Signature Smell.

*slurring* "Can you tell I've had too much alcohol? Like, can you smell it of me?"

*matter of fact-ly* "Naahh... you always smell of a little smoke, a little alcohol, mixed with some random perfume, Didn't you know? That's like your.. signature smell. Don't worry. You're okay...!"

I almost laughed.

Almost. :|

‎"call me, so i can make it juicy for you."

Lil Wayne. Sir, Such Poetry! :')

It's been a rather interesting year for her, I think. Not a year, per se. Not yet anyway. Interesting twenty odd days perhaps? More intense than interesting, really. I remember talking to her on the first day of the year. Nothing extraordinary; just a little good humoured 'girl talk' (whatever that means!). She was telling me how she is almost proud at having spent the new year's eve by her self. I understand her pride. But that's mainly because I understand how she thinks the 'being by herself' bit she couldn't have done earlier. Even when she had wanted to. And the Universe knows she's wanted to.

All the time.

She tells me these things, you know?

Who else will she tell?

Oh no! It's not like she doesn't have her people, you know? She has one too many, to say the least. I don't know how she does it, really. "I make it look too bloody easy!", she laughs as she tells me that on several occasions. And then every once in a while, when in her ever so famous drunken stupors, she tells me how she 'needs' these people. All of them. But I know it's not because she's weak. Or because she can't be on her own. No sir! She's lived enough to know better.
Personally, I think it's for validation. Of her existence. Of her being.

And it's not like she hasn't been loved by them like no other. 

But of late, she's been strange. I've seen it too. She's not the same person.

I can almost hear her ringing voice in my ear, if and when I tell her that; "Me? Not the same person? Oh! What a tragedy that would be! Cause I'm pretty damn cool, man". And then she'd laugh. Laugh like it doesn't matter. Like, she can't believe how stupid I could've been to have thought of something like that in the first place, even if it were for a fleeting second. 
She'd laugh like you'd believe her.

Most do.
I did.

But as soon as I've written the above down, I feel slightly dubious of my smugness. My smugness about knowing her this well, perhaps? Because given the changes, maybe she won't laugh after all. I don't think she does anymore. Not that much, anyway. She's more analytical than lyrical now, I think.

It pisses people off that she's not a people's person anymore.

She told me it pisses her off more. 

Of course, she blames the men, among other things. Each one of them.

The females are too fucking sweet. All of them. 

All, but one.

And they're all so loved. So So Loved.

Even the one.

That one afternoon of the 11th of January... she was unrecognizable. Perhaps even to herself. She was seeking closure, she kept telling me. I believed her. I usually do. She's a nice girl, you know? A very nice girl. She's always wanted to be. So that afternoon, she came back stinking of  Classic Regulars intertwined with Glenfiddich, runny nose and puffy eyes, an apparent closure, and of course, two pairs of shoes. Life and it's ways. She claims to have lost her horny mojo after that day. She also claims, however secretly, that that was her very intention in the first place. Her face buried in his hair- the smell, the closeness- she wants it to stay; her words, not mine! 

I could sit and listen to her talk all day. You know? Because she's a nice girl. Only, I don't have the time. Or energy. Who does?
Who can?
But the one time I tried, she told me herself that it wont help, my 'being there'. For the simple reason that she doesn't know where to start. And she most definitely has no idea in hell where and when something ends. I just wish sometimes that she felt this existential when existentialism was in fashion. How has she heroically survived that awkward phase in life when everyone around her was falling prey to it? I think she was too busy being the rock then. That, or a bully. A popular bully.
School will always be her special place I know. She never told me that herself. I just always knew.

The popular bullies were the 'sluts' back in the day. And now, of course. She doesn't like 'slut'. No. Not the 'she' the post is about. Another 'she'. A 'she' my 'she' obsesses over. With all her heart. 
She finds 'whore' less offensive. Even 'prostitute'. Hence, so does she.
If only she'd come back to her, she thinks. Sigh.


I don't know what's up with her. Very few people do at this point. In retrospect, very few people ever did. I see how that can be intimidating for some. She doesn't like it. She doesn't want to intimidate people. I often wonder why not, though? It must be fun. "No, it's strange!", she says.
I don't believe her.
She likes to call it "old-age" that's causing her so much turmoil of the emotional kind. I tell her to quit flattering herself and let her call it "quarter-life crisis" for kicks. I hope beyond all hope, for her sake and mine, that she gets over it. Soon. 
TIme and tide wait for none, apparently. Neither do people. And she 'needs' people, apparently.
It's sad.


I think she should just aim for the stars, even if it is just to occupy herself.


And then of course, there's Lil Wayne.

,

Rivertigo.

The beach, the alcohol, the shacks, the conversations, the madness, the solace...
it's calling me back.
And so I'm going back!

Even though I am in a lot of pain right now courtesy my damn period, I know for a fact that if there is anything that would be more epic than Goa in January 2010, it is bound to be Goa in December 2011.

A moment. Or two.

There is something about time that,
regardless of your activities (however good or bad), sucks the life force out of you.

Sleep deprivation isn't it. 

From random mood swings to the acceptance of the futility of life.

Point being, the loss of the last ounce of energy in your system.

It's tragic.

Though, that period of sheer misery ends somehow
and you magically continue to still exist.

Driven by natural instincts, you turn to alcohol.
Lots of it.
So much of it that you swear at the end of each day that you're gonna give it up for good.

And then comes the next day.

Of course there are days of desperation.
Of Benadryll cough syrups. Of some other unmentionables.

Oh the sleep. 

The blessed motherfucking sleep. 

The sleep that refused to come to you for days together becomes your slave now.
You sleep with the hope of getting to sleep forever; it's that brilliant.

All of it, basically, is the quest for gaining your life back.

The energy you lose in monotony that doesn't matter to you.

Speaking of things that don't matter;
days of rendezvous with a chance lover. Or two?

But that is hardly the highlight of your week.

What is the highlight then, you wonder?

The loss of your wallet at a crowded local market, you think.

Or perhaps, that rather eventful  drunk auto ride with a loved one the other day.

How about him asking you out for drinks online without much introduction? Was that it?

Monotonous.

All of it.

You need your life back.

You need a release. 

You're out of alcohol. Sex isn't available.

You need imagination.

But you realize eventually, that all you need is probably yourself.

And that's when it happens...

On your favourite black leather couch, 

under the watchful eyes of Dexter Morgan and his accompanying commercials, 

you come back to life.

Twice.

Black.

A memory.

Face to face after years. Seven years to be exact.

I was dolled up in my being just as much as you were coupled in yours.

Exchanged greetings.

Ooh-ed and Aah-ed about how long it had been.

The father was present. He wasn't getting onto my last nerves, either.

Looking back, perhaps it was because you took over that spot for that moment.

Mum was inviting you and your  family over; your family of about two years?

Maybe it was just me, but I couldn't stand straight without feeling those ugly eyes on me.

No one knew what transpired in that room that morning.

No one knew about the possible murder of the person I could have been.

No one will ever know.

No one but us; you and I.

And we were not at the liberty to tell.

I call it Black.

No more.

No more stealing glances across a people filled room

No more  going to the moon and back on a broom 

Not that we care about the world ever, anyway

But now concerns for each other are also at bay
It's not like we completely change, or probably we do

Just, we don't always have each other to go to

No more praises, no more gifts

No more long conversations on a dreary shift

You don't tell me how I feel surreal like a dream

But that's not to say that you've stopped making me scream

Between the sheets and other places too

But we don't always have each other to go to

No more of 'us' being enough for sustenance

No more of sweet nothings for entertainments

There is nothing to worry about, though

We are just as great friends as we are foes

Only, once the two of us became one from two

Now we don't always have each other to go to

It's funny how romance gives way to reality, sooner or later.

I'm saving all my loving though;  am not yet a hater.

Day 10 - Your favorite superhero and why?

I like Superman.

I have never been crazily INTO comics/folklore etc, per se. But I like Superman. Always have. And I definitely like him over Batman.

Batman is no superhero. He's probably super-human, to say the least. He's so made- with his Bat-mobile and gadgets and Robin and even the fucking butler. Also, Joker has soo much more personality than him that it makes one wonder if he could have existed without Joker at all.
And then there's Superman. Takes off his fucking shirt and tada! he's out to save the world.
AND he flies.
Also, that Reeve dude was pretty hot too.
Not really my type though. Or is he?

baaaah! I don't want to take my University exams that start in two days...
Supermaaaaaaannnnn! Take Meee Awaaayyy!!!!