I honestly do NOT believe this. I’d deactivated my Facebook, two years ago, and today I was jobless as Hell, so I decided I’d have a peek. And see what everyone on my friend list was up to.
Turns out, everyone is married. Some of my friends have babies. BABIES.
NONONONONONO. What? This totally means I’m next in line. Panic attack. And right on cue, Dad happened to call with a, “Do you have a boyfriend yet?” And I was like, “Hey Dad, I think I’ll totally nail my exams. On the head. Yay!”
Thank Goodness for Gullible Bengali Parents. It worked. Dad got distracted. Like, “Ooh. Honey, I’m so glad.”
And whew, conversation over.
Here’s the thing. Girls like me? We don’t get married. We become the future Mamata Banerjees (look her up. She’s the current chief minister of West Bengal). And we are ones that age – erm – gracefully, into a fat faced old women with bags under their eyes. I’m not talking Chanel bags. I’m talking puffy age bags. That are unappealing, tacky and well, grossly un-fascinating.
Also, girls like me never make good mothers. I’ve had people tell me I’m so filled with poison, I’m better off without multiplying. Because, duh. The world’s a much, much, much better place without little Sooches running around. And I agree. Terminate my bloodline. Save the world. Yay!
So I’m doing the stratosphere a world of good. Really. By staying single. How awesome is that? So while I’m busy staying unattached and free like flotsam and jetsam, et cetera, I make it a point to shop a la Becky Bloomwood. You know, helping the economy and all.
This post was so effing random. Wow. If anyone is reading this, thank you for loving me so much. At least, I’ll assume you love me. Hahaha. Jokes apart, I love you too. ❤
We could all do with some lovin’. Even Ms. Banerjee.