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!! 

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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.


Stepping Out 

I don’t want to say goodbye to Sleepy Hollow, as I’ve lovingly come to call Davangere, Karnataka, India. There, I’ve said it and I can’t believe I’ve said it. I’ll admit, Sleepy Hollow isn’t so sleepy anymore, blossoming into a smart city over the course of two years. But that didn’t change how I felt about the place for years. And now that I’m leaving, I don’t want to say goodbye. 

Isn’t it like, so serene!?

Isn’t it crazy? People are so weird; when we have access to something, we take it for granted. I’m sorry I took you for granted, Sleepy Hollow, forgivsies? Right now my life feels like the virtual toilet paper, rolling away too fast as it nears the end. Not the end end, but life here in DVG. I’m going to miss everything. Heck, I miss everything already! The bad weather, the smell of burned butter down the street from that famous butter dosa place, the shortcuts to class, the cute post graduates who only stayed cute until the next posting. All of it. 

Sadly enough, all of that goes away as I move back home. When you have small town Indian parents around, you need to offer an explanation for everything; right from why your eyebrows are that bushy to why you hate rice so much. Not that I’m complaining but I don’t really want to move back home. How on earth am I supposed to explain to them that college and work felt more like home to me than actual home itself? I never had love back there. But Sleepy Hollow? I have love even now, and the crazy part is having to leave behind everything that makes me feel like home, that makes me happy – crazy happy, for a change. 

I’ve experienced life on the flip side here. Been the other woman for a while. Didn’t know it. When I found out, it broke me way more than I realised. That’s also one of the reasons why I’m so obsessed with cheating even though it happened ages ago. It unknowingly may have turned me into a masochist and spawned my love for writing stories with twisted, screwed-up endings. But then, it did inspire me, more than I could ever have imagined even in my wildest dreams. And now that I have to go, it’s pulling me back in and holding me back. Isn’t it crazy? How you discover things when you don’t really have the time? But then, isn’t it better to be late than to never have taken the plunge at all? 

Davangere is beautiful, you guys. 

Me trying the follow me to pose
Sante Bennur, some sixty kilometres off Davangere, is beautiful
That’s my girl walking off into the sunset

Yep. I don’t want to leave. 

Will I ever come back? Maybe not, but then you never know. Have you guys ever felt this way? Hating on a place when you were there and not wanting to leave when the time came? Tell me all about it!! Also, I’m sorry I don’t have better photos because that’s all my iPhone could manage. 

Until next post…

 

All Sorts Of F*ck 

Sex intrigues me. It does. Wait, let me rephrase that – the kind of sex that specially comes with emotional tags, intrigues me. To no end. 

Most people these days come with some sort of iRobot button that automatically switches off their emotional side when in the urgent need to screw. Also, whoa, can we talk about how much sex has evolved? Bad, bad, naughty 2017. This magic button I’m talking about is called alcohol/drugs. You take sufficient amount of it and you are a human robot. Just like that, all emotions shut down. It used to be amazing, from what my cool elderly neighbor tells me. Sex used to be called making love. 

Some of y’all will tell me that it’s still called that, but how many kids today talk about it like it means something? Go on, I’ll wait while you go find out. Even when you’re in bed with someone after having tested the potency of several Margaritas on an empty freaking stomach, all he will tell you is, “Baby, I want to fuck.” Not one time will you hear him say, “Let’s make sweet love.” Cheesy as that sounds, I’d be real happy if someone came up with that instead of just mindlessly doing it. I think the sweet love trend died with that You Make me Wanna song by Blue way back in 2013, when I was barely pubescent. Wow. My whole generation and the next and the next are all screwed up. 

Holy mother.

Speaking of which, did you know that young girls barely in their teens are already doing it? Innocence doesn’t exist anymore, at least that’s what I feel like. The other day some girl posted a video of herself stripping butt naked and caressing herself – she couldn’t have been more than thirteen – on social media! And it showed up on my explore page. Like, what the actual fuck. Somebody step up and stop this madness, for Lord’s sake: it’s driving me nuts!! 

I think this is also the reason why men assume away to glory about what women want. Not cool, people, not cool. 
Rant over. 

Rain, Tax, It’s Inevitable

I hate the rain, and I’ve mentioned this before – I hate the rain with a passion. The same kind of passion you would reserve for slimy bugs crawling up your favourite pair of shoes. I hate the rain because it brings back memories. 

I used to love snogging in the rain. Pretty much like they do in the movies. Pretty much they did in The Notebook. Like I have said all my life, I’m the queen of exaggerations. OTT comes naturally to me. And I’m a typical Cancerian woman who doesn’t like to be told what to do, let alone stand being criticised. 

Rain brings back so many memories, all of them way too intense to be kept to myself. So here’s one memory. 

I’ve just mentioned I don’t like being told what to do. I was seeing this guy who was perfect 👌🏼 in every which way except for one thing: I had to ask permission for everything. If I needed to call I had to ask via text if he could take my calls at that precise moment. If I had to text I had to send a ? to which he would reply accordingly. Meaning, he would send a what’s up if on his own and ignore completely/ send a don’t text now if with friends. He was an active gamer and fiercely independent and didn’t like to be held down, he said. Three months into the relationship I figured it wasn’t going anywhere. 

We kissed one last time in the rain and it was an amazing kiss and that was it. Like Celine Dion said, inevitable. Does anyone else hate the rain? 

Plaster Casts

You put in efforts and you give your all

Lose your self-respect yet stand tall 

All for love and all for him 

You bear with his every last whim 

Those long bouts of silence, every angry outburst 

Every cold wave of wild hungry lust 

The way he withdraws after each time you make love

Staring with vacant eyes at the ceiling above 

While you lay next to him just waiting for him to say something 

Anything at all, even one word would do, but he gives you nothing 

And when he leaves, he breaks off a little piece of your heart 

With each day it leaves you torn apart

But you carry on anyway, you put on a new emotional plaster cast 

Trying to mend the fractures in your heart

La Petite Mort

I don’t want this. But I like it. Such a conflict of emotions. It’s crazy, because as much as I don’t want it and don’t want to want it, it’s right there in my head. In my heart. In the pit of my guts. I can’t seem to have enough. I know it’s killing me, slowly. But I like this. 

The sneaking. The secrecy. What’s that word? Stealth. It appeals to me. It’s insane that a girl who likes to call herself a typically good “good” girl that never does anything wrong, would actually do something like this and actually like it way too much. What am I talking about? I know I’m just basically talking in circles and not getting to the point and would I freaking get to the point already now that it’s been three years since I’ve been going around it…? 

Okay, deep breath: 

I’ve been in love with my best friend for years now. The way he smiles. Those white, even teeth that happen to be so reassuring to my OCD. His arms that envelop me in a warm, fuzzy blanket of security. His stubbly chin that rests perfectly on the top of my head. The way he just melts away all my conflicts with just one wave. How I love him to death! 

He seems to want me as much as I want him, on the weekends. After he’s smoked enough pot to knock him out for the day; he thinks of me. He creeps into my apartment and gets into my bed. I’ve started leaving the key under the doormat everyday now just in case. We never do it but his giant hands creep under my tee when we are spooning. It feels great. Sometimes he talks in his sleep. Things like how he would have married me if he had the choice, right that minute. Sometimes pot takes over his logical, rational thinking and he asks how many kids do we make. And how he’d love them so much it would hurt. I’m pretty sure he said he loves me the other weekend. Or maybe not. Because he pulled me in and fell asleep with me wondering away all night. 

When he leaves in the morning, still high maybe, after he’s kissed me on the lips, it feels like he’s taking away a part of me. Leaving me to die a little death is each time he leaves. I’ve never felt a connection stronger than this. He brings me to several orgasms, not of the body but of the brain. It’s tangible. I know it’s not possible but it is. He withdraws from me for the rest of the day, cold shoulders me when with friends, disappears for hours on end: when I complain he says that’s not just him, it’s all men. And funnily enough, I’m okay with that. Okay with everything he says and does.

He’s killing me slowly and it’s making me live. I guess that’s love if you think about it.