One of My 45984598789 Drafted Posts.

I am so happy!

I want to jump up and down, grind against strange men, sing crass Hindi songs very loudly, shake my booty, eat lots, hug a white Labrador.. Not necessarily in that order, though. But, you get the drift, right?

Anyway, do you ever think about death?

The Girl With The Latin Tattoo.

She goes up the magical stairs to toil in a glass palace. It's a palace, indeed; complete with snooty men and condescending women sipping spirits and the likes in their intimidating china . 

Yet, she goes up the magical stairs to toil in a glass place.

It's lonely at the top, apparently. She's not alone, though. She has her shiny glittery black shoes in place that click loud enough when she walks; but only if she wants them to. She walks in beauty with her smooth gait in and then of course they notice her. One can't miss her being, wrapped in layers of elegance which is, rather sexually, intertwined with some fear. The fear may surprise a few. Not me. It's but the fear of self. 

She fears going on a journey. She fears she might not make it.

Don't we all? Sigh

She thinks Heaven's gonna burn her eyes, even though, in reality, it's probably her eyes that would burn Heaven. Her teary eye gleam tender shades of denial. Denial doesn't do her any good. She knows that just as much as I do. Anyway, the journey she fears going on would've been easier had it been in terms of location, you'd think. Or even time, for that matter. But hers is a deeper quest. I think it's trust. 

In her naivety, she trusts.

If only she knew she is stardust. As precious.

Also, ad astra per aspera — that's her fate. She just doesn't know it yet.

She's probably caught up and busy.

Busy because she goes up the magical stairs to toil in a glass palace. It's a palace, indeed; complete with snooty men and condescending women sipping spirits and the likes in their intimidating china . 

Yet, she goes up the magical stairs to toil in a glass place.

Food For Thought.

Don't you just love food? Like, love it more than anything else?

Well, I don't mean all the time. I, for one, have phases with my food cravings. I would like to believe that I have a generous appetite, to say the least. But most of the friends I eat with may beg to differ. Nevertheless, hungry or not, food is spectacular. Magical, even. And healing, of course.

The smell of garlic and chilly as it makes that crackling sound in heated butter is bliss. Add to that a little flour, milk, oregano and chilly flakes and you have the perfect white sauce for a yum pasta. And mushrooms. And cheese. Oh! Cheese. It's milk's leap towards immortality. Is it just me or does it make the world around really happy and musical? Just like in the movies. It's nostalgic too; reminds me of chaotic Sunday mornings of about year 8 of my life when my mum had the time and will to make pizzas for me and my friends with little cubes of Amul cheese. Amul cheese and tomatoes and garlic and chicken chunks and different coloured peppers with some seasoning. I remember feeling fancy because we were the only people I knew who got the fancy peppers in red and yellow, apart from the regular green. Peppers, if eaten right, can be a delight in its own. Crunchy peppers of all colours, crunchier lettuce leaves, onions, smoked chicken and dollops of olive oil along with some white gram and creamy dressing; toss it together, add some white feta cheese with it and some lemon zest and feel good about life. And then they say, salads are boring. I loathe salad of any kind for the simple reason that they're too..errm..healthy. But I humbly make an exception here and there. The sight of bacon and it's glistening body wrapped around cheese is mouth watering. Then there are the charmingly wafer thin ham slices which make the otherwise mundane bread rather colourful for snacks of all kinds. I am a huge fan of sandwiches. Anything between bread somehow rises up in my edibility radar. I think the simple cucumber sandwiches for tea, though are prodigies of the British rule, are highly underrated. The buttered slices of uncooked bread slices with thin-sliced cucumbers between them..ah! Slightly toasted and slightly buttered are my favourite form of bread with hard boiled eggs.

The use of chicken stock is always a delightful addition. Stock brought to a boil with coriander, ginger and garlic topped with appropriated dashes of vinegar and soya sauce makes me want to spend all my cold winter nights consuming it. I have never particularly liked the ever-so-popular momos, though. They're flour balls with a little chicken in them. But the fiesty red dip with it.. now that's the stuff! Talking about 'the stuff', Indian herbs. spices and food habits in general take the heart away. Minus the burps and its cousins, of course. The cube of butter melting over a hot parantha makes me want to cry with joy. That, with pickled carrot and sourish yogurt; that's the breakfast of the hills here. Sigh. The chicken curry with its overdoses of garlic and garam masala is extra terrestrial in it's being as it is spicy and full of heat yet humbling and gentle. The Butter Chicken is elevated taste, to say the least. And the kababs and tikkas; each melt-in-the-mouth bite can make one ponder upon its hours' marination in asafoetida (heeng), curd, cream etc. The delicacies of the tandoor are a personal favourite, especially when they are served with 'salad' (pronounced 'sa-laaaad') that comprises round sliced onions and fresh tomatoes. Tomatoes with basil is a treat, isn't it? Tomatoes and basil steeped in extra virgin oil and lemon zest - a go-to curry. Another go-to for me is definitely mac and cheese. Of course, alfredo fettuccine/penne is the adult's mac and cheese. However, nothing beats pizza. Nothing!
Nothing but potato wedges dipped in mayonnaise. 

Sigh.

I think I'm going to have a food orgasm. And I've only just written all this down.

Rachel- "What would you give up, sex or food?"
Joey- "Food..No, Sex..Food..Sex..Food..Sex..OH GOD, I DONT KNOW, I WANT BOTH, I-I WANT GIRLS ON BREAD!"

- F.R.I.E.N.D.S

^Can totally empathize!

Don't you just love food? Like, love it more than anything else?

The Sex Face.

It's not possible.

No matter how much of a stud you are;

No matter how popular among friends and family and beyond you may be;

No matter how much of the world you may be ruling; it's just not possible:

You can't have a not-hideous sex face.

One would think that only a seemingly heartless woman with no feelings or respect whatsoever can think or say something like this. But it's true.  The Urban Dictionary  defines Sex Face as 'The stupid ass face you make leading to busting a nut'. It's exactly that - A Stupid Ass Face. Once one is over the frills and thrills of making out and sex, in general, does one realize that the sheer expression while at it is hilarious, to say the least. 

That one fine day when one probably booty calls not for the purposes of hormonal satisfaction particularly but because one just wants to experience the feel of one's new pair of denims being pulled off for cheap thrills and hence the focus on the action is not completely enthusiastic. It is then when you're struck by enlightenment about the glaring fact. And you'd think that something that's indicative of the pleasure quotient of the moment is going to be so much more interesting and/or interested looking. I get all the shut eyes and the cursing and the lip bites (?) and the curling toes, but the face on its own could be quite the buzz-kill.

It's a strange look encompassing everything from fear, disgust, repulsion, pain, agony.. basically, everything. Everything but lust. Or love. Or any of their versions.
I, for one, am appalled and probably slightly amused.
One laughs, as much as one thinks is appropriate, at a guy's sex face and then enlightenment strikes again; one then thinks of one's own possible sex face. Sigh.

......................................................................................................................

I have been told that the blog contains more than necessary sexual content. I have never argued that notion with too much enthusiasm or effort anyway. Nevertheless, too much sex didn't kill anyone, now did it? Ooo. I think it did.
Anyway, I feel the need to mention my favourite IITian and the most condescending person I know of, here. He is a proud owner of an awesome but almost dying blog. Also, he thinks yours truly may be a sex addict- which is absolutely false! He is in Hong Kong at the moment. And sad. And alone. And sans any sex. 
And yet, I am the one who might be missing him a little bit. EWW.


P.S- Just for the record, The Sex Face post has not, in any possible way, been inspired by his beautiful face. True Story.

Some Advertising.

Ooo.. You know what you SHOULD read?

1) THIS

Also, there is this super cool E-magazine that goes by the name of Whackk, where yours truly is a regular contributor.
Hence, you should check out this and this, which were up for the month of June.

Some publicity never hurt anyone, now did it?
Even though I feel leetle cheap for the advertising, I have my reasons.

That'd be all :)

That friend.

We all have that friend. Well, most of us do.

That friend you'd meet when you are way into the prime of your adventurous streak.
That friend whose ass you had to cover each time they screwed up.
That friend who'd get suspended with you back in school for two weeks;
and then some more.
That friend who'd be a proud member of your back bench-er association.
That friend who'd go pick up a fight with the girl who called you names.
That friend who'd run away from home and live with you.
That friend whose mother trusts you to be the one to put some sense into them.
That friend who'd be an excited little blob when you make them bunk school for the first time.
That friend who'd write you love chits for no reason.
That friend who'd always make you want to go out of your way to protect them.
That friend who'd take a million pictures with you, without occasion.
That friend who'd be part of the 'people-you-can-never-speak-to' clan before they became That Friend.
That friend who'd spend all their summer evenings talking to you.
That friend who'd always pretend to be equally concerned when you'd fret over your potential balding.
That friend who'd often seem like an extension of yourself;
an unhygienic extension. But an extension nevertheless.

That friend with whom you just stop having anything in common with after a point.
That friend with whom the lack of commonality seizes to bother after a point.

We all have that friend. Well, most of us do.

That Friend who picked out the Red for you.