Showing posts with label just for fun. Show all posts
Showing posts with label just for fun. Show all posts
Monday, March 21, 2011
One last time
Claimer: Any resemblance to any person, incident, feelings etc is NOT co-incidental. This is dedicated to all of us, who are held in fancy by their love for caffeine, heroin, shopping, love, lust, sex and the worst…people.
Just one last time I tell myself…I stand there after telling everybody who cared about me, or worse who couldn’t see me going down the same road, my eyes looked hollow- the very same did my words sound to my own self.
So what was the reason that got me hooked? Peer pressure? Bad company? Emerging trend? The wannabe syndrome? Nope.I wish I had a sad story which I could remember every time I felt an overwhelming need running through my veins to justify it… but I don’t have one.
I wanted to try it- the good stuff, escape the little niceties others refer to as trials and tribulations of life. My stepdad didn’t beat me up, my mother didn’t have a boyfriend, and my sister didn’t get knocked up. In short, unlike clichés that dominate celluloid, no violence or disease made me this way.Just like the rest of us; I carry the regular amount of heartache as my unclaimed baggage- along with my cell phone and wallet.
I thought I knew who I was or what I was getting into but I was mistaken to think I know all sides of me. Instead of my day being about work, fun and people, the day spent away was the time spent in a silent frenzy waiting to gain momentum.
Just like those who wait for the right time to hang by cliffs, life became only about an ecstasy only I knew.
The rampant increase in phone calls should have been a clue, but I was too busy to see them as anything but foreplay. A single meeting had left me wanting for more…with one whiff of his smell, I had struck gold.
Just like the hangers risked their lives, I risked my sanity… every time I did it, every time I met him. In sometime, I was hooked –everything else dissolved into the smog that engulfs the city, conversations became foreplay and meetings turned into happy endings.
The time spent apart from him seemed like an entrapment, on me, on those around me since my restlessness and erratic change in behaviour didn’t go unnoticed by the few who cared.
One day I couldn’t get find him and the day was spent thinking…wondering…calling up the one person who could possibly understand my obsession-my dealer aka the link. He had laughed at my misery, telling me he hadn’t seen this coming. He said he’ll get back to me. I hung up, staring into space and rapped my fingers on my keyboard till he showed up at my door.
One deep inhale and I was happy.
That was also the day I was sure of one thing. He was my drug I needed a snort of, everyday.
Yet he was the one to end whatever this was. He wanted to be away from me saying we had taken a rash, unhealthy toll. I breathed in, blocking his words out, sniffing my dash and not listening to a word.
And so I cut off, like I had so many times before, from so many more.
I made sure I had company till I slept yet I was completely alone. There were days I smiled…smiled when I thought about those moments I shared, following strangers whose scent became a reminder of what I had once experienced.
Remaining sober made me scream in my sleep; land me in a room with medical equipment and a feeling I couldn’t strip off.
That had been months ago.
I now stand at a door that separated me from something I had never wanted so badly in life. Now I remember what I had heard but never listened. He had said- if you come back, I wouldn’t resist.
The door opened and a gust of fumes unleashed into the air around me. I don’t know what prompted him to turn around but that he did, as I stepped inside with my eyes half shut.
As I opened my eyes to confirm him standing there, looking at me, I said to myself…one last time….
Goodbye Blackberry. Hello Moto.
I could tell you his name, what he did, what he smelled like or the glint in his eyes but the truth is I can’t possibly write even a fraction of what you actually feel in that moment of attraction- you know it, I know it, Stephanie Meyer knows it, Gregory David Roberts almost believes in it.
Just because some jackasses thought about changing ‘impossible’ to ‘I’m possible’ and shrug away cribbers by saying -shit happens, I am going to try to describe that moment. Just how you silently sigh every time someone prods you to talk about your exes or addictions, I do too as I tell you about the time I saw him the very first time.
Tall, sleek, suave, dressed in black- he was in the arms of a girl, seducing her with all the tricks he had and didn’t need to use. Day in and day out, I saw him wrapped duly in someone’s soft caress.
I thought it was my mind again- playing the same it always does- knowing I always have to obsess over something I don’t have. But this wasn’t the usual itch I normally didn’t need to scratch for someone I’d despise in the next 30 days. Sleepless nights, bad work days, and wrinkles even make up couldn’t hide- this was real. I rushed to the place I had seen him earlier, where there was faint possibility of him sitting, possibly with someone as crazy as me.
I remember putting all my energy in opening the door, when I saw the attendant who could let me to him. It was finally time, to own up and try to have something I had no idea I could ever have. And to him I said –
“Could I have the Moto Razr please?”
That was four years ago… till I was temporarily starry eyed by someone else and just like light dissolves in dark, he decided to go away.
Two years later, I know this- many have come and gone- some used, repaired or severely damaged. I am with someone, who’s probably the stereotypical version of SUITED UP, whose behaviour modifications compel me to write status updates. I now have become a part of those mechanical blokes who carry on with their lives and overindulge on the concept of a Smartphone.
The iconic difference in the one who I write about is that I never felt the need to use emoticons. And while we all have turned into cynics and lovers and cynics again-there is a reason why millions yearn to have what is written in mythical legends or urban series.
You stole my heart like a kleptomaniac. And I am going to get you back.
Goodbye Blackberry. Hello Moto.
Just because some jackasses thought about changing ‘impossible’ to ‘I’m possible’ and shrug away cribbers by saying -shit happens, I am going to try to describe that moment. Just how you silently sigh every time someone prods you to talk about your exes or addictions, I do too as I tell you about the time I saw him the very first time.
Tall, sleek, suave, dressed in black- he was in the arms of a girl, seducing her with all the tricks he had and didn’t need to use. Day in and day out, I saw him wrapped duly in someone’s soft caress.
I thought it was my mind again- playing the same it always does- knowing I always have to obsess over something I don’t have. But this wasn’t the usual itch I normally didn’t need to scratch for someone I’d despise in the next 30 days. Sleepless nights, bad work days, and wrinkles even make up couldn’t hide- this was real. I rushed to the place I had seen him earlier, where there was faint possibility of him sitting, possibly with someone as crazy as me.
I remember putting all my energy in opening the door, when I saw the attendant who could let me to him. It was finally time, to own up and try to have something I had no idea I could ever have. And to him I said –
“Could I have the Moto Razr please?”
That was four years ago… till I was temporarily starry eyed by someone else and just like light dissolves in dark, he decided to go away.
Two years later, I know this- many have come and gone- some used, repaired or severely damaged. I am with someone, who’s probably the stereotypical version of SUITED UP, whose behaviour modifications compel me to write status updates. I now have become a part of those mechanical blokes who carry on with their lives and overindulge on the concept of a Smartphone.
The iconic difference in the one who I write about is that I never felt the need to use emoticons. And while we all have turned into cynics and lovers and cynics again-there is a reason why millions yearn to have what is written in mythical legends or urban series.
You stole my heart like a kleptomaniac. And I am going to get you back.
Goodbye Blackberry. Hello Moto.
Guilty? ME?
It’s 8.10 am and my head is buzzing with last night’s Blue Label. I don’t get hangovers but after untimely meals and two serious liver infections my alter ego (who’s my quasi mother, part sister and my imaginary gay best friend, Joe) – says I should know better.
In an attempt to tune her out I turn to System of a Down’s Chopsuey when I tell myself that working for 12 hours, I don’t need an explanation to nobody, not even me.
I mutter something about how Rihanna’s S&M is also about how’ being bad is so good’ when the other side of me blares like the horn on a Ashok Leyland tempo cornering a Nano ‘Oh now you’re following rock stars at 25? ‘Coz you didn’t do so when you were 16?’
An hour later, I stand there in my towel; I browse through my cupboard promising to re-arrange it the coming weekend. If the cupboard could snort to retort, it would.
There stands an outfit I remember taking 20 minutes for, in the changing room of a namelessly pricey showroom .I remembered checking me adorning the dress in question from so many angles that only a photographer indulges in when paid a filthy amount. If that wasn’t enough, I needed my friends to say “Work it girl”, when I asked “Are you sure?” but also my Joe to snap his fingers and say “Girlfriend, if you got it, you got to show it”.
Straight out of Scrubs, its Joe’s sequence to tell me stuff I know only my mom agrees with. “Girls would kill to have a body like that- and you don’t even work out- but please join a yoga class, this is about your health.” Oh jeez, I say to myself when I take a deep breath, look at the clock, swear and bravely grab the hangar like it’s the shield of Achilles.
So there it is- I have always been thin, without personal trainers or green tea- I knew about suryanamaskars when Kareena Kapoor was eating potato balls and didn’t know how to use a computer. And as I step into my car and Eminem’s raps Recovery I talk without saying a word.
I never used it to lose weight, look radiant or to have an ass trainers’ rant about-maybe some ex-boyfriends but I’d never go back to ask. As per my worldly knowledge, it’s not just the opposite sex (who doesn’t need an excuse to get their early morning wood up and burning whenever they see a girl) but overworked, undersexed and never paid women with a potential of killing a real basilisk with a fleeting look.
“Screw them” Joe duly says. “Did you get your bitch on or not?” Course I did.
Progressing towards destination bitchland I decide to wear my shady sunglasses combined with a look I have been trained in, thanks to work.
Strut, strut, defence mode: on Auto mode and I arrive at my work station. 3 hours pass- new deadlines, to-do lists and neon green post it’s dominate my mind while other half of me and defence mode are on snooze.
It’s 1 pm and Ms. Fake-it-all decides to order cheesy and meaty from The Big Chill Café. While the crease on my forehead hinted at “nobody asked me” I have never been eager to eat at work, on time. Mom would be so happy.
As I am a quarter past my meal, the not-so- secret society of fuglies have graced the table with their presence and enquire the reason behind this tête-à-tête- something they must have done 30 minutes ago.
“It looks like they have emptied half a pint of olive oil in our order” Oh now it comes, I think to myself “but it wouldn’t really bother you, would it?”
“Give it back to her now” is a chorus in my head from the cast of Glee.
“No, it wouldn’t but then not all of us are lucky are they? Why don’t you try the caesarean salad?”
Even though I receive a standing ovation in my head, I decide to stay away from the only thing that makes me moan like a man- a slice of New York decadent cake.
In an attempt to tune her out I turn to System of a Down’s Chopsuey when I tell myself that working for 12 hours, I don’t need an explanation to nobody, not even me.
I mutter something about how Rihanna’s S&M is also about how’ being bad is so good’ when the other side of me blares like the horn on a Ashok Leyland tempo cornering a Nano ‘Oh now you’re following rock stars at 25? ‘Coz you didn’t do so when you were 16?’
An hour later, I stand there in my towel; I browse through my cupboard promising to re-arrange it the coming weekend. If the cupboard could snort to retort, it would.
There stands an outfit I remember taking 20 minutes for, in the changing room of a namelessly pricey showroom .I remembered checking me adorning the dress in question from so many angles that only a photographer indulges in when paid a filthy amount. If that wasn’t enough, I needed my friends to say “Work it girl”, when I asked “Are you sure?” but also my Joe to snap his fingers and say “Girlfriend, if you got it, you got to show it”.
Straight out of Scrubs, its Joe’s sequence to tell me stuff I know only my mom agrees with. “Girls would kill to have a body like that- and you don’t even work out- but please join a yoga class, this is about your health.” Oh jeez, I say to myself when I take a deep breath, look at the clock, swear and bravely grab the hangar like it’s the shield of Achilles.
So there it is- I have always been thin, without personal trainers or green tea- I knew about suryanamaskars when Kareena Kapoor was eating potato balls and didn’t know how to use a computer. And as I step into my car and Eminem’s raps Recovery I talk without saying a word.
I never used it to lose weight, look radiant or to have an ass trainers’ rant about-maybe some ex-boyfriends but I’d never go back to ask. As per my worldly knowledge, it’s not just the opposite sex (who doesn’t need an excuse to get their early morning wood up and burning whenever they see a girl) but overworked, undersexed and never paid women with a potential of killing a real basilisk with a fleeting look.
“Screw them” Joe duly says. “Did you get your bitch on or not?” Course I did.
Progressing towards destination bitchland I decide to wear my shady sunglasses combined with a look I have been trained in, thanks to work.
Strut, strut, defence mode: on Auto mode and I arrive at my work station. 3 hours pass- new deadlines, to-do lists and neon green post it’s dominate my mind while other half of me and defence mode are on snooze.
It’s 1 pm and Ms. Fake-it-all decides to order cheesy and meaty from The Big Chill Café. While the crease on my forehead hinted at “nobody asked me” I have never been eager to eat at work, on time. Mom would be so happy.
As I am a quarter past my meal, the not-so- secret society of fuglies have graced the table with their presence and enquire the reason behind this tête-à-tête- something they must have done 30 minutes ago.
“It looks like they have emptied half a pint of olive oil in our order” Oh now it comes, I think to myself “but it wouldn’t really bother you, would it?”
“Give it back to her now” is a chorus in my head from the cast of Glee.
“No, it wouldn’t but then not all of us are lucky are they? Why don’t you try the caesarean salad?”
Even though I receive a standing ovation in my head, I decide to stay away from the only thing that makes me moan like a man- a slice of New York decadent cake.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Pleasure Fuckers
I won't do this on my blog- coz I haven't read my own blog in a year...or two.And my sister/co-blogger tends to write about is incredibly inappropriate, enough to get us sued and then defends herself in the garb of a post pregnancy hangover.
First of all, screw you pleasure fuckers for writing self help status updates thinking it will spread positives vibes on your friends' list- please leave that to Buddha. I added you 'coz I thought we both agreed that we needed help. But if you think writing about "light at the end of the tunnel" will help my day better- I"ll shove you right into it. The tunnel I mean.
I would like to thank my best mate, you know who you are, apart from sarcasm( my alter ego) for a plethora of emotions that made me reach beyond what I thought was my limit of drinking- at any time of the day, any drink available with an appetite that made people double my size telling me to go slow. Pleasure fuckers.
Special thanks to Imran Amplifier Khan for making me sing songs in Punjabi and blush when a cheesy guy played it while I was shopping, a million others like Muse, Flo Rida, Kesha for singing about puking in Paris Hilton's closet and Black Eyed Peas who make me move wherever I am.
My undying love for Chuck Bass, Don Draper, James Sawyer Ford and Voldemort. No matter how big assholes they are, there assholery keeps you going, wanting for more. Pleasure Fuckers :)
The ones who keep me on my toes, my fingers busy on my Blackberry (sadly) and give me a new game to play everyday. Special ones to the glorious bastards who almost make me believe that it's all wires and switches beneath their suave jackets for their robotic moves. For putting all that pleasure to an end, you're da fucker.
Also- don't call whoever you care about by their initials..."I call her K, J, Q" Don't be a random fucker. What happened to the good old Bittoo, Pammi, Gugu and Sonu? Personalise. It's less than 140 characters.
Since I am keeping the emotionsaaal away from this note, here are a few people I'd like to mention. Geetali Gupta- my other alter ego who reminds me of me so much that it was freakish. Also for taking me to Bombay with strangers and having a blast. Tarini Kumar- we don't talk much but Vinod....cut your hair. Sandhya Sinha who's now become Sandhya dear to her errr very nice husband( Oh Salman bagged a hottie of a wife by the way), Kuber Sharma- for coming back with a bang and reciting all my funny lines to impress chicks, that and a ridiculously expensive gift. Neha Bose- for keeping the funny going, Avi- for letting me talk, Bharath Kp who's uncool enough to not be on FB and finally Pankaj Johar which I can't say here so I"ll probably whisper into your ears. They keep the pleasure going with the fuckin'.
Lastly, the pleasure sucker Headlines Today where so many ppl continue to go that they deserve a fuck, or a therapist's number- the place which is so deeply ingrained in me that I don't even need a tattoo for it, that it has turned me into a fucker.
And to Maroon 5, who came out with a song called "Pleasure Fuckers" but I haven't heard it yet.
And since I don't have a coin slot on Facebook account( I"ll tell Zuckerberg that one)to charge you for this, do what you do. Comment.
First of all, screw you pleasure fuckers for writing self help status updates thinking it will spread positives vibes on your friends' list- please leave that to Buddha. I added you 'coz I thought we both agreed that we needed help. But if you think writing about "light at the end of the tunnel" will help my day better- I"ll shove you right into it. The tunnel I mean.
I would like to thank my best mate, you know who you are, apart from sarcasm( my alter ego) for a plethora of emotions that made me reach beyond what I thought was my limit of drinking- at any time of the day, any drink available with an appetite that made people double my size telling me to go slow. Pleasure fuckers.
Special thanks to Imran Amplifier Khan for making me sing songs in Punjabi and blush when a cheesy guy played it while I was shopping, a million others like Muse, Flo Rida, Kesha for singing about puking in Paris Hilton's closet and Black Eyed Peas who make me move wherever I am.
My undying love for Chuck Bass, Don Draper, James Sawyer Ford and Voldemort. No matter how big assholes they are, there assholery keeps you going, wanting for more. Pleasure Fuckers :)
The ones who keep me on my toes, my fingers busy on my Blackberry (sadly) and give me a new game to play everyday. Special ones to the glorious bastards who almost make me believe that it's all wires and switches beneath their suave jackets for their robotic moves. For putting all that pleasure to an end, you're da fucker.
Also- don't call whoever you care about by their initials..."I call her K, J, Q" Don't be a random fucker. What happened to the good old Bittoo, Pammi, Gugu and Sonu? Personalise. It's less than 140 characters.
Since I am keeping the emotionsaaal away from this note, here are a few people I'd like to mention. Geetali Gupta- my other alter ego who reminds me of me so much that it was freakish. Also for taking me to Bombay with strangers and having a blast. Tarini Kumar- we don't talk much but Vinod....cut your hair. Sandhya Sinha who's now become Sandhya dear to her errr very nice husband( Oh Salman bagged a hottie of a wife by the way), Kuber Sharma- for coming back with a bang and reciting all my funny lines to impress chicks, that and a ridiculously expensive gift. Neha Bose- for keeping the funny going, Avi- for letting me talk, Bharath Kp who's uncool enough to not be on FB and finally Pankaj Johar which I can't say here so I"ll probably whisper into your ears. They keep the pleasure going with the fuckin'.
Lastly, the pleasure sucker Headlines Today where so many ppl continue to go that they deserve a fuck, or a therapist's number- the place which is so deeply ingrained in me that I don't even need a tattoo for it, that it has turned me into a fucker.
And to Maroon 5, who came out with a song called "Pleasure Fuckers" but I haven't heard it yet.
And since I don't have a coin slot on Facebook account( I"ll tell Zuckerberg that one)to charge you for this, do what you do. Comment.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
What just happened?
Whaaa?
Just checked the stats and the visitor count increased...Well well !
Congrats to the non-bloggers and me!
Welcome to the new people... a "prettier and juicier" welcome once you people write something and prove your worth on TTTW!
Till then, the car number game...
I was a big fan of a particular radio station in Delhi. Actually of a particular RJ... Ginni. Super woman...I learnt this game and it helped me pass a lotta time en route Delhi-gurgaon.
This game can be played with any car number provided there is no zero in it. The basic idea is to reduce any 4 digit number to a 0 by doing basic arithmetic operations.
For eg. :
7855
8-7 = 1
5/5 = 1
1-1 =0
8432
4-3 = 1
cube root of 8 = 2
2/2 = 1
1-1 =0
Let the TP begin!
If you don't know what TP means... I am glad that we are friends!
Good night! I have worked way too much today...
Just checked the stats and the visitor count increased...Well well !
Congrats to the non-bloggers and me!
Welcome to the new people... a "prettier and juicier" welcome once you people write something and prove your worth on TTTW!
Till then, the car number game...
I was a big fan of a particular radio station in Delhi. Actually of a particular RJ... Ginni. Super woman...I learnt this game and it helped me pass a lotta time en route Delhi-gurgaon.
This game can be played with any car number provided there is no zero in it. The basic idea is to reduce any 4 digit number to a 0 by doing basic arithmetic operations.
For eg. :
7855
8-7 = 1
5/5 = 1
1-1 =0
8432
4-3 = 1
cube root of 8 = 2
2/2 = 1
1-1 =0
Let the TP begin!
If you don't know what TP means... I am glad that we are friends!
Good night! I have worked way too much today...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)