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I promised myself this wouldn't happen. I would not let this blog turn into an angsty rant blog about guys. Heck, when I was thirteen, I promised myself I wouldn't turn boy crazy! I had it all written down in my diary. Yes, the old school diary with a lock which involved wrist action to write in. And, you know, ink.

I'd clearly spelled out that no, I would not become some stupid boy crazy girl, just like the rest of them.

Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men. Wait...am I mixing something up here? Perhaps. Anyway I have succumbed to what I realize is the biological tuning of every female on the planet. Except the sea horses. Those females are kickass. They make the men carry around the egg!

And the lobsters. Can you imagine a she-lobster wondering why he didn't call her? Can you imagine the sex?

Lobster sex. Wow. We've transcended new borders of normalcy here. We watched snails fornicating in class once. Life is full of many wonders.

The male race is pathetic. That is all.

Exit

"Yesterday, at that party, I met this lady," he said, bringing me closer, "and she said she could look into my eyes and see that I was already in love with someone." I blushed - he always said I blushed too easily. We smiled goofily at each other. We kissed. I got lost in his eyes.

It wasn't me. In his eyes, the love in them wasn't for me. Months later, I remembered what he'd said. And I saw the truth of his words. Maybe he's seen it too, if he remembers. Retrospection makes a master of irony out of us all. In his eyes, the love was for a woman from the past. He'd made up his mind to move forward. His eyes hadn't. And, then, looking into his eyes, I'd foolishly mistaken that love to be mine.

He was so determined, though. So adamant when he proclaimed his love. So strong-willed that, shielded as I had been by scepticism, I foolishly, foolishly started believing the words he said. He was too innocent to realize he didn't mean it. I was overwhelmed by possibilities and new ecstasy.

So, if you can, imagine the heartbreak when he left.

Time passed. He rediscovered the woman from his eyes. The woman who had a right to the love in them. Meanwhile, my anger melted into hurt. Eventually, time crumbled it into acceptance. I don't have anything against them. So, he wasn't in love with me, he wasn't mine.

Then why did he have to go to such efforts to convince me otherwise?

In retrospect, I see my role in this story, the story I thought was my own. At the risk of sounding too technical, I was a foil character. My role, my purpose was to make him realize a little bit more about his life. Maybe I'm wrong. But this is the only balm I have. Through me, he saw what he truly wanted. So where did that leave me?

An exit from someone else's story. An opportunity to search for my own.

pickles

of COURSE i'm connected to the server.

how can chrome for a cause say i'm not?

all the websites are working!

aren't they?

do i just THINK i'm connected?

when in reality

i'm not -

but the websites

are

they illusions?

3 AM

Three in the morning is a unique time. It’s supposed to be the devil’s hour. You know how Ted, in this one episode, says go to bed after 2 AM because nothing good ever happens that late at night? Well, he’s wrong.

I’ve had epiphanies at 3 AM. And some pretty great laughs with my friends. (No, I couldn’t find another time to be bored and in need of company.) And some significant silences with a few others.

So about that epiphany. This post was going to be about it, but 3 AM seemed suddenly more important. I’ll relate it anyway. Having one of those conversations that go round and round with someone extra eccentric, none of us were making any sense. It was 3 AM. In India, not where I am. Told you I was Indian at heart.

Anyway. We reached this conclusion, that everyone is messed up. Really. So… what does being normal mean? So, then, if everyone is messed up, then being messed up must be the norm. Then people who are “messed up” are actually normal, and those elusive “normal” ones are actually messed up.

Doesn’t that make you feel better? The Joker was sane after all.

The Joker is then symbolic of the purging of the author’s “messed up” mind. The Joker is us. He represents the deep shadows of our minds. Ok, so maybe to each of us, the Joker is a different menacing age. Like for say Charlie Chaplin, the Joker’s age would be an innocent eleven. (Then again, who knows what went on under his inconspicuous hat.) For Osama, maybe the Joker is in his late forties. Completely serious.

Ok that’s enough now. Time to hide.

Heels on Cobblestone

So imagine a person. This person wants another person. This person waits. Wishes that that person would come by. Wishes that person would love without inhibition. This person cannot stop the music. Thoughts would choke her. She's actually stone. Of course. Things like this are trivial.

Then that person comes. He says something, nothing really - and the walls come tumbling down. Such wretched emotions. Why do they plague us so? Why does he leave so soon?

Enough of the melodrama. Let's all get a grip shall we? It's not like, in the big scheme of things happening in the universe, little things make a difference. Do they? Let's just live in the past till the present starts to pick up. It's the best we can do. Don't let the walls go down.

Because the ones you want to stay usually don't. It's the bitter irony that has inspired many poems, novels, movies. Tragic romance.

A distant dance, moving slowly, holding quietly.

Maybe nothing makes sense now, but it will. The truth will out. But truth is precarious. Unbalanced.

Like heels on cobblestone roads.

Maple Syrup

Again. It just had to happen again and again and again. Fate is a cruel dealer. Actually I have not much to complain about... Putting things in perspective, I'm pretty lucky, truth be told. Parents who are well off...education...clothes, food, money, friends. Yes, in that order. I need to straighten out my priorities.

I wanna run away. Abscond. I learned a new word today.

Becoming Insane is playing in the background. Apt. Very very apt. The total frivolity of life is not lost upon me, just like the ridiculousness of drowning a fish or making sense of ee cummings is not lost upon anyone (except my last English teacher). (He was all in a fit about the fish.)

Kidding.

I feel like a pancake. Being flipped over again and again, repeatedly until I'm just too darn fried. Or maybe like a frog jumping around trying to catch a fly but all of them are just too high up. Frustration mounts. The frog jumps off the wall of the well. The pancake resigns itself to its fate. Only maple syrup can save it now. Where is my maple syrup!

This is the most ridiculous rant of my life. There are some things in life I don't want to lose, and they happen to be at contradicting ends of a spectrum. Tomorrow will decide a lot of things. But you know, someone should publish a book, and call it What You Actually Want in Life. And it should be customized for every individual. And be written by God. But it was God who said go, go to Bombay. Fate is a bitch. A skank of the highest order, and then some. Someone make it all go away.

Make it be a dream.

Make it better.

Make it end.

Is your "you're awesome" your "I love you"?