Tuesday, April 19, 2011

The Oestrogen Factor.

"I don't understand what the problem with women is."
A standard male cliche escaped his loose mouth two hours after he first ushered himself into my room and onto my chair next to my desk reading my book and pigging out on my grapes as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

They dress up for hours and hours and when you ask them why, they claim they do it for themselves because it makes them feel happy or satisfied with themselves or life in general. Then they tell you it's more for other girls who pick their outfits and hair and makeup apart. None really seem to admit they do it for us. Granted desi men, including myself, have historically been adept in douchebaggery but we can tell the difference between eyeliner and mascara, lip gloss and blush on, and all these frivolous things you deck up with.

I had always been amused every time a guy tries to think he has girls all figured out, as if he has unknotted every single wire that runs through the dark, depraved place they call the female mind. It's almost as bad as childless people giving high-minded suggestions on how best to raise your child.

I'm not complaining, mind you. I'd never say no to a pretty thing who's put in that much effort for me, or my kind, though she'll never admit it. And what's up with that anyway? Why do you women have such a problem with admitting anything at all? 'Did I do something wrong?' 'No'; 'Are you angry with me?' 'No', 'Why are you crying?' 'I'm NOT crying' though I can visibly see tears running down your face. How do you expect us to do anything about it if you don't TELL us?

Pssht. That couldn't be true, could it?

And worst of all. You NEVER grow out of your fascination with bad boys. I'm being nice here, throw me a bone, but I'll be the generic best friend, the asexual vegetable who might as well be gay with all the things you tell me and if I think I might be into you, it's always 'Let's be friends' and 'I don't think of you that way'. It's as bad as our 'It's not you, it's me' line. Seriously. Think of a new reason

I almost burst out laughing at this point. How bloody ridiculous.

And worse than your teenage 'bad boy phase' is your God complex. STOP TRYING TO SAVE OUR SOULS. We're not asking you to. If I'm silent, it may be because I'm tired. There's not a hidden agenda behind everything. Atleast for us anyway. And if my soul doesn't need saving, I can never be an object of interest. That's why all the schizophrenic bastards out there have such pretty girlfriends who they don't deserve anyway. Then you end up getting hurt and cuss at our kind and how we're such dogs, pigs, whatevertheeff. Seriously, womankind, divert your charitable intentions elsewhere.

'Are you done?' I said and rolled my eyes.
End of conversation.

You go back to reading my book.
I go back to my email backlog.

Now would probably be a bad time to tell you that I'm dating the biggest schizophrenic bastard there is.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

A simple wish.

Shit, I thought, as I looked down at him, kneeling. The stars in the night suddenly dissolved and everything become guttural, not ecstatic as I had imagined it in my head.

It was all perfect, all according to my carefully concocted plan. There was the mild night in a mid-summer dream, his tuxedo and the red of my dress after the formal, the stroll which would start out casually but also with the anticipation of an invitation. Hands clasped in possession across my waist. Laughter. Rubbing off the cherry of my lipstick from your mouth using your handkerchief after we kiss. Laughter. Your hands in possession of all my waste.

Names in candlelight. Names in flower buds. Names in star dust.

It was all according to my very own fucking plan.

Except for the first time I realised, this was never what I had wanted.

So be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.

Saturday, April 2, 2011


Ever felt the way your body responds to something minute is so overwhelmingly out of your control that it's hard to breathe?

Like one conversation, whose initiation you have waited for, even if it was never finished.