I get chills you know. 

I’ve changed my phone since but still have his texts. The Whatsapp ones. Every little kiss emoji he sent stills feels so damn fucking real. I keep that beat up old phone around just so you can read them and reassure myself that yes, memories that I have of him from a while ago aren’t something cooked up by my stupid head playing tricks on me. I love him. I’ve loved him. I always will. 

Ever loved anyone so much it ended up consuming you? 

Ever given someone the liberty to hurt you because they know you’d be around no matter what? 

Ever just stood there, loving them more, while they slowly hacked you away, bit by bit? 

Well, I have. 

It always starts the same way. One of you changes. Maybe both of you do. He starts off as the caring, sweet kinds, always checking in on you. Asking if you ate. How you were doing. If he could come see you. He leaves texts if busy just to let you know he’s with friends and he’s okay and he’ll totally call back later. And he totally does call back. But then three months go by and he doesn’t even remember your birthday, he doesn’t text unless he absolutely has no one around. And the downward spiral of your self-doubt starts building up again. 

Always the same old story. 

The same unrequited love. 

While you love him to the point of exhaustion, making excuse after excuse for him, he slowly starts blowing you off and you’re suddenly at the bottom of his list. That is, if you’re on his list anymore. Maybe at some point you’ve given him sex or given him head and he’s realised you’re not even remotely satisfying to be with. Can you put that crushing feeling into words? At this point, I cannot. I don’t think I ever can. So while you’re being scheduled for calls, he goes to try out his new bong with his new junkie friends. He forgets you exist. 

That’s how it ends. Fifty shades of straying away. 


Flashback Friday: Blurred Lines 

I guess I’ve overdosed on caffeine. Again. And I won’t be able to sleep tonight. And I’ll wake up at 5 in the morning after like ten minutes of sleep, and carry on with my half assed run. I’ll probably wear one of my socks inside out. I’ll probably trip and fall and people will come running to see if I’m still in one piece… and here I go again, overthinking things. 

Ever get that strong feeling of déjà vu

I’m experiencing one right now and it’s hitting me harder than a couple of punches to the gut. Making me want to throw up. 

See, most people have that one thing they want the most. Even the happiest of people, and when asked if they’re truly happy, they’ll often lie to you. Me? I got everything I need right here. But then I can’t shake off the feelings that latch on to me at times. I am unable to get over the flashbacks. I realise now that I can be a constant nag. A jerk, a pain in the neck. Back then, I didn’t realise any of it. And I kept pushing. And pushing. And I didn’t realise it was me driving people away. Probably still don’t realise it much. 

I met a boy once. And fell in love. And as all of my love stories go, it was one directional. I loved him with the intensity of a thousand bloody metaphorical suns. And he was as repelled by me as two like poles of a magnet repelling each other. So it was a great arrangement, really. He had emotional access. And I had arms to cuddle in. Till the day he told me he didn’t like me very much. That he didn’t like me being the same way with him the way I used to be with my ex boyfriends. Meaning, he found me just bleh and not good enough for a serious relationship; also meaning he though I was just good enough for a fling. And boom, my walls came crashing down. Roles reversed when it came to the next relationship: I was the cold, unforgiving, frigid Medusa. And the new guy was basically the old me. 

Looking back, I realise I haven’t really learned a thing. Not one. I’m still that same old nag. The same old moron and the same old little reject still looking for love and never getting enough. 

How do I stop feeling this way? 

Isn’t this true?

70 Years 

…and counting. And we still aren’t given our freedom. 

It’s been a tradition on my blog, doing a post every Independence Day, hoping for a change in momentum, only to be disappointed by the turn of events. Not much can be expected of a country where racism is pretty much as common as rape and marital rape is basically legal. Even if the wife is a minor. Pedophiles rejoice because now you won’t be slammed behind bars for marrying a fifteen year old AND having your way with her. A country with a loudmouth of a constitution that says all Indians are my brothers and sisters pretty much has a weird way of showing how you treat family. Maybe they should now change the constitution to say something like all Indians are my family, we keep it in the family and we treat each other like crap. That sounds about right. 

What bothers me is that the bad guys aren’t essentially born bad. They just want to experiment; they go astray. I wish this would stop and people would just behave. We have to stop endorsing shit: right from Fair and Lovely to treating women like meat because her skirt was a tad bit too tiny. Also, let’s talk about love. Love and all the shit that comes with it. They say love makes the world go round, right? WRONG. We have the parents that are trying to fix you up with some random guy and then there’s some other random guy you’re trying to take home to meet the parents. It’s a vicious cycle because no matter which direction you decide to step in, you’re fucked. Between having to have sex with a total stranger after you’ve been pushed into an “arranged marriage” to having already done the deed with a someone who you used to be a side chick for, you’re already lost. But only if you are a woman. If you’re a man, oh thank your stars, for your ego has been boosted. 

Things have only gotten worse over the past seventy years. Good thing I won’t be around when we celebrate a hundred years of this fuckery. 

Yeah yeah blah.

Popping Um, Cherries. 

Before y’all judge me because I’m seemingly doing a risqué post involving the big Cherry and about popping it, let me ask you a question:

HOW HARD WAS IT, YOUR FIRST TIMEwearing contact lenses?

It seriously took me that long, and I have only two eyes.

Or rather, trying to pop the contact lens into your Goddamn eyeball? 

So the first time I tried it, it took me one hour. Which made me think of how similar the whole thing was to sex. Yes, I know I talk about it a TON. An unnecessary ton, yes I know, thanks very much, but hear me out. 

For most people, the first time royally sucks. We will get to the literal parts later, maybe in a different blog post. Between not knowing which direction to go in and not knowing what will hurt more, you basically are going in blind. Pretty much like how you would act around your first pair of contact lenses. You hold the case like it were a very new cherry waiting to be popped. Excuse my language: but then I majored in raw humour at the WordPress Youniversity. 

While putting in the Goddamn contact you don’t know if it’s inside out. By the time you’ve figured out that it is, the wetness is gone (just like Ms Cherry down there) and you need to douse it in fluid again. Ah, the extra work. Once you have that sorted, you open your eye nice and wide (the pun, the pun, ah, the pun) and try to stick your lens in. While praying to the Lord that you’ve stuck it in the right place. Sound familiar? Thought so. 

Pretty much.

That’s not where the nightmare ends, however. 

Not two seconds after you’ve passionately inserted the damn contact lens into your eye, out it plops and how do you realise that? You’re still blind and the pesky contact is resting somewhere around the bridge of your nose. Or worse, SOMEWHERE. Only you don’t know where because you don’t know where your glasses are and can’t see a damn thing without them unless you’re super close to the mirror. 


Once you’ve gone through with all that, and you’ve successfully managed to pop the contact lens Cherry, you realise there’s this new nightmare waiting around the corner called taking the contacts out at the end of the day. 


And then comes the biggest nightmare of them all. If you happen to be as blind as I am and your glasses look something like this…

You need to be extra careful because not only are you extra sensitive but also extra blind and you won’t see the next part coming. 


Well congratulations, now you’ve lost your Cherry. And you can now head straight to the ophthalmologist’s office where he gets to use cheesy pick up lines on you. For example: “Can I look at your fundus?” while suggestively stroking the damn ophthalmoscope. 

Damn you, damn contact lenses. 

Ain’t No Cinderella 

You’ve NO idea how proud I am of Indian women right now.  If you follow the news channels, you’d know that there was a rather creepy incident involving a Chandigarh woman and a politician’s son.

This twenty nine year old woman was reportedly out driving somewhere a little after midnight on August 4, when she was chased by two men in an SUV, one of whom happened to be Haryana BJP chief’s son. And now the BJP says that it’s the woman’s fault she had to go through with the whole episode. 

My Indian readers will understand and sadly, even relate to this. For those of you that don’t live or know what goes on in India – here’s what happened following the incident. The BJP went on to victim-shame the woman, going so far as to say that parents need to ensure their daughters’ safety by having them come home early. What the fuck? Like our parents have nothing better to do than sit around, waiting for us to get home? Like it isn’t bad enough that a majority of single working Indian women still have to crash at their parents’ because if they get an apartment for themselves, oh Lord forbid, log kya sochenge*?

The fact that women are rebelling and standing up for themselves is amazing, and this is why it’s amazing: it’s 2017, not 1817. We are educated and our parents didn’t bring us up to live life within the lines, or to abide by a certain set of rules that the mysogyistic Indian male pig has come up with just so they can still control us. It makes me very happy to see Twitter today be all flooded with women tweeting photos of themselves, beer in hand, big smile in place, just having a good time with friends, well after midnight. 

Just because these men can’t keep it in their pants is no reason to tell a woman how to dress or talk and when to come home. And yes we are responsible adults: we call our mothers ahead and let them know we might be getting late so they won’t freak out. And if our families have no issue, why would the politicians have a bazillion of them? Also, it’s a giant mystery: why do men think you’re available and easy to score if you’ve got on a low cut shirt that’s showing off your amazing collarbone highlight? Because most of the times we don’t dress to impress a man, unless it’s a new boss with OCD obsessed with dress codes, most of the times we do it to show off our newly sculpted gym bodies, so when we run into our bitchy personal trainers they stay speechless for once. And don’t make snarky comments involving you and sad, broken weighing scales. 

So yes, if you can’t give me Prince Charming, I refuse to stick by your rules and your curfew. 

Something I found on Google.


The Day The Earth Stood Still 

…and no I’m not talking about the movie. Or the book, or anything to do with space or geography or whatever. 

I’m talking about Sunday, August 6, 2017, when my Instagram died. Literally. It’s been dead for three hours now. It’s now 4:31 pm and I have separation anxiety. So I went on Twitter and keyed in “#instagramdown” and realised that I wasn’t the only one suffering. No, I’m not a junkie. 

*Swiftly averts eyes*

I just use it as a platform to basically talk about stuff I like and I do like watching makeup brands and their colorful stories showing what products are launching soonish so I know which part of my lunch money I’ll be wearing on my face next. As in, will I be wearing my KFC money or my Subway money or my boyfriend’s PayTM money or my overpriced Starbucks packed-with-thigh-grabbing-calories dessert money on my eyeballs come holiday season? 

This whole Instagram down thing is driving me batcrap crazy because it’s a pain in the goddamn neck not knowing what that horrible cow from fourth grade is up to this Friendship Day.  And what that gold-digger is up to this weekend and what she’s showing off so I can pretend not to care, while savagely dissecting her extravagant lifestyle in my head. See, this is what happens when you’re a doctor with no prospects – broken camera, ratty jeans and no sex life – you become that girl who people judge because you’re judging other people. Actively. On social media. To yourself. In the quiet corner of the library where no one even knows you’re hunched in. 

That’s me. 

So no you understand what I’m going through, right? And why I need Instagram back because of totally non-junkie reasons? Someone tell me when it’s gonna come back because I refuse to go to bed without putting up an insta story. And don’t tell me my internet sucks and that I should uninstall and reinstall because that crap didn’t work. Someone help me out. 

Also, happy Friendship Day Folks!! 

The Other Woman 

I hope no one else ever feels this way

This uncertainty that never seems to go away 

The hurt that’s driving me insane 

This isn’t just some random pain 

It’s beyond that, beyond everything that crushes you 

It’s the worst case of the blues 

There’s no saving me because I’m in too deep 

Even though I know he’s not mine to keep 

Not that he ever was anyway 

Having said that, I’m done for the day 

Having him creep into my room at night 

Doing everything so right 

The world feels like a better place with him around 

All emotions heightened, all colors, every sound 

I’ve never been more aware 

I’ve never been more ashamed of having been pulled by the hair 

Sharing him with her 

She doesn’t know, because for the most part I vanish into thin air 

Just when morning comes

Just when dawn breaks 

Just when she calls 

When he goes home, to her

He isn’t mine to keep, 

All I can do is smile and then weep

Because it’s so much better, hating life with shared property

Than to be lonely.