I'm tired.

Can you do me a favour? Can you keep your bloody baggage outside my door? I don't want any of it. I don't want to deal with it.

The Universe is indifferent

I am overdoing it, this back to back watching of Mad Men. My uterus is in a bunch, thanks to a certain Don Draper, and oh my god, I just can't get enough.

I have some work, which I should probably do, but I don't feel like it. I went mad buying a bunch of books from Flipkart, which in hindsight seems too reckless. But what the hell, it was a killer bargain. I love web shopping. I want to do it all the time. And I also want to smoke herbal cigarettes.

I saw a movie by myself today in the theatre, and I don't know why I don't do it enough. I love it. It's the best way to watch a movie. I've decided that, if I can help it, I'll always go alone. If it's good enough, I'll go a second time with company. And I'm not saying this because I'm some lonely girl going to the movies by herself trying to make it sound good. It really feels fucking awesome. Try it sometime.

I made some awesome mattar paneer today. It's generally been a good day doing nothing as such.

Relapse

This sort of relapse is unnecessary. I may as well be 16, discovering new books, new music, drowning out the fat and hanging onto words which meant nothing. Like, hey, I think you're beautiful and I'd totally date you (why didn't you then?).

I wish the Calcutta roads were better and Baba would drive again.

I wish we were young, sitting in the backseat, listening to The Carpenters, on our way to DB or Labony, just - being young.

I only reached out because there were no cigarettes and the book I was reading made me feel blue and I spent all of last night reading old blog posts about you. I don't feel any better. Because. You kind of suck.

I'll leave you like I've left every fascination.

I’ve said this. I’ve done this. A countless number of times. And then I've expected you to find me. There's no winning here. Nobody wins.

You'll go to her with your old camera, hung across your chest and quietly take pictures till you feel you've both had enough. She has toppled your universe by the time she asks you whether you want some camomile. You're lulled by the sleep she has mixed in the tea, and that whispery nasal voice of hers. "I have a deviated septum" she says and you hope she never gets it fixed.

The cigarettes are over and you have to leave. You have to get back to your world of dead poetry, because damn it, you've worked so hard to build it.

I don't think I have anything new to say. It's okay if you want leave early. I understand the boredom. I'm bored as well. I'll never make it through this.

Facile

I'm so much cooler than that you know? I am so much funnier, so much hotter, so much better. I am not a football field apart, and I am not a fried piece of dough. Just so that you know.

I miss going to you to hide. Right now I feel kind of naked and fat and paraded. You were good to hide behind. And I never felt naked or fat. I miss feeling that way.

I think I miss the privacy of Cal. I miss my room and I miss my quiet content. Bombay puts a whole new meaning to feeling lonely in a crowd. It's stupid, clichéd, but true. But this isn't about Bombay Vs Cal. Fuck no. This isn't about any city. This is about now. This is about all these bags I've picked up on the wayside, and I don't know why. This is about my fake smile, my growing anger and disconnect, this is about me giving up without always meaning to.

I think I need a makeover. Polished nails, better hair, better skin, less flab and a brand new wardrobe. If I have to be facile, let me at least look good while I'm at it.

I hope you're okay with the sharing S. Here, click on this and weep. We are all fucked.

Dorks are happier, what about you?

I barely caught a glimpse of him. But I was strangely happy. Happy that I knew all the words, knew every memory attached to every song, knew that this was special, no matter what.

I remembered a rainy evening, when I plugged up the stereo to this dubious plug point in my verandah, put it on full volume and listened to Everything I do, I do it for you - mainly because I wanted my hot neighbour on the 2nd floor to hear it. You know, so that he knew I was 'with it', and listened to a lot of English music. I was twelve or something, and these things mattered.

Bryan Adams was perfect. He wasn't The Beatles or Carpenters or Cliff Richard - the stuff my parents would hear and go "oho, amader generation ki bhalo" to. He wasn't a boyband. And he was loud and semi risqué. And I understood what all the lyrics (more or less) meant. He made me want to pick up my badminton racket and strum. He led to Bon Jovi, GnR, Metallica, Nirvana and more. Bryan Adams was not only my introduction to rock, but my glimmer of hope in a largely angst ridden teen life.

In school, when he was performing in India, I made an elaborate plan to run away and catch the concert in Bangalore. I'd also meet Rahul Dravid while I was at it. Haha. But I didn't have any money, nor did I have any company, so obviously, all my silly teenage dreams were turned to dust. Funny, it's almost the same now, but I am in Bombay, the tickets were free, and I had my brother with me.

I liked the fact that I went to the concert with my brother, because he's probably the only one who'd feel as nostalgic about it as I would. He'd know all the words, the riffs and solo guitar leads by heart. The cassettes are worn beyond repair, we've heard them so many fucking times.

"I wouldn't have survived college if it weren't for Bryan Adams" he said while we were singing along with shameless joy to "Back to You". I don't think I'd survive being 13 if it weren't for him. Admittedly, I don't hear him much these days. Make it, not at all. But I owe him much. At least, a concert. And yay. :)

Slacker Post Fem

This freelancing shit is tough, as expected. Especially if you're a born slacker bitch like me. Would I sound tremendously immature if I said I want to get married, make babies and gorom gorom rutis for my kids and husband? We'd have a not-so-large home, somewhere quiet, with our own kitchen garden and wine cellar, maybe a dog...no, definitely a dog and maybe a cat, but a cat seems more single womanish. I'd work from home if I'd feel like it, but mostly, I'd be taking care of the kids, the dog, the kitchen and the garden. It's not an easy job, but I think I'd be able to deal with it. I know how to fix light bulbs, take care of bills, and do all the "man stuff" as they say. Only, I can't deal with banking. It just depresses me.

In my free time, if I get any, I'll draw or paint or write mommy blogs, and read and watch films. I'd secretly do some of my kids' projects, not because I'm helping, but because I like doing kids' projects. They're lots of fun. Oh, but I cannot, no way in hell, teach math. That, I'm hoping this money making husband of mine is good at. If not, we'll have to stick to Buro Kaku from N8. But dude, you have to be good at math. I think this fellow needs to be good only at a few things in order to be my husband - math, driving, chess, sorting out bank work/taxes and maybe swimming. It would also be good if he reads more than I do, but I'll not judge too harshly if he doesn't.

And before you judge me for not being "feminist" enough, I have a two words for you: Fuck you. Feminism isn't about wearing pants, it's about having choices. If a woman chooses to be a housewife, power to her. I keep thinking of all the times I've heard the phrase "just a housewife". It pisses me off. What's wrong with being a housewife? It's a pretty creative job if you think about it. And it requires plenty of management skills. It doesn't pay, so maybe that's why it's not the smartest of choices, but hey, it's a choice - no more no less than choosing to be a doctor or an engineer or an advertising executive.

So there. I feel sufficiently like a post feminist Suffragette, or something fancy sounding like that.

It seriously sucks being your own boss. The pay sucks more than ever. :P

In your love my salvation lies

"Are we fuckups?" she asked him.

"We aren't fuckups" he kept repeating.

I hope we aren't either.

I don't know why I waited so long to watch Away We Go. Anyway, I miss home in that terrible, too late its dead, kind of way.

Mon lagche na ekhane. Mon lagche na karor shathe.

Please come take me away somewhere. I don't want to play this game.

Harder than Easy

I think I'd be better off gay. But I just can't wish it.

I wish I hadn't wasted so much time on you. I'm not wiser. I'm just sadder. The only thing I wish for from that time, was the complete fearlessness I felt. I could make a fool of myself over and over again and not feel a thing.

I discovered a song called Harder than Easy, which is nothing special really, but it's kind of nice when you think of it Grey's Anatomically. It has these lines which attracted me -

At the end of the day when you're lonely

After begging to be left alone

- because it reminded me of me. I am like my grandfather I think sometimes.

I don't feel like putting in the effort anymore. I just want to be on painkillers for the rest of my life.

I have also realised I can't draw you beautiful anymore. You come out all wrong, and kind of Chinese.

It's weird. It's not angst anymore. It's not loneliness. Maybe this is what K talks about sometimes. You're not rebelling. You're not angry. You're just in this deep deep well of inexplicable sadness where you're thrust back in the moment you step out. And by the time you pull yourself out, fake smile spent and semi-enthusiastic, you're back in it again. What's the point? I'll be like Toru. I'll live there.

This blog is my deep well I think.