes shrink.” A reserved sign on my table, flicked from Cafe Leopold. Among other things.

Industrial godown my foot and three fourth. To borrow a phrase.

Ye olde curiosity shoppe is more like it, to borrow yet another phrase.

Sigh. Joy. Give me more crazily awesome, potentially useless junk, I'll be ecstatic. Or an empty wine bottle. I've scoured the liquor shops in the area asking for one. I'm always asked to come back. Or to buy a full bottle of wine and empty it. Sadness. More so for the liquor shop people who I annoy incessantly for the same. Ok maybe not incessantly. I think I'll go now.