!@#$%^&*

It's almost midnight and I sit in a very very dirty room wearing, what I call 'the first signs of winters ending', borrowed boxers and t-shirt. It's also a reminder of a long overdue leg-waxing appointment. But that's another story.

I write this not to make a point but to kill time. When you are five days into having deactivated your Facebook account, you realize that Facebook takes away a lot of your time, yes. However, the bigger realization is that you probably didn't need as much time in the first place. Especially, if you're like me. 

Ive never really been into Superheroes, per se. But they have this kind of novelty, you know? So it's always great to think that you're like some Superhero too; at least at some points in your life. And then life happens and reality strikes and you realize that you're no Superhero; just plain old Garfield.

And I'm Garfield.

And hence I don't need all this time off Facebook. I just want to eat and sleep.

And drink and smoke and dance and have sex.

But Garfield sex, you know?

I just have one problem with Facebook - The stalker-hood it is! I go out, I sneeze, I come back home and log in- there's a picture of me sneezing on my profile! Ugh. It was consuming my entire life! And telling me I know way too many people or have one dress too less or repetitive makeup or Bah! I don't know. It's frustrating. And over 2500 pictures of you tagged by other people just does it.

So ya. I'm off. 

Not for good, though. It's just a little break.

It's like an ex flame you can't ever get rid of for too long. Im just saying.

I can't believe how much I've typed already. And most of it doesn't even make sense. Like, it makes sense to me because I've written it. Completely original ideas. Wow! I think I got this smart dating. I think you should date people wayyyyyy out of your league. Preferably older. And then let them teach you a thing or two. And then you break up. Because they're out of your league, remember? But not a messy break up. Then you move on. Don't worry about dying along. Because, believe it or not, you are never fucking alone! EVER. Even when you might want to be.
I think I write better on my laptop than on paper. Haha. Imagine! This is my better. I'm no writer. I thought I was a while ago. But then I realized I write just like I talk. And then sometimes I write giving away more than what I may have desired. That's not really a sign of a great writer, now is it?

See! All this time at hand! So much to do! But I would much rather Garfield around and blog about absolutely nothing!

Speaking of blogging about absolutely nothing, my blog turned two on the 13th of this month. Haha. Two years of my unpremeditated blabber about 'sex, parties, alcohol and friends'. 

"Girls your age talk about love and feelings"

"I talk about love. I love sex, parties, alcohol and my friends!!"

And of course I couldn't care less. And I forgot all about it until yesterday. Because I know I'm not a writer no more. The bigger question, however, is that if I ever was?

Now I'm bored and I'm out of smokes.
I miss my brother.

Goodnight.

...

It's that feeling you can't describe. No matter how much you try to.

You'd always be the one that got away.
Who kept all my miseries at bay.
The above statement is easily a lie now.
Cause miserable you made me and how.
But stuff like that doesn't stay with you, you know?
And what a tragedy that is.

I remember only the happy, I do.
And yes, sometimes now and then, I even miss you.
But I don't think I love you no more.
And no, it's not like my heart is still sore.
But was that not, after all, love?
And what a tragedy that is.

Back when I was young and you were stupid.
When we were awe struck by the magic of cupid.
We didn't realize how magic isn't real.
Ah well.. that's never been a big deal.
But isn't the best time still just us?
And what a tragedy that is.

I've always wanted to get a tattoo of someone's face.
Maybe I should get you? Or us? Us behind that dingy staircase?
Bah. I'm just typing out shit now that apparently rhymes.
Times. Crimes. Dimes. Chimes.
But you and I will end eventually, wont we?
And what a tragedy that is.

We did it everywhere we could have.
We never did anything we should have.
Now we only meet in your car or at parties and dance the night away.
You still are all magic with the most perfect things to say.
But we are probably over for good after last night, don't you think?
And what a tragedy that is.

It's that feeling you can't describe. No matter how much you try to.

Ring. Red Nails. Rum. Dancing. You. <3

Laughing and Liking.

For someone who is apparently 'incapable of emotion', I am feeling way too many things at the moment. And they're running all through the damn body. Perhaps even through the heart.

It's pumping.

Anyway, love is too strong a word an emotion. So strong that I can't/don't feel it enough, apparently. But that's when 'liking' is rather purposeful. It's simpler, for starters. Maybe even slightly innocent. Not that love is not innocent.

Oh no wait. It's not.

But here's the thing about liking someone. When do you go from 'i like him' to 'i like him-like him'? It's different, right? There should be rules for stuff like this. I always thought so. And the transition is ever so sneaky and fragile that there are times when you yourself aren't quite sure of having crossed over the delicate threshold. So there are the usual butterflies in your stomach. But then one fine day, your heart starts pounding. In your mouth. 

But the butterflies is 'liking' enough. 

No?

Does it make the liking less serious or more futile in anyway? Well, it shouldn't.

You still 'like him'. Just probably don't 'like him like him'

It's like laughing at a joke. A joke that's not that funny. You know? The little tiny jokes that make you laugh. Which are more smart than funny.

The jokes that make you 'laugh'; not 'laugh laugh'.

Laughing is good.

And then before you know it, you're laughing with wayyyyyy too many people.

Way Fuckin' Too Many.
All At Once.

Sky.

"In this entire time since uve ignored me.. There have been fleeting thoughts.. But back then I thought someone like me would appeal to a person with a life as big urs. . I'm a simple person, remember?  

I travel ..

I actually thought...

It was all so stupid of me."

Sigh.

Happy Valentines, Y'all.

Fuck Valentines! Let's Get Drunk And Naked.

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 :)

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.

,