On a normal day, I will burp, scratch and fart. I could also have unshaved armpits and eyebrows that last got worked on by a cavewoman. But, then there are these days when I transform into a lady. Clean, plucked and smooth. Like a featherless chicken. And that does not sound very appealing by a very far stretch of imagination. Ok, let stick to I look rather nice.
And then on those days, I will meet men who do the cutest things. Things that make me go aww and I want to jump off my chair and hand him the ‘Get into her pants’ card.
Now, if you know me, you know im not the very aww kind of person. Like drooly babies don’t make me go aww. Nor do furry pups. You get the idea. Mush isn’t exactly my thing. So, just imagine how haplessly cute these things that men do are. See how I smartly juxtapose other cute things to further the cuteness of men? Also, notice my ability to make strange and complex sentences that leaves my readers clueless about the point im trying to make. Now without rambling, these are the things men do that I think are adorable.
1) When they like/love you, they will put their arm around your waist and gently pull you closer. (We are operating under the assumption that you have a waist that doesn’t need Kanoons haath to go around it) It feels like you are the only one in the world for them.
Except the lady in skirt behind you with those yummy legs and that cleavaged bitch on the right, he seems to have eyes only for you.
2) Try going for a trek or a climb with a rocky terrain. Watch him watch out for you. And use every opportunity to hold your hand. I know. Cute. Except when you are trying to tackle a rather massive rock and hes heaving under your butt trying to get you to push your leg over the ledge. I am purely guessing here but hairy butt cracks and yellow teddy bear chaddis might just put him off a little bit.
3) All his friends are gathered around him, ready to blow. The candles on his birthday cake. Really, you pervert brains. He looks up and waits. Spots you smiles and calls you next to him. Holds you and then cuts this cake. You glow radiantly. And then he smashes some cake into your face. Yeah, they never know when to stop.
4) You are wobbling in your heels and your feet are threatening to collapse in protest. Your thong sits uncomfortably between your cheeks, itching your rectum. Not helping things. That’s when he bends down, pulls off your sandals and squeezes your foot gently. Aah. Bliss. (Writer shudders in orgasm and waits for spasm to pass)
5) You wake up, groggy and your breath smelling like fish, your hair matted around your face like overcooked noodles and he still thinks you look like a million bucks. He stares, smiles at you and kisses you forehead. Adorable. Aww.
That’s why I don’t mind one. Or two.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Monday, July 7, 2008
Adding to Murphy
Laziness has no excuse. And that’s my excuse for not blogging. Also that my fertile mind was donating its eggs to other more important (I am hoping) things might be a reason.
Now we all know Uncle Murphy, who gave us slackers, procastinators, shirkers and other dodgy people a convenient set of excuses. Then of course, we have garnishing of things to blame like fate, alarm clock, siblings and for the more creative ones, aliens.
I am now adding my bits to Murphys list.
In the lift: If a building has 30 floors, the person wanting to get off on the first floor will be nestled comfortably at the back of the lift. As the lift approaches the first floor, a voice at reverberates of the various backs and chests and a faint “Excuse me” is heard. Much frenzied activity of shuffling feet, heaving body weight out of the elevator and settling back into original butt space will follow. This entire activity serves no purpose except leaving the person getting out sufficiently jostled and pushing the limits of bladder control of the people trying to get to the top floor.
Secrets: The one that you protect the most will be the one your neighbor is discussing. The neighbor will also point fingers angrily at you and gesticulate wildly. Occasionally, they may throw looks of sympathy your way. Stare back in suspicion in such cases.
Google: By the time you figure out what search words will get you the right links, the words have lost all meaning and you have lost purpose. Kill yourself. An aimless life isn’t worth living.
Food and crushes: When you are out on a first date with a guy you have been trying to flash only to get his attention, you will
a) Drop ketchup on your white shirt. You will try to hurriedly try to wipe it away, effectively spreading the redness evenly across the shirt. A dot on the nipple should make you a picture of perfection.
b) Have a soft drink that makes you burp or fart.
c) Get something green or brown stuck in your teeth. A minute of silence for the death of the first kiss please.
Women and driving: When you are trying to prove to someone that women aren’t bad drivers, you will narrowly miss the mammoth truck on the right and hit a lamppost. The lady honking at your from the opposite side on the one-way street will add to the amusement of the proceedings.
Blog: Invariably when you pose a question to your readers (assuming you have some), no one will reply. I dare you to retort.
Now we all know Uncle Murphy, who gave us slackers, procastinators, shirkers and other dodgy people a convenient set of excuses. Then of course, we have garnishing of things to blame like fate, alarm clock, siblings and for the more creative ones, aliens.
I am now adding my bits to Murphys list.
In the lift: If a building has 30 floors, the person wanting to get off on the first floor will be nestled comfortably at the back of the lift. As the lift approaches the first floor, a voice at reverberates of the various backs and chests and a faint “Excuse me” is heard. Much frenzied activity of shuffling feet, heaving body weight out of the elevator and settling back into original butt space will follow. This entire activity serves no purpose except leaving the person getting out sufficiently jostled and pushing the limits of bladder control of the people trying to get to the top floor.
Secrets: The one that you protect the most will be the one your neighbor is discussing. The neighbor will also point fingers angrily at you and gesticulate wildly. Occasionally, they may throw looks of sympathy your way. Stare back in suspicion in such cases.
Google: By the time you figure out what search words will get you the right links, the words have lost all meaning and you have lost purpose. Kill yourself. An aimless life isn’t worth living.
Food and crushes: When you are out on a first date with a guy you have been trying to flash only to get his attention, you will
a) Drop ketchup on your white shirt. You will try to hurriedly try to wipe it away, effectively spreading the redness evenly across the shirt. A dot on the nipple should make you a picture of perfection.
b) Have a soft drink that makes you burp or fart.
c) Get something green or brown stuck in your teeth. A minute of silence for the death of the first kiss please.
Women and driving: When you are trying to prove to someone that women aren’t bad drivers, you will narrowly miss the mammoth truck on the right and hit a lamppost. The lady honking at your from the opposite side on the one-way street will add to the amusement of the proceedings.
Blog: Invariably when you pose a question to your readers (assuming you have some), no one will reply. I dare you to retort.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Uncomfortably numb
Its touted as the biggest thing to happen to cricket since Don Bradman (ok, slightly exaggerated there). Its got the moolah , the angelic bouncing women who cellulite gave a miss, and its definitely got my attention. Its the IPL. And every cricket fan worth anything has his/her ass growing roots into the couch, their eyeballs fatally attracted to the idiot box.
Gone are the good ol' days when I could simply jiggle away stupidly at every Team India victory. I knew where my loyalties lay. Every wicket celebrated with enough noise to cause permanent hearing loss. Every boundary causing enough frenzied dancing to cause a couple of hundred calories to scurry away.
Then crept in defiance to the BCCI and the ICL was born. And it might as well have been still-born. Avalanching into cricket history came the IPL. Taking the crtitcs, nay-sayers and thankfully anally righteous spirit-of-the-game people out of the way. Every cricketer now came with a price tag.
Ill take one Yuvraj Singh to go please. With whipped cream? Sure, all the add-ons.
Now comes the bitch of it all. Since Mr. Gandhi did his bit in 1947, we Indians have tried to ride out the 'regional' war. We are all together. We are all one nation. Unity in diversity. etc.
Come IPL, and we go back to our parasitic ability to feed off our love for our city.In my case, it isnt that simple. Oh, I love Mumbai and how. But I also love a certain star. And how. With my ass gradually getting embossed with the fence print, I am unable to decide who to cry hoarse for. Or who to throw juicy familial abuses at. Couple that with my patriotism, and my emotions are panting with exhaustion.
To watch Dravid celebrate a Sachin wicket would leave me in anguish. Or Ishant high-five at a Dhoni wicket. And with other people, from another country. The ones who dont sing for the tricolour. Or eat with their fingers. Some use tissues in their loos. Is there no stopping this madness?
When Chak De India is belted out, my eyes moisten and tiny hair stand up in absolute respect for my country. IPL cant do that to me. But, it can get me torn. I bet ill be a scene when the Kolkatta Knightriders play the Mumbai Indians.
You joining me on the fence?
Gone are the good ol' days when I could simply jiggle away stupidly at every Team India victory. I knew where my loyalties lay. Every wicket celebrated with enough noise to cause permanent hearing loss. Every boundary causing enough frenzied dancing to cause a couple of hundred calories to scurry away.
Then crept in defiance to the BCCI and the ICL was born. And it might as well have been still-born. Avalanching into cricket history came the IPL. Taking the crtitcs, nay-sayers and thankfully anally righteous spirit-of-the-game people out of the way. Every cricketer now came with a price tag.
Ill take one Yuvraj Singh to go please. With whipped cream? Sure, all the add-ons.
Now comes the bitch of it all. Since Mr. Gandhi did his bit in 1947, we Indians have tried to ride out the 'regional' war. We are all together. We are all one nation. Unity in diversity. etc.
Come IPL, and we go back to our parasitic ability to feed off our love for our city.In my case, it isnt that simple. Oh, I love Mumbai and how. But I also love a certain star. And how. With my ass gradually getting embossed with the fence print, I am unable to decide who to cry hoarse for. Or who to throw juicy familial abuses at. Couple that with my patriotism, and my emotions are panting with exhaustion.
To watch Dravid celebrate a Sachin wicket would leave me in anguish. Or Ishant high-five at a Dhoni wicket. And with other people, from another country. The ones who dont sing for the tricolour. Or eat with their fingers. Some use tissues in their loos. Is there no stopping this madness?
When Chak De India is belted out, my eyes moisten and tiny hair stand up in absolute respect for my country. IPL cant do that to me. But, it can get me torn. I bet ill be a scene when the Kolkatta Knightriders play the Mumbai Indians.
You joining me on the fence?
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Overrated
Sex is overrated.
From the time our parents fumbled uncomfortably with birds,bees, pollen, stork and other animal kingdom antics to explain our magical apperance on this planet- to nervous giggles in school, wide-eyed wonder at biology books, not much has changed. We still have so many emotions attached to sex. Maybe more us women than the cock-holders.
I ponder aimlessly sometime about such inane things. Like:
If we knew from the very beginning, i mean from the time the guy checked out our rack and studied us as a potential mate, that he wanted sex. Would we still do the whole flowers, no first date sex, the various bases, and the no-basis break ups? Or simplify it. He wants sex, i want sex. Is he ok to sleep with? (You know check the penis rating, disease quotient etc.) And if hes ok, will we just do it? Do we women have to continously, and most of the time to duck the 'slut' label, assure and convince ourselves, that he will fall in love with us? Or that there is more to it than the sex?
Does it strike you as funny that people have the best bed-breaking sex post a verbally abusive and volatile we-are-over fight? Whats the deal with that? and would this mean that a revolutionary approach in anger management is in the making?
Why is there no male equivalent of wham-bam-thank you ma'm? Is it to say that we women are not noisy enough to create the sound the likes of wham bam or that its ok for us women to forget our niceties post sex?
Sex is most fun when you love someone. Some man, pissed drunk and doing the roadside lady for a paltry sum, with a great sense of humour said this. Imagine his surprise when people took this to a whole new level. He wakes up one morning to find that people, due to lack of their own intelligence and miniscule depth of thinking, think that the statement holds true. The by-products we find till this date. Valentines Day, dating websites, blind dates, networking. All to meet someone to have great sex with.
Whats sexy lingerie got to do with sex? This is complicated. You wear sexy lingerie to turn him on. Turned on, he will take it off. Am I the only one who sees this as a pointless excercise? Lingerie, when sexy, is lacy, which itches the inner thighs leaving them pink and rashy=no sex. If not lacy, its nety. which shows off everything underneath. Is anyone dizzy from going around in circles?
See how much we complicate it?
Sex, as excitedly discussed as it maybe, is just another physical need. Just two people wanting a release. And its made out to be more. Much much more. It isnt.
From the time our parents fumbled uncomfortably with birds,bees, pollen, stork and other animal kingdom antics to explain our magical apperance on this planet- to nervous giggles in school, wide-eyed wonder at biology books, not much has changed. We still have so many emotions attached to sex. Maybe more us women than the cock-holders.
I ponder aimlessly sometime about such inane things. Like:
If we knew from the very beginning, i mean from the time the guy checked out our rack and studied us as a potential mate, that he wanted sex. Would we still do the whole flowers, no first date sex, the various bases, and the no-basis break ups? Or simplify it. He wants sex, i want sex. Is he ok to sleep with? (You know check the penis rating, disease quotient etc.) And if hes ok, will we just do it? Do we women have to continously, and most of the time to duck the 'slut' label, assure and convince ourselves, that he will fall in love with us? Or that there is more to it than the sex?
Does it strike you as funny that people have the best bed-breaking sex post a verbally abusive and volatile we-are-over fight? Whats the deal with that? and would this mean that a revolutionary approach in anger management is in the making?
Why is there no male equivalent of wham-bam-thank you ma'm? Is it to say that we women are not noisy enough to create the sound the likes of wham bam or that its ok for us women to forget our niceties post sex?
Sex is most fun when you love someone. Some man, pissed drunk and doing the roadside lady for a paltry sum, with a great sense of humour said this. Imagine his surprise when people took this to a whole new level. He wakes up one morning to find that people, due to lack of their own intelligence and miniscule depth of thinking, think that the statement holds true. The by-products we find till this date. Valentines Day, dating websites, blind dates, networking. All to meet someone to have great sex with.
Whats sexy lingerie got to do with sex? This is complicated. You wear sexy lingerie to turn him on. Turned on, he will take it off. Am I the only one who sees this as a pointless excercise? Lingerie, when sexy, is lacy, which itches the inner thighs leaving them pink and rashy=no sex. If not lacy, its nety. which shows off everything underneath. Is anyone dizzy from going around in circles?
See how much we complicate it?
Sex, as excitedly discussed as it maybe, is just another physical need. Just two people wanting a release. And its made out to be more. Much much more. It isnt.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Ooh..Ah..Ouch
This is my comeback post.
Not that anyone cares. But i mentioned in a previous post, i love believing someone out there is actively entertained by my verbal dysentry.
At this point, i deem it fit to explain my hiatus from planet blog. My heart, stained by tears and hurt, found solace in the washing machine, with the foaming fury and empty churning. It is now on the clothesline, drying out emotions.
Febraury 2008 taught me a few things though. Important lessons about being alive and how sometimes you would be better off being dead. And in this month, I could have got wrinkles and black hair (gone white with wisdom, promptly dyed black).
Things i know now...
1) If its a boy, even someone you have known since you wore cotton panties, dont depend on him. Unless you are now offering him your lace panties and everything underneath. Emotions, crying, holding on tight, leaning on heavy and toilet seat down are issues beyond the cognitive purview of the darker sex. And without the bonking. Hah!
2)They love me. Long before the tears melted the heart, they heard me sigh. They called to soothe me, only heard me sob. It hurt them so bad, they slammed doors with frustration. The shoulders that i was so used to, painfully away. Unhuggably far. (Fdyi, wipe your eyes)
3) Moving on to more practical problems , make up does nothing for your snot-infested face. Swollen, puffy eyes add a touch of glam and quivering lips foaming with saliva complete the look. I once met Disaster that looked better.
4) Not a good idea. Ignoring two wise souls, who recognise my heartbeat. Who are my raison d' etre. Pillars of strength. And unfathomably generous with their love. To Ma and Pa, who gave me the kerchief when the tissues went limp with exhaustion.
5) Sex can be an antidote to a breakup. Ugly, cheap bastards looking for a fuck can be an antidote to sex. Shag your ex.
Not that anyone cares. But i mentioned in a previous post, i love believing someone out there is actively entertained by my verbal dysentry.
At this point, i deem it fit to explain my hiatus from planet blog. My heart, stained by tears and hurt, found solace in the washing machine, with the foaming fury and empty churning. It is now on the clothesline, drying out emotions.
Febraury 2008 taught me a few things though. Important lessons about being alive and how sometimes you would be better off being dead. And in this month, I could have got wrinkles and black hair (gone white with wisdom, promptly dyed black).
Things i know now...
1) If its a boy, even someone you have known since you wore cotton panties, dont depend on him. Unless you are now offering him your lace panties and everything underneath. Emotions, crying, holding on tight, leaning on heavy and toilet seat down are issues beyond the cognitive purview of the darker sex. And without the bonking. Hah!
2)They love me. Long before the tears melted the heart, they heard me sigh. They called to soothe me, only heard me sob. It hurt them so bad, they slammed doors with frustration. The shoulders that i was so used to, painfully away. Unhuggably far. (Fdyi, wipe your eyes)
3) Moving on to more practical problems , make up does nothing for your snot-infested face. Swollen, puffy eyes add a touch of glam and quivering lips foaming with saliva complete the look. I once met Disaster that looked better.
4) Not a good idea. Ignoring two wise souls, who recognise my heartbeat. Who are my raison d' etre. Pillars of strength. And unfathomably generous with their love. To Ma and Pa, who gave me the kerchief when the tissues went limp with exhaustion.
5) Sex can be an antidote to a breakup. Ugly, cheap bastards looking for a fuck can be an antidote to sex. Shag your ex.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Jodha Akbar..Faster honey..yeah!
Warning: Spoiler ahead. Technically, this should not trouble you, as it isnt a suspense movie. But yeah it could be a chink to enjoying the movie.
Conversations post movie:
A very enlightenend soul amongst the 8 ghastly creatures, with varying shades of dark circles, posed this question: Where was Birbal in the movie?
Several seconds of contemplative silence and confused murmurings later,
Miss Savvy replies: That was another Akbar.
It is obvious that this movie, causes confusion at several levels. Already, the Rajput community insists that the movie is incestous, Jodha was Akbar's daughter-in-law. They feel strongly about it, causing them to do very effective things like protesting with bloody pamphlets outside theatres. My source tells me, Draculas are seeing this as the perfect buffet. A couple of mosquitoes have been reported engaging in drunken revelry, with the blood content in their..umm blood unusually high.
The second level. History books, understandably, didnt make such a big deal out of this love story. However, they do mention Jodha as Akbar's wife. Which brings me to the point. What do kids now learn? Already , most of them think Chandreshekhar Azad is a certain Aamir Khan, thanks to RDB. Now, while they still cannot understand why Hrithik does not ride elephants in real life (kids, he is riding another Khan which has caused a bump), they will also have to face confusion about Akbar's wife. A typical history class, i figure, would go something like this:
Teacher: Akbar was a great emperor. He was the son of Humayun. And he was married to a lot of princesses.
Chotu:(digs his nose, throws contents at his neighbour, cleans his hands with his shorts and rises to clear a doubt) Teacher, he was married to Jodha Bai.
Teacher: We dont know that for sure Chotu.
Chotu: (scratches his bum) If he was married?
Teacher: No, if he was married to Jodha Bai
Chotu: Was Jodha Bai a maid?
Teacher: No, she was a princess.
Chotu: Then, why was she called Bai?
Teacher: Oh that is her name. She had a lot of other names.
Chotu: So which one did Akbar marry?
And so on..
Third level. Sufi music. It sounds really nice. Soulful, melodious and all. But when you are watching the song in this movie, you will find yourself immersed in a mental game where you try and pick out the twins. Most of the guys behind the main twins, look like twins. And the dance is mechnical like an enegizer bunny getting switched on and off. And hard as i may try i am unable to fathom why they look like someone gave them a swift kick in their balls. At such a happy occasion like a marriage (despite the life long agony) I dont get the point of inviting a musical nutcases in weird chef outfits.
Fourth level. Defying physics at several levels, the mirrors lights up, intending to permanently blind Akbar. In this very romantic twist, the mirror takes you on a discovery of economical ways of lighting your room without the help of those twisted white bulbs.
Fifth level. This is not really a level of confusion. This is a rant. I have never seen 2 people, who by now due to the lack of sex should be as horny as bunnies, lack such chemistry in bed. Hrithik, seems calm and unruffled. Any ordinary guy in such circumstances would be shoving it in exhaust pipes. Ash, we do understand you are married and that your husband, father-in-law and other peripheral people take offense to you kissing. But lying there like a damp cotton mop will not do anything for you career. Hrithik stays safely off her while necking her. Chemistry goes right out of the the ornate, gold plated, clean window.
Anyway, besides these the movie is rather nice. Long. Engaging with its riveting script. Long. Superbly choreographed fight sequences. Long. Nice movie. Long. Now if only someone would tell me where Birbal was.
Conversations post movie:
A very enlightenend soul amongst the 8 ghastly creatures, with varying shades of dark circles, posed this question: Where was Birbal in the movie?
Several seconds of contemplative silence and confused murmurings later,
Miss Savvy replies: That was another Akbar.
It is obvious that this movie, causes confusion at several levels. Already, the Rajput community insists that the movie is incestous, Jodha was Akbar's daughter-in-law. They feel strongly about it, causing them to do very effective things like protesting with bloody pamphlets outside theatres. My source tells me, Draculas are seeing this as the perfect buffet. A couple of mosquitoes have been reported engaging in drunken revelry, with the blood content in their..umm blood unusually high.
The second level. History books, understandably, didnt make such a big deal out of this love story. However, they do mention Jodha as Akbar's wife. Which brings me to the point. What do kids now learn? Already , most of them think Chandreshekhar Azad is a certain Aamir Khan, thanks to RDB. Now, while they still cannot understand why Hrithik does not ride elephants in real life (kids, he is riding another Khan which has caused a bump), they will also have to face confusion about Akbar's wife. A typical history class, i figure, would go something like this:
Teacher: Akbar was a great emperor. He was the son of Humayun. And he was married to a lot of princesses.
Chotu:(digs his nose, throws contents at his neighbour, cleans his hands with his shorts and rises to clear a doubt) Teacher, he was married to Jodha Bai.
Teacher: We dont know that for sure Chotu.
Chotu: (scratches his bum) If he was married?
Teacher: No, if he was married to Jodha Bai
Chotu: Was Jodha Bai a maid?
Teacher: No, she was a princess.
Chotu: Then, why was she called Bai?
Teacher: Oh that is her name. She had a lot of other names.
Chotu: So which one did Akbar marry?
And so on..
Third level. Sufi music. It sounds really nice. Soulful, melodious and all. But when you are watching the song in this movie, you will find yourself immersed in a mental game where you try and pick out the twins. Most of the guys behind the main twins, look like twins. And the dance is mechnical like an enegizer bunny getting switched on and off. And hard as i may try i am unable to fathom why they look like someone gave them a swift kick in their balls. At such a happy occasion like a marriage (despite the life long agony) I dont get the point of inviting a musical nutcases in weird chef outfits.
Fourth level. Defying physics at several levels, the mirrors lights up, intending to permanently blind Akbar. In this very romantic twist, the mirror takes you on a discovery of economical ways of lighting your room without the help of those twisted white bulbs.
Fifth level. This is not really a level of confusion. This is a rant. I have never seen 2 people, who by now due to the lack of sex should be as horny as bunnies, lack such chemistry in bed. Hrithik, seems calm and unruffled. Any ordinary guy in such circumstances would be shoving it in exhaust pipes. Ash, we do understand you are married and that your husband, father-in-law and other peripheral people take offense to you kissing. But lying there like a damp cotton mop will not do anything for you career. Hrithik stays safely off her while necking her. Chemistry goes right out of the the ornate, gold plated, clean window.
Anyway, besides these the movie is rather nice. Long. Engaging with its riveting script. Long. Superbly choreographed fight sequences. Long. Nice movie. Long. Now if only someone would tell me where Birbal was.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Show me some love
As a woman with boobs and brains, I can be excused for thinking i am attractive. And today, my self esteem is tickling my toes. I am not only feeling unattractive, I think i must resemble a troll, with BO, hairy underarms and a yeast infection. I mean, cmon, its the day when even lola-my next door neighbour with BO, hairy underarms, upper lip and legs and a yeast infection-gets a rose from some guy. I am imagining this guy is blind, and not faint hearted.
I mean all I am asking for is a bouquet of flowers (yes, red roses as cliche as they may be), candles, soft music, lots of mushy moments, chocolates and lots of foreplay. And i realise i lost most of my audience there. Especially with the last demand.
But guys, humour me. Make me feel special and loved. Tuck an inobidient strand behind my ear. Give my hand a squeeze. Kiss my eyes. Look into them. Hold me close. Hug me tight.Let me lean on your chest and listen to your heartbeat. Tickle my ear. Or my feet. Smile at me. Peck my neck. Talk about us. Listen to me. Stare. And smile. Smell nice. Tell me i smell nice. Dance with me. Serenade me. Make love to me. Cuddle me. Look out for me. Kiss me unexpectedly.
And then wake me up and tell me its over.
I mean all I am asking for is a bouquet of flowers (yes, red roses as cliche as they may be), candles, soft music, lots of mushy moments, chocolates and lots of foreplay. And i realise i lost most of my audience there. Especially with the last demand.
But guys, humour me. Make me feel special and loved. Tuck an inobidient strand behind my ear. Give my hand a squeeze. Kiss my eyes. Look into them. Hold me close. Hug me tight.Let me lean on your chest and listen to your heartbeat. Tickle my ear. Or my feet. Smile at me. Peck my neck. Talk about us. Listen to me. Stare. And smile. Smell nice. Tell me i smell nice. Dance with me. Serenade me. Make love to me. Cuddle me. Look out for me. Kiss me unexpectedly.
And then wake me up and tell me its over.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
10 things that are just so...
I love posts with lists. So here goes:
- Signals: These three-eyed creatures lurk at signals masquerading as innocent bystanders. Come an emergency, and these evil devils spring into action changing colours like nobodys business. Here, you are tapping your foot, scratching your balls, making sweat stains on your shirt and expressing other signs of impatience, and all they do is sneakily stand there, changing to green only when the ozone is a thing of the past.
- Hair: Just when you think all the money you spent at that gay hairdresser's was worth it, these volatile strings will erupt into a furious dance. And purely to spite you, engage in a mating sequence with your lip gloss. That is if it isnt burnt, breaking up with other strands and generally being a nuisance to your peace.
- Popcorn: Now, whats a movie without it? And what's a post-movie fingering in your mouth without it? These dowdy pieces will nestle in a godforsaken part of the tooth, indulging in therapy, soaking in saliva and disgestive enzymes. We will, for piece of mind and jaw, jab at the tooth till we wince, open our mouth till people retch at the look of our intestines and our eyes start shedding copious tears.
- Internet: I am not even going to give it the pleasure of finding a long-winding rant about itself. Bet its a sadistic and gloats at its mention.
- Bum Itch: As he leans in to kiss you, you shift shyly. Except its not because you are shy, but because that nasty bum is reacting to the winter. And now you want to scratch and only causing some hot and heavy action between your nails and buttcheeks will give you that pleasure. ARGH!
- Frozen Chocolate: You sinfully stare at it everyday, and finally give in. Lying there, inviting and seductive, you want to devour it. So you unwrap the little teasing pieces. And instead of melting in your mouth with abandon, they jauntily twirl around, holding on ferociously to its taste. Denying us pleasure. (Writer shall return with Kleenex)
- Jammed Drawers: Which have everything you will need in an emergency. Drawers will straddle the sides with such passion, its gut-wrenching to get it to loosen its hold. Still you need underwear and such behaviour by the heart-broken and horny drawer can simply not be tolerated.
- Memories: When they are happy, they will take it on themselves to do a Houdini. But if they are sad ones, they bounce with gay abandon in your head, just when you think it will be ok. And will linger there, till we acknowledge them and give them their due heaviness of heart.
- Pens: The ones next to the phones. Which will sit pretty when not in use. But when on a call that is costing the other person 3 meals, the pens will stubbornly refused to release ink from its insides. This often makes for interesting family activity in my house. May not be the case everywhere though.
- Weighing Scale: Mine suffers from OCD which causes it to stick to one number. There have been several conferences between my diets, fats, muscles and cellulite to convince this machine, but most of the suggestions have been vetoed. The fats even offered to leave. Being the adamant idiot that it is, it has turned a deaf ear to all of the above.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Who me? Couldnt be
I dont know if this is normal. Having my own blog makes me feel powerful. And I am lured by the lusty hope that some blogging zealot will visit my non-entity blog. That my textual emergencies are causing someone out there to change their intentions (about killing me maybe).
Usually, I protect my privacy as closely as my genitals. But, for some lost soul looking for a laugh in the middle of an eyelids-dropping workday, maybe I could provide you with some stimulation (of the mental kind..you sicko)
I am a woman and that automatically frees me from the duty of mentioning the number of candles on my birthday cake. For starters, I wont say anything actually. Except hello there, Thank You for dropping in.
Usually, I protect my privacy as closely as my genitals. But, for some lost soul looking for a laugh in the middle of an eyelids-dropping workday, maybe I could provide you with some stimulation (of the mental kind..you sicko)
I am a woman and that automatically frees me from the duty of mentioning the number of candles on my birthday cake. For starters, I wont say anything actually. Except hello there, Thank You for dropping in.
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