We all just need to get laid

On the bridge, 

There’s fresh sun on my face and the skyline. 

And I feel temporarily beautiful. 

When did you last smile like that?

Put down your book and smile like that.

Wrapped in a newspaper is a bottle of rum

And a Neil Young album.

After the Gold Rush.

How thoughtful, how wonderful.

And we sing softly, at once, “Every junkie’s like the setting sun”.

And laugh, because we are not nineteen and still so stupid.

So I hope you have the good side, the good angle,

Where I don’t look like Mr. Potatohead and you’d still want me.

Because after all this, why not. Why the hell not.

Delirious and slurred. 

Delicious and salty, for the sea, you see.

And we’re fighting cynicism and laughter,

Because we’ve seen this and scoffed at it and suffered it

So much. 

But when did you last smile like that?

So I was like this. Happy, next to a space ship, generally spacing out… when…

This seemingly innocent thang juss decided to pop over, and I was like…

All Lana Del Ray, saying “No please”… et cetera

And it was like “Bitch please” I am rawwwwring here…and I was like…

But this guy was persistent.

So I was like…

I wish. So I just went

Yeah, sure, okay, I’d LOVE to. And obviously…

Make it better.

So, through the static of American sitcoms and well, some romcoms and dramedies, I have tweezed out one fundamental truth: A FB is just necessary sometimes, and no, of course, I don’t mean Facebook. 

Of course, you’re bound to get hurt at the end of it (and by you, I mean me of course) and surely, no good can come of it. But, dude. Sometimes, you just need to have the option of a 3 am booty call. Even if you don’t make it. And I don’t mean to objectify men - okay fuck that - women have been dealing with it forever - men should just bite the towel for a bit - but what I’m saying is - it’s not just sex. It’s not the most flattering place you will find yourself in a woman’s life, true, but it has that here and now wonder about it. For that moment, you are awesome, you are the best thing that happened to her. Try and sneak out before she wakes up though, else, there’ll be that entire awkward, “oh…fuck. What the hell was I thinking?” conversation. Perhaps subtextually. But yeah, you know, no fun for either. 

I don’t know if this is progressive or regressive, but lonely cities lead to lonely acts. That’s all. I may delete this. And change my mind. :-/

I keep reading what I’ve written over and over again. I still don’t understand it.

It feels like slowly peeling paint. 

Bonu, all I’ve got is this box, it has a few things, just keep them.

He scratched his three day old beard and started looking for something else he could give me, but he just stood around after a while, grabbing the back of his neck, head bent sideways, a helpless expression on his face. 

Yeah, that’s all I’ve got I’m afraid. 

It’s fine. It’s a nice box. I like it.

He turned around and fixed his gaze upon the box.

Well, look inside. Tell me what you think. For real. Not just to make me happy.

I don’t do that.

Well, just look.

I opened the box and at first it just seemed like a lot of junk: Old papers, stuff wrapped in tissue paper, pebbles, a fragment of glass, a beer bottle cap, plastic rings, bubble gum wrappers, bus tickets, ad fliers. It was junk; maybe sentimental junk, which was the worst. 

Er, what exactly is this?

Well it was Ro’s and he gave it to me. And now I’m giving it to you. It’s nothing much really. Just stuff collected over the years.

Why are you giving Ro’s gift to you to me? 

I don’t know, I have nothing else to give you.

Hey, listen, it must mean something to you. I mean, it’s Ro’s after all.

Yeah, but Ro’s dead. It’s just stuff.

Right. And now I have a dead person’s stuff.

If you don’t like it, you don’t have to take it. I mean, I’m not forcing you to take it or anything.

No, no. It’s mine now. It’s mine.

Alright. It is a nice box though, right?

Yeah, it is.

It was one of those medium sized Goodricke tea boxes. Balsamic wood, clean lines, kind of light and unfinished, with a faded logo. I loved it. 

You ever miss him?

Yes and no, he said labeling a box ‘Misc’. 

You were close, right?

Yeah, he said scratching his beard again and looking around to see if he missed something.

Sorry, I know I shouldn’t bring it up. 

It’s okay, he said and began to push the boxes towards the door. 

You need a hand with those?

No, no. You’ll get a hernia.

I’m stronger than you think.

Take the light ones, okay? Take the one with the clothes and miscellaneous stuff.

Okay. 

After a while, the room was empty. Just some dust and hair and a splotchy wall where the prints and posters had been. A little piece of blue paper still clung on to the wall, hula dancing in the wind. I ripped it off when he wasn’t looking and put it in the box. 

All done? I asked.

Yep, he said, staring at the empty wall. 

Would you like a tie, he asked.

Is it Ro’s? I asked. 

No, it’s mine.

Yeah, okay then. I like ties.

He dug into his backpack and took out a slightly faded black tie and promptly handed it over to me. 

Keep it, he said.

Okay. It’s very nice. Does it have a story?

No, not really, he shrugged. I bought it myself in Bangalore. Does that count?

I don’t know. Maybe not. 

I put the tie around my neck. 

So, if we’re done here, shall we leave? Do you need a minute alone? I can wait outside, I said.

He stood really still, as though he was praying. He stood like that for a minute, very still, very quiet and then swung around suddenly and grinned at me.

How about some beer then?

Yeah, sounds good. 

He shut the door and we left the apartment alone. It needed some time to get used to all that space now, after all. 

I hope you are having some sort of wonderful adventure right now. Can’t think of anything lesser for you.

Long may you run. 

Magazine Reload.

Pictures not mine, obviously. 

Too doo dooo oh yeah.

Damn. One afternoon + The Beatles. That’s all I need.

Okay. Maybe I need more. But that’s a good beginning. That’s a great beginning in fact.

It’s like the song you’d play before you’d die. Sigh. 

Hi. The water seems to be above your head now. So fish, you can swim. I’m mud. I’m here. You know, in case you need me or anything. Murky, dirty mud.

What I really need, not from you fish, but what I really need in general, is a hearty yank. You can’t do it with your thin fins and slippery scales. Also, you scare easy. But don’t worry, I’ve been doing push ups and crunches. Soon, I’ll be able to do this by myself. And you will have to find some other mud. But that won’t be too difficult for you, will it, fish?

I won’t bore you with sentiment, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it. I heard a snicker of disbelief once, in a book store, in the fag end of a smoke, in a lazy “mhmm”. And I’m tired of talking. I have nothing to say. I leave you to your whimsies and I guess you have left me to mine long, long ago. 

So goodbye. 

Love,

Mud.

Wake up.

Clunky head.

Maybe if I roll and hide and twist and lie and die, I won’t. Wake up.

Clunky head.

So. We’re in Park Street. It’s night, and we’re leaning against the shutters of a closed shop and you are telling me, fuck, so much has happened over the past few years, pass me the cigarette. 

I pass you the cigarette, and I know what has happened to you. But for me, it’s been different. Sometimes, even good. Right now, we’re a little drunk and fond of each other. Tomorrow, we’ll just forget. 

See, with cocaine, it’s a NOW high. Like, how you’re tapping your foot right now, he said. 

Fuck this shit. I’m not feeling a thing.

Want a j?

Yeah. Yeahyeahyeahyeah. Fuckyeah.

You say, hey, baby, I’m so high on coke right now, and your arm feels like a piano around my shoulders. I’m hunched under that weight, but you are popping your head to Gui Boratto, and I’m like, fuck this shit.

He says, hai. I’ll drop you, cheel.

And I’m like, fuck this shit. I want my bed. I want apples for breakfast. I don’t want to be here.

You don’t get it. You just don’t get it. I don’t have time for breakfast. Or anything. Or you. 

Okay. Fine. I’m just going to sit here and….

And what?

Likestuff. Develop taste.

If this was America, I would already have a gun and two nervous breakdowns. 

One was when the phone rang in the middle of the night and I pretended not to hear. Then he asked me, while I half slept inside the safety of a mosquito net, why didn’t you pick up the phone? Then he said, without waiting for a reply, it was too late for any hospital.

And then I called you, and you were like, yeah? So sorry.

And then they made tea, like it was a perfectly fine afternoon. It was Kali Pujo and we waited for them to bring him back all evening.

Two, was before. But that, I can’t talk about. 

Implode. Baby. Do you like my clothes? Do you like how awesome I am? How irreplaceable. Irresistible. How manic and tortured and genius? Blow me, because I am un-fucking-believable.

Okay.

Maybe, I should wake up. Clunky head.

Listen, I know how hip it is to love Ted Talks (or better, be on it), but I’ve honestly not had the patience to sit through more than 2. That’s right TWO. That’s it. It was fine. It was fun. But meh. Whatever. Give me fansites and fantasy fiction any day. 

And it sucks (although it was inevitable) that everyone’s on Pinterest now and it’s no longer original and schmuck free. Shoo! Go Facebook y’all!

Yoga after ages today. I thought I was super late because the sun was out, but turns out it’s just geography/physics/science/the way the universe works - because hello, it’s summertime. And ICK. It is disgusting. Hot. Sweaty. Sticky.

On the upside, I’ve brought along my swimsuit from Calcutta. So, hopefully, soon enough, there should be some respite. 

Anyway, this is an early morning, post yoga post. I will now chop some fruits, make some oats and read the papers. Bye.

Oh irony. Where have you been? I almost forgot what it was like to have you in my life. Can’t say I missed you that much, but this occasional visit warrants a celebration of sort, don’t you think?

My life suddenly feels like a really bad song from a Kajol-Ajay Devgn movie (wontsaycantmakeme).

Ah, airports, airplanes and all things in between - we are old friends you and I. Sigh. 

Fuck you and you and you and you. Fuuuuuuck yooooooou.

Just felt like saying it. Dontmindme.

I’m at home and just not cussing enough.

I really like to. Cuss that is.

This morning I had a really funky dream which involved a swimming pool and a couple of foreigners. And floating around in general. It was nice, kind of.

DOUCHEBAG. 

Sorry, had to get that in.

Anyway, so Baba Sehgal has weird video out about saving the girl child. It’s wrist slashingly awful. It’s so bad that it might just get everyone hooked. I will not provide a link, so fuck you.

Sorry, again.

Anyway. Do I sound like an insecure drama queen if I say no-one gives a fuck if I return to Bombay? Yeah, I think so. Well fuck me, but that’s how I feel. It’s just a feeling, it’ll pass, but it is what it is. Hold that thought. 

AND FUCK YOURSELF.

I swear, if it weren’t for television, I would just die of loneliness. 

NO. Wait. That sounded TERRIBLE.

It’s just hormones. Or these lights. I don’t know. I don’t like these lights. I don’t like being okay with everything. I want to snarl and bite. I want to be one weird puppy. Haha. Weird puppy. Sigh. Lights. Sorry.

I don’t like you very much right now. Even if you are perfectly wonderful and understanding of this, well, situation right now. What with the hormones, lights and everything. I don’t care. I hate you and want to kick you. I hate your voice, I hate your sympathetic nods, I hate your involvement, I hate your sanctimonious aloofness. I fucking hate you. 

Wow. What is THAT about? 

Yeah, no, really. It’s not you, it’s just me. I just feel like being psycho trash. Bye.