So there could be worse things than saddrinking and laughing over Bollywood tumblrs while roommates make me pasta and hot sauce. Walked an hour in the heat and came home sweaty, with nose scrunched up, wanting to cry like an ugly monkey. Look into the mirror,see that contrary to all expectations, I look an attractive woman after all. Two ciders down, pleasantly buzzed, nodding head to punk rock. Somewhere a heart is ticking, and I am not in it. Ah well.
So here's the thing: you can only push someone away for so long until you succeed.
Here's another thing: dates are important to me. Birthdays, anniversaries, the works. They're basically saying: Hey, I'm so glad you were born/ we met / this happened/ we fucked /whatever. You may be a weird motherfucker, but my life is richer because you're my weird motherfucker.
Ah well.
Everything is an excuse for art. All is balls.

The crackle at the other end of the line
told me that he was still there,
despite the dead silence.
The click at the back of his teeth,
and the sudden sharp uncontrolled intake of breath,
Impatient at the rising pitch of my voice,
wavering perilously close to tears.
Tremulous and shaky,
for the third phone call this month.
I am stricken by the irritation in his voice,
and struggle to make amends.
I apologize for being irritable,
for being a bore, for being predictable
and for the lack of sparkle in our conversation.
I dredge out the same dull things each time.
The worry in my thoughts
translate to a crease in between my eyebrows,
turning into a ceaseless litany of woe on the phone.
I can imagine the mouse
hovering over a link in red
and the impatience perched at the corner of his absent smile.
I hang up feeling stupid.
That evening sitting with work,
with cats lolling on the floor,
and stray roommates behind closed doors,
I remember my grandmother,
and us children rolling our eyes, every time her voice would start to rise
about my dead grandfather,
about money, and the servants.
The crack was coming, we knew it
because it came so often.
Impatience, and irritation.
'I love her, but why can't she just keep her misery to herself?'
I did not think those thoughts,
I did not vocalize them,
not even to myself.
Am I a bad person,
I wonder.
Don't think so much,
a friend told me over the phone.
Isn't it exhausting,
she asked, bewildered, frustrated.
Yes, I said.
But not giving shape to the thought in your head,
doesn't un-make it.
But I am a fool,
who thinks too much, and sleeps too little, and gets confused,
and cries on the phone.
Offering apologies, swallowing the knot in my stomach.
So I keep my feelings to myself,
and try to take up littler space.
I will not intrude in your world.
I will back away one half footfall at a time,
and you will not hear me leave.
You will not care.
And I will make a mental note to myself,
to be kinder to my grandmother
when she tries not to cry.

Grumble. Skip reading.

UFF this is like fake pre exam time. can i please go somewhere else, be someone else. i'm sick of umreeka. want to go live somewhere in india where i know lots of people but will see no one because i'll be sitting, no lying down on a green bedcover in an ac room with green curtains, reading, reading, reading.

i just described the master bedroom in park'er baari. dhyat.

i am just sick of being told what to do, and sick of thinking so much about it all the time. wouldn't it be nice if i could just know what i'm doing next year and be happy with it, no unexpected surprises, thank you very much.

i'm sick of being politically correct and understanding, sick of being a hard worker, sick of a neverending to-do list, sick of people and their egos. i'm sick of having a house without a fan, and a blocked nose. i want to be in kerala with my family, ten years old, taking pictures on a dinky toy camera. i also want to be a goat, but a pet goat, not one that is being slaughtered to make delicious mutton curry- "kheye nao, shiggir, rontoo"

DHYATT.

i don't want to have feelings ever again. NO MORE EMOTIONS, THANK YOU. ALSO NO MORE CATSICK ON THE STAIRS WHEN I WAKE UP. also no more people saying things like 'lovely femmeness'. also i cannot listen to music anymore. 

the baba (not the father, the sattam) emailed me and told me not to do this thing with my eyebrows where i look like a nervous, sad puppy, when i give my talk. i was trying to figure out what the devil he meant, while doing it, such is life etcetera. yesterday i wore a dress from the seventh grade that i used to wear a tank top under, only i didn't yesterday because i'm bigger? but my boobs were on display, and i kept alternating between 'WORLD HERE ARE MY BOOBS' and 'ughh i wish i had a bib because they are DISTRACTING'.

i woke up from uneasy sleep where i'd buzzed off all my hair and was passing as a boy with some strange name like Rat. also crazy amounts of police sirens outside my window for a longtime, and in my sleep i thought they were coming after me 'cuz i hadn't finished my presentation. 

dhurr. i am sick of glitter, sick of being politically correct, and having to think about whether i'm being 'oppressive' every time i open my mouth.

all i want is to be on a footpath somewhere, drinking thums up and waiting for an auto.

okay? okay.

i have probably written too many things i shouldn't have, but fuck that. in other news, i showed ma something fictional and now she's paranoid that i'm sleeping with my boss (I'M NOT. I'M NOT, UFF RUBBISH).

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