Friday, December 30, 2016


I am big believer of tattoos. It’s rather surprising, given my commitment phobia that’s only managed to run deeper over the years. But I love tattoos and the idea of getting a tattoo. It’s such a beautiful expression of who you are/were/might want to be and if it didn’t cost as much as they do, I’d be getting a few neat ones every year.

I also don’t pry too much about other people’s tattoos or what the meaning behind each branding is. I just smile internally each time I see a person sporting one. I don’t know why there’s so much pressure about justifying your tattoo to the other person - I’m just like, you wanted to get a Pinocchio’s nose on your dick? Do you, man! You think butterflies are the coolest thing in the world and that’s why you got them tattooed on your shoulder? Well, they probably are! The judgment needs to stop.

When people ask me about my tattoo, I tell them something vague now: I tell them I was drunk when I got it. I tell them it means nothing at all. I tell them it reminds me of the recklessness of my youth. I actually once had someone believe that my and my then BFF were all set to get matching tattoos, but she bailed on me after I got mine.

My conversations with people tell me that what scares everyone most about tattoos is the sheer permanence of it. Which is weird, because most of us have managed to embrace our permanent insecurities just fine. Also is it just me or the fact that you felt something strong enough to have it drilled on your body fucking incredible? So what if you “regret” it years later? Like, you didn’t regret your outfit at your 11th birthday party.

I mean, say I am dating someone and I get the person’s name tattooed on me. As most stories go, say I break up with that person and life goes on. Will it not always be amazing to me that I was capable of loving someone so deeply? Isn’t that what most of us want - to be able to love endlessly, uncontrollably and infinitely.

Saturday, December 3, 2016


He was obsessed with my boobs. He was one of my first few consequential sexual experiences in life and he just couldn’t get enough. He’d grab them as he pleased, he’d put his head on them and sleep in on rainy afternoons and he’d suck them till they hurt sometimes. I was in the 10th grade and if I’d leave my top button unbuttoned of this particular yellow shirt, it’d make him crazy.

I remember the first time he touched my boobs. It was my first real kiss and I’ll forever be indebted to him for making it as amazing as he did. I still feel tingly when I think about it - which admittedly, is often enough. There we were - I was pinned against the wall in a dark room and he kissed me like he’d loved me forever. His hand slowly slid inside my shirt and I think I was way too young to feel what I felt.

Like I said: tingly.

Years after we broke up, we reconnected and conveniently fell into a pattern of hyper-sexual behavior. We stopped making love, but we’d fuck all the time. He was still obsessed with my boobs. He’d suck me off in the backseat of his car and ask me for pictures when I moved to a new city. He’d pinch and he’d bite and I’ve seen him jerk off once to me just stroking my nipples softly.

We were really good in bed together, but I guess when you’re young and doped out, you need more loving than you need love. He was still obsessed with my boobs. I remember I’d met him once with someone else’s marks on my chest and he wasn’t impressed at all. He didn’t look at me when he came that day.

It’s almost poetic then that it was he who found the lumps in my breasts.

Monday, September 12, 2016

What Is Your Dream?

When did we grow up, exactly? It happened like a break-up almost. You know the kind of break up that happens over time - gradually. So gradually that you don't even realize when it sneaked up on you. You leave each other in such slow motion that when you finally cut the cord, you barely miss each other.

Also, when exactly can we officially start calling ourselves grown-ups?

I've never been scared of ageing though. There is some poetry to ageing, don't you think? Garlic-shaped under eye bags, grey hair, a cynical heart, frail limbs, regret, experience and laugh lines... Oh, I want all the laugh lines. I want to be one of those old women that people look at and say 'she looks like she's lived the life she wanted to for most parts'. And that she loved. And that she laughed... that she laughed a lot. She laughed to remember and she laughed to forget. And when she laughed, it filled the room because it was straight from the heart. Sigh. 

That is the dream. 

Monday, June 6, 2016

Same Time Tomorrow?

It usually happens to me a few moments before I sleep last night. You know, that time of the day when you're just contemplating your split ends, analyzing the weather, thinking about the one that got away, wondering if your parents will ever be able to be happy again, making up your mind about lunch tomorrow... that's when it happens to me. I think about writing and how I've spent another day without it. But as anyone who's ever known me would tell you, I'm good at convincing people of ideas that may not be their own originally and sometimes I see no harm in using the same tactics on myself. Why the hell not, right?

So I tell myself it's okay.

"No one reads your blog anymore. You scribbled some notes in your diary the other day. That surely counts, doesn't it? You do have a writing job, how are you possibly going to churn out any more words? Your thoughts aren't that important anymore. Maybe you only could write when you were in love with someone - and no, being in love with yourself doesn't count. You don't have a man to document; yup, no muse... that's the problem."

It usually happens to me a few moments before I sleep last night. You know, that time of the day when you're just contemplating your split ends, analyzing the weather...

Monday, February 15, 2016

Let's Dance!

He looks at me differently when I dance. I don't know what it is, but something changes in his face. His eyes have glint and he smiles almost unknowingly. He looks at me as if I am someone else - someone he wants to hold, someone he wants to kiss, someone he wants to pin down and fuck. 

But I don't blame him. 

I look at me differently when I dance. It's almost sexual.