Radical Honesty, with a pinch of Plagiarism

I'd, at this juncture, prefer to write something on my own, but seeing as this blog is public, and I don't really want to put myself out there (despite what it may seem to you), I'm going to take this opportunity to post Snow Patrol's Make This Go On Forever, because it's a really really nice song.

Please don't let this turn into something it's not
I can only give you everything I've got
I can't be as sorry as you think I should
But I still love you more than anyone else could

All that I keep thinking throughout this whole flight
Is 'it could take my whole damn life to make this right'
This splintered mast I'm holding on won't save me long
Because I know fine well that what I did was wrong

The last girl in the last reason to make this last for as long as I could
First kiss and the first time that I felt connected to anything
The weight of water, the way you taught me to look past everything I had ever learned
The final word in the final sentence you ever uttered to me was love

We have got through so much worse than this before
What's so different this time that you can't ignore?
You say it is much more than just my last mistake
And we should spend some time apart for both our sakes

The last girl in the last reason to make this last for as long as I could
First kiss and the first time that I felt connected to anything
The weight of water, the way you taught me to look past everything I had ever learned
The final word in the final sentence you ever uttered to me was love

The last girl in the last reason to make this last for as long as I could
First kiss and the first time that I felt connected to anything
The weight of water, the way you taught me to look past everything I had ever learned
The final word in the final sentence you ever uttered to me was love

And I don't know where to look
My words just break and melt
Please just save me from this darkness
Please just save me from this darkness

return trip. ohgodd.

we live. and then we leave.
we are part of someone else's scenery.
you make friends and then they disappoint you.
and then you make new friends.





home, has never been so saddening to return to.

Around the time you were being less interesting

From what I remember, this is what happened at 3am last night -

"So, like, that burning bush. Moses. He burnt a bush of marijuana, right?"

"No?"

"Of course he did. And I'll tell you why. All those Jews were mass-tripping when they said the Red Sea parted. How the hell does a sea part?"

"*Reads out the Wikipedia entry on the Red Sea.*"

"The Red Sea cannot part. Unless it's like.. two oceans facing each other and having simultaneous low tides. All the Jews were stoned. They thought the Red Sea was parting and tried to cross it and then they drowned. THAT is why there are so few Jews in the world."

"I'm pretty sure HITLER had something to do with the Jewish population."

"No. Shuttup. I'm being very profound right now."

"Go on."

"So Moses burnt a bush of weed and the Jews died thinking a sea parted. Also they have big noses from inhaling all that weed. And.. and that's why they're so susceptible to such a host of genetic disorders."

"..."

"Yeah that's what I thought."

Been reading quite a bit of Neruda this morning. And writing notes about solid waste management (you know, poo handlage.). Everyone else is busy studying, but I have an English paper tomorrow, so HAHAHAHAHAHA.

Inside Joke -
Amoeba is a Hero. We must try to be. Like the Amoeba.

In which the author expresses a desire to sue Hollywood.

Each questionably great romantic comedy ends similarly but differently. With the love of their life gone far far away due to a misunderstanding, the protagonist realizes the hard way that life without said romantic partner is cold and loveless. And so begins the last scene, one you mindlessly cheer on knowing of the situation’s improbability and the predictableness of the ending.
Rex Harrisson as Henry Higgins, after his impassioned and somewhat misogynistic “Why Can’t A Woman Be More Like A Man?” soon realizes that the Cockney Eliza Doolittle was more than just an experiment. George Peppard, the impoverished boytoy writer and Audrey Hepburn, the whimsical socialite Holly Golightly look for a stray cat called Cat in the pouring rain in a back alley, accepting that as two drifters, they’d just be happier if they stuck together. Runs through terminals, and friendly guards who allow transgressions and breach of security at the risk of their jobs, a romantic conclusion atop the Empire State Building, several years into the future after a casual acquaintance on a road trip vehemently declares that men and women can never be friend because sex will always come in between.
I blame Hollywood for ingraining in me standards that teenage boys will never achieve due to the lack of a scriptwriter controlling their lives and actions.
I blame Hollywood for making me believe in a parallel universe where I would be consoled by a dashing man in a tuxedo, ascending on an escalator, a single rose in his hand and a look of pure love.
I blame Hollywood for wrapping my mind around three words, three words that would emotionally validate me, I refer not to ‘I Love You’ , but Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire with the line, ‘You Complete Me.’
While on one hand, the sheer volume of unwatchable romantic movies cheapens and mocks the idea of love, the film industry has also glorified the same emotion, putting it on a pedestal so high that we are led to assume that we cannot function without a wonderfully kind, loving and considerate significant other.
The purpose of this diatribe is not to advocate the idea of independent singledom. It is selfish. It is to remind myself that I’ve been socially conditioned to emotionally look for things that are fantastical and scripted. Films end with a slow fadeout embrace or a sincere ‘I Love You’ and a consequent kiss of reconciliation. That there is a Happily Ever After is a conclusion out candyfloss mind jumps to.
A relationship is dynamic, and no sprint on tarmac or speech in front of crowds ever conclusively solves anything. If anything it is, at best, a good anecdote for when you grow older. But sooner or later, you will resent something again and at some point the airport is going to list you as a repeat offender on charges of trespassing.
So what do I conclude from all of this? That a relationship is a compromise that you are willing to make, that our environment teaches us things that are not necessarily true. That flying under the radar, being off the grid, and simplicity is just as effective and heart-warming and meaningful as freezing to death in the middle of an ocean watching your lover survive. At least you can be sure that in your case, he didn’t memorize lines that someone else wrote for him, and he’s not reading it out while wearing alarmingly large amounts of makeup.

Gurgleburble.

Would if I could, tag Shalmi, for we were born for this. We just were. :)

Contd.

  Anywhere can be Rome, all we need is a Vespa and to be far away from home. 

           

Sense and sensibility.

Are best left to the Victorians.
As for me, I prefer debauchery. 

This behaviour is not unique.

In Chennai there is this monstrosity called Saravana Stores. Much like an indoors Marina Beach, in the sense that all of the Chennai and outskirts population seems to descend upon said place like locusts. While at the beach, there is a waterbody and peanuts to be had for entertainment, Saravana Stores is the reason we are, as a country, progressing into the clutches of consumerism etc. I don't care about the capitalist or consumerist leanings of the general public owing to my political apathy. What I Do worry about, however, are crowds.
As in, I don't like them. They poke and prod, and sometimes stare at me with complete lack of humility (I mean, seriously, what is up with that?), and lack hygiene and consciousness and volume control.
But Saravana also sells strawberry preserve and Nutella, and I needed to pick up some stuff for Hellore, so I had to dive right into the Kraken's mouth this morning. It went largely well. The new rules of navigating a crowd are not so much to indulge in polite Excuse Mes as to just shoving them in the sacral/coccygeal region of their spine with your shopping cart. (Find your inner Xena the world seems to be telling me.)
So after about two hours of playing Bumper Cars using Tamil arses as targets, I finally got done with all the shopping, and while carrying down the stuff, I passed by a clutch of old people with their little bags of groceries, muttering things.
After we got home, my mother wouldn't stop laughing at me, which was odd, even by her high set bar of lunacy.
Because apparently that bunch of old people were griping about how all these white people were infiltrating the stores wearing next to nothing, thinking they could strut in and out wherever they please, what with their lack of morals and pants and what not.






This is the fourth time this has happened in the holidays. My neighbour, random people at the jogging park, hell, my dad's uncle - they all think I'm European. And now my mother has a new nickname for me which she won't stop singing, ABCD. American Born Confused Desi.

Um, wha?

When We Were Young

There's a wildly popular group on Facebook - "Move out of the way, children, I've been waiting 11 years to see Toy Story 3", and once you watch the movie, you'll realize how Pixar waves a hello to it's currently college-bound original audience of the 90s.
In each of us there lives an Andy with wild, riotous imagination and a posse of favourite toys. But just like Andy, the 90s kids grew up and the toys now live dusty, forgotten lives.
"Andy's going to College" are the opening words of this movie, what are the toys going to do now? Do they get donated, stored in the attic or just ruthlessly thrown away? Relegated to a dystopic daycare ruled over by the tyrannical Lotso, the toys decide to break out and return to their original owner, deciding that a forgotten life in the attic (and a chance that Andy's kids might play with them) is better than living their lives out in the living hell that is Sunnyside. What follows is an hilariously entertaining prison-break scenario, toys creeping around under sandcastle buckets trying to escape the eerie Big Baby. As always there is a race against time, and they must get home before Andy leaves for college, but of course, plans go awry.
While the basic plotline is largely predictable, Pixar's treatment of the same is refreshing and engaging, drawing in both the six-year-olds and the nostalgic teenagers, there is physical comedy interspersed with witticism. A wonderfully familiar cast, and of course, 3D. What sets Toy Story 3 apart from Shrek Forever After (in the 3D aspect, because Shrek was just a terrible movie overall) is that even though TS3 doesn't really have scenes that jump out at you from the screen, the effects enhance the ridiculous detailing on the characters, making HD seem primitive. Every colour is just more colourful, and the detailing is insane, like little crayon scratches on Mr. Potato Head, the green paint on Jessie's hair, which doesn't disappear. It's amazing how much love and care has been put into the movie.
At the core of it all, there is that little pang of a largely unrealised emotion that will run through you as you watch it. You wonder where your own toys are, and you wonder if they miss you. What makes this movie successful, dramatically, is that you are completely drawn in, cringing in fright and apprehension at the climax, even though you know that this isn't how it will end. And when it does end, it is all you can do to stop yourself from crying.
Pixar ALWAYS does this, in all of its movies (especially if you remember the cinematic brilliance of Carl and Ellie's montage in Up!)You have your fun, you have that exhilarating adrenaline ride full of laughs and rainbows, and then comes that one moment that'll leave you thinking about assorted things. I promise to not spoil it for you, but you have to promise you'll watch this movie.
With Andy driving away, you know it's over. We've all driven (or been driven) away from the past, and you can watch all the films and buy all the merchandise you want, you will never be that wide-eyed-six-year-old in the seat next to you ever again. It's a heavy price to pay to understand the entire poignancy of that ending sequence of Toy Story 3, but it is, in a way, closure.
Thank you Pixar, for nudging me just a little bit closer to adulthood. In the gentlest way possible. :)

P.S. - You should really watch that montage from Up! I even linked it for you.

A day in the exciting life of.. well, not me.

This World Cup is becoming the weirdest one yet.
You know what's weird? Almost every single football player is hot. Seriously. Exceptions abound, you know, like Carlos Tevez, Peter Crouch, and the entire United States team. I don't get it. How can one ENTIRE team be so bad-looking? Have you seen Dempsey's face? He looks like a bush-baby. A very tall bush-baby.
Ick I say.

Toy Story 3 releases on the 25th of June. I have not been so excited since I found out that a thing called Mulan 2 existed. Eeeeeeeeeeee.
The only major thing I've done till now is made a decision to grow out my hair again. That is all.

The look on your face, was delicate.

I never want my life to be like a Damien Rice song. I'm afraid of pain and loneliness and regret, but I never want it to be so wispy and wistful that each moment of it is heartbreaking in so many different ways.
I want my rage to be fast, to be angry, to be wild and to be over with. Grudges are scary, the ones you harbour in your heart for so long, with all those layers of stealth that you wrap it in with, and then sooner or later you will release it, when I'm vulnerable, when I let down my guard. You make me never want to relax.

Now why would you do that?

Like when I forget you, and I forget you exist, I forget the things you say that I used to remember. And then you come rushing back to fill my synapses and bloodstream, suddenly my hair's a mess and my clothes matter, but mixed with the self-doubt there is the elation that you'd rather be here than anywhere else.

I hope I never get sober.

What is it about chick flicks that make them so magnetic and endearing, despite their very obvious formula-like approach of plot?
Boy meets Girl.
Connection.
Progression of Relationship.
Stupid misunderstanding.
Clear it up.
Kiss.
Wedding, or a ride into the sunset, or something appropriately saccharine-sweet to leave you with unrealistic expectations at the end.
I don't get it. I mean, I do. But also I don't.
So you know there are these epic love stories, which work out perfectly till the end. And they're not necessarily the ones that fade out on the old couple on the park bench. Not the ones with the kisses in the rain like The Notebook. Call me stupid, hell, call me repetitive, but my version of love is where I'm kept awake all night talking of inconsequential things. It's the nicest thing in the world, you know?
There's this lyric by Keane, from their song Spiralling (Album - Perfect Symmetry) which goes - "When we fall in love we're just falling in love with ourselves". I didn't understand it at first. But yes, it makes sense now. It just does. You're falling in love with someone else who is falling in love with you so you're falling in love with yourself. Geddit? Which brings me to this other lyrics, Bodies by Robbie Williams (Reality killed the Video Star), "All we ever want is to look good naked hoping someone can take it." Music bewilders me and I love it. And it's not just music I talk about sometimes.
Someone on the second floor scrawled "Love is a chronic hallucination" on a window pane. It feels like a new assignment for my brain. Stop doing this to me, man.

God, I hate you. Or do I? Yes I do. Not. Gahhhh.

So I wish I had the balls to tell you - 

You are what is both wrong and right with/for me.

P.S. - This isn't about you. Just saying.

Spin me round like a record

Life is a bitch otherwise, but then you come along and it feels like rain, and I'm smiling again. I could quote a hundred million songs, all the right words and all the appropriate lyrics, I still wouldn't get it right, they wouldn't sing it they way you sing it.

I think I'm drowning, asphyxiating.

Perenially sleep-deprived.

Always out of charge.

I'm asleep and awake at the wrong hours, I'm asleep and awake at the same time.

Coffee puts me to sleep, I drink three cups a day for higher productivity.

Little Black Lizard in my room likes to hide behind my Lehninger.

Facebook Inbox malfunctions, it leads me on it depresses me.

I smile like a stupid fool you make me smile like a stupid fool you stupid fool.

So many words I should know. So many structures for so many little things in the body. Wires and circuitry I understand nothing of, I'm learning how we're wired. I'm learning that I'm weird. We're weird.

Messages at 4:oo am. Messenger dingdingding. I have tests, hey, I have a life.

Room mate raised to the power four. YOU'RE AN ANNOYING FUCK. GET OUT OF MY FACE. Shutupshutup.

Our time is ruuuuuunnnnnnnnnnnnnniiiinnnnngggg out, and our time is ruuuuuuuunnnnnnnniiiinnnnnnggggg out.

if things go well i may grow up and make an occupation of of being an inspiration.
i wish i had the guts to write a one line post.
or atleast i wish i had that penchant for brevity.

HEY at least on the bright of everything,
today is a good hair day.

I'll be air, I'll be fire

Happy 2010. This year I've resolved to be more grown-up. Allow me to retain the ambiguity of that resolution, I shall call upon it several times in 364 days. I will be a calm, beauteous, serendipitious, wonderful awesome person and everyone will wonder, "Ohmy, where did she come from?" to which I shall calmly, beauteously, serendipitiously and wonderfully awesomely answer, "Calcutta, originally."

I shall also be healthy and not live my life on Nissin Cup Noodles.

I shall get a decent haircut the next time I go. I lack spine in the hairdresser's chair, and the fool will always cut it all in the same length and in two weeks my hair starts looking triangular. Wasn't I supposed to leave behind all this awkwardness at 16?

I'm thinking of running away to Livejournal for a bit, and bring some drama into the whole WP-Blogger relationship. Will you hate me forever or read my stuff anyway when I force you to? let me know. I'm going to go make an account anyway.

Trippin'.

I believe I owe myself a decent post. The last week has been rather choppy because I've been all over the place, not just physically, but mental-health-wise. When I come to Chennai, I like Vellore better, and when I'm in Vellore, Chennai seems so much calmer. Then there's that voice in my head (yes, me) that still misses Calcutta that it borders on physical ache.

Thanks to VH1, I realised that we're going into an entirely new decade in two days, and that is weird because later when we're old, people are going to call us the generation from the 00's. The generation who swooned over a sparkly vampire, and men that looked like boys who look like girls. We are people who loved those cats who could not spell. The generation that perpetrated a swarm of homegrown singers in the closet with a guitar and smoky voice, destined for Internet stardom. This post is not about them. I don't know what it's about, I just like the sound of the typing, which I guess is the equivalent of enjoying the sound of my own voice, so essentially, I'm just feeding my own ego as usual over here.

First things first, the blog has been overhauled, and the comment pages are back again, but the CBox still remains, just in case. If anyone makes a Twilight joke over the wolf, I will personally Seppuku them, then Harakiri them, also.

Mr. America's present finally reached after three odd weeks of effing and blinding its way across the Universe. See, the scarf reached him and now I'm all zonked because I used to have it, and now he does. I know how postal works, thankyew, but it's just, okay, there's a picture of me wearing it. And now he's wearing it. IT'S FREAKY. That scarf travelled more than I did.

(I know I said I wasn't going to put up that picture but hey, I just did.)

See what I mean? It's in my dorm room in front of the mirror, and it's there, early morning California too. What a trip. Pun intended.

Loser hai hum.

From the time we've all been little kids, we've been fascinated by Christmas. It's one of those holidays that's gone beyond religion and into regular consciousness, and this year, there are no lights and there's no hoopla. Which really puts me off. My parents stopped giving me Christmas presents after they told me Santa doesn't exist, and after a point I stopped caring too, but I just really LIKE presents. Christmas is an excuse. I want to go to stores and make a list of people and put thought into it and all of that. I want fake/real snow and trala-lalala-lalala. I want Park Street, I want barbecue, I want a movie I haven't watched before and am guaranteed to like, I want to be less of a hermit tonight.

And I could really use an iPod, now that my cell phone has conked and I'm back again to the Nokia 1100. That phone is joining the list of things that'll survive the Apocalypse. Along with cockroaches, my cockroach-like grandmother, and Twinkies. 

Someone tell my grandmum to screw off, like, SERIOUSLY. She has to stop bonding with me, my head might explode. It might explode anyway, what with this retarded cold. But I just liked it better when she didn't give a flying fuck about me. Those were the days.

I'm mortally afraid I'm turning into a bitter bitch who can't stop waving her arms around, trying to gather attention with my mouth in a perpetual grimace. It's only fun to be antisocial when there are social events to be ignored. Right now I'm just a loser.

Collapse the Light into the Earth

I wrote this because I didn't feel like doing Math, my room mate's English teacher showed them a documentary on 2012 last night, and my morbid fear of dying is rearing it's ugly head again and it's kind of hard to go about life fearing about the lack of it. Analogous to eating the last plate of good food and wanting to eat it fast and yet knowing there's none where THAT came from. Porcupine Tree and lack of Math is sort of making me feel better. For some reason I thought writing would make me feel better but it only made me feel worse. Man I'm a loser. I haven't done anything useful. I have a huge ego and nothing to back it up with. And to top it all, I'm going to die in about two years. 2012 is good news only for psychopaths and non-believers who are going to have a field day on 01-01-2013.
If we live to see it.
:-/

Are there going to be sirens, wailing in the dead of midnight,
Like a shrill knell for the world?
Will we burn hotter than the sun, or will we just stop existing
Crumbling into ashes when we take unwitting steps
Danger
Danger
Ohmygoodness DANGER.
Is there going to be some sort of line, women and children go last
And the captain of the world locks himself in his cabin -
2012 is the Iceberg for our planet's Titanic, and Ron Howard is a morbid, morbid man
Who couldn't come up with a happy enough ending.
And will I hang over the edge of a oaken door with icicles freezing my hair -
Watching you die and we'll think of the things we never did?
We never took a trip to an amusement park in the late summer, never watched the candy-coloured rides in the haze of the setting sun.
And we never went to Amsterdam, and we never took roofies among the tulips, stupid grins and outlandish words we wouldn't remember were never said anyway.

My life would look like the preview of a movie half-formed in the mind of a visionary
Extraordinary ideas and crazy situations that never really happened
All I am is a barrel of mush that never fermented
And I am left undone, unfinished, because I never started anyway.
I could have been the best beer in the world.
So when Day Zero finally arrives, what is going to be like -
An army of aliens, tired of being misrepresented as green, antenna'd misfits take us down
Because they're tired of hiding from the Mars Rover?
Something less mundane like a fiery inferno going Kablam and we're all little strips of bacon
Or the Sun goes on strike
Or the vastly superior idea of thermal death, when we expend so much energy that the entropy of the Universe goes up so high that we just cannot move anymore.
For an idea that's been lurking around for hundreds of years, 2012 Is surprisingly vague, you know?
All the better to spook us out with.