Dogs are amazing. One little lick and your world is suddenly a better place.

Yesterday was fun. B came over, later we went out for wine and spoke and spoke and spoke. Then D and friends got a projector and we all watched the match on it in our own house. My house is a source of constant joy and happiness. I don't wish to speak too soon, but it makes up for a lot of shit that happens most of the time.

I have a new haircut, and post it, I feel happier and lighter.

This Angst must End

I'm sorry. Do I whine too much? Here's something positive.

At the brink of maybe losing my job (ignore me, it's probably my persecution complex), I feel wonderfully good about a few things (okay, I'm lying, but I'm also trying).

I want to travel once more. Give up worrying about money, recognition and all that bullshit, and do what I really love. Travel. Take pictures. Write. Draw. Re-learn my guitar.

Well, it's stupid and everything, now that I am in Bombay, with job, with possible prospects, a nice house - but maybe there are no possible prospects. Maybe there isn't that perfect job. Everywhere you go, you're bound to find fake people, bound to find a group you just can't fit into, bound to find people who are more talented, more precious. Everything you cannot cope with, is your problem alone. Your personality deficit.

Like now. I'm in a room full of perfectly wonderful people. Interesting, talented, friendly, well travelled - and yet. Here I am. Nose buried in my laptop, typing contrived bull. Before this, I was reading an e-comic. Sigh, there's no room for temperamental artists, and I am, unfortunately no artist either. My artistic inclinations, if any, are pedestrian. I'm not original, not hardworking and not particularly sharp. I say I'm a wallflower. That's because I let myself be one. Oh wait. Whine territory. I will stop right here.

So tell me, what if you left something important, for what you feel is a better life, a better way, and find yourself winding up in a terrible terrible place? What if all the chances you took were stupid and frivolous and not worth it? What if you were just being complacent and arrogant? What if you spend loads and loads of money only to find you've not only ruined yourself but also others? When you take a chance, do you ever, entirely take it alone?

I could leave it all. I could quit. I could sink into fleeting pleasures and temporary loves.

But for what?

Oh, do not ask, "What is it"?
Let us go and make our visit.

I feel fat with discontent. It’s like, when I breathe, I get fatter, sadder and more and more annoyed. I’m walking a plank sweetheart. Did you not notice my chin quiver, when I told you it wasn’t poetry? I’m not a poet. I don’t get turned on by the squalour and madness. I need a nice room, a job that pays well, good food, good skin, great hair, a pretty boy with a hot bike – you know. I’m not your mother. I can’t love you unconditionally and make you hot rotis every time you’re hungry. I’m not your keeper. I’m not. I’m not.
I’m a girl, who is not a clown, not always. I’m not the one you turn to when you falter. Not all the time. I’m not funny. I’m not wise. I’m a stupid girl in a stupid novel written by another stupid girl. I need to be taken care of every once in a while. I need to be looked at appreciatively. I need to be important to you or to someone else, sometimes.

Yes, it’s all about the attention, the pat on the back, the perfect ad moments, the tadas and the glowing hums. It’s fleeting, it’s superficial it’s vain, but it’s IMPORTANT. Indulge me. Sometimes. I need it.

Maybe it’s the drugs. My moods are as fickle as a house of cards. I love you I hate you I’m leaving I can’t live without you. I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.

I didn’t come to you to crib. I didn’t come to cry. I didn’t come for anything.

I don’t feel comfortable in my body anymore. Even when I was very fat, I never felt as though I was not in my own body. It was my doing. My tub of lard. Mine. I could fix it. I could mend it. But now, I can’t control it. I don’t connect with it. I can’t run it the way I want to. Every pore has a mind of its own, and I just sit and observe it making one mistake after another. I’m full of self loathing, self denial. I’ve never felt so physically disconnected from myself. If you meet me, understand that it’s only a fourth of me. I don’t like my sluggish, weepy mind much either.

I wish I could be that clown girl for a bit. The bright eyed, happy but wise clown with rose tinted glasses.

“Why are you so angry with the world?” remember you asked once? I’m angry with me, fish. I’m very angry with me. And I miss your voice. I miss your nearness. Only you are not you. And you are definitely not mine.

I hate that. There must be one that's mine. Why must they all be like my body?

HELLO. ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING? ARE YOU WATCHING? WATCH CLOSELY BECAUSE IT'S JUST GOING TO GET TRICKIER FROM NOW ON. I hope the caps help.

Yesterday was such a group shag thing. :-S

So Gwyneth Paltrow has this blog called Goop, which everyone apparently hates and finds very annoying, because she bitches too much, is too skinny and believes in meditation. God, America can never stop being a high school. Neither can we apparently. Anyway, so a few things:
A) I have a feeling my blog is becoming very morose and Goopy, so I should probably do something about it.
B) I have found some pretty awesome detox recipes in it, but I don’t think I’ll ever get all those cool ingredients she talks about (like Miso paste)
C) I also feel Goopy, because nobody loves me, everybody hates me, I think I’ll just go and eat some worms. Hehe.

Yesterday I accidentally stumbled upon something I shouldn't have. And now words keep ringing inside my head making me feel like shit. But it's okay. I wrote myself a cheer up letter and told myself I'm wonderful. It didn't really work, but at least I didn't cry like a baby in front of all those editors. Sometimes you need to do things for yourself. Like order flowers and chocolate cake. I should be getting to work, but I feel like smoking a sunshine joint and chilling about in my shorts and tees. It's hot and stupid outside. Blech.

So I was going through these old word documents, which if RAM could gather dust, would be gathering dust. And they are stupid and funny and sad all at once, but at that time it seemed very profound and significant. It was my Mr. Big phase I suppose. So here's what I wrote when I was 22, and it made me smile somewhat today, because it seemed kind of prophetic. Here -

Suddenly, when you’re twenty-one, full of urban angst and an overdose of Beat lit and empty idealism, you run into a wise-eyed, weathered, cynical face – out of a Steinbeck novel or something. Peeping out of those weary, almost extinguished eyes are the smouldering remains of a Jimmy Dean and you think… this is it – your fairy tale romance. A year of random conversations, tea, cigarette butts and a couple of dusty rides together you realise your time is up, you’re no longer twenty one, and he has never really been yours. You curse time, fate, an empty tin on the street – anything you can find. Then you reason, you pacify, you console yourself. It was a wild thing you wanted. What would you do with it anyway? Plant it in a tiny ceramic pot – nourish it, weed it, clip it, prune it – what? So you understand and try to fill up the blank, empty spaces of your life with meaningless things. With work insincere and devoid of profundity. There’s no truth in anything you say or do. You are just a paper doll.
You think, while bathing, while pretending to listen to a mundane lecture – I’ll join the Peace Corps. I’ll travel, I’ll take pictures, I’ll meet people. I’ll put myself in difficult situations. I’m too comfortable, I’m too lethargic. I need a goal, a motivation, a raison d’etre. I need to make a difference. Then, after all that talk with yourself, you wind up making the same mistakes you made before and say the same damn things over and over again.
You’re going nowhere with your life. And on warm, sultry afternoons – a cigarette dangling from your lips – nauseating you slightly, you wish for your fairy tale romance once again. You reproach yourself. Sentimental fool. Naïve. So naïve. But it’s a comfort nonetheless. It’s a bittersweet thought you like to play with. Your Jimmy Dean is no longer the same, but a glorious celebrity in your head. The motor-biker, the idealist, the underdog, the champion of truth and justice. You forget all his silliness, all his manipulations, all his wayward ways. You only remember the best parts – and you just don’t care.
Maybe, you wonder, half romantic, half practical – maybe, there’ll be someone else. Maybe there’ll be a better distraction, a replacement for this overcooked fantasy. You never once consider yourself – your beauty – your strengths – your powers. You don’t believe in yourself – just phantom fairy tale romances.
Suddenly you’re almost twenty three. And you’re still not done, going in circles and being foolish and juvenile.
Ah well. You’ll live.

---
Oh wait. I think I posted this one before somewhere else. Nevermind.
Anyway, so I just got over with this horrid shoot and I'm so happy it's over. Now I just want to sit at post and download movies. Hehe.
Oh and FYI, there's this somewhat cute guy I have come to know, who's done all these cool things, which I would drool over had I been younger, but now it's just not happening. I mean, on paper, he's yum enough - but then, where are all those effing fireworks? Sigh. I HAVE grown old.

I'm a resilient chick. I've always thought so. But then again, maybe I'm not. I cannot cope with this. I am, as you said, naive and stupid, although those weren't exactly your words. I should be able to deal with mistakes, with little spurts of hostile behaviour, but I am finding that exceedingly hard. I feel like I'm back in class 3, with the smarty pant bitches looking down their noses at me and complaining to the teacher. The teacher is also a bitch, and listens only to the smarty pant bitches. And then there's me, glowing with stupidity and embarrassment, standing there with my pants down, and averting everybody's gaze.
I don't fit. I just don't fit. And I don't even love it anymore.
Maybe I am Daddy's spoilt little Princess who should stay in her giant Ivory tower and gaze upon the blithering mess below. Why did I even think of being a part of it? I should be a part of the Mad Men era, a Stepford Wife, a part of the decoration.
I am inept at handling this. I can't fight anymore.