Thursday, 6 June 2019

When to go POOF

Nah, it’s not fun to be the only one up thinking “Where the fuck did I fuck up?” The question is a good one, one that’s cathartic. But, fun it is not.

You know the “How are you?” is never coming. Ever. You also know that you’re the last resort, once all other options have been consummated. Quite literally.

This quote scrolled by the other day “Where do broken hearts go? Back to the best friend.” So cute. Hogwash, I say. Broken hearts go back to the last resort.

Being kind, being accepting, being accommodating, the whole shebang, it is all good. However, not when you compromise on your beliefs.

Had you been that important, you wouldn’t have had to wait. If you were, you both would battle each other to put forth your best versions.

Silence hurts. You know what else hurts? The fact that they know how much they mean to you, and yet show indifference. That air of superiority, well that too.

When the regulars disappear and all support is gone, the call comes. “Oh, I missed you. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how you’d react.” That’s the time to say....

Sorry babe, your tricks have gotten old, clichéd. Show me what’s new, else it’s time to find new shade. I saw enough behind the façade. And all the moves you made.

Trust not the words. Watch if things are the same. Both when it’s time to make hay, and when dark clouds come thy way. If not, turn around and run the FUCK away.



Friday, 12 April 2019

Between night and day

"The sound of your watch ticking away is scary." That one line summed up an evening that slid into the next morning without a wink. That and the smell of her perfume. Should I have revealed her smell was the reason I took long breaths? The least I could have told her is how good her touch felt. Warm, soft, comforting, calming. Not one which drives your ticker frantic.

We've got a problem. This constant search for partnerships has ruined creativity. Talks seldom move beyond our attempts to sound smart or superior to our surroundings. Somewhere amidst all the pretence, we lose sight of what we want. It could be as simple as holding a pair of soft hands, a peck on the cheek, a few moments of peaceful silence, a few lame, juvenile laughs, or good ol' hot sex.

Our inflated ego, deflated self-esteem, and perilous fear of offending another have muted our intelligence. It takes your trusty cojones to own up to your desires and do one thing and one thing only. Ask. Because ask and you shall receive. In the worst case scenario, you shall be rejected. But rejection beats the perpetual limbo of not having stood up for your wants. Pants down.

I asked. I was lucky, and so, I got more than my fair share. I got consent; I got the deep, satisfying sighs of both tension and relief, and I got back some of my faith and humility. It was a match (made in an app), or that's the dazzling message we see nowadays. You see how smartly we've boiled down attraction to the bare basics? Looks and a chance to display the grey matter between our ears.

Rest assured, if one doesn't hit the bull's eye, there's always a shotgun which doesn't miss the mark. If you aren't physically endowed, trust your brain to save the day. I know, the shotgun isn't the aptest analogy. But who cares? The mind knows what it wants. It's time you should too. Even better if you have the gall to be an arsehole about it. She knew I was. It made things easier, but who am I kidding?

Subtlety is far from yours truly's forte. She was kind enough to show me my new city's skyline, the night filled with stars, and give me an entry into her cosy sanctuary. Without that, would I have had the confidence to let out my desires? Who knows? Even then, it took a little coaxing to open the floodgates. Boy, she had (and still has) the wits to dwarf your IQ. So much so I took half an evening to string together 'intellectually intimidating' to describe her. She laughed. I sank.

No idea what got me where I was. It was probably the brutal honesty, a dash of stupidity, and perhaps the arrogant bastard that I am (the lady's words, not mine) that made a mundane Wednesday evening better than a sloshy Friday, if you may. Heck, what do I know? I don't drink. Some pot would be nice, though, What I know is her embrace felt good, so did the way she gripped and yanked at my vest, and how she rested on my shoulders. I must have done something right. Enough intellectualising. 

Thursday, 7 February 2019

We inform with great regret....

If you get a message that has the same words as in the title, brace yourself for a punch in the gut. Or at least that's what it feels like after you read those words. It could be the news of a loved one who passed away or a job/college application for which you got rejected. "It's not you, it's me," is also an iteration of "We inform with great regret."

You know the truth? None of them regret it. They (whoever sent you the message, that is) might pity you, but there's no regret involved. It's a polite way of saying fuck off. REJECTED, if you may. Time for a crash course on how to handle a blow. No, not the kind you think. It's the kind you take on the chin. And bloody hell, it hurts. The teeth get forced into the gums and it gets all weird and bloody.

Rejection has become a friend. First, it came from schools. Then, from girls. Then, from colleges. Then, from girls. Then, it came from HR departments. Then, it came from ladies. Then, five of them came JAB! JAB! HOOK! JAB! BAM! KAPOW! Four universities and a woman. Goodness, that's what I call Black Eyed Piss. Because now, I got black eyes and boy it hurts while taking a leak.

You remember the booster shots dad got you when you were a kid? Those ugly, pain-in-the-arse injections? Little did I know that build your body's immunity. That's what rejection from women has become. Each one makes you a little more immune to 'no'. It hurts like hell, but you've survived one before, boy. You will not die and you know that. Even if the next one is around the corner. I think.

My last one was a little intense. We Skyped a lot. It was fun. However, I suspected she fantasised about another man. She later ratified my suspicion. For the lack of a better statement, it tore me to shreds. That teeny-weeny sensation of inadequacy grew into a little black hole, rather a dementor if you may. You know what dementors do, don't you? You filthy Potter-heads!

Yours truly is gifted. Not emotionally, but cut-and-dry IQ-wise. Well, sort of. You know what smart people do? They take sabbaticals because why not? I thought I'd make good of my time preparing for examinations. The trick worked in parts. The results were positive and the folks at GMAT were kind. The doors to foreign universities opened. I filled forms, pestered mentors and did the whole shebang.

First rounds were luckily a breeze. However, beyond that, here's what I saw everywhere.
We inform with great regret... We inform with great regret... We inform with great regret...
After the third one, I expected rejection to be the outcome for everything. I tell you, the mind is a bitch. But there's a way to trick it. I call it "When in doubt, work out."

The dopamine hit helps. You think Tinder will solve your problems. Haha. Haha. Hahahaha! Who told you to think? Besides, Tinder is a discussion for another day. But yeah, dopamine helps. So do the sundry endorphins. And screw dumb-bell curls, useless gym 'bros'! Learn how to squat and dead-lift for your own sake. You'll sleep better. Else, you'll only get sore biceps and awkward postures.

Chuck that. let's jump topics because I saw something interesting today. It was a WhatsApp status one of my contacts put up. It went like this: Ten signs that show you're matured. Oh. Fuck. No. But curiosity killed the cat.

1) Small talk no longer excites you. Small talk is a weakness, so PHEW!
2) Sleep is better than a Friday night out. Totally. Wow, I'm so mature already!
3) You forgive more. Aah, -1 I guess. But what do I forgive who for? Perhaps, myself. No idea.
4) You become more open-minded. Do you get a surgery done? Heck, open-minded about what? 
5) You respect differences. 3 - 2 = 1. I accept. Other bits I'm yet to reconcile with.  
6) You don't force your love on anyone. Who are you? Mom?
7) You accept heartaches. As if you and I have a choice. If you're Salman Khan, it's a different issue. 
8) You don't judge easily. Even if I do (which I do), no one gives a fuck. That's that then. 
9) You prefer to be silent over getting into a fight. I prefer being silent over everything. I can give dear old Manmohan Singh competition. Beat that!
10) Your happiness doesn't depend on others. Happiness? Oh, there's something called 'others' too?

I'm sure maturity isn't like puberty. Puberty is simple. It makes you hairy and sexy. Either that or it makes you curvy, sexy, bleed, and mad. Not maturity though. Oh no, no, no. Maturity has its own way. It spanks some at birth (Oooh, naughty), slaps some during childhood, punches a few during adolescence, kicks some in the arse at the dawn of adulthood, and knocks out another few in the 20s.

But it spares some.*Ahem*. To these rare few it says... "Go on, child. You're screwed anyway. What can I do you for?" You take a few wobbly baby-steps forward and look back longingly. Sobbing. Trying to be brave, but you have a lump in your throat. Then, you sense evil. The benevolent creature behind you transforms into a fire-breathing monster. And god, do you run like there's no tomorrow! 

Saturday, 5 January 2019

Moving up in life

Everything seems to want to upgrade. Your girlfriend probably wants to upgrade to a better guy; you probably want to upgrade to a better girl; your friend wants to upgrade to a better job; his boss wants to upgrade to a higher salary; the boss's wife wants to upgrade to a bigger house, a bigger car, a bigger cock, the works; and their daughter wants to upgrade to a better smartphone.

Heck, even the smartphone wants to upgrade to the newer version of its software. That little device, which just about fits in your pocket nowadays, is a needy bitch. It'll blink, vibrate, ring, ping, and even do the SOS shingle to get your attention. And bloody hell will it remind you minute, after minute, after minute, that it is time for a software upgrade.

Icecream sandwich, KitKat, Oreo, Snickers, M&Ms, goodness knows what sweet treats the folks at Google name their operating systems after. It's reached 9.0? I lost track after they popped the Jelly Bean. That's how long it's been. The Apple fanboys will tell you they are running on IOS 5674 or who knows what. But, I've got a question. What are the coding lads at these companies up to?

What shenanigans are they planning by offering upgrade after upgrade? Fair enough, they say the battery lives will be better, RAM management and yada yada will improve, and the porn you watch on your little screens will look more lifelike (really?). However, however, there's a little conspiracy theory I have which might not be a conspiracy theory.  

You know the feeling you get you're the last person to know something? As if everyone around you notices the elephant in the room, but you're deluding yourself into thinking you're 'The Boy Who Lived'? I think software updates are a front used by mobile-phone manufacturers to intrude deeper into our lives, make themselves more indispensable to our puny existence.

They already know where we live. They know where we work, who we fuck, who fucks us over, what we eat, and what eats us deep down inside. And with every 'upgrade', we're happily giving them a warmer welcome to make us their prostitutes. The pizza ad that popped up on your screen is because you liked a random Facebook page with Photoshopped images of a slice of Italy.

The photo may conjure in your mind images of a wood-fired oven in one of Sicily's cosiest pizzerias. Good going, but highly unlikely. The poor fellow who raced across the city to deliver it to you has probably taken a bite out of your little slice of Italy. You didn't bother to tip him, did you? Well, he needs an upgrade too. I know, I know, the app in your phone handles it all. Fuck etiquettes, anyway.

Coming back to software upgrades, they have become the bone of contention in Op-Ed columns. The blokes go to great lengths to tell you how the 17.4.3.2.2 or some upgrade makes your phone start three attoseconds quicker than it did before. Impressed? You will be, especially when you see the tech monkeys fighting over who upgraded first to the new version. The excitement, boy isn't it palpable!

The software upgrade craze has honestly faded. In fact, I'd even say this piece is about two years too late. But the rate at which we're headed towards a spondylitis epidemic, we need to have our back. Get the joke? Get it? Get it? Remember Terminator? The movie projected a bleak future with humans being dominated by androids and machines. Well, the machines are here. and 2029 isn't far away. Where the fuck is John Connor? And stop quarrelling over that software update, pussies!