Aloof

I guess we just have to realize the control (or lack thereof) we have over people or things.

I guess what naturally happens then is that slowly but surely you start getting out of fucks. The sentiment that it stems from is that if the things you do for someone is never really going to be enough, you might as well stop. Take a step back, try seeing it from an objective point of view.

And what happens when the objective point of view doesn't make sense to you?

I guess you start getting aloof.

On Most Days.

T and I have been friends for close to a decade now. Actually, cross that - We've known each other close to a decade now and that's really not the same thing. Especially, if you're like me and have known a lot of people over the years. 

When did we become friends exactly? I don't know. What made us identify each other as best friends exactly? I don't know. Why are we still friends exactly? I don't know. 

But I do know that she's feels like home (on most days, anyway). 

I realized it after living with her for about 6 months that we've actually been on a super long sleepover. Late night conversations, morning selfies, weight loss plans, pasta making, way too much alcohol and one too many cigarettes. Nothing has seemingly changed except now we can actually light up in our bedrooms, as opposed to sneakily smoking in her bathroom because her parents are in the house. 

It feels like we've grown up together. Just the other day when I was reading some stuff she wrote back in 2012, I realized just how much the both of us have changed. Is it commendable then that we still are what we are, despite the changes?

We don't like the same kind of people, food or activities. Hell, our go-to alcohol isn't the same anymore either! But, like she put it so beautifully - We may hate on each other all day and she may not approve of most of my life choices, but she tells me if anyone else does the same, she's going to break his face. And I believe her, mostly because she did kill a snake once. True story. 

Would I be friends with her if I met her now? I don't know. But I'm glad I am friends with her.

Because I do know that she feels like home (on most days, anyway).

88 days to go...

When I miss her too much I actually stalk her Facebook profile like some deranged ex boyfriend.
Not too much seems to be up with her; at least not socially.
Makes me think she must miss me like mad.
A lot is up with me apparently; at least socially.
And yet I miss her like mad.

88 more days to survive till I see her again.
And then I'll live for a bit. When I'd be in her arms as she'd be in mine.
Till the end of eternity, if not more.

If this isn't love, what is?
I love her.
I surprise myself at how much I do.

The Secret.

"Just sit here with me, by my side. You don't have to say nothing, just smile."


Maybe I will.

Secret Lovers.

Eyes light up when you look at them

It needs will power to keep your hands off them

You can't be all over each other

You can tell your people are looking at you.

You'd talk through the night anticipating the next day's meeting

But you can only go as far as mild brushing of the elbows

You can't even sit too close

You can tell  your people are looking at you.

But you know what you feel and it's as true as true gets

There's such little truth in the world that you know one when you see one

So you take days off every now and then, to get away 

You know? 'Cause you can tell your people are looking at you

And then  it's just you and them and everyone aside

You pretend to be all grown up and do all that you can't among others

It's your special time and you don't give a fuck if they put the spotlight on you

Because you can tell that none of your people are looking at you

Because they can't no more

It's your time to shine

And then you realize

That maybe

It's no great love until it's truly truly precious

And that

Perhaps

It's not truly precious until it's a well kept secret.

Dear Bob,

Because I promised you a happy post and one that I hope you'd comprehend better than most, here goes...

April is exactly two months away. Two months is a long long time. And knowing you, you'd probably fall in and out of love with me over 800 times in the course of these two months. But two months it is. Unless of course you stop being such a miser and take an earlier flight back. 

Or worse, you decide to not come back at all.

But that's another story.

But this isn't so much about your coming back (Weeeeee:D) as it is about me missing you. And of course, I keep telling you that over and over and then another time after that. But that's just because of my irrational fear of you getting over me. It probably goes back to the time when you'd crumble my tiny little 18 year old heart into pieces of ash on a regular basis. 

Oh! Has it been that long?

Apparently.

A questionably large mix of Chivas and Teachers later, i get down to write this. Because I told you I would yesterday. Yesterday; when I forbade you to hate me. And you said I can't. Like, you forbade me to forbid you. It's pretty damn funny if I think of it now. 

It wasn't last night.

But I'm not buzzed just yet. And what a shame that is. But it's this alcohol, in inappropriate amounts no less, that gets me closest to any forms of happiness I've known in recent times. And then there's you. 

You, who I just can't figure out.

But I mkiss you.

I remember you. The way you  cocked your little head to one side and did that thing you do with your fingers(knuckles?) to my head. So affectionate! So originalllll!!

And then of course, I saw you do it to someone else too. But that hardly mattered. You did it to me too. And that was enough, I thought.

Not really. Not enough. But it made me happy.

And then began days and nights of my stalking you. Mentally more.

I would 'plan' for hours together and think of how I would jaaaasstt pounce on you and probably bite your elbow off. Or your cheeks? Either/or really. Or grab you and hug you for one eternity too many. Ooo ooo.. and when we saw that Padukone draaaaaggg of a movie with your fingers in my mouth. That wasn't planned. I was just really really bored.

Too much is coming back to me now.

And I cannot believe it can be this harsd to just switch and be gay for life. Because, I want to spend my entire life with youuuuuuu. It will be magical. 

But that's hardly important. What is important is that you're getting back. And I demand of and command you to take me out like old times. Eat crappy pizzas with me and make yours better by ketchup-ing the fuck out of it. And then talk in your car and talk for 34567876 hours as my neighbourhood judges us girls smoking. 

Oh! And I think ive told you about how Ive wanted to kiss you too? Just the one time though.
But what do you know?? I have a fair share of girl stories to tell you when you come back this time. hahaha.

And it just struck me that the magic isn't that important as of n ow,I guess.

We can just laugh for now instead.

Love and Lust,

Yours truly,

Me :)

I have found my baby!

Quick Short Post.

I am hardly maternal. I cringe at the mention of kids and my face starts looking like a fucking veg momo at the idea of ever having to be a mother. Or at least it did.

Not that I have had a divine conversion and I am now even a tiny bit comfortable with the idea of shooting out babies from pee-adjacent areas. And yes, my idea of being the ideal mother still is adopting a pretty looking girl child of 5years of age when I am 30 and then make her exactly like me. But now I think the girl child can wait because I have found my baby!

I am overprotective about most of my people, yes. But with her, it's different. It's maternal. I feel funny even writing it. But it's true. With her small mouth and big hair, she walked right into my heart and how.

I'd be responsible for all your 'firsts' too. Always!!!

So because adoption is a huge long tiring process and also perhaps because I am getting my period soon and am feeling particularly gay at the moment,  I just want to tell you that I will make do with you, kid.

Forever. :)
I don't think I can let you out in the big bad world yet. I just can't. :( :(

And you should feel pretty cool knowing that you're probably the only kid in the history of humankind whose mother calls her up post midnight to say, 

"I think we should grow a penis, go to Manali and then write our names on the snow with pee."


I want to end this post with 'those three words', but I think I say them too much to you anyway.



Iloveyou.
Fuck! I don't think I can help it sometimes.


OkBye.

My Baby and I :')

Boblipop.

You're like winters this year;
You're Almost Here.

:) :) I start smiling like a fool right about now.

The One With The Heart.

Yes, he's loud and fun and social and has all the other attributes that might make people associate the 'buddy' like quality in him wherever he goes; but I can tell it's not true. Underneath his layers of humour, painfully pathertic jokes and drastically different hair/beard styles, he's a greater person. I met him three years back, I think. We had to transgress through the  heirarchies of relationships:
From being my best friend's friend's boyfriend, he became my friend's boyfriend and eventually my friend. And what a wonderful feeling that is! To be his friend. Sure, you think it's all 'buddy' like.


I am not to sure of what time of the year or our lives it was and I have never ever spoken to him about it. Hell, I don't even remember the exact incident. And hence, I am almost certain that he would have no memory of it whatsoever. But it had something to do with my father; when things were especially painful with him. It was a time when I hadn't reached my current state of blissful indifference with him. But I digress..
My friend and I. We were at the usual shady smoking spot of  ours where Army kids socialize and always let civilians like me feel all 'group-y'. I said something about the father to him out of pent up frustration and I have no memory whatsoever of what he had said back to me. But I do remember no one else having made me feel as much better as he did that one evening.
And that's when everything changed.
He wasn't the little kid everyone cracked him up to me. He was a man.
A man who completely wronged his supremely ironic nickname, 'Nanha'. He is over 6', to say the least.


 You know how stories precede people and you end up forming an opinion of a person based on those stories? He is one such with the bag of stories. Not that I judged him earlier 'cause I know what carrying past baggage is like.
But over the years, with and without all his fuckups, he epitomizes courage for me. He has seen enough, felt enough, done enough; good and bad. He's minus manipulations, I feel. He seems to consider them way too trivial for his taste.
He's the friend. He'll be there.
He'll crib and make your life hell when you may not be that regular with your calling/texting/keeping in touch routine, though. But, he'll be there.


He has, just like all of his counterparts, a girlfriend, loving parents, money, car, bike, permissions, sense of humour... the works!
But there's that one little thing that sets him apart;
He's the one with the heart.

I call this part of my life, 'Happiness'.

I know we may have had issues in the past, but I am over them now. Now you're a part of me; now, you're almost me.

I may have sworn on one beloved too many to cut you off from my life. Most parts of you at least, if not completely. But it's too damn hard. I don't know or understand why I must blog about you at all. Aren't you just another little inconsequential blob in my life? Aren't you that which ties me down, apparently? It might just be true, you know? That's what they tell me. 

And they're hardly ever completely wrong.

Ha. Of course you'd deny it.

I mean, why wouldn't you?
All you've ever wanted is for me to get entrapped in your shackles and deliberately offend my pride, among other things. You know what's stranger? That I let you. Each time, I do.
Most times, I do.

You might wonder why I let you, though. Let you get me into the state of absolute passion wherein my eyes roll into the back of  my head more often than not and I can only see myself addicted to all the things you do. It's a different high. To think you weren't an active part of my life only ten months ago, sends a chill down my spine; and then again, you do too... send chills down my spine. And other places. Isolated evenings, happy nights, peaceful mornings- you've been there. We've been through a lot together. Last year-end was  especially hard, don't you think? But then, there's something about you and I.

I am so lucky to have found you. Found or discovered? I don't know if one's more apt than the other. My dear, Old Monk with coke, you're special. Every sip makes me wonder what your lips might look like, had you been a real person. On my higher points, I think I try and feel the shape of your mouth on my lips. I don't think they're trouty, though. It's got to be Old Monk and not Bacardi, for me. Bacardi's got this vanilla-like after taste. Nothing brings more warmth to my heart than when my company orders my 'usual' for me. Just, don't ask me, order me my drink and let it repeat over and over. And then some more. You'd have me smiling at you for hours while I probably picture you naked.
Nah. I don't picture all my women naked. Only, the one.

I am not too appreciative of my heightened capacity for drinking suddenly. That's heavier on the pocket, of course. But ah! the bliss. I have had my most intelligent conversations under influence; with men, women and dogs. Not to mention, the nirvana achievement in the dancing. *insert orgasmic noises here*
All that, with one cigarette too many, It's fireworks!

Just you and I and everyone aside,
especially beer;
I call this part of my life, 'Happiness'.

Some people sing, some people fly.
I  apparently have conversations with their dog when I'm high.
"You've got a great life, you dog! Be my purple money now?"

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.

Dear Ryan,

Do you remember the time when we'd dress up and pretend to be movie stars, pop stars.. rockstars?

Or the time when we'd draw out little story boards on paper for Our version of the movies we didn't like and those that we did? 

Or the time when we'd use deo bottles as mike and sing songs of love with such passion?

That was the plan, right?

Do you remember the bizarre things I'd tell you?

I'd tell you how I was not going to do the whole long-gown thing for the red carpet. I'd tell you how I was going to show up in leather pants with pointy red heels that would bring out my ass, along with the colour of my eyes. I'd tell you to wear a plum blazer with baggies, for some reason. I'd tell you we'd make a statement. They'd think we are lovers. But we'd never clear the air when Simi would call us for a rendezvous, or even Oprah; because, 'lovers' didn't do it. 

"Just because we're barely 10 doesn't mean we don't feel as much", you'd tell me.

Do you remember the bizarre things you'd tell me?

You'd tell me how we'd walk into a restaurant and people would stop eating to witness our grand entry. You'd tell me how each of our many moves was going to be as precious as timeless art. You'd tell me that we weren't ordinary. You'd tell me that we were different; we were magic! You'd tell me that we'd make our way through the very expensive restaurant, take our seats and lose ourselves in conversations; conversations not about the work that's got us all that we have, but conversations about us. You know? Because we'd still be the humble souls in touch with our roots. 

"You'd still just order cheese pizza and coke, idiot!", I'd tell you.

You'd never disagree.

We thought we'd be rockstars! 

We never saw any reason to believe otherwise.

We were certain of the applause we'd get. We were certain of the autographs we'd sign.

We were certain that we won't tour too much.
Only Paris, maybe.
And New York. And China.

I'd planned to trick you into touring Korea too. You never wanted to go back to your roots, apparently! It was always Delhi for you. And people would think a Korean kid has it hard away from home. 

Such grand plans.

Then came 2004.

You died.

I wonder what you'd think of me now?

Of my right choices or the sheer dearth of them. 

Of each smoke curl that escapes my parted lips.
Of my excessive drinking.

Of each time I say anything. Or think it.

You're probably a rockstar in Heaven now - however fantastically foolish that sounds - and you're probably building up anticipation in our audience about my arrival.

A good thing, that.

Anyway, I write this to tell you that'd someday I might get to see you again.
Someday I might get to touch you again.
Someday I might have your breath in sync with mine again.
Someday, that's not today.
Today, I found a picture of you.
I burnt it.
In my defence, you left me alone.
YOU DIED!

Sincerely,
Me.

Leaving On Jetplanes.

Here's the deal : Since the age of fourteen, each time I have liked someone enough to picture a happy future with him, complete with the cushions I want to buy for Our house, the person leaves. And no, I am not talking about a sad break up. Just magically (and tragically, believe you me!) the guy's geographical location would change. It's true! 

It started with Ryan, whom I lost to cancer. (RIP, you.)

Growing up with an Army circle had its flip side; the guy's Dad got posted out of Delhi.

This one time the guy's family had to move to Malaysia because the family without a father had suffered severe business losses.

And then when a certain 'he' was sent to a hostel in Chandigarh because he was caught by the father with a few traces of some innocent hash on him. 

Finally, my mother-of-all-complicated-relationships-in-the-universe guy had to move to the US for more than just a couple of months, when I was certain that he was the one I wanted to make some babies with.

I stopped falling in 'love' after that, for some reason.

Love or whatever the hell kids call it these days. 

I realized that maybe it's jinxed. It's the Universe's way of mocking my looking down upon the breed of 'long distance' relationships. It's true. I don't understand how talking on the phone and now Skype qualifies you to call what you have, a real relationship. I'm not questioning the love both parties may have for each other or the commitment. But I just don't buy the 'in a relationship' tag that they might choose to endorse even with their grand emotional turmoils.

Point being, I didn't do the whole love charade anymore. I did do all sorts of 'love things' though. With all sorts of 'lovely people'... just never with as much involvement, I guess.

Then last year came this blow of my confusion and subsequent dealings with my potential bisexuality; which ended very Very badly, might I add. I am still an all out supporter for one's sexual rights and choices. Only, some experimentations, like mine, don't end up like one might have played them out in one's head. 

Funny story, though. That, for some other day.

Anyway, during that 'phase' (?), I fed this obsession for this girl. This girl I love. 

As platonic as it is and as away from my cushion-buying vision as it is,
it's still love.

And hence, no points for guessing, she's leaving next month. For Bombay...

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

So anyone out there who might be having any visa issues or some such, come!

Come and make me fall for you.

And before you know it, you'd have left for another land.

Where the truth lies.

People lie because of their reasons. The reasons that make perfect sense to them, anyway. But the most common excuse for lying is because one 'cares'. I don't buy that at most times.

Then of course there's the great shield of the 'little white lies' that don't hurt anyone, apparently.

I'm no preacher who's going to go out of her way condemning lies and saying that she has never lied in her life; because that'd be a lie. All I am saying is, lying isn't cool and is so much harder than telling the truth. Also, how does one remember all the stories and little details that go behind backing up each lie? The sadder part is, most people I know don't seem to be taking as much offence about it. They see it as a part of life. 

I guess they're right too.

However, you know how there comes that one time when C really likes B and A is obsessed with B and you find A lying to B stupidly, in A's quest to keep B away from C?

As twisted as it is, C ends up feeling oddly at peace somehow. C likes the idea of C being important enough to cause someone to lie.

No points for guessing who C is.

Yes, it's me.

Us Sadistic Hypocrites...

Sigh.

"Maybe you can be my friend foh-eh-vah"

Remember when we were uglier than what we are now and were gawky and didn't know what to do with our arms for the most part?
Remember your first day in school when I thought your surname was 'Aila' for some strange reason and showed you my cavity in my quest of making you feel comfortable?

Of course you do.
I do too.

School will always be special for more reasons than one and yes we had a blast when we were together. But who would have thought that you and I, of all the people, would land up in the same college?
Sharing our subjects, books, seats, coffee, rum, jokes, cigarettes, money, rides, dreams, aspirations... life! I think it's just strange that it took so fucking long for you and I to become 'us'. It's a shame, really!
But better late than never, right?

Of course we have our share of the boring.

The days we hardly talk. We just sit beside each other, smoke our lungs out, sometimes laugh at the Mithas uncle, correct grammar on fancy posters and contemplate our split-ends along with other sob stories. I like how we don't have any burning need to make conversation all the time.

I like how it's okay-to-be-quiet with us.

Of course we have our share of the boring; Boring, but never stagnant.

Oh! And the mood swings!
How there are days when I want to kill you (out of love, of course) for being too rude.
And then those when you want to strangle me for being too mean.
Friends do not want to do that. Friends should not want to do that.
We, however, are different. Cool-ly so.
(Mean and Rude are NOT different things, freak!). 

From serious anticipation about whether or not we'd have to sleep our way up to the top at the workplace to our little secret theories about all things on the planet; from my 'scripting' your messages to a certain somebody to you taking care of me in the college canteen; from midnight loo conversations to our very very very long walks; from finding meanings to new words in that huge ass dictionary to using the ever so loved theory of being the rule or the exception in every given scenario; I can't help but be thankful. For you.
And sorry. For the world.
Of course I can't express that.. since we're just awkward when we hug each other.
Except for birthdays, of course. That's the 'exception'.

With time, we'd drift apart. Also, our careers (if any) might take us to different geographical locations. Then, instead of a boob job from my first pay check, I will come and visit you wherever you are with that money, so that we can hug and be all awkward and maybe then, I can finally teach you to pout...

Crossing the road would never be the same without you.

"Cya at eight kal?"

A Revelation

I like screaming.
I gained awareness of the fact only a few hours ago. Talk about lack of self-knowledge!

I always saw myself as being someone away from violence of any kind. Too scared, really. I hardly lose temper and in the rare occasions I do, I make a joke out of it or switch off for a bit. No dramatic monologues for me. Okay, some dramatic monologues for me; but only in the confines of my private space. Even in the most brutal of confrontations, I have managed to be that girl who very calmly conducts herself with appropriate amounts of meanness and gets her way. As guilty as I may be, I have also resorted to crying sans any(much) noise. The joy of screaming has been very ignored by me, until today.

I felt so light and powerful. This, when I didn't even scream for something important. I wonder how relieving it's going to be when I scream for a real reason. It's underrated and definitely leaves with a sense of empowerment. Anyway, after a pissed off day and dealing with some seriously 'in-need-of-IQ' people, I found solace in the world wide web.Facebook notified me about a certain somebody's post on my wall. It was a post titled 'orange plum, this is for you'. It's then I realized all over again that if there's anything more endearing that screaming, it's a nice gesture when you least expect it.

I like to call her my blog admirer to flatter myself. But more importantly, she is this tiny and extremely engaging little person who I love talking to. I am not big on adding random people on Facebook and/or interacting with (whatever little of) my blog readers outside the realms of blog-space, but I don't know what fateful day it was that I made a little exception and entered her in.
I like her energy and her OCD'd self; it helps me get away from my issues.
She helps me get away from my issues.
And the Universe knows, I have serious issues.

She told me I have an attention span of a 7year old, once. Just how is someone who is at least 83950kms away from supposed to know that? :O

So here's to you Isha Maniar and I would like to end by promising you that I do not intend to scream at you ever; however much  may want to.
Oh! Also, now you better smile so much more than you should!

P.S- For those who might have a PHD in missing the point, 83950 is a hypothetical figure and may be part of a very special phone number.
Mine :P

Day 05 - A picture of somewhere you’ve been to.

Goa.
January, 2010.

I really haven't been to too many places.
I hate travelling. I don't see the point!
But Goa was something.
Five days. Girlfriends. Vodka. Smokes ( I feel the need to mention Godang Garam here). Music. Beach. Chicken. Dance. AWESOME!!
Maybe we should go end of year, Peeeeto? Sunburn?

Also, I am over Vodka for a while now. Rum and Coke is my new poison.

Anyway, Delhi is the shit! I love Delhi and everything about it.
The people, the places, the food... oh! The Food!!
Everyone should just come to Delhi and be here forever.
But I have to have to-have  to-have to go to Mumbai. Soon.
And Pune.
And Leh-Ladakh.

Oh! The picture is at Colva Beach, Goa. And that distant, tiny person is me.
Being tall is overrated, man!

And miles to go before I sleep

"Happy New Year!"- A bit harsh, don't you think?

How can anyone possibly hope/wish that the coming 365 days of anyone's life be "happy". Sure it's going to have the "happy" but also the 'sad' with so much more. Let's just say, "Survive The Year", shall we?

Yes! I seem to be at my cynical best and an absolute joy to be around!

No! The 'slap' hasn't stopped haunting me just yet.

Yes! I have come with ways of getting over it.

No! They don't seem to be making much sense to anyone but me.

I genuinely believe that a haircut will make me happy! I don't understand how no one else gets it!

Coco Chanel once said, "A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life". It's not like the quote is the reason for the decision but it totally goes on to justify it. It's comforting and consoling. More so, when the hand that hit you really hard liked to play with the ends of the hair every now and then. I am getting them really short. If I get up before noon tomorrow, then tomorrow morning.

Next, I am getting a tattoo. Probably next month. Forearm or Ankle?

I have never really been a 'tattoo person', per se, but this is something I need to do. It's disgusting to live with the knowledge that the maximum physical pain I have ever felt is courtesy a non entity. Hence, the tattoo. I am getting high and going for it the next time I have enough cash.

It's going to be a star(or two) and with that, I want inscribed, "miles to go". 

The almost two decades of my existence have seen growing evidence of my fascination with the stars. It may sound really bookish but I want star(s) on my body because it's going to be like my little piece of sky, however small. I love stars. They shine, are far off, move, tell tales, pretty, the works!

The "miles to go" is part of the famous quote "And miles to go before I sleep..". It's an excerpt from "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost. I remember reading this and "The Road Not Taken" (by the same poet) back in the fifth grade, for the first time. Over the years I have read them over and over and no piece of poetry has garnered as much appreciation, attention and love from me. They make perfect sense. Even with the growing years and changing perspectives, they always make perfect sense.

There was an entire phase with "The Brook" by Alfred Tennyson and what has stayed with me still is the part that goes "for men may come and men may go, but I go on forever". This was a serious consideration with respect to having it on my body. However, couldn't overlook the dripping sexual connotations to it and also what it might look like to anyone who isn't aware of the poem.

So ya. That's that.

New Year's Eve was a hell of a crazy night, like always! Alcohol and high heels do not go! I woke up with the growing knowledge of a lot of body parts to whose existence I was oblivious, until they started hurting like fuck, the next morning. My Internal Exams start from the 4th of this month and I am as prepared to take them as I was the first day of the session. I don't know why I must bother about them, anyway! I see doomsday ahead.

The year gone by had it's share of good and mad.

It's 2011 now;

New Year,

New Beginnings,

Surviving...

Same Old Shit!

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I want to mention JAYA in this post 

• because he is awesome and I love him
• "I know (s)he's kind of socially retarded and weird, but (s)he's my friend...so, just promise me you wont make fun of him(her)!" - Mean Girls
• because he think he looks very cool in his newly grown beard.. which he does.. *coughs*
• because I think he needs to know that I have been trying to paint a kickass t-shirt for him since his birthday and have ruined two perfectly normal plain t-shirts, in the process.
• because he must take me around in his car more often
• because I must try and study now

P.S- My profile picture of the blog is a picture clicked by him and I am using it without permission. But I will cook for him and that will make him very very happy, yes? yes.

Ageless. Priceless.

"It sucks! 

You're too old for your age! 

WHY WON'T YOU ACT YOUR AGE???! aarrgghhh"

"Hariyali!! WHY WON'T YOU ACT YOURS???!!"

-Makes me feel new levels of cool each day. Don't go...  
P.S- I am NOT old for my age!!!

Because.

Because it's embarrassing to tell you not to go because I will miss you
Because I get more than elated when you tell me that you hate to see me go.
Because one of my favourite things to do in life is to sit with you in the car and talk.
Because I never mean to freak you out.
Because I like hugging you a lot.
Because I come in the 'group' things only because I know you'll be dropping me back.
Because my life's greatest fear is that I might drunk-call you someday.
Because my life's greatest tragedy is that I intimidate you.
Because each time you don't call/text/reply, I go into my bubble of self doubt.
Because I like to look at you when you drive.
Because you said my lips are nice, today.
Because I don't get how I make you feel heavy inside.

Because I hope and wish that you'll text tonight.

Because I am not having coffee/chocolate or any of its forms for a month now.

Because you matter.
A lot.