Menu:


Recent Entries


Categories

Writing [8]
Personal [27]
Hyderabad! [2]
Movies [1]
General [3]
Philosophy [5]
Friends [3]
Technology [1]
Love [1]


Links

General
- fullhyd.com!
- Guru Speaks!


Syndicate

RSS 0.90
RSS 1.0
RSS 2.0
Atom 0.3

The Oxymoron of Getting Married and Falling in Love

Stand-Alone Dreamer | 10 April 2009, 7:59pm

It was my sister's wedding ceremony...  Life used to be quite difficult for me during weddings...  But these days I've devised a new technique, of making such monotonous events interesting, at least to myself... I search for archetypes, feminine and masculine! It is bloody exciting to run through every emotion expressed in such a public occasion and associate them to archetypes...

What archetype am l? I haven't yet thought about it... but I could always be the faithful best man; never the groom. It proves what I have been saying all along; myths and archetypes are alive and well and living in my apartment. As l stood beside my sister and her husband to be, it struck me that this ritual, a wedding ceremony, is the last scene of a fairy tale.

They never say what happens after. That Cinderella drove the prince mad by obsessively cleaning the castle. They don't say what happens after because there is no after.

I used think the be-all and end-all of romantic love was sex, maybe coz I have sex on the brain. But it is Marriage, and it wasn't always like that. The early centuries had ''courtly love'', which had nothing to do with sex.

They rose above ''going to the toilet in front of each other'' love, and went after something more divine.

They took sex out of the equation, leaving them with a union of souls.
Think of this. Sex was always the fatal love potion. Look at the literature of that time. All consummation could lead to was madness, despair or death. Experts, scholars all are united in one belief: True love has spiritual dimensions, while romantic love is a lie. A myth or a soulless manipulation!!

And speaking of manipulation... lt's like going to the movies and seeing lovers kiss... The music swells, and we buy it!! ln real life, we don't hear music when we kiss. And the person you're with isn't a movie star. lt's a malicious fantasy!! The addiction to beauty and perfection created by advertising feeds on people's pathetic hopes. We don't have our own opinions today. The media tells us what's beautiful. TV shows and magazines tell us what a relationship is supposed to be like. So when my girl kisses me, and l don't hear strings, l should probably dump her. The question is, why do we buy it?

Because, call it myth, call it manipulation, the fact is that we all want to fall in love!!

Because that experience makes us feel completely alive. Our everyday reality gets shattered, and we are flung into the heavens. lt may only last a moment, an hour or one delightful evening, but that doesn't diminish its value. We're left with memories we treasure for the rest of our lives.

l read, ''When we fall in love, we hear music in our heads.'' l like that concept. Music expresses our need for passion and romantic love. We listen to La Bóheme, or read Wuthering Heights, or watch Casablanca, and we can feel that a little of that love lives in us too.

So the final question is: Why do people want to fall in love when it can have such a short run and be so painful at times?

Maybe propagation of the species - We need to connect with somebody.

Maybe we are culturally preconditioned - That justification is too intellectual for me.

I think it's because, as some of you lucky heads may already know... While it does last, it feels fucking great!!!



Current Mood: Sleepless.....
Current Music: When Marimba Rhythm Starts To Play....

Posted in Personal | Permalink | Comments (8) | Trackbacks (0)



The Shadows Celebrate Another X'mas and New Year

Stand-Alone Dreamer | 17 January 2009, 1:47pm

I've not been working for last few weeks, which for me means 'put aside what I'm doing to work on some other unprofitable projects'. Anyway, here's what happened this Christmas Season:

Because I've never worked as RJ, one of my favorite things about Christmas is hearing all the songs on the FM. One thing I've noticed is that it takes some stations longer than others to get into the spirit, so the days leading up to the 25th provide an eclectic mix of x'mas rhymes  praising Lord Jesus and SRK's latest hit: "Tujh mein rab dikhta hain". Vaguely unwholesome. I was listening to the radio with my kid brother, and changing the station was kind of like tip-toeing across a minefield. It'll be like SHUT YOUR EARS WHAT HAVE I DONE?

One of my friends revived thoughts about the game of Monopoly. I had been a huge fan of the game during my school days and after extensively testing it out, I had produced a list of People You Don't Want To, Under Any Circumstances, Play Monopoly With: People who refuse to make any kind of trade whatsoever, for fear that it will lead to their demise; People who care if you're in jail or just visiting; People who think landing on Free Parking means you win money; People who arrange their houses and hotels really neatly, and then get upset when your dice roll knocks them down; People who always treat the game as a car race; People who try to pay out 10000 bucks in 100 rupee coins; People who always want to be banker; People who never want to be banker; People who always lick the title deed cards after mortgaging. That basically just leaves me, the undefeated Monopoly champion of the world!!

I have started using 'Axe' Deodorant Bodyspray. I tried using it like it was being used in the commercial, by putting some on and then stepping into an elevator in the hope of being ravaged by beautiful women. No such luck. I just rode the elevator for a day and a half, eyeballing everyone who stepped inside with me and waiting for the delightful sexual romp that never happened. Damn you, Axe Deodorant Bodyspray! I witnessed a girl step into an elevator with me who was also wearing the Axe Deodorant Bodyspray, so, obviously, I tackled her to the ground and tried to get it on with her just like the commercial told me to do. Yeah, I know. That excuse didn't work in court, either.

I keep getting offers to sign up for new credit cards. I already have enough of them that I cannot find a proper wallet to fit them all in at one go. Everyone I know keeps urging me to buy more credit cards. They're like "Dude, I have, like, a 10 Lakh credit limit. I'm so cool." Since when did it become cool to brag about all the money you don't have? If I had taken a forged home loan from the bank and lost it in gambling you wouldn't see me going around saying "Dude, I'm gonna get arrested for fraud. That's so cool." In fact, you probably wouldn't see me at all, since I would already be on a plane to Macau or Vegas. Now THAT would be cool.

I won this luck draw in a mall nearby. Nothing big, really. A free meal at Mc D's. But they made me answer a 'skill'-testing question. Some thing silly like 4 + 3 - 1 = ? What the hell is the point of this? Is it discrimination against really stupid people? I kept on thinking. Instead of a skill-testing question, they could subject me to a duel-in-the-cage-till-death against Khali. Think about it. You come back, all bruised and bloodied, and everyone would be like "WOW, he EARNED that burger." 

Please do not email me telling me that I plucked this out from the new Cadbury Bournville Ad... I already know, and you don't win anything!!!

Someone suggested me to buy a new cell phone. I had recently brought what people then claimed to be the best phone Nokia has released till date. Except that they relased another one claiming the same thing the very next month. This cell phone has too many buttons. I was trying to add someone's number into the address book from an SMS, and it took 3 of us 45 minutes and we still couldn't figure it out. I thought cell phones were for normal people now. Why the hell do they make it so complicated? A few years ago I had a really great cellphone, it only had one button. There was never any doubt about which one to push. Want to add someone's name into the address book? Push the button. Want to make a call? Push the button. Want to play Snake? Push the button. All you had to do was Push the Button. I've read through 105 pages of instructions for this new phone and I still haven't found out how to play Snake.

I got a new printer for Christmas, because it was really cheap. I had to go to office four times last month, just to take print outs. Now I got this sweet deal and swiftly snapped it up. I was proud of my "deal" until, I realized that I needed to buy a new ink cartridge. That's like almost three times the cost of the printer. For INK! Bloddy heck, somebody get me an octopus and a clamp vice, we'll save some money!!

I hate people who make New Year's Resolutions and then brag about how quickly they broke them. They're like: "I resolved to quit smoking... and lasted only 7 hours!" Wow. Aren't you a superstar. Me? I've resolved to start smoking. Seriously, guys. Smoking's never been cooler. My problem is that I can't get myself addicted.

People Unclear of the Concept, Part 997 -  An actual sign at a beverage booth in Mussorie reads "Iced Tea (heated) - 25".

I hate New Year's. Each year is worse than the last. It's about a week and a half of hype and then a drunken orgy of idiotic events. I keep promising to stay in on New Year's Eve and hide under the bed, waiting for sunrise, and then I always end up going out and regretting it with great intensity. This year was no exception. I won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that at 4 in the morning a friend of mine and I were driving around in a jungle with no remote signs of civilization, looking for another friend of ours who was probably lying dead in a tree-top. The worse part of the whole night is that it took me no less than 4 hours to break "MY" resolution: To stop giving a shit about other people's well-being.

My recent flight to Mumbai was supposed to take off at early-o'clock in the morning, so I was understandably fatigued when, about 25 minutes past take-off, an elderly women on board began seizing and we had to turn around and make an emergency landing, thus delaying my breakfast. It took the medics an hour to get her off the plane, during which time the other 100 odd passengers sat impatiently. Then they had to refuel the airplane in order to make it to our destination. But the airport did not have enough fuel for a large plane, nor did they have any staff capable of fuelling this type of aircraft. So they had to fly in fuel and staffers from God-knows-where, causing another hour and a half delay. All in all, the 3-hour flight took a little more than 7 hours, during which time I received a total of zero (0) in-flight meals. This is just one of many examples that I could bring up wherein diabetics come along and ruin my day.

Quote of the Moment: Turns out there's someone out there who has a blacker heart than I do. A few rows down from me, as the medics were working against the clock to save an elderly diabetic woman's life, random passenger says: "For this kind of inconvenience, she'd better be dying."- Yeah, wouldn't it be awful if you missed your business meeting and then it turned out that the woman pulled through? Good one, Adolf!

Finally 'twas my birthday this Christmas day (as it has been for all those years since I was born) and when all the orchestrated frenzy at 12am was over, I wished my friend "Merry X'Mas" He turned around and asked - "Do you only wish Merry X'Mas to folks who wish you B'day?"

I realized all these years, I've never wished anyone a Merry X'Mas proactively; I'd always wish them in return to my B'day wish... A selfish goose indeed!! 

So here goes, for all of ya internet nerds who have nothing else to do, but turn into my random dose of ramblings, here's wishing a merry x'mas and a happy new year '09!!

Have a Good One!



Current Music: "Picture" by Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow. On repeat, no less. Neighbours think I'm really weird. But I don't care. That's how good this song is!

Posted in Personal | Permalink | Add Comment | Trackbacks (0)



I think, I know, What I'm doing!!!

Stand-Alone Dreamer | 23 November 2008, 2:10pm

Abi: They tell me that perfection is unattainable, so tell me Ms. Perfect, is that true?
Random Chick: That is the sweetest, most full of shit, pick-up line I have ever heard.
Abi: Thanks… umm, Right?
Random Chick: Wrong.
 
That’s how I can sum up pretty much everything that I’ve done pretty much every day since I’ve had days to sum up and stuff to do.

I think, I know, what I’m doing!!

I’m not sure I know what I’m doing. And sometimes I don’t even know what I’m doing. But I’m doing something and I think I usually know what it is.

Right now I’m writing. Nothing makes you feel more like you don’t know what you’re doing than writing does. No matter how many times I do it, using the same old 26 letters, ten numbers, and ten pieces of punctuation as the rest of the English speaking world, just to make a point or tell a story, it always humbles me. But I think I know what I’m doing so I trudge the sludge of my own mind and then hope for the best.

They say perfect practice makes for perfect play, but even half-assed stupid practices will improve your play, if you play and practice enough.

Stick with me, I’m going somewhere with this. I promise!!

You see, perfection is, for the most part, impossible and unattainable. Few things can be perfect. A diamond can be flawless but never perfect. An Aamir Khan movie, a Girl-friend, a Lunch or a Dinner, a Formula-one season, they can all be awesome, the best so far, but they can never be perfect. An Aussie test team could have an undefeated season, but none of it is truly perfect or they’d have never let the opposing team score a single run or take a single wicket. A batsman can have a perfect outing but a perfect innings is just a way of saying that he hit a hundred not out to save the game or win it for his side. But a truly perfect inning would involve hitting all the balls he faced for a six. That won’t happen. We strive to be perfect but we never will be. Because, as my friend's Dad used to say, “There’s always somebody bigger, better, meaner and stronger. And if they ain’t around yet, they will be soon.”

And that is kind of a sad fact of life, but only in the respect that our ultimate goals and perfect dreams are out of our range. In another way, it is good that true perfection is unattainable, because the lack of attainable perfection allows us, as people, the right to keep trying to be better at everything that we do, knowing that we can always improve.

We can always be better writers, athletes, drinkers and lovers. We can always strive to amend our talents and abridge our shortcomings. We have that right forever. And in this way, we’ll always be able to surprise ourselves.

After I realized that perfection was unattainable, I thought on and off for about five years, about what that really means when applied to everyday life, and I realized something.

I realized that at no time do I actually know what I’m doing. Because if I truly knew any one thing, I would be better than it. And hell, I don’t even know myself that well. And that’s why I have a new mantra: I think, I know, what I’m doing.

From now on, when people ask me whether I know how to play badminton or Table tennis, Fly an airplane, Write, Drink, Dance or Fool-around , I'll just answer with, “I think I know how”

Because really that’s all we have in life!!!

We have a chance to think and feel things. And sometimes we either feel or think as if we know. But we don’t know that we know, because knowing excludes other possibilities. And excluding possibilities means denying improvement, which is infinitely possible because perfection is unattainable.

At least, that’s what I think I know.

So what does this mangle of confusing sentences I called a post really mean?

“What’s the moral?” you ask.

“Where’s my fucking closure, Abi?” you ask rather rudely.

It’s nowhere to be found.

And that, in my humble opinion, is a part of what makes life awesome. Life’s not ours to dance through with thoughts of ownership, but to revere and experience, to taste and feel, until there’s nothing left.

And then, when there is nothing left, well then maybe we’ll really, actually know something.

But I doubt it.

Here’s to hoping I can think I know that all of you are out there in internet land thinking you know you feel great.

But again, I doubt it!



Current Mood: Thoughtful
Current Music: Wear the Sunscreen - Baz Luhrmann

Posted in Writing | Permalink | Comments (5) | Trackbacks (0)



Another New Profession in the Job Market - Platonic Hookers

Stand-Alone Dreamer | 16 October 2008, 11:32pm

I got a brand new box of crayons weeks ago (and of course I was bored, so you can wipe that smirk off your face). I love them. Here's my problem: Too many colors. Who the hell needs this many shades of white, blue and green? And who's the genius who comes up with the names for crayons? I have one white crayon called 'snowflake' and another white crayon called 'igloo'. Hang on! that's not the point of this post; I just had to let that out.

If you are still here, the other day I was sitting around feeling bored, doing whatever it is I normally do when I'm not writing for "hunt4myspace". Then I decided to turn away from the magic box and i-POD and call some friends, you know, to "hang out". Unfortunately, all of my friends were off having raunchy sex with their girlfriends or wives / husbands, that I frankly don't even want to think about, so I was left all by my lonesome. I sat around the house, bored out of my skull, for hours. Then I came up with this great idea that should exist, but as far as I know does not: The "Plationic-Hookers".

Here's how the Platonic - Hooker would work: If you ever found yourself in the position I described in the previous inappropriate paragraph, you could call up a Platonic - Hooker service and for a very nominal fee, they would send over someone who matches your description to be your friend for the day. Now, I want to stress that this is a purely platonic relationship I'm talking about here. They might even send over someone of the same gender. Who knows? The Platonic - Hooker would show up in jeans and cool T-shirts, just to make sure the client doesn't get the wrong idea. Of course, just like your other escort agencies, Platonic - Hookers would offer a list of "extras" a-la-carte to some of their more discriminating clientele. Say, special price for a hug or something like that?

Platonic - Hookers don't have to be attractive people. Hell, most of my real friends aren't anything to write about (Moreover, I don't like to hang around people more attractive than myself). Unlike the whole prostitution thing, where your income is directly related to how good you look, the Platonic - Hookers who will make the most money are those with the most winning smiles and sparkling personalities. They say beauty is only skin deep, but really, when you think about it, that's the only part you can see, so that's the only part that actually counts. I even figured out a caption for the first Platonic - Hooker agency; something like "You don't need to be a looker to be a Platonic - Hooker". It's catchy and most importantly - it rhymes. I think you kind of get the point that I'm trying to make here!

I think the Platonic Hooker agency would be a great service to people like me. Say I wanted to go to a restaurant or a nightclub. There's nothing in the world sadder than telling the bearer "table for one!" Only total losers go by themselves to those kinds of places, and usually the bouncer spits on you and throws you into a dust bin nearby in a black polythene bag. Damn that bastard. I'll show him who's boss. With a Platonic - Hooker by my side, nobody will ever make fun of me again.

The Platonic - Hooker agency would offer other services as well. Like, for example, you could pay a monthly fee and get your very own Friend-On-Rent to call you and ask how your day was every now and again. Also, they would come see you on your birthday and give you presents. Just make sure you don't get too attached, or else the Platonic - Hooker might start treating you like my REAL friends treat me: showing up at my door at 2:30 in the morning asking to borrow my car or something. Where the hell do you want to drive off to, at 2:30 in the morning? Why can't it bloody wait? Fools.

I know a lot of normal hookers out there are finding my use of the term "hooker" derogatory. The rest of you are probably just tired of me using it so much in one post. It's pretty much lost its shock value by now, I am sure. I think that these days, people prefer the terms Escort, Prostitute, Empowered Company, Pleasure Seeker, Temporary Girlfriend or Adult Entertainer. I can't really think of any polite euphemisms for "Platonic - Hooker".

Quote for the Moment: My (real) friend Pankaj, on why he thinks it's ok to sleep with prostitutes: "I'm not paying them for sex. I'm paying them to leave afterwards."

Have you ever been with a group of friends and then wanted to ditch one of them? If you surrounded yourself with platonic - hookers you wouldn't need to worry about that sort of thing anymore. Just say "vanish" and, like magic, the platonic - hooker of your choice takes a hike. They might get eaten by polar bears, for all you know. You don't have to care, so long as you agree to pay for the whole hour. And if you've never been in the situation I described at the beginning of this strange joke, chances are that your friends have at some point tried to ditch you. Think about that.

Many of you are probably laughing at the concept, dismissing it as juvenile ranting by an immature, lonely sociopath. Well, you're pretty much correct on most of them. I mean, right now it's some ungodly hour in the night and I'm sitting here drunk off my tree writing a blog about the world's newest profession. Don't laugh too hard, though. Someday this idea will make me a lot richer than you, and then it'll be my tax money that will pay for your highways, flyovers and waterpipes. Get a life, you parasite!

Unless, of course, you plan on stealing my idea and making money from it yourself. In that case, I'd just like to say: My name is Abi, and I'd like to place an order for this weekend!



Current Mood: Happy, Just!!!
Current Music: She Will Have Her Way - Neil Finn

Posted in Personal | Permalink | Comments (9) | Trackbacks (0)



"Nice curves" thinks my brain, before adding, ‘She should leave now."

Stand-Alone Dreamer | 10 August 2008, 1:34pm

Another Random Chick: She doesn't seem very smart. 
Abi: She isn't.
Another Random Chick: She's rude, too. 
Abi: And presumptuous, and untrustworthy and drug addicted. 
Another Random Chick: So why even bother?
Abi: You want me to answer that or you want us to remain friends?
Another Random Chick: Get something straight, Abi.  We've never been friends.

Sadly, I have reached a period in my life where I no longer want to date stupid materialistic sluts.  I used to think that stupid materialistic sluts were the way to go because it was easy to fool them (They are stupid - they'll believe anything), it was easy to get them to bed (they're sluts), and it was easy to buy my way out of trouble (they're materialistic).  I mean, in this age of convenience and superficiality, who wouldn't want a materialistic slut?

In an effort to grow, I've been trying to get pass them and find nice girls who can find my inner blah blah blah whatever and grow old with me and raise a family and I don't know, something about spirituality and stuff like that (You get the point - I haven't really thought this out).

But just because I don't want the stupid-meterialistic kinds doesn't mean that they stopped wanting me.

Recently, I told one of my old time friendsthat I wanted to stop all that bullshit and find a nice girl I could settle down with and maybe start one of those adult lives....

His response: "No dude. You're like the last of the Mohicans.  We live through you. There's nothing better than watching you get a phone call, say ‘baby' over and over again to chicks named Tanya and Simi and what not all while you try to play it off like you're not blowing them off to hang out at a lake side or something.  Dude, don't you realize the rest of us need you to be Abi?"

Sigh.

This chick is an idiot.  She's rude.  She's crude.  She spends most of her money on drugs.  She has an attitude problem.

But those legs...  

She never returns phone calls.  She thinks polio is an Italian name and not an old disease.  She drools over hot celebrities; to the point where it becomes childish and annoying.  She can never remember my last name. 

But those breasts...

She thinks that name-dropping famous people she's met makes for good conversation.  She has no idea about that trust vote thingy and once referred to Pranab Mukherjee as "Pranab Roy" and then insisted that I was wrong when I pointed out that he was the NDTV guy.  She hasn't read a book since industrial revolution. 

But that face... 

Look, this is nothing new.  The body and the mind often don't cooperate with stuff like this.  You see, my brain hates her and my body loves her; after sometime my brain clears and sees exactly what my body fell in love with.

The body gives into primal urges.  The mind tries to expand. 

The body notices cleavage. The mind notices IQ. 

The world is not perfect.  And since we're an embodiment of the above said world...well, we pretty much suck.  Nothing we can do and all that.

"Nice curves" thinks my brain, before adding, ‘She should leave now."

Some days I just hate myself. But hate passes.

And anyway, those breasts...



Current Mood: Watching the clouds - It might just rain today!
Current Music: "She Will Have Her Way" - Neil Finn

Posted in Personal | Permalink | Comments (7) | Trackbacks (0)



Life Ain't Easy for Men... Sigh!!!

Stand-Alone Dreamer | 21 June 2008, 12:18pm

Abi: So what did you do today while I was at work?
Same Old Random Chick: I lounged by the pool and I watched TV and I played video games.
Abi: Rough life.
Same Old Random Chick: We should go out to dinner.
 
I love it when readers give me suggestions for column topics because it means that I don’t have to think that much. I’m not very good at anything that requires intelligence, so avoiding thinking is a major part of what I do with my spare time (while drinking). In response to my column sometime ago, a reader nick-named "Sunshine" told me that he/she thinks that life is easier for men (has to be a "she", so referring "him/her" as "she" from hereon), and that I should write a column illustrating how life is not easier for men than it is for women.

Now, I’ve never met sunshine (literally and figuratively, as I am an obscenely late riser) and I don’t know her, but I’m still taking her suggestion because (and this is important) she saved me the pain and suffering of having to come up with my own column topic. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is priceless. Anyways; enough of foreplay, Get out your knives and forks, and dig into the meat and potatoes of this Sunshine-inspired literary dish. You may thank her later; I’ll do it now. Thanks, Sunshine.

Only one aspect of life is harder for you women: the physical. Yes, you are weaker and are often raped and beaten as a result. Yes, you go through periods every month. Yes, you are more hormonal than men. And yes, I am tired of hearing you bitch about this. Girls, seriously, we get it. You bleed every month. We know because you make a huge deal out of it, and we have to hear about it over and over again. I’m sorry God did that to you, but seriously, your physical makeup aside, you have life much easier than men. Don’t believe me? Check this out.

Men Must Work:

Part of being a man is growing up with the knowledge that you will have to work your whole life. As a man, we know that no matter what, the world will require us to make money and provide for others. This is responsibility. This is pressure. Now, it is true that many women do work and that some of them even have to work because of fiscal situations or whatever, but the bottom line is that for most women, working is a choice. In this regard, women have options; men have responsibility. Or, as my girl friend (two words to be read separately) used to say, “You should buy me more stuff.”

You Can Have Kids:

I love my mom. I’d do about anything for her. We have a bond. My Dad? I mean he’s great and all, and I also love him, but if a mysterious force made me choose between parents, there’s no way that the guy who taught me how to play tennis, drive karts around and drink beer would take precedence over the woman who nurtured me. In most cases, children bond with their mothers and get beaten up by their fathers. And I tell you, I’m really looking forward to having a kid who doesn’t listen to me and treats me like an ATM. It’ll be like having a girlfriend; without the sex.

You Can Manipulate the Opposite Sex:

You know how many speeding tickets, parking tickets and late payments I’ve gotten out of because I cried? That’s right - Zero. You know how many times I got great grades for sexually satisfying a teacher. That’s right, three times. But she was really hot and I probably would have passed gracefully without her help. Anyway, my point here is that chicks can get whatever they want (pretty much) just by being hot or by crying. If I could get a dime with my body or my tears, I would. But No; I’m a guy so I have to use my brains; which basically screws me because I’m stupid by birth.

Women get to have children, avoid a life of working, and use their bodies to get pretty much whatever they want from stupid men. Yes, physically they have it tougher than men for the most part, but in almost every other respect of life, they have it easier.

For all those who think I'm not-a-penny-worth-male-chauvinist-pig, I promise I'll write a piece about how life is harder for women as soon as Richard Branson completes his "Man to moon" project and the whole of humanity moves into Moon.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go back to work.



Current Mood: Game for a Beer
Current Music: Dil Haara Re...

Posted in Personal | Permalink | Comments (13) | Trackbacks (0)



Dear God Almighty

Stand-Alone Dreamer | 13 May 2008, 10:27pm

Dear God (or whatever Your Holiness is calling Him/Her/Itself these days),

I know I’ve made you a considerable number of promises for a variety of things before.

I still vaguely remember back in high school, I did promise you that I would go work in Africa and teach the natives to read the Bible, and that I would always take precautions, if I got an admit into a good college.
 
Personally, I think we’re square on that one. Sure, I got into CET, but I’ve labored for four years over a degree, which only qualifies me for positions wearing a corporate monkey suite, asking the well-dressed CIO's and investment gurus who drives Lamborghinis and Tri-Star’s of the world, whether they “want a free management software with the car.”

Then there was the time I promised you I would dedicate my life to the orphans in Calcutta if you would make that cute blue-eyed Anglo-Indian thing amongst the junior batch talk to me. Three weeks, a restraining order and a fairly public ragging case later, I was finally free of her.

Did I forget to say a “Thank You” for that?

Yeah, yeah, yeah. You work in your own mysterious ways. I get it. You’re hilarious.

And, God, I won’t pretend that I don’t remember those early college times when I promised you I would never EVER drive even the slightest bit intoxicated again if you got me home safely…

Damn. I guess you got me on that one.

But, seriously this time, O Lord, I promise - cross my heart, needle in the eye, yadda yadda yadda - that if you can somehow make it so that I'd always live alone (like how I'm living now!!) and never have a roommate again, I will stand on a corner of each temple in the city, one-by-one, on all weekends (including Saturday Nights) proclaiming your holiness and distributing cheap sweets to all and sundry.

Don’t get me wrong here, I’ve really enjoyed living with my old true-blue roommates. Well, except for Tall Bose (*names changed in fear of life; their and mine!*) who told the same three super lame stories over and over and over again. He was always using my laptop too, which I didn’t mind except when he downloaded three and a half gigs of Creed and Iron Maiden MP3s on my computer. Then there was that time he tried to record my video under *highly compromising circumstances* using "MY" webcam. Creepy!!

Except for his huge collection of Axe Deo bottles, Jacs was a great second roommate. It didn’t even bother me too much that he played Backstreet Boys for 24 hours. Again… creepy, but not too bad.

Paddy was a great roommate except for his abnormally little-girlish fear of spiders. He called me frantically from the side of the road once:

Padz: Hey, Abi, whatcha doing?
Me: Umm about to hit on some random chic across the building.
Padz: Do you think you could do me a favor?
Me: Can it wait?
Padz: Not really.
Me: Well what is it?
Padz: There’s a spider in my car and…
Me: Sigh...I’ll be right there.

Bros before hoes, Dear Almighty - I think you said that first.

Sid, of course, was my favorite roommate ever. He didn’t mind that the chocolate muffins got ants in it and that I refused to throw them away and just scooped them (the ants) out and ate (the muffin). In turn, I didn’t mind that he got drunk and broke the huge French window and voided our security deposit. If heaven is half as cool as sitting in our living room (without the windows) with the paper-thin mattress eating Sunday Night Special from the nearby Dhaba and watching F-1 in a 15” black ‘n white TV, then I’m going to stop being such an asshole, so maybe I can make it in there.

My last set of roommates, when I freshly moved into this new city lately; God; are something of a different breed. As you know (since you know everything), I was always the messy roommate. It was always MY clothes lying around the room. It was always MY desk that was covered in wrappers (all kinds), biscuit bits and *stuff* that people generally deposit in dust bins. If there was a funky smell coming out of 101, chances are it was my fault.

But these guys here, whom I used to live with... they’re unbelievable. I don’t really mind that I always overpay for cable, but the cleanliness of our apartment is a totally different issue. Basically, it doesn’t happen unless I do it; and I never do it!!

The kitchen is downright disgusting. One of my roommates routinely used to cook full course meal for himself and then throw the stained dishes into the sink. The gas stove invariably has enough food residues on it to feed the population of Zimbabwe and Ethiopia combined for months. I refuse to clean it anymore; the residue is forming a union.

The sink...oh my dear God, I use the same dishes over and over, because honestly; burgers, biscuits and dry fruits don’t really make too much of a mess. Therefore, I figure that I should only have to do dishes a couple of times a week. But my roommates use them; I mean the entire cupboard every 18 hours. The ENTIRE cupboard!!! I know I sound like a woman now, but I wouldn’t mind so much if they f**ing rinsed them off ever. When I finally break down and do the dishes it smells so bad I’m gagging for an hour.

Every once in awhile, one of my roommates used to take five of his precious minutes to clean four or five plates and a disgusting yellow-colored plastic bowl. I almost wish he wouldn’t. I can always tell which ones are “washed” because when I pull them out of the cupboard they still have food on them. God, I wish I was kidding.

Apparently, I’m the only one in this tinsel town who knows how to wash a utensil where milk is boiled; again, I know it sounds like I have sand in my snatch, but I consider it a well-honed skill.

We have real summers here in this metro city. It routinely gets into the high 40's. I came home one day in the middle of the afternoon and the heat was on. I literally ripped the thermostat off the wall and embedded it in the head of my retarded roommate and told him to put on his pants. I mean, holy shit, Your Holiness, I couldn’t afford to pay for heat in the winter. I’m tired of bartering my best swimmers to keep his no-sweatshirt-owning, shorts-wearing ass warm.

I guess I should thank You that I had my own bathroom. I once poked my head into the one that they shared and I almost passed out. Again, I confess that I am no cleanliness freak, but I for sure had a nice little conversation about the discoloration of their bath tub 'coz of wet clothes accumulated in there for months altogether without being washed and they’ve named the sentient pile of hair in the corner Tommy; synonymous to our neighbor’s hairless dog.

So anyway, if you could somehow find the time to grant my request, I’ll up the ante. I promise to pass out brand-new cassettes of devotional songs and a copy of Gita (in English, Hindi and Sanskrit) to every woman I manage to sleep with.

Oh yeah, by the way; can you help me out with that too?

Amen



Current Mood: Relieved
Current Music: Unforgivable Sinner

Posted in Personal | Permalink | Comments (14) | Trackbacks (0)



Dear Liquor...

Stand-Alone Dreamer | 27 April 2008, 8:16pm

By no one in particular.

Dear Liquor,

I thought I'd take a minute of your time to discuss some troubling factors with respect to our long standing intimate relationship with you. No please, continue fermenting, I'll do all the talking.

First and foremost, let me tell you that I'm a huge fan of yours...your many sides and dimensions are mind-boggling (different than beer goggling, which I'll touch upon shortly.) Yes, my friend, you always seem to be there when needed. The perfect post-work cocktail, a beer with the game...and you're even around during the holidays: hidden inside chocolates you warm us when we're stuck in the midst of endless social and family gatherings.

Yet lately, I've been wondering about your intentions. You see, I want to believe that you have my best interests at heart, but I feel that your influence has led to unwise consequences...

- Phone calls: While I agree with you that communication is important, I question the suggestion that any conversation of substance or necessity occuring at 3 AM.

- Eating: Now, you know I love a good meal and, though my culiniary skills are not even worth mentioning, why you suggested that I eat a sundried vegetable with chili sauce coupled with a pot noodle and some stale fries(washed down with peach flavoured absolut and topped off with a Milky Bar) is beyond me. Eclectic eater I am, but I think you went a bit too far this time.

Special note to Mr. Jack Daniels: Please do not entice me to pick fights with bouncers...and then follow through.

- Clumsiness: Unless you're subtly trying to tell me I need to do yoga more to increase my balance, I see "NO" need to hammer the issue home by making me fall upside down the stairs. Completely unnecessary. Similarly, it should never take me more than 30 seconds to get the front door key into its lock - a genuine and completely fair request, I shall assume!

- Pictures: You seem to think that it is a blessing in disguise, but let me tell you in unequivocal terms; the following costumes are heretofore banned from being placed on my head in public: wigs, bows, ties, boxes, upside-down cups, inflatable balloon animals, traffic cones, old lingerie...

- "Is she my old batch-mate" syndrome: If I think I may know her from my old school / college days, I most likely do not. PLEASE do not request that I go over and see if in fact, I do actually know that person. This is similar to the old "Hey, you're in my class" syndrome and should heretofore be rendered illegal. Coupled with this is the phrase "Let's go make-out (or any kinda shit that amounts to mean the samething)". While I may be thinking this inside, please ensure you reinstate that all-important brain-to-mouth block to keep this thought coming out in any kind of decipherable statement form, especially in public.

Furthermore, the subsequent hangovers have GOT to stop. Now, I know a little penance for our previous nights' debauchery may be in order, but the "2PM-Hangover-Immobility" is completely unacceptable. I ask that if the proper steps are proactively taken on my part (i.e. water, vitamin B, bread products, aspirin, lots of curd) prior to going to bed / passing out facedown on the kitchen floor with a bag of popcorn, the hangover should be quite minimal and in no way interfere with my daily Saturday or Sunday (or any day, for that matter) activities. Come on now, it's only fair—you do your part, I'll do mine.

Mr. Alcohol, I have enjoyed our relationship for quite some years now, and want to ensure that we remain on good terms for the future. You've been the invoker of great stories, the provocation for many a laughter, and the most needed companion when I just don't know what to do with the extra money in my pocket. In order to continue this relationship, I ask that you carefully review my grievances mentioned above and address them immediately. I will look for an answer no later than Friday at 6 PM (pre happy hour, of course) with your possible suggestions and solutions so that we can continue this fruitful partnership (hopefully!!).

Thank you in advance for your prompt attention to these matters.

Sincerely - your biggest fan,
Me.



Current Music: Run - by Collective Soul

Posted in Personal | Permalink | Comments (4) | Trackbacks (0)



Back after "Normal Relationships"

Stand-Alone Dreamer | 20 March 2008, 7:58pm

So, Yea... I started writing again... It is not like I ever stopped writing... I stopped putting them up for everyone to read and go around smirking... But then I realized, a year and thrity five odd days of abstinence is all that I'm capable of!!

These introductions were always the hardest parts of the blog to write. I wanted them to be funny, so I could get people's attention, but I didn't want it to sound like I was trying too hard. Also, I almost never have anything to say here, and since I'm generally so laconic you can understand how I could be uncomfortable writing crap just to fill space. Not this time, though. I'm proud to announce my revival... and arrival.

Without sounding like too much of a braggart, I do believe this is the greatest site on the internet. You should definitely check it out and tell all your friends. My global fame and fortune depends on it. I promise I'll donate half of my wealth to Bill & Melinda Gates foundation (a.k.a Mr. Warren Buffet)

I've held onto this column for a while now. I'm still not sure I should publish it, but then again, what's the difference anymore.

The question is-

Have I ever been in a "normal" relationship? What would such a thing look like? Feel like? If it smells like ice-cream, feels like ice-cream and tastes like ice-cream, then what you probably have is an ice-cream in your hands; but what about the "thing" that two people share? If it feels like a relationship, is it? If it is, is it a "normal" one?

Confused, I went and did what an average internet buff of my generation always does... Type "normal" into Google and see what it comes up with. Since I know none of you lazy pricks would anyway do it; read on to know what I found-

Here are some definitions culled from what came back to me:
- Something regarded as a normative example
- Conforming with or constituting a norm or standard or level or type or social norm
- Not abnormal
- In accordance with scientific laws
- Forming a right angle
- Conforming to a type, standard, or regular pattern
- Containing neither basic hydroxyl nor acid hydrogen
- Occurring naturally

If something is not normal it is abnormal. Though this may seem to be very circuitous at first, it's not a bad measuring stick. If I were to run around wearing an scream mask and all black waving a knife, that would be easy to define as "not normal". However, if I was to wear black clothing and white makeup and hum around my office, you could call me weird, but "abnormal" may be a little harsh. If nothing else you could say that I was more normal without the mask and knife. Now we're into relativities and perspectives.

As far as I know, I have been in accordance with scientific laws when I have been in my past relationships. I always observed the Law of Gravity. Natural selection has come into play a couple of times as well. If this was the only definition, I would have to say that all of my relationships have been normal. However, I realize, this is stupid. Scientific laws and relationships should not be discussed together.

While I may be scientifically normal, I have never formed a right angle in any relationship I have had. I'm just not that flexible... but that's another topic in itself.

Furthermore, no relationship I have ever been in has contained hydroxyl or acid hydrogen. At least not that I know of - Beer, Liquor, Tequila et al; but not that other crap. This was supposed to lead to a funnier punchline about being an engineer and not a chemistry major and the only physics I like is the physical kind, but you'll have to just imagine it. I'll pause to give you time to chuckle.

Better? OK...

I had been single now for... well... that would be difficult to determine. I don't know when my last girlfriend stopped returning my calls, but I would have to say I considered myself single about a week or two after that. While we were together it was magical. I never had to pretend to be anybody else and we had a great time together. I loved cuddling with her. I loved the smell of her hair. I loved the way the moon reflected off of her cheek. Wait. I'm reciting some cheesy novel, but you get the point.
 
Now that I think about it, I didn't love her. But; hey hold on, before you write me off as a bad person, let me finish.

From the beginning, it was more like an arrangement than a relationship. Sure we liked each other and had a great time together, but it had a built in self-destruct. At some point I was moving off and she was was staying put.  What we formed was a special friends-with-benefits, but with our schedules, it was hard to schedule even that in. Who thought it would be so hard to schedule sex into your day? I either worked or pretended-working during the day into the evening. So did she. We both had "other things" that we did apart from each other.

Now the phone-call dilemma - one person has to call the other. I know this doesn't sound like much, but believe me, it was. She didn't have voicemail, so I could never leave a message. I had her on a special ring so I always knew when she was calling so I could run to the phone, but sometimes she would wait for me to call. Once we finally got hold of one another, we would have to make small talk about the day. Then we decided if we were going to get together and "watch a movie or something" or not.

Trust me; it wasn't all about sex. I knew exactly what my "job" was as a boyfriend. I took her on some fabulous dates. (Okay... two or three fabulous dates.) I made her dinner a couple times. Took her dancing on a riverboat for Valentine's Day. We went to the movies a couple of times. Both of us were very busy and poor. I asked myself, "Why not skip the going out part and just hang at one of our places?" Brilliant. We'd cook and watch F-1 and get high. It was a good time.

I'm not sure when the bottom fell out. I didn't think I was being too demanding, but then again, I should have known something was wrong when I didn't want to call her for a week because I knew she had some exam that she was studying for. A simple "Hi, how ya been?" from either party would have done it. So eventually, we faded. I'm not sure when we "broke up." I'm not sure what it was to begin with. I know that we actually had a talk at the beginning where we agreed upon calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend so that other people would have something to call us.

I don't regret a second of it. Maybe hindsight is covering up all the little things that used to bug me. I've romanticized it all by now, but that's a good thing as far as I am concerned. In the role of "boyfriend," I think I did a pretty good job. I was funny, sexy and charming; but I was also needy, petty and horny. A good mix is important. I didn't want to be the "one-that-got-away" but I wanted her to have happy memories of us... of me.

I did it all right, but it still ended. I know that was the plan. If we would have had a contract, the expiration date of what we had would have been in there. I comfort myself by telling myself that I know I'd do it all again

A relationship is never "normal," or maybe it's always "normal." Whether you ever say it or not, it's always an arrangement of some kind. Relationships are organic. They either grow or they die. They stay fresh by continual renewal or they stagnate. They evolve or they get left behind.

I'm trying to draw a parallel from "organic" to "occurring naturally," which is the last definition in the above list. it's there.

Comedians make a living out of joking about their pain. I'll never make a dime off of this. This started as a column about all the whacky relationships I've been in and the crazy women I've met.

Now it's... it is what it is... and that's life!!



Current Mood: Relieved
Current Music: Unforgivable Sinner

Posted in Personal | Permalink | Comments (5) | Trackbacks (0)



Back, Not Necessarily in Black...

Stand-Alone Dreamer | 15 February 2007, 8:22pm

We all know what it's like to suffer withdrawal symptoms. Whether you're giving up cigarettes, alcohol or girl-friends, the pain of giving up your favorite fix can be difficult to handle. With this in mind, it is my rehabit-forming pleasure to announce the return of Shadows. Don't act like you haven't been sitting in the fetal position for the past 10 months, shaking and sobbing intermittently. I know I left you high and dry, baby, but don't worry, I won't leave you again. I promise.
 
First, I suppose I owe you an explanation. I changed my job, my city, my car, my girl-friend, my hair style... No no no... I was not arrested. I just wanted to hide somewhere. Now I show up wearing a fur coat and carrying a diamond-topped cane.

I am in a "non-violent" city living with non-violent people, except that by "non-violent," they mean, "fall asleep at your own risk."

A lot of gambling went on during my self-imposed exile, and because I'm pretty good at poker, I was able to ensure that a lot of people were in debt to me. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't out to collect a fortune, but I found that by forgiving certain debts, I'd earned the protection of the right people. And at last I breathed a sigh of relief. By keeping my head down, I actually could spent more than two months in this city. I was able to convince the world that my internet writings were not only a stable source of income, but also a positive contribution to society. Which just goes to show, the world will just about believe anything.

But I don't want to dwell on the past. Allow me to take a look around, and see what I've missed here at FULLHYD. Other than the obvious things,like "earn from home" blogs and a deep decline in the popularity of 'hunt4myspace'; D Raw El Payne is still clicking away to glory and impersonating a 'writer. Good to see some things never change. I've also just learned that some guys have retired and went on to get a life. What this really means is that they are out of ideas, something you guys would have noticed since my second article.

And there are a few new guys. These days it's probably hard to write comically about sports, politics, body-building and sex. it's actually impossible.

Now that I'm back, Do not take to the street in a spontaneous show of how much you missed me. Resist the urge to riot joyously. However, you do have my permission to get wasted in whatever manner you like best. When you sober up, I'll still be here.



Current Mood: Sloshed
Current Music: I Fought the Law

Posted in Personal | Permalink | Comments (1) | Trackbacks (0)



Retiring...

Stand-Alone Dreamer | 2 April 2006, 12:09am

Nothing gold can stay. The brightest stars burn fastest. Even the mighty mountains lament the days they reached their peak. It's lonely at the top, but even lonelier on the way down..on some girl you randomly met. The bittersweet taste of nostalgia. Prickly regrets assault my face as the moans of lost glory echo around me, almost as if they weren't my own.

Is this to be the fate of an internet columnist? No.. But only because I'm not so lucky. Here's where it all went wrong: Abstract wording got lost in the confusion, boner puns grew stage fright with repeat performances, and there are only so many ways to ridcule the things that happen around you. Yes, it's true. If you miss him as much as I do, you can find him at TDS. "Cut your hair, ya damn junkie!" he'll yell, then proceed into a story about his better days. No one is for sure what he's talking about. But what is for sure is that he's not happy.

- Getting It Right

Thanks for the memories...most of which were confusing and contorted..

It's sizing up to be a disaster if you keep talking to this man, but you feel a pang, and get the feeling that he needs you. His words strum a beautiful melody that you just cannot ignore, your ears hanging on for every chord. He recounts the days when he had friends, even girlfriends, and life was but a dream. He says he was once a beautiful woman, but that can't be right. He corrects himself, saying that he is just a lonely man who wishes that just once he had spent all night making soft, sensuous love to a beautiful woman. It never worked out that way, however, and he is everything but content with his life.

You start to feel bad for the old man, clearly everything in his life has been a struggle. You take a good, hard look at all the things in your life that you're taking for granted. You have no trouble picking up women. In fact, you even had a fling last night.. Then Why?

- Getting It Wrong

You snap back to the here and now, and find that same forlorn look on the old man's face. His eyes are shiny with the constant threat of tears, flickering as if an old film of all the happy moments of his life passed them by. His brow sits heavy over them. Like an awning weighed down with snow, it exists as a catalog of rejection and drama. His beard, grown out over the years, breathes with stories of drowning sorrows in strange drinks, and living with strange people. This man is in serious need of some hygiene.

The old man rambles on with conceited monotony, but you are entranced with the notion that there may be something to learn from his woes. He continues, purging himself of stories long locked away. His years have been spent toiling endlessly on the internet, making people laugh, while never letting himself crack a smile. People loved him, but he never loved himself, nor ever let himself be loved. He tells you that he was foolishly obsessed with his dreams of being a star. He wanted the whole world to know his name, and exhausted himself in the process. He tells you that he hit bottom..rock bottom...rock on the ocean bottom at its deepest point. And then he hit molten rock bottom swirling beneath the earth's crust. He has known personal hells that make the Great Depression look like Christmas. As you feel the sadness radiate from his soul, you have to wonder if this man's haunting life is due to his birth under some cursed zodiac. You walk away from this man confused because he literally sat with his junk out the entire time, and didn't notice...

When you touched it.

- Getting It At All

Who was that old man? Why is he affecting you so much? What was the point of meeting him? You go back to your life, and try to have fun with your friends and family, but it just doesn't feel right. You barely even touched your dinner, and a wrenching feeling has sunk into your stomach. You wish you could have done something for that poor, decrepit old column, but it's just his time to go, and you start to compile a mental list of why:

- His articles were infrequent and runny.
- He abandoned everything that was 'His'.
- He was tired and drained.
- He had gone farther than his legs could carry him.
- Even now the reader is getting annoyed.
- Being male, how much more abstract can you get?
- Being female, how much more in the clouds can you get?
- Girlfriends, wait does that mean that he ever had one?
- Yes, He had!!!!.
- His column had the most hits, the day it gets posted
- He grew jaded with fame, thought he was hot shit, and then lost touch with his audience.
- He mocked everything in this world, and it became too self-aware in a modernist sense in which the writing itself, rather than merely the content, became part of the humor. The result was a work which was readily more difficult and time-consuming to produce, with an audience that just could not latch on to the evolving state of his self-absorbed notion of humor. In essence, his standards became so high that he could no longer write to make anyone laugh but himself.

Abi: Guys, I'm sorry, but I'm retiring, The shadows will now cease to talk.
Fans: Please, Abi NO! We love you!
Abi: Look it's not you all, it's me. I've got some things I need to work out.
Fans: But what about all the great times we've had?!
Abi: I know, I know. I just need a break. Maybe someday I'll start writing again.
Fans: My friends were right. They warned me this day would come.
Abi: You think I like this any more than you? Well I don't, okay! It's hard enough leaving this behind without you putting all this on me. So you just take your guilt trip with you and show me tail lights...

Abi: Hey Guys, I didn't mean that. Come back here. I'm sorry... I'm just late, as always!!

Current Mood: Cold
Current Music: I wanna live my life!!!!

Posted in Personal | Permalink | Comments (6) | Trackbacks (0)



An IM etiquette!

Stand-Alone Dreamer | 5 November 2005, 10:03pm

Introduction: You've seen the phenomenon. During the weekends & public holidays at least 75% of your buddy list is online. Then the weekday or summer hits and your buddy list is hit by an apparent bubonic plague. Because IM is so popular among us, it is befitting that we should set forth a list of rules, nay commandments, to abide by. So here, in no particular order, is the prevailing IM Dogma.

- In your Yahoo / MSN profile, there's no need to throw in loads of advertising space about your girlfriend/boyfriend/horse. Granted, I may be a jaded, single fool, but when your profile looks like this:
Baby, I love you. I love you. Oh baby I love you and miss you. See you soon. I love you. Baby, baby.
[Insert rows of nonsensical IM kissy-faces]

It's just annoying and disturbing. A subtle message is fine, but if you use either MUAH or those god-awful IM faces (more on those in a sec), then Yahoo / MSN should spike you and you should not be allowed to create a profile in any of the Messengers for three years!!

- Please stop using LOL. Only about 0.04% of people actually "Laugh out Loud" and they are retarded. And don't give me this ROTFLMAO (Rolling on the floor laughing my ass off). I'd actually like to see you try this just so you can snap your neck as you fall out of your chair. Good. Nothing to LOL about now, is there?

- Don't IM just to say "HI." Talking on Yahoo is the fast food equivalent of actual conversations. Keep the messages short and sweet. I assure you, you are not that interesting of a person. And if you were, why am I talking to you behind a keyboard and miles of bandwidth?

- You don't have to IM someone every time they are online. Nobody is that interesting. The average person spends more time wiping their ass than talking to their parents. No one can be conversational every time you IM them.

- Stop with these oblique away messages like "Not here", "Away", "Gone", or using an Yahoo emoticon. If you had to shit, fine. Tell us, we're concerned for your well being. And for the love of god don't use the default away message: "I am away from my computer right now." Don't you get disappointed when you see that?

- If you are talking on a cell phone with someone and IMing that person simultaneously, you deserve the impending radiation cancer.

- Don't ever send more than 5 messages in a row to someone. All that beeping could give someone a brain hemorrhage. It sounds like a damn Star Wars movie on my computer!

- Stop using Yahoo / MSN faces (emoticons). This is the lowest point of human interaction. It is more evolved to go to your friend's house and throw your own shit at their face.

- If someone sends you a link or a song to download, you are not obligated to ever visit that link or download that song. Making a suggestion is fine, but don't pester them about it for days to come. You are interrupting their porn time.

- Blocking someone is about the cruelest thing you can do to them. Worse than murder. So if someone pisses you off, don't block them. Ignore them. Fill them with doubt as to whether you are still at your computer. Blocking is savagely cruel, use only when necessary.

- One "Bye" is all that is needed to end a convo. Too many convos drag on and on like the first hour of Pearl Harbor. They look a little like this:

Asshole69: Ok man, later.
Buttfuk27: Yea, take it east.
Buttfuk27: easy*
Asshole69: Yeah I will
Asshole69: Later
Buttfuk27: Later, dude
Asshole69: Goodnite
Buttfuk27: Oh hey
Asshole69: Yeah?
Buttfuk27: Did you finish your dinner?
Asshole69: Yeah
Buttfuk27: Oh okay, cool
Asshole69: ok, seeya later
Buttfuk27: Yep, bye
Asshole69: Bye
Buttfuk27: Night
Previous message was not received by Asshole69 because of error: User Asshole69 really left this time.

- Don't try to describe your looks in your screen name. If your screen name is SexyGurl25, and you look like Whoopie (no insult!!), that's false advertising. Besides, it really isn't nice to trick MegaStud21, who is actually a 40-year-old unemployed bald man who installed a webcam in your shower while you were at office.

- Girls, it is not necessary to make your profiles look like the lost works of Emily Dickinson. A couple of clever lines is fine, but honestly, no one's turning to your profile as their daily source of sonnets.

- Don't just type "yea" to your friend when you have nothing to say. I understand the flashing IM is intimidating, and a lot of people need to have the last word, but the "yea" is basically IM code for: "I have lost a lot of interest in this convo, and was kind of hoping we could just drift apart peacefully."

- No more than two numbers in your screen name. Three is okay, but only if it's to signal your birthday. It's already hard to remember what you decided to call yourself online, we really don't need the first 100 digits after the decimal point of PI. If your profile id is: Queef67483857, just shorten it to Queef67. Or just Queef. I can't imagine too many people picking that one, it's too honest.

- Don't type "BRB" then drive off to Afghanistan. BRB has a 10 minute window. After that, it's away message time. Yahoo should install a feature that will automatically send gay porn to all your friends under your name once your comp is idle for 11 minutes after a BRB.

- You can tell the mood a person is in by how much they type. Example:

PeeWee12: Hey, man.
Meat10: Yo, what's up, dude?
= Happy

PeeWee12: Hey, man
Meat10: Hey
= Melancholy

PeeWee12: Hey, man
Meat10: Go f**k yourself.
= Not happy.

- Don't put quizzes in your profile. What is the goal, exactly? To figure out who is your most prolific stalker?

- If someone sends you one of those IM's that say you must IM 10 other people, in order to save a child dying of leukemia in Indonesia, drive to his house and beat him to death with his own keyboard. Then, take a deep breath, and go check your email.

Current Mood: Preachy
Current Music: Vanessa-Mae - Tequila Mockingbird

Posted in Writing | Permalink | Comments (18) | Trackbacks (0)



Hey you there..!

Stand-Alone Dreamer | 27 September 2005, 1:08am

Common sense and pronunciation lose all meaning when it comes to getting other people to identify you correctly

My name's Abi; What is so difficult?

It's a simple name. It's not like my name is Bartholomew Montalbalm Cathetermew. Abi. Just Abi. An A followed by a B (just to make things really simple for people who have started picking up alphabets) and a poor and harmelss I. Still, one trouser stain after another has a problem. These are the same assholes who can't read my driver's license because there's a slight bend in the plastic which means you actually have to devote .40596 of a second to make out what it says.

Dumb A******: What does this say? Andheri or Andhra?
Me: Umm, Andheri.
Dumb A******: It looks like Andhra.
Me: Have you ever heard of a place called Andhra in Maharashtra?
Dumb A******: No. it would be cool though if there was one.

Murder of stupid people should be made legal.

People at work do this all the time. I realize I work in an office with nearly one thousand employees, but my theory is if you're going to make me do something, know my fucking name.

Asshole I work with: Can you fax this, Ravi?
Me: My name's Abi.
Asshole I work with: Really?
Me: Nope. I'm lying. I just wanted to see what it felt like to be named Abi for only a brief second. And it felt great. It really did. Sorry for the confusion.

This is why people get shot in their offices.

I love it when people want me to do something, don't know my name, and try to play it off.

Prick Boss of the other team: Hey, uh, you. Can you call the Security?
Me: (Not paying attention because I'm not Chineese and Yu isn't my name.)
Prick Boss of the other team: Excuse me? Excuse me? You. YOU!
Me: (Playing Yahoo! Pool, still not paying attention, scouring the office for Chineese or Japaneese.)

I think Chineese and Japaneese people have retarded names. I'm serious. What's wrong with Rohit and Rahul and Abi? Chang Tzu? Shih Pao? Those sound like noises my neighbour's dog makes when it has an indigestion or something. Do dogs get digestive disorders? Next week, I'll run my post by Animal Planet, I swear.

I love when I give my name to someone in America who hasn't grasped noun-verb-object-predicate. I went to this Mexican house when I was at Austin last year, and they needed my name so that no one takes my delicious "Large Mexican Caesar Wrap with extra cheese and without feta". Me and the guy behind the counter, Mexican Joe as I call him (anyone who can't speak English in the US is a Mexican, stay with me plz) had this exchange.

Mexican Joe: Wrap Caesar, meat no, more chesse, feta no, name?
Me: Abi.
Mexican Joe: Avie?
Me: Abi.
Mexican Joe: Babi?
Me: Abi.
Mexican Joe: Abi?
Me: (Resigned to the fact that I'm going hungry, go hell with him.) No. Babi.
Mexican Joe: Wrap Caesar, meat no, more cheese, feta no, Babi?

True story.... :-)

Current Mood: Confused
Current Music: nothing..really!

Posted in Personal | Permalink | Comments (11) | Trackbacks (0)



Disheartened Hostile Smiling people

Stand-Alone Dreamer | 5 September 2005, 3:59pm

People always ask me: How do you come up with ideas for a post, week after week? Well, one of the sweetest things about writing a blog like this is that it requires, besides a severe lack of judgment, me to go out and experience things. It's easy to write about things that happen to me. It's not as easy to sit at a computer and make up juvenile jokes like some other internet shut-ins I could mention. Some people don't believe that everything I write about is real, which is probably fair since I'm a pathological liar by nature, believe me!! Here's what (may have) happened:

-The other day I turned on the magic box to my favorite 24x7 music channel, for my daily dose of country music. Much to my chagrin and appall, I found that my favorite channel had been dismantled and replaced with a much inferior channel that doesn't play country, it plays Hotel California THREE TIMES IN A ROW. I have no idea what happened, but my best guess is that sometime during the night someone who REALLY liked shitty synth tunes from the 80s stormed into the Hathway building and seized the turntables, possibly following a violent struggle. It's been 3 days and I still don't have a clue as to why are things always so messed up for me. This shocking turn of events got me so depressed that I headed out for a 'peaceful' drive...

-Frequent readers of this blog know that I am culinarily impaired, and hence eat out a lot. It's pretty rare that I eat at Ohri's, though. It's hard for me to pinpoint the reason. Maybe it's because the food out there is expensive.

-On this particular day, I elected to eat at Ohri's because I had been issued a free coupon for one free Big Cheese Burger with the purchase of any soft drink. This, to me, seemed like a fair and sensible deal. I wasn't expecting a problem, until the Disheartened Hostile Smiling cashier submitted this week's Quote of the Moment: "I've never seen this kinda coupon before. What is it?" Seems I found the single non-participating Ohri's Restaurant in the whole of South India.

-I've never worked for the Ohri's Corporation, so I can't say for certain what the cost to them would be of a free Big Cheese with purchase of a regular-sized coke, but if I were to harbor a guess I'd say the loss probably won't keep their children from going to school. But when I tried to explain this very sensible and not-at-all insane concept to the Disheartened Hostile Smiling Employee, he blinked a few too many times and then said, the only thing I can think of, that could top his previous Quote: "I'll have to ask the manager." Nothing is more humiliating than holding up the line while the Ohri's crack forensics team analyzes my coupon. I should probably also mention that this particular Ohri's food court had the television tuned to the All-New 24x7 music channel that was still playing Hotel California!!!

-After a few minutes, the manager, look-alike of a 16-year-old boy whom I used to beat up in high school, came over to see me. He had clearly been hardened by years of people trying to pass off counterfeit coupons, and was hell-bent on keeping me from obtaining my Free Burger with Purchase of Regular Soft Drink. He accused me of causing a disturbance. I tried telling him that if I really had the motivation and cunning to make my own coupons, I would at least have the sense to make the drink free as well. Unfortunately, I was so worked up that the only sounds I could produce were a few yelping noises, followed by a shriek of defeat and the sound that coins make when you throw them as hard as you can in the direction of a Disheartened Hostile Smiling Ohri's Employee. I had essentially been blackmailed into purchasing a Big Cheese Burger.

-With the matter of the coupon peacefully resolved to its inevitable win-win conclusion, I proceeded to place my order. Here's a transcript: ME - "I'd like a Big Cheese Burger Combo with an ice tea." CASHIER (smiling) - "Is that for here or to go?" ME - "For here is fine." CASHIER (smiling) - "Alright, what will you have?" ME (irritated) - "I told you. A Big Cheese Burger meal with an ice tea." CASHIER (smiling) - "Would you like to have a Super-Size combo for an extra 40 bucks?" ME - "No thanks." CASHIER (smiling) - "And was that a parcel?" ME (agitated) - "For here! Goddamn you!" CASHIER (smiling) - "And what would you like to drink with that?" ME (smiling) - "The blood of your first-born, if it's fresh." (the blood, not the kid)

-You may be wondering why I did not, as any other sensible God-fearing person would have done, flee the restaurant as quickly as I could. I guess I just wanted to see how the whole thing would play out. I was starting to think that the Disheartened Hostile Smiling Ohri's Employee and his prepubescent boss were going to accuse me of kidnapping the RBI Governor before the day was through. I don't even know what I would do with him if I did somehow get him locked in my house, but I imagine it would have something to do with creating false coupons.

-Off-topic note: I have to stop going to the movies. Every time I'm at the theater, I meet someone I haven't seen for years and don't want to talk to. So I always make a dive for the bathroom, but it never works, and then I end up in some horribly awkward conversation about why I hadn't spoken to them in so long. ("Hey, you! I remember you! F*** you!")

-And, finally, when I wanted to pay for my purchase with a 500 rupee note, they told me they couldn't accept 500s because of the high counterfeiting rate. I told them that I knew that MY 500s were ok because I made them myself. They didn't laugh, and continued to refuse my money. So I gave them fake 50s instead...

Current Mood: Shocked
Current Music: Crazy in Love...

Posted in Hyderabad! | Permalink | Comments (7) | Trackbacks (0)



So Yeah..I am late!

Stand-Alone Dreamer | 27 July 2005, 10:52pm

So yeah, my column usually comes out twice a month; mostly on the first and last of the Sundays - God's day, but here's the thing. I was 'pre-occupied', all the Saturdays. I had the worst sore throat - and since I was popping Coldarins, Halls Menthalyptus, and Crocins simultaneously, Sunday wasn't any brighter. I spent the whole day coughing and sneezing around - creating a major havoc among the panic-stricken denizens around me (you should have guessed appropriately that I'd be surrounded by people from Uncle Sam's land).So I was sick all day Sunday, and then watched Michael burn his backside off at Silverstone & Hockenheim , my fingers hurt from constantly clicking refresh on the formula1.com live timing page because apparently the cable operator's grandfather decided to marry again and he went away switching off all the transmission; at least he didn't bother to give us any substantial explanation - so we assumed this (Ha! I feel so much better now!). Before I knew it, it was 12 p.m. and I didn't have a post. So, yeah, sorry... But hey, better late than never, right? And besides, it gives me a nice little gimmick to kick off this month's festivities.

I am late. Always....

I don't know how this happens. I try to be early. I really do. Often, I make a conscious effort to be on time, but God hates me (probably because I stamp on ants regularly). So the other day, I was getting ready for work. I generally start from home at 10:45. So I shave at 10:15; Comb my hair at 10:20; Iron at 10:27 (Ironing being the primary reason why I need an extra-girlfriend. Please help!!) That gives me roughly 15 minutes to chill out and then leave. So I was chilling...as 10:44 rolls around. I'm about to leave. Literally a foot out the door, Shit. I can't find my cell phone. (This is ironic because I traded away my last cell for a bigger one so that I'd never lose it. I never ever came close to losing my old one. I lose this piece of shit every fucking day.) So I spend 10 minutes looking for my cell. I find it, of course in the middle of my desk in plain sight. I get ready to leave again. Literally both feet out the door, Shit. I can't find my ID. I traipse around my apartment looking for another 5 minutes. It's in my backpack, which I take to work anyway. I get ready to leave again. Literally three feet out the door. My roommate stops me. "Hey, you owe me for the elec bill." That becomes a 5 minute conversation about 'The Ashes' and my daily adventures with Sphynx, my imaginary friend.

I'm fucking sick of everything, and if you don't know why, you're either a woman, or you're gay...

I finally get into my car. Of course I am stuck at all signals the because the fat traffic guy takes his own sweet time in manually changing the signals - all the bloody effort in automating those signal lights based on the traffic intensity has just been kidnapped, raped and murdered in public! Then there are these HI-TECH CITY roads. At the risk of sounding racist, I am sick to death of Americans, especially those Chinese-Japanese-Americans; who have the audacity to rent out cars in here and drive through our roads. They simply upset me for a variety of reasons other than their exploits with the four-wheelers. First of all, their language is stupid. with all those phony Chinese-American garbage incorporated and cutely nicknamed as 'accent'. Second, they should learn to fucking walk. They don't look where they are going, and they bump into me constantly, and since none of them crack the five foot barrier I'm terrified of stepping on one.

So of course, after all the Chinatown stunts I show up to work at 11.30, as boss after boss stares me down, not accepting any goddamn excuse. I'm late and it gets written in stone - day-after-day! Again, I'm not a racist, these people just upset me, like Communists. Just relax.

So I'm always always late. And it's not my fault. Because I always try to be early. But I'm stupid sometimes. During my academic days - My exam will be in 10 minutes. That gives me time to get a cup of coffee. But that coffee from the Nescafe machine in the campus won't do the trick. I've got to look for our favorite roadside cafe, which is hardly a 10 minute walk. I can assume that if I walk fast, which I do anyway because I'm not a girl, I can make it there, have a cup of coffee and get back in no time. Wrong...Wrong...Wrong!!!! Of course, everyone and their mother is at the cafe and not just ordering coffee. I finally get my coffee...five minutes late. Shit. I run back, figuring what the hell, it's only five minutes late. Then I remember, I had planned to study almost everything required for the exam in the last 10 minutes before the exam.

I had a date. It's at 7 p.m. I leave time to shower (10 minutes), shave (4 minutes), hair (6 minutes) and other 'extra curricular activities' (15-30 minutes). It's 6. Gives me time to work up my confidence, get all the pre-pubescent voice-cracking out of my system, make up a list of shit to talk about with her that doesn't include why my left testicle could beat my right one in a fight. I do all that. 6:45. I'm early. I grab the flowers. I spray on the imported cologne. I'm set. I'm money.

I walk into the girl's house. I knock the door, 4 minutes early, looking and smelling great. She answers the door. I say I'm here to pick you up for our date and I'm EARLY! She says we never had a date, she doesn't even know me, stop sending her friendship requests, stop staring at her from afar, stop peeping thru her window every 5.7 seconds, stop giving her blank calls, not saying anything but just breathing heavily, and stop showing up early for dates that don't exist.

How embarrassing. But at least I was on time for once. I gotta go..I'm late again. Sorry I was late....

Current Mood: Thoughtful
Current Music: Someday Somewhere...

Posted in Personal | Permalink | Comments (10) | Trackbacks (0)



 1   2    3    4   Next>> 

Stand-Alone Dreamer's blog is proudly powered by fullhyd.com, the largest portal for Hyderabad, India.
Design by LifeType and Andreas Viklund.