Sunday, December 28

I'm 25

I feel blue.....don't you hate birthdays?

Sunday, December 21

Good Blog! Whither Goes Ze Time?

It's been so long since I've posted here that I couldn't remember my password! I still don't remember my password but by some Blogmas (all will be explained in the course of the next three paras) miracle or some such it all worked out and I'm here...and posting...sigh..just like the good ol' days. When I used to have a job that involved minimal effort and interaction with a few cute li'l yeasties. And folks, I turned this job in to become a grad student...and (wait for it, it gets worse) sustained traumatic interaction with mice!! I will spare you stories of my trials with the mice. It'll only serve to keep you up nights and I will not have that on my conscience, sirs (and/or madams, noone shall call me a sexist). Anyway. Long story short, I've gots me a case of the Busy-ies. But, some of you with keener insight might note, I haven't gotten rid of this blog o'mine yet. Why, you might ask. The answer, madams (an/or sirs, of course), is *not* sheer laziness. Nuh uh. It is rather, that I have a primal instinct to blog.

I've spent some time wondering why it is I feel this need. And (me being I), I have asked a lot of fellow bloggers this question. Varied responses I received. The most popular ones being you're a loser or you (meaning not me in particular but Those who Blog in general - or so I've convinced myself) don't have a social life. But this isn't true..can't be true. The blogger community stands second to none in having its fair share of losers and geeks and nerds and other people of that ilk that has no social life. But it also abounds with people who *do*, in fact, have a social life. Some of *these* people, it is true, blog because they like a fondly imagined captive audience for their rants and ravings (and no! that is *not* why I blog, thankyouverymuch). But I would like to believe that a lot of us blog because we like to write. More, we need to write.

This blog, after all, is my Great Unfinished Novel. The one I've always known I will write. So, if you think about it, this blog 1) saves many trees a senseless and untimely death 2) saves many people senseless and untimely expenditure on the thoughts and ramblings of a soontobe25year old (yes, I've said it, I'm getting old) graduate student 3)saves me the needless hassle of marshaling my thoughts into any kind of order or rationality.

The Blog, in fact, ladies and gents, is the Savior of the World (hence the Blogmas crack, remember? two paras up?). Sent down by a wise and generous God to protect us in our Hour of Need. In short, people, it is a Godsend.
-Also, stepping off that soapbox for a brief instant: we all know it's uncool in the Other World to talk about Profound Stuff and have Thoughts on Deep and Stirring Subjects like "Why are we here?", "What is the purpose of all of this?" and "Why, oh why, did we stop believing in God, the only reasonably happy answer to any of these questions that human beings have ever been able to come up with?". But down here, it's acceptable. Not just acceptable but almost de rigueur (plus I can use words whose meanings I don't understand. Win-win.)! And some people might say the main reason we blog is because The Blog lets us be who we are in our heads rather than who we are in everyone else's heads. Poppycock, *I* think. And pshaw! Alrighty, back on the soapbox.-
Hail, bloggers, to the one god, The Blog. (His only demand is that we are good and honest and kind and generous and that we give him offerings of gold and kaju katlis every second hour of the day. Very reasonable, considering the precedents.)

In conclusion, I would like to introduce a new worshiper at the altar of The Blog: My sister, the archeologist, at here. Tada!!! (You'll remember I was mentioning getting her to write stuff up, 'Fessor? Well, she did it all by her lonesome cuz I kept forgetting to get her to write stuff up :D). Enjoi!

Monday, November 10

Serial Number: 1 - Lines that Ought to Live In..

--> She nestled her nose lustfully in his fragrant armpit hair

--> He leaned over her vulnerable, fragile sleeping face and licked the drool from the corner of her slack mouth, tasting its musky odor gratefully as his quivering member did the Dance of the One-Eyed Snake

As ever, contributions welcome :D

Sunday, November 2

I'm thinking

it's time I started writing again.

It isn't as if the stories have stopped. Just the story-telling.

I should be ashamed of myself.

And I am (don't think I'm not - also I *didn't* temporarily pause blogging because I was busy acquiring a real life and I don't care what anyone says about it! So, hah!).

The Mouse

She could bite with her sharp little yellow teeth. She could kick, albeit feebly, with her hindfeet. She could use formidable silvery whiskers to suss her surroundings. But among the long list of things she couldn't do featured fighting the frightening progress of science.

Trying to cure cancer's a rather greedy goal. Even for humans.

Wednesday, July 2


In the end, it's the self-loathing that does you in. She knew this. Or at least she pretended she knew this. That was one way of coping with it, and that was her way so least said about it the better. If you reconstruct reality pleasantly enough, it seems winkingly real and that's enough to satisfy all but the most exacting.

Ah, that man in the leather jacket checked me out in the bus, I must be pretty, she would think. Or she goes out of her way to find me and talk to me, I must be a nice person otherwise why would she like me? I got invited to their party and theirs and theirs and theirs, clearly I'm popular. Sometimes, the polish wore thin. And for a moment, the glimpse of self-loathing was confusing. Was the self-loathing the real part of reality or was the nonself-liking of her the real-er?. If her judgment couldn't be trusted then surely everyone else's could be? But a-ha, the hole in the donut of logic: if I can't trust my own judgment how can I esteem my-self.

She sometimes wondered if she was insane. But then if you wonder about your state of sanity, you have to BE sane. Or so she thought she remembered someone else saying. And other people were so sure of their opinions so they must be right. Why couldn't she be like them. Fitting in was easy, it was *knowing* that you fit in. That was the tricky bit. But that was just her opinion and she had just proved that her opinion wasn't worth much. No wonder she loathed herself. At least I'm showing good judgment in that, she would think.

And so, as Billy Pilgrim would have said, it goes.

Thursday, May 15

At my grand-dad's knee

I hate to break it to you, but, yes, it's true. There was a piggy by the railway who was picking up stones (foolish little piggy). Unfortunately for him a train came along and broke all of his bones (as was only to be expected, really). With his dying breath, the little piggy gasps that it wasn't fair (maybe alluding to the brevity of his lifespan) and then the engine driver who had gotten out of the train by now and was staring down at the dying piggy with a sneer, sniffed and expressed his total lack of feeling on the matter. Moral of the story clearly is to fear and respect engine drivers.

Talking about piggies, one has to mention that Orson Scott Card is an excellent story maker even if a rather poor story teller. And so, I do him the justice of recognising that just like my grand-daddy (who seldom made up stories but was an excellent raconteur) he would have never suggested that the piggies with the twig and hay houses fled to their more fortunate brother of the brick house. No, certainly not. They were eaten by the wolf. Wolves are not simpletons. Any wolf worth his salt would eat up any piggy who was foolish enough to build houses out of hay and any wolf who had the persistence to blow stick houses down is a wolf worth his salt. Moral of this story, give the Ender trilogy a shot. You might enjoy it. I did.

Talking about wolves, there's the other classic wolf story. The one where the pretty little girl with the red hood goes jauntering through the forest and sells her grand-mum down the river to the big, bad, definitely male wolf. The wolf then proceeds to kill the grand-mum and feed the little girl the remains (that's the way *I* heard it, at least). The woodman comes along and saves the girl but I never heard tell of the grand-mum's rescue until much later (my grand-dad was a formidable man and I think he was trying to make a point there (he was also endowed with much foresight and it must have seemed like a good idea to him at the time to tell his grand daughter about the evils of the world in general and male wolves in particular)). The moral of that story was quite clear, I always thought. Get yourself into any kind of trouble and it's your family that'll pay. And additionally, pretty girls and wolves are fatally intertwined.

Talking of pretty girls, you must have heard of the wandering spirit who snuck into her lady's chamber and finding an old man in there, picked him up by his left leg and threw him down the stairs. While this might very well be a reference to Cromwellian supporters or King Henry or priestholes, the moral could be only one thing. For pity's sake don't let strange creatures liable to grab people and hurl them down staircases wander around your house. Upstairs and downstairs and in my lady's chamber. Ugh. Creepy.

Wednesday, May 14

Alternate Universe or What I Thought of While Brushing My Teeth this Morning

She looked up at the ominously dark sky, hurrying her footsteps along the dusty path. Gloomy skies, wet winds and the terrible smell of impending rain. Any moment now the burgeoning clouds would sag lower, their yellow streaked bellies ripping open under the weight of all that water. And then the water would leak out, tearing through the air, coating everything with its dripping wetness. Making everything moist and slimy. Stirring the lovely dust into a murderous paste.

Around her were other townspeople unlucky enough to have strayed out under the threatening clouds. They shied away from the muck of water, grimacing as the first drops splashed on their bodies, slickly glistening moisture oozing on skin. Noone tried to wipe the water off, though. It would smear before evaporating, escaping into the air, droplets begetting droplets. Shudder.

She got home in time to avoid the torrent but still sufficiently covered in the watery slime to require a shower. She stepped into the glass cubicle, turned the knob and heard the satisfying gurgle in the pipes. A second later, she stood under a torrent of warm dettol, letting the cleansing stream remove the slime and microbes of water from her skin. She imagined the droplets flowing down the drain into the water proof gutter from which they would never escape. More stolen rain kept from the treacherous skies. Towards a day when mankind could remain clear of water forever.

Tuesday, May 13

Three Months, It's Been. Let's Hear a Rousing Welcome Back Cheer.

A woman went to the super market. She needed a can of soup. Not just any soup but a particular kind. She didn't think she'd be able to find it in just any old super market. She looked first in Aisle 2: Soup, Noodles and Assorted Instant Foods. Not there. She then looked in Aisle 22: Asian Cuisine. Not there either. Last shot, Aisle 14: Canned Food. Not there either. She did a cursory search through the rest of the super market. She couldn't find it. She walked back home, not at all surprised that she'd been right. It happened to her all the time.

Friday, February 29

Out for Lunch. Be back Shortly.

Thursday, February 7


Why are you all angry and upset now?


Just that adults suck!

And noone understands anything!!!!!

Oh, to be thirteen again. No, no, wait. Oh, to be 24 and talk to 13 year olds who are in the middle of an Emotional Crisis.

Wednesday, February 6

When I Grow Up

My sister and I, we made a promise to each other when we were both teenagers (yeah, blood mingling ceremony, promises of death and everlasting perdition, the works). We'd never become our mum, we said. Solemn oath, pinky promise.

We're all grown up now (sorta anyway) but every now and then one of us will still tell the other, "Dude, you sound exactly like her" and that has become the ultimate warning between us. The youarereallybehavingverybadlyfleshofmyflesh cautionary statement. I think we're very good about it, the two of us together. We probably save ourselves from ourselves. And maybe, just maybe, neither of us will turn into the mater.I don't know.

I have recently changed. Not by huge degrees, I don't think. But a little. It's not like I woke up one morning and became an insanely introverted, Ionlywearfullsleevedturtlenecksthatcovermychinandamfilledwithhopelessnessattheplightofmankind sorta girl. Far from (I don't know if I'm emotionally capable of being that girl. If I went two hours without talking to anyone, I'd probably go buy a coffee just so I could smile at and discuss the weather with the Hispanic coffee-lady (who is really sweet and gives me free chocolate muffins when I forget to bring cash, godblesshersoul)). But I've channeled a lot of my extroversion, toned it down in some ways ( or at least so it appears to most of my friends and hangout buddies). I'm not always up for anything anymore cos I have other plans most nights. I don't go around herding the Happy Hour group together for two dollar beers every week. I can't be bothered.

I've not yet reached the stage where I don't have any friends left. People still call me, stop by to chat. But the invitations to go out and drink the night away at the newest club downtown are trickling down to a drizzle. Disappearing slowly. True, they've been supplanted by other invitations from other people (superbowl parties, athome drinkathons, dinners, movie night). But. The point is (and yes, there is a point, thankyouverymuch) it's shockingly easy to drift from one phase of your life to another and with that from being one person to being a different one. Unless someone's looking out for you. And making sure you don't.

Maybe, on second thought, the bigger point is that change is inevitable. And the sooner you make your peace with it, the happier you will be. I don't know.

Maybe there's change and there's change and you just have to know the difference.

I don't have the answers. But I think I have the question. The question, I think, is how do you know if the change is good or bad, considering that the person you're going to change into is not the same person you are. Isn't there some sort of conflict of interest lurking here somewhere?

Which brings me to my second question, who the hell figured I was competent enough to make my own decisions and gave me a whole life to myself?

Hawtdggitydamn! Stap me if The Power that Is isn't clearly a Jackass.

Also, among the things I don't know is whether this counts as a theory post or no. I'm gonna go ahead and say it does. It's been too long without one on this here blog.

Tuesday, January 22

Anything to Keep me from Studying

So, it's been a while.


I'm not going to be claim to be an expert (I totally had a simpleringly smug look on my face when I said that, cos, c'mon, *course* I'm an expert) but does it seem like we're having an amazing blog-graph here? Like, BM (even if she now insists on calling herself OTP! Like whatever!) went into a slump and then came up swinging. The Riddler (??!) was going great guns and churning out like 250 posts a day and then went into a "Oh, I'm saving myself for the long run by cutting down on it" downswing. So, they kinda neutralized each other. Yes? Sine and anti-sine waves. Or whatever (I'm not majoring in like Graphs or Accounting or whatever those people who learn how to graph major in).


We've had a slough of grey days. I love grey days. It's the greyness of them. Seeping into everything around. Until slowly it seeps into your soul. And you die (or your soul does or something). Pretty neat, huh?


Yeah, I saw Sweeney Todd. I don't have the words to do it justice but I'm gonna use substitute words to try and capture the utter horror. Ghastly music, ghastly singing, marginally funny lyrics. Asinine plot line. Even Depp couldn't do a Pirates on this one. Sigh.


Talking about movies, though, I'm in love with Ellen Page. The girl rocks. I want to have her babies. Juno was drippingly delicious. I've already seen it twice (Ren, if you have the soundtrack, I want! I'll come down and get it off of you if you won't give it to me!).


Everyone's getting married. Or having babies. What is up with that? A guy I used to know is really and actually getting married (wedding in India and all). Ex-roomie just got married (also wedding in India - actually two weddings - the works). A guy I still know is ohsoclose to tying the knot. Juno got pregnant. Another guy I know scored a lunch date. Odds are he's going to either get married pretty soon or get pregnant.


School still sucks. They still keep handing out those awful test questions. I still get continually traumatized when I know an answer. It's like "Waitasecond! This question actually makes sense. I think I can answer it! No, really! I think I know the answer. OMG! I must be hallucinating. I've finally succumbed to the pressure and gone nutso" [Cue manic laughter in a silent hall followed by much glaring and angry sssshhhhhs].


Customary video and I believe we're done here.

Tuesday, January 8

Bad Flaffy, No Donut for You

She was sure he'd come back. That's why when her friends came over looking sad and held her hand, she just smiled. When they told her to cheer up and come shopping with them, she went shopping with them. She didn't need to cheer up. She knew he'd come back. He'd always liked how clean her house was. How she always made sure the pillow covers matched the duvet. The way her clothes were sorted out by use (daily wear, exercise, office, parties, Indian get-togethers, casual evenings), color (reds, greens and blues - she didn't like oranges and yellows, too bright) and length (shorts, skirts, pants and pjs, ankle skirts, saris). Every day she made up their bed (on both sides), vacuumed her house and made sure there were fresh flowers in the living room vase. Because she knew he'd come back. And imagine if the flowers were faded when he did.