Dear Men

Show me a man who gives his undivided time and attention to his woman, and I’ll show you a man who stays online, reads his woman’s texts, communicates at the rate of one heart emoji per hour. So that’s twenty four hearts in a day, with some Can I talk to you later texts (despite the continuous online presence) thrown in.

If that’s not love, man, I don’t know what is.

Nothing tells your woman you love her so much than staying online on all social platforms and ignoring her all day. Nothing. Nothing tells your woman you love her more than sending her one dry I love you on Valentine’s Day. Nothing tells your woman you love her more than you love your alcohol and your toys and your man cave, than calling her once a week when you finally get bored of your daily skegde. Nothing.

Dear men, let me get something straight.

We don’t want your money. We don’t want your apartment key. Most of us don’t even wanna peek into your Goddamn phones. Most of us are nice enough to believe in all your lame stories about the continuously staying online but not talking situation. You tell us you’re online everywhere because you have a business meet and trust me we aren’t gullible but we believe you anyway. We don’t want drama. What we do want, however, is to be included in your life.

Dating is hard enough as it is.

And then there are islands in a man’s life. There’s the life island, which is sunny as fuck – that’s where his friends, football, alcohol, entrepreneurial dreams and family live and then there’s the love life island, on another planet – and that’s where his women live. Which has one type of climate – gloomy. Totally disconnected. It takes lightyears for a woman to be allowed to cross over from her own slot to be able to finally break into the life island scene. So dear men, how much do we women compromise? Do we settle and pretend to be okay with this whole thing of being in the sidelines?

While we do get it – that you need your space and your time as much as we do – do you really need so much space that you become an astronaut and discover new planets? I don’t understand. And it’s not just an one woman’s issue. It’s the same everywhere. All women face this. And they still stay with their men. I wonder how much we have to compromise and keep going. How many excuses we have to make to our friends because you wouldn’t show up since you had an important meeting with some other girl. How many lame twisted stories of yours do we have to believe in. And you know something, we can take that shit. What we don’t get, however, is why you’d want to get into a relationship in the first place when you think of your woman as a burden somewhere deep inside of you. Don’t get into a relationship if it’s so much work. How crazy hard is it to understand?

We can take being treated like we mean nothing, like we don’t matter and like we don’t have the capacity to think for ourselves. Doesn’t mean you subject us to all that, right? We sink when we fall in love with you, and we happily drown. We give up on ourselves to make you happy, so…

Here’s my question to you: what do you want?


Journal Entry, Sort Of

February 27, 2018:

I don’t know where to begin. I think SAD is back to haunt me again, but it’s not even cold anymore. What’s wrong with me? I don’t know when or if I’ll ever be happy. I feel trapped. I’ve always felt this way. I don’t know what I’m doing, and where I’m supposed to be. I just… float sometimes. In my own head. Praying for a natural death. Some sort of death. I hope my autopsy is beautiful and that everyone admires my perfect organs, pristine and untouched by any sort of alcohol or tobacco, or men, proof of the “good girl” I’ve always been but which my mother would doubt till the last day of my existence.

People fantasize about romancing George Clooney, and I fantasize about romancing death. I fantasize about drowning in a dead pool of weedy water , somewhere no one can find me. I should sleep. It’s 4 am and I am wide awake. I can’t think much, except that death would be so beautiful right now.

February 28, 2018:

Pain spawns beautiful poetry. I’ve been reading Plath all day. Talking to this friend of mine. Talking about my boyfriend all the time. My friend was too polite to say he was bored. God bless his soul.

I woke up to sleep paralysis this morning. Hypoglycemic shock for lunch, and some sweet, sweet hypothermia for dinner. I can feel my body breaking down. I can feel it come apart. I want it to go waste. Because I am some colossal waste. I haven’t eaten in two days, nothing substantial at least and I feel myself going crazy. Prozac doesn’t help. I miss my man so much but there are rules sometimes, rules that keep a relationship alive.

I see how hard he works, it breaks my heart. I see his dark circles when he sends me photos of him. I can’t bear it anymore. He doesn’t deserve this. He deserves someone who’s not such a morbid dolly. He needs someone alive, full of laughter and love. Positivity.

Looks like natural death isn’t coming for me soon. I’ve to do something. There’s an eleven blade in my purse from earlier. The ones we use to make incisions during incision and drainage. It’ll do perfectly.

Lord, gimme strength.

Goodbye, world.

Do you guys like fiction like this? Let me know. I know, I know it’s really morbid but it’s just my thing. I have cherophobia maybe.

Trolls Kill, So Please Don’t Fit the Bill

You post a photo on Instagram, you get ten likes in under a minute. And then someone leaves a comment.

“Fat ugly ho bag.”

And you die a little. You overlook the fact that they’ve misspelled. You overlook the lack of punctuation and your brain simply seems to amplify the fact that someone’s just called you a “ho bag”, whatever that is, and therefore, you’re no good at all. Isn’t it crazy? The power of the internet, and the ways it’s being used to kill people on the inside?

It’s not just Instagram. It’s all over – Reddit, Quora, Facebook, PopXO.

I’ve been called names and I’ve been called an attention seeker. I’ve been called a frog faced loser and I’ve been called an old geezer. I’ve been called names so crass, a drunken sailor would have been ashamed. I’ve been called a lot of meaningless gibberish in some language I never even knew existed. Yes, it’s made me cry. Yes, I’ve broken down. I’ve been in pieces. I’m not going to deny that any longer.

Trolls kill. They do.

Nothing hurts more than a bunch of insults typed out in haste on a social platform. Nothing hurts more than having someone with questionable education and upbringing, drag you through the mud, questioning your own. Has it ever happened to you? Anonymous people leaving a trail of comments on some post of yours, calling your names for something you’ve never done, and half the time, you won’t even know what happened? It’s happened to the best of us. We all have a breaking point, people.

No matter how strong we are as people, each of us has a threshold, a breaking point which when crossed, tends to emotionally destroy us on the inside.

So why troll?

People get jealous: they cannot tolerate successful people. People get frustrated when their lives seem lackluster. People get psychosis from drinking too much and people go nuts. People are also mostly cowardly and feel safe, hiding behind the veil of anonymity, and end up taking savage pleasure in destroying other people.

So if you’re one of these people, you’re a very nasty piece of work. You need help. And you need slap therapy.

Cyber bullying is NOT okay.

I’ve talked about this before. I’ve had to delete my social media. It took me a while to calm down and come back. Please don’t troll people because it’s a form of bullying and you’re taking lives very slowly. This is not just bad, it’s inhuman even.

It doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t cost much to be encouraging.

If you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all. Walk away. The world would be a much better place. If you fit the troll description, I have one thing to say – it’s not too late to work on yourself. You can still change. There’s no harm that comes out of being real and honest and genuine, so why troll meaninglessly?

Think about it.

Pulling Away

If there’s one thing wrong with the millennial love life in general, it’s lack of communication.

1. You and your partner haven’t spoken in days. Haven’t texted beyond the occasional 💩 emoji. Or this 🤣 emoji. Or maybe even sent each other a few gifs and a few memes. And none of this is bothering you. Try to pass this off as a mature relationship all you want, but a relationship in which you don’t talk to each other? Something is wrong.

2. You have time for the world. Never for your partner. You complain when they pull away.

3. You overdo things. You assume your partner isn’t into you anymore so you post oversexed photos on Instagram. Your partner gets mad and calls you an attention seeker and hangs up on you. You unfollow them on all social media and block them and piss them off to Jesus.

4. “Appointments”. You need to call ahead to see them. You’re always being scheduled for calls, and without realizing even, you have slowly started pulling away.

5. Nothing bothers you. You don’t mind each other’s working hours. You don’t mind not being in touch. You love your own company more than you love your partner’s.

If your relationship checks all the points, you might already have fallen out of love. You’re basically in a relationship with yourself so…

This thing can go two ways – either you guys are gonna outgrow each other and drive yourselves apart, or you’re gonna have a very messy breakup, find a rebound and make a mess of your lives.

I’ve done that and I’d know.

So Calming

I’m in Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu, this week. In case any of you’ve been wondering where I’ve gone missing. I’m right here, my loves, right here.

Dad has an all India ophthalmology conference to attend and as per tradition, he’s dragged the family along. Since I didn’t want to be exposed to that many eye surgeons of varying qualifications (there’s MD, MCH, FRCS, and a ton of other stuff I don’t know nor care about) I decided to get away and do some exploring.

It takes about 90 minutes to get to Coimbatore from Chennai. We got on a tiny flight and it wasn’t a crazy ride, it was kind of manageable. I hated Coimbatore when we touched down. It was hot. Swelteringly hot, dusty and your hair actually goes bad within hours. I wanted to go back home.

Luckily our guy told us he could show me around and that’s exactly what we did. So this place he took me to is called ISHA Yoga centre, which helps you make inner transformations through yoga, and finally help with your personal growth. There’s this enormous statute of Lord Shiva, and it’s so beautiful I can’t even begin to describe. It’s 112 feet tall, and is said to help with focusing during yoga. Lord Shiva is also called Adiyogi, which means “the first yogi” because he is said to have invented yoga.

I’m hardly the most religious person on earth but this place had such a positive impact on me. Here are two photos of me being touristy.

If you’ve never been here, I think you should. The best time to come over would be January or late December. It’s so tranquil and peaceful. You can get a cab – it’s around 30 something kilometres form the airport.

I didn’t wanna come but now I’m glad I did. Meditation does help. If you want more information, please follow this link.

Why Being A Doctor Sucks

It’s a pain in the ass, really. Being a doctor. Or studying to become one. For starters, the syllabus is bigger than the Kardashian butt. And it’s also like quicksand. So, picture a Kardashian butt made out of quicksand, and there you have it – what it truly feels like to be a doctor. You’re in a ton of crap and you’re only sinking.

If you’re just a graduate, you suck, because you’re just a graduate. And you don’t mean shit.

If you’re studying to get your residency, but haven’t quite been able to manage it, you suck because you’re in limbo and you’re an idiot.

And if, after all of this drama, you do get through, you’re still a dumbass because you’re not super specialized.

Becoming a doctor, in India, is like trying to make out with a cactus. It’s that painful. No I haven’t tried it, I’m not that desperate.

What sucks the MOST, however, is that most people don’t get it when we try to flirt. Stuff like…

…falls completely flat when in my opinion, that’s a classic pick up line. Killer, even.

There’s also a this colossal misconception that we charge way too much, but nuh uh. We make peanuts for the shit we have to go through: people come with dumb problems like having eaten too much and gone all farty, smelly privates, OOZY privates and we treat you guys with a smile. And we make peanuts. Don’t complain.

We also have to lie a lot. Our partners don’t understand the concept of night shifts. Our patients won’t comply if we tell them a test would hurt. So we lie.

Honestly, this career option? Super frustrating. You must have a death wish if you’ve gone to medical school voluntarily. Me? I did go, fighting and screaming and scratching and crying. In my head. It’s a pain, the fight. There’s germs all over: there’s a constant risk of catching something and ending up dead. It’s not worth it. Sigh. Not worth it.

I’m screaming on the inside. But hey, if you finish last…

Modern Fairytale

You don’t text. You don’t call.

You don’t know the significant other at all.

No conversation, no talk.

You fight in DMs, you’re blocked.

You send nude selfies at work

“Nice junk”, you smirk.

There’s too much phone sex,

Followed by the occasional good morning text,

You don’t have things to talk about

It’s either sodomy or eating you out.

You don’t know stuff about each other

Because it’s just physical, so why bother

When you meet, it’s all about romping in the hay

And you still don’t have a thing to say

You go days without talking

And neither of you is sulking

You give each other so much space

People could swim in it for days

You don’t wish each other on Valentine’s Day

Preferring to stay with your boss instead

You don’t spend money on each other

She can get her own ring so why bother

This is just your modern fairytale

Forced happy endings, fake wind in your sails.