We have been a busy eM this past week. Small and I outdid ourselves Saturday night when we threw this monster party at our house. Thanks to one of the rooms being free now (tra-la) we have turned that into a Lounge-Bahr, with a camp cot, a pretty yellow curtain bedspread, a floor cushion and a chest of drawers that serves as a bar. And, dude, everyone turned up. Everyone and their uncle, which is probably not a phrase I should use, because when I said that to Small, she goes, "Who is bringing their uncle?" She's a literal sort of girl. At one point we both surveyed the mass of people in our living room and she said, "Do you know these people?" and I said, "No", but they just kept coming. Some didn't even know it was our house. Others got very drunk and teetered around. I, of course, showed off tattoo to best advantage. Good party. Our best one yet, I would say.
You see, I'm a people collector. Other people collect stamps or figurines or belly button lint, but I collect interesting people, which in my line of work I meet quite often. I like to arrange them in my head, see who would go best next to who, add some people here, subtract someone I'm not so sure about there, and voila, we have a party. Over the years, I've met other people collectors, who collect me as easily as I collect them. We're easy to spot in a crowd, we're the ones who travel with two or three different people, make introductions and then sit back with a satisfied look as everyone talks to everyone else. Nothing beats the feeling of warm pride you get when two pieces of your crowd hit it off with each other independently. But not too independantly. They must always like you more than they like anyone else. And you must at all times be established as the "connector".
Oh, and this mini-post has a purpose as well. The Blank Noise Project is having a special blogathon for Women's Day, which I shall be participating in. Here's my thought. A lot of people don't have blogs and have been victims to sexual harrassment. If you'd like your story to be told, email it to me, and I will post them here in a running up to Women's Day. And if you'd rather not tell your story, well, then, I have plenty for all of us.
Tiny post, I know, I'm sorry. Promise bigger, better updates in the future.
Tales from urban India
28 February 2006
21 February 2006
"Beauty is skin deep. A tattoo goes all the way to the bone" (author unknown)
These are two pictures of my hip. Well, not just my hip, my hip with my new *ahem* tattoo. The pictures aren't fantastic, but it's an odd angle to shoot from, you have to agree, and it's really a lot more sexy in real life. I have never been so obsessed with my own skin before, every moment, I glance down to see if the dragon is still, sexily there. I've been doing Angelina Jolie poses in front of the mirror also, sticking out one hip and pouting, bee-stingily. I've also been sticking out my hip to everyone I know, yanking the band of my really old (and therefore, soft, so they don't chafe against my skin
), really falling off my ass jeans and sort of waggling my pelvis, old-Hindi-movie-starlet ishtyle in their faces, so they really have no choice but to admire. And really, what's not to admire? Look at how sexy it is!Here's a bit of Zen wisdom from me to you. The anticipation of the pain is always greater than the pain itself. I thought it was going to hurt like all fuck. I scream at needles, I avoid shots like the plague, I even flunked sewing because I was too chicken that I was going to prick myself. Okay, I made the last one up, but you get the picture. So when they put me in that huge dentist-style chair, with a lever that made you go up, up closer to the needle and the horrible gnrrrrrrrr-gnrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr noise, and they focussed the lamp on my skin, where there was a blue stencil pasted on, I freaked. Yan, the Thai-from-Chandigarh tattoo artist, approached my skin blasely, whistling along to In Da Club, in Punjabi that was playing on his laptop, Small looked amused, I closed my eyes tightly and gripped the back of the chair and... felt the needle going in piercing fourteen layers of skin and coming out and it wasn't so bad after all. He began to outline it, I opened my eyes and Small said, "Well?" and I said, amazed, "It doesn't hurt that much!"
Describe the pain, I hear you ask, O Reader Who Wants Tattoo Of Own But Is Too Scared. The pain threshold is similar to getting waxed. But in a sensitive spot, mind you, like your inner thighs or your underarms. The sensation is like, um, getting stung, by like a bee or something, but a mild sting, not terrible. Here's what it doesn't hurt as much as: a) a rabies shot and b) getting burnt by a cigarette. When Yan was done outlining, I could barely feel it, except right up top and then at the tip of the right wing, which is almost on my stomach, a spot that is so laden with nerves, that even scratching it hard can send off little alarm triggers of pain.
The outlining of a tattoo is the most painful part, filling in the colour really doesn't hurt that much, but today it feels like a nasty sunburn. I'm not going to lie to you, it stings like a bitch. And you have to keep washing it, which hurts even more. This morning in the shower, I accidently faced my body full into the blast of those water jets and I nearly passed out with the pain. But so worth it, after the shower, when I pranced around in front of my mirror.
Okay, I'll begin at the beginning. So, I've wanted a tattoo forever. Really. Only I was too scared. Then I finally got over my fear, I think last year and Dee and I decided to get tattoos together. But I still hadn't picked out what I wanted. For a while I wanted a butterfly (nah, too cliche), a pentacle (not enough resonance in my life), a monkey (no, too cutesy) and then I finally picked a dragonfly. Nice, I've always liked dragons, fire-breathing flying creatures and all, and I like to think of them as defenders of the damsels in distress, rather than devourers. Watchdogs, if you will. Creatures that kept evil at bay, were too powerful to be domesticised and who were fucking independant. No one tells a dragon what to do. A dragonfly would be the perfect insect, not as pretty-pretty as a butterfly, but still beautiful, and dude, a dragon fly? Anyhoo, so I was half-carried, half-dragged to Funky Monkey in Gurgaon by Small (coz I lost my nerve halfway through driving there) and while we waited, I flipped through their design books, but I couldn't find a single dragonfly I liked. They were all too huge, too bulky and then I saw this dragon, with wings no less (a lot of the dragons there were Chinese-style, loopy, long tailed and wingless) and I loved it and wanted it to be mine. But it was too small to go in my designated number one area, the nape of my neck. No problem I said, and chose designated area number two, on my hip, so that it just about shows above low waist jeans and can be hidden if I wear formal clothes.
So there it is, the story behind my little totem. "A girl dragon, so clearly," someone said to me today, "Too pretty to be fierce." Of course she's a girl dragon, she's on my body isn't she? And even if she's not fierce, she brings out the fierceness in me, and the fire in my soul. I think that's a pretty good deal, don't you?
EDIT & UPDATE: Since a lot of people have asked me how much it costs (can't believe I forgot to mention that in my original post!) here's some more tattoo in Delhi information:
* There are two main tattoo parlours in Delhi--Funky Monkey, where I went, is in the City Centre Mall in Gurgaon, on the top floor. The other one is run by a chap called Mike, I believe it's called Mike's only. I've compared tattoos done by both places, in fact, Small who has three tattoos has two done by Funky Monkey and one by Mike, but I find the Funky Monkey ones looked a lot better, more well-defined, a lot clearer. And I didn't much like Mike's tattoos on other people I know as well. That being said, it might be different for you, if you have a Mike tattoo and I'm no gospel or anything, this is just why I chose the Monkey people. Mike's Tattoo parlour is in CR Park, but I'm not sure where.
* Prices vary between the two parlours as well. At FM, they charge 2,000 per square inch, 2.5 if you ask for colours. Mine is two square inches, but since Small had a rapport with the owner and all, it cost me 3 k not 4. Mike's is cheaper, I think, 800 to a grand per square inch.
* Before you get a tattoo, at least, before I got mine, they made me sign an agreement, essentially promising not to sue if anything bad happened to me, like skin cancer, or like if I didn't like the design, or if I developed an allergy. I also had to promise solemnly that I was above 18, had no diseases and um, I wasn't pregnant. (I don't quite get the logic behind the last one. The trauma makes you miscarry?)
* Chamique said that her friends only put on a lot of vaseline and didn't wash it. Care for a tattoo also varies, clearly. I was told not to cover it up, to wash as often as possible without soap, pat dry with paper towels, not cloth and put vaseline on it a lot (hey, at least one things similar!) Someone else asked me why I wasn't wearing a "breathable bandage" on it, because that's what they had done. The important thing to remember is NOT to pick at the scabs, which is very hard for me, coz I'm a scab picker by nature and to keep it free of pus and/or infection, because that's not sexy.
* And not extra tattoo information but I see DesiPundit has a reference to me as soft porn. Really? My hip? Soft porn? Vulturo, whatever have you been watching? ;)
13 February 2006
magenta, cerise, burnt sienna, cornflower, scarlet, indigo, mauve
> Went to Elevate after the longest time on Saturday night, or the wee hours of Sunday morning, depending on your perspective, to watch the fabulous Talvin Singh play. The place was crowded, not as crowded as it would be, granted, when people like Jay Sean or Juggy D come in, but crowded enough. We went to the second level, of the transparent swing-seats and phallic beanbags, and crowded around the little parapet type area, where you could look down upon the hoi polloi dancing below on the vibrating dance floor. Only with Talvin Singh's strange music (psy? house? world?) no one really seemed to know how to dance to it. Some couples slow-danced others did bhangra moves, arm up, one leg extended, and the majority did the strange movements I call 'rave-dancing', when you stand still, move your head up and down, make your hands into fists and raise them to shoulder level, moving them up and down as well.
We went because Small's cousin had come in from Bombay and he "really really wanted to go to Elevate" because that's the one Delhi club that people in Bombay talk about, and so we gathered, Small, her cousin, Urvashi and I, at our house where we drank steadily from 9 to midnight, and then set out. Urvashi, Small and I were already feeling tired at this point, old age catching up with us, I guess, and we would've probably been okay with just going to TC and wrapping up our evening there. But her 20-year-old cousin was full of excitement, his eyes shining as we reached, trying to figure out the difference between Bombay girls and Delhi girls (after a point, we told him to stop generalising, and he stopped, chastened). But then, once we got there, he seemed bored and sleepy and fucked off for the longest time to talk to his girlfriend back in Bombay. Oh well. I was pretty sleepy too, but then we ordered vodka-Red Bull and within like five minutes I was jumping around, head moving with the best of them. I love vodka and Red Bull (though it costs like 500 bucks! Dude! They should warn you before you order). Plain Red Bull gives me a headache, not wings, but with vodka it's a charge. Though Small told me it makes you skip heartbeats. I know it has testosterone, which is what gives you the energy. Imagine if they made drinks with extra oestrogen. All the men would come around with tears in their eyes and big, soppy smiles and say, "Dude, I lurve you" throwing their arms around their bemused friends. They should make it. I'd buy it.
Anyway, so it was four by the time we left, and five by the time we stumbled into bed, bleary eyed. Perhaps once a month, Small and I agreed, not more. We grow old.
> Does anyone think it's weird that Caroline In The City is called Caroline Duffy and there's a real life poet called Carol Ann Duffy? Coincidence? I think not.
> I'm an Angry Consumer in the Delhi Ecosystem these days. Grarh. It's just one bad service after another. First, Airtel has been fucking with me forever, ever since I signed up for the stupid postpaid account. I had to beg and plead with them to change my billing address for something like two months before they finally did, charging me late fees, of course, even though I explained to them that I did not in fact, recieve my bill. Their executives are badly trained, and no one seems to know what's going on. What Airtel needs is a computer system where you figure out who's spoken to whom. Anyway, so last month? Thye tore my cheque while taking it out of the drop box and asked me to issue a new one. Fine. Then they cut my services off, saying they hadn't recieved any payment. THEN this chick calls Small (how in the world did she get her number? Big Brother's watching us, I tell you) and then gets in touch with me at work and says they haven't recieved a new cheque, coz they've lost it. Oh-kaaaaaay. She also says, more or less in this snitty tone that I must be mistaken, because none of their customer service executives would ever tear a cheque and it's never happened before. I call up my bank, cancel the new cheque I've issued, and then get to PVR Saket, where there's an Airtel booth, where you can pay by cash. It's six pm, I get there, a man is lazily talking on the phone, and he waves one desultory hand. "It's closed," he says, "Come back tomorrow." At this point, little blood vessels are popping rapidly, like bubble wrap, in my forehead and real steam is coming out of my ears, so I go next door, to a stall that's selling phone covers and all and tell them I want a Hutch prepaid card. (Which by the way, if you know me in real life, please email for new number). In great triumph I activate it. The next morning, I get a call from the same Airtel chick who says sorrowfully that she had activated my account, and why had I switched. "Because I am sick and tired of your service and I'm going to tell everyone, nanananana-naaaaaaaa," I said. "Can't you at least give your connection to someone else?" she asked. "Nope, coz you suck and I hate you," I said dignifiedly and she hung up. Phew. Anyway, so if you're contemplating getting an Airtel postpaid, consider yourself warned.
And then I was at Yo China last night with Small and her mum and we ordered a Double Combo which had chilli chicken and lamb in hot garlic sauce, and I asked the waiter to make it chilli chicken dry, coz it didn't specify what kind of gravy it was going to be in and he said, "We only serving with gravy. Dry, you have to order extra." But surely you can just not put any gravy, and give me dry chicken?" I said, reasonably enough, I thought. "We only serving gravy," he said, eyes shifting away. So we ordered the dry chicken, extra, and it was terrible. See why I am angry consumer?
The one happy spot in my consumerism is Boots Cucumber Lotion. I bought it at Kunchal's in GK-I M-Block market and it smells all cool and refreshing and makes your skin feel all refreshed. I've been using it like mad, I love the way it's not too olily, so I can use it on my face also.
We went because Small's cousin had come in from Bombay and he "really really wanted to go to Elevate" because that's the one Delhi club that people in Bombay talk about, and so we gathered, Small, her cousin, Urvashi and I, at our house where we drank steadily from 9 to midnight, and then set out. Urvashi, Small and I were already feeling tired at this point, old age catching up with us, I guess, and we would've probably been okay with just going to TC and wrapping up our evening there. But her 20-year-old cousin was full of excitement, his eyes shining as we reached, trying to figure out the difference between Bombay girls and Delhi girls (after a point, we told him to stop generalising, and he stopped, chastened). But then, once we got there, he seemed bored and sleepy and fucked off for the longest time to talk to his girlfriend back in Bombay. Oh well. I was pretty sleepy too, but then we ordered vodka-Red Bull and within like five minutes I was jumping around, head moving with the best of them. I love vodka and Red Bull (though it costs like 500 bucks! Dude! They should warn you before you order). Plain Red Bull gives me a headache, not wings, but with vodka it's a charge. Though Small told me it makes you skip heartbeats. I know it has testosterone, which is what gives you the energy. Imagine if they made drinks with extra oestrogen. All the men would come around with tears in their eyes and big, soppy smiles and say, "Dude, I lurve you" throwing their arms around their bemused friends. They should make it. I'd buy it.
Anyway, so it was four by the time we left, and five by the time we stumbled into bed, bleary eyed. Perhaps once a month, Small and I agreed, not more. We grow old.
> Does anyone think it's weird that Caroline In The City is called Caroline Duffy and there's a real life poet called Carol Ann Duffy? Coincidence? I think not.
> I'm an Angry Consumer in the Delhi Ecosystem these days. Grarh. It's just one bad service after another. First, Airtel has been fucking with me forever, ever since I signed up for the stupid postpaid account. I had to beg and plead with them to change my billing address for something like two months before they finally did, charging me late fees, of course, even though I explained to them that I did not in fact, recieve my bill. Their executives are badly trained, and no one seems to know what's going on. What Airtel needs is a computer system where you figure out who's spoken to whom. Anyway, so last month? Thye tore my cheque while taking it out of the drop box and asked me to issue a new one. Fine. Then they cut my services off, saying they hadn't recieved any payment. THEN this chick calls Small (how in the world did she get her number? Big Brother's watching us, I tell you) and then gets in touch with me at work and says they haven't recieved a new cheque, coz they've lost it. Oh-kaaaaaay. She also says, more or less in this snitty tone that I must be mistaken, because none of their customer service executives would ever tear a cheque and it's never happened before. I call up my bank, cancel the new cheque I've issued, and then get to PVR Saket, where there's an Airtel booth, where you can pay by cash. It's six pm, I get there, a man is lazily talking on the phone, and he waves one desultory hand. "It's closed," he says, "Come back tomorrow." At this point, little blood vessels are popping rapidly, like bubble wrap, in my forehead and real steam is coming out of my ears, so I go next door, to a stall that's selling phone covers and all and tell them I want a Hutch prepaid card. (Which by the way, if you know me in real life, please email for new number). In great triumph I activate it. The next morning, I get a call from the same Airtel chick who says sorrowfully that she had activated my account, and why had I switched. "Because I am sick and tired of your service and I'm going to tell everyone, nanananana-naaaaaaaa," I said. "Can't you at least give your connection to someone else?" she asked. "Nope, coz you suck and I hate you," I said dignifiedly and she hung up. Phew. Anyway, so if you're contemplating getting an Airtel postpaid, consider yourself warned.
And then I was at Yo China last night with Small and her mum and we ordered a Double Combo which had chilli chicken and lamb in hot garlic sauce, and I asked the waiter to make it chilli chicken dry, coz it didn't specify what kind of gravy it was going to be in and he said, "We only serving with gravy. Dry, you have to order extra." But surely you can just not put any gravy, and give me dry chicken?" I said, reasonably enough, I thought. "We only serving gravy," he said, eyes shifting away. So we ordered the dry chicken, extra, and it was terrible. See why I am angry consumer?
The one happy spot in my consumerism is Boots Cucumber Lotion. I bought it at Kunchal's in GK-I M-Block market and it smells all cool and refreshing and makes your skin feel all refreshed. I've been using it like mad, I love the way it's not too olily, so I can use it on my face also.
8 February 2006
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned
My first reflex is to gag. Always. Nausea fills my stomach and goes all the way up my throat till I can hardly bear it, but when I manage to escape and lean over the cool porcelain of the pot, all I can manage is dry heaves.
The first time it happened to me, I was in a train, coming home to Delhi after a term at boarding school, and me and my two friends, also from the same batch had been fortunate enough to be in a compartment with three of the coolest and most popular senior boys. One of them was in the "dramatic society" (in quotes, because it wasn't a real dramatic society, just the same people doing the plays) as was I, the other, oh, he was delectable, with an eight-pack no less, and when his t-shirt clung to him, because it was getting hotter as we moved towards the plains, you could see the outline of his beautiful body. The third was an old friend, the only one I wasn't in awe of really, who stayed up late chatting with me after everyone had gone to sleep. I was pretty proud of myself, dude, a senior, so popular, talking till like one in the morning, with me. I wished someone else was awake so they could witness how cool I was, despite having braces and being, well, chubbier than I am now.
After a while I noticed Old Friend had acquired some new habits. Surely, it wasn't natural for someone to lightly run their fingers across my palm? And when I, (heavily blushing, for these were the last few years I was innocent) extracted my hand from him, in the pretext of putting on some chapstick, he took it again. Finally, it got too much for me, and I told him I was going to bed.
He was sitting all this while, on a suitcase between our two berths, and he showed no inclination to go to bed, despite the fact that I lay down, back firmly to him and closed my eyes. After a while, he reached for my hand again and *ick* pressed his lips to my palm. I can still feel the chappedness of his mouth, still remember wondering why he would want to do that considering my fingernails had chipped black nailpolish on them and they looked gross and why would anyone want to do that? I wasn't even pretending to be asleep anymore, my eyes were squinced shut and my arm lay across my face and he started to tug at it and oh my god, was he going to kiss me? He gave up the tugging after a while, and petrified, I lay there, hearing his deep breathing, still sitting on the suitcase. "Um, aren't you going to bed yet?" I asked. "Yeah," he said, his eyes unfocussed. His arm reached out again and I got up and ran to the loo, Indian-style, the train clackety-clacking under my feet, past a curious boy from my batch, the only other person still up. And I dry-heaved into the pot, my eyes streaming, and I felt so betrayed, so dirty that I spent about half an hour scouring my face, washing my hands till the tips of my fingers were wrinkly, wondering how I was going to handle this situation. He was popular, he was my senior, he was a prefect and if I told on him he would deny it and people would believe him and he'd make my life miserable. It was best to remain quiet, said my fifteen-year-old brain, like many other fifteen-year-old brains have done in similar situations.
I didn't get much sleep that night and as soon as my friends awoke the next day, I whispered it to them and they looked a little shocked, but sympathetic. They agreed I should probably not tell anyone, that's what they would do in that situation as well. And the next day, he judiciously avoided my eyes and I only slept with the comforting weight of my friends sitting on the same berth, keeping an eye on me.
And even though now, nine years later, I wish I had told someone, it happened to me again, this time even further than a chapped kiss on my palm, but no less scary. He didn't listen to me saying "No" softly, over and over again, till I said, "NO" and he saw my expression, the fear in my eyes at the sudden realisation that boys were so much stronger than I was and that Small, fast asleep in her room, probably wouldn't be able to hear me if I yelled and what was I going to do and he said, releasing my wrists, "You know I'm a nice guy, right?" and I was so relieved to be let out of his grasp and so stricken with guilt that somehow this situation was MY fault and I had no one to blame except myself and obviously if I had kissed him willingly about an hour ago, before I saw how very drunk he was, I couldn't be expected to say no now. And then another part of my brain kicked in and told me sensibly, "You're allowed to say no whenever you WANT to say no, even if the two of you are buck naked, because it is your body and if you're feeling uncomfortable there must be a reason." So I said no, repeatedly and finally he slept and I went to the bathroom, gagging again.
Hell, at least I've learned one thing in nine years.
The first time it happened to me, I was in a train, coming home to Delhi after a term at boarding school, and me and my two friends, also from the same batch had been fortunate enough to be in a compartment with three of the coolest and most popular senior boys. One of them was in the "dramatic society" (in quotes, because it wasn't a real dramatic society, just the same people doing the plays) as was I, the other, oh, he was delectable, with an eight-pack no less, and when his t-shirt clung to him, because it was getting hotter as we moved towards the plains, you could see the outline of his beautiful body. The third was an old friend, the only one I wasn't in awe of really, who stayed up late chatting with me after everyone had gone to sleep. I was pretty proud of myself, dude, a senior, so popular, talking till like one in the morning, with me. I wished someone else was awake so they could witness how cool I was, despite having braces and being, well, chubbier than I am now.
After a while I noticed Old Friend had acquired some new habits. Surely, it wasn't natural for someone to lightly run their fingers across my palm? And when I, (heavily blushing, for these were the last few years I was innocent) extracted my hand from him, in the pretext of putting on some chapstick, he took it again. Finally, it got too much for me, and I told him I was going to bed.
He was sitting all this while, on a suitcase between our two berths, and he showed no inclination to go to bed, despite the fact that I lay down, back firmly to him and closed my eyes. After a while, he reached for my hand again and *ick* pressed his lips to my palm. I can still feel the chappedness of his mouth, still remember wondering why he would want to do that considering my fingernails had chipped black nailpolish on them and they looked gross and why would anyone want to do that? I wasn't even pretending to be asleep anymore, my eyes were squinced shut and my arm lay across my face and he started to tug at it and oh my god, was he going to kiss me? He gave up the tugging after a while, and petrified, I lay there, hearing his deep breathing, still sitting on the suitcase. "Um, aren't you going to bed yet?" I asked. "Yeah," he said, his eyes unfocussed. His arm reached out again and I got up and ran to the loo, Indian-style, the train clackety-clacking under my feet, past a curious boy from my batch, the only other person still up. And I dry-heaved into the pot, my eyes streaming, and I felt so betrayed, so dirty that I spent about half an hour scouring my face, washing my hands till the tips of my fingers were wrinkly, wondering how I was going to handle this situation. He was popular, he was my senior, he was a prefect and if I told on him he would deny it and people would believe him and he'd make my life miserable. It was best to remain quiet, said my fifteen-year-old brain, like many other fifteen-year-old brains have done in similar situations.
I didn't get much sleep that night and as soon as my friends awoke the next day, I whispered it to them and they looked a little shocked, but sympathetic. They agreed I should probably not tell anyone, that's what they would do in that situation as well. And the next day, he judiciously avoided my eyes and I only slept with the comforting weight of my friends sitting on the same berth, keeping an eye on me.
And even though now, nine years later, I wish I had told someone, it happened to me again, this time even further than a chapped kiss on my palm, but no less scary. He didn't listen to me saying "No" softly, over and over again, till I said, "NO" and he saw my expression, the fear in my eyes at the sudden realisation that boys were so much stronger than I was and that Small, fast asleep in her room, probably wouldn't be able to hear me if I yelled and what was I going to do and he said, releasing my wrists, "You know I'm a nice guy, right?" and I was so relieved to be let out of his grasp and so stricken with guilt that somehow this situation was MY fault and I had no one to blame except myself and obviously if I had kissed him willingly about an hour ago, before I saw how very drunk he was, I couldn't be expected to say no now. And then another part of my brain kicked in and told me sensibly, "You're allowed to say no whenever you WANT to say no, even if the two of you are buck naked, because it is your body and if you're feeling uncomfortable there must be a reason." So I said no, repeatedly and finally he slept and I went to the bathroom, gagging again.
Hell, at least I've learned one thing in nine years.
3 February 2006
Hey, Matilda, Matilda, take me money and run Venezuela
Several things, that don't merit whole posts, but just little *did you knows*.
Zerefore, I vill begin.
I have never bought perfume for myself. Ever. They've always been presents, usually from people visiting from abroad, but when I was seventeen, my first boyfriend was also very loaded and he bought me Bvlgari. On Valentine's Day :) I bought him a sweatshirt, which he quite liked actually. Anyhoo, the reason I'm going into this is because my aunt was visiting recently and she asked me whether I wanted any clothes, and I said no, but I did want perfume, and so she gave me the money and I went to Shopper's Stop and bought the one perfume I have lusted after all my life, even buying a fake version at Palika Bazaar--Davidoff's Cool Water for women. Mmmmm. I love it. It smells all sexy, as opposed to the usual floral scents I go for, and it makes me feel all straight-haired and small-nosed and HOT.
Guess what else I have? Guess? This fabulous machine, which I love and want to have babies with and live in fear that it will leave me. The screen goes round and round! And it has a cool pen thingummy which activates a touch keyboard! And it has wi-fi! And a DVD writer! I've never owned a laptop before, my cousin gave my mom a hand-me-down one, which I took when I moved, but it just kept giving up every now and then and it was HEAVY. This is light and shiny and it's MINE. I'm thinking of calling it something, like a single-syllabled name. Like Xi. Or, ooh, Mo. My Mo, my mo, my mo, my mo.
I'm soooooooo tired, thanks to running around for the past week and to top it all off, went for the opening of a new nightclub last night. Ssteel at the Ashok is now opening as SoHo, and it's quite nice. I, of course, got very very very plastered, but hello, they kept putting fresh fruit martinis in my hands and there was nothing else I could do, right? Small and I were sitting by the bar, flirting with several people, at least, I was. After a point, she was a blurry thing in the background to me and, as a result, is mighty annoyed with me this morning. I found friend's brother, who was also very hot, and draped myself around him all evening, even bumping and grinding to (good heavens! It's all coming back to me now!) Right Here, Right Now. Also met someone who I made out with once upon a time, and had a fairly strange conversation with him, which sadly now, I do not remember, and it is bothering the fuck out of me. And at some point a girl squealingly threw her arms around my neck and told me we went gambling together in Hyderabad when we were 10 years old and I would have embraced anyone at this point so I said, "Okay!" happily, and introduced her to Small as my childhood friend. Then met another delectable boy who was in love with Leela at one point and dated Priya as well and so sadly could not hit on him, but I batted my eyelashes longingly nevertheless.
Oh and chatted up random boy at bar who said, "Wow, your job reminds me of that movie, Page 3."
"And that's the first time I've heard that line," I said.
The sarcasm, however, was lost on him and he went on to explain how the movie was so "deep" and he kept thinking about it and revisiting it, because it had so many meanings.
Alcohol should not be served in public places. :)
Oh, and I almost forgot to mention. This week the stats counter reads 100599 and I have finally reached my one lakh goal! I love you all, thank you for reading me. *big, sloppy, hungover kiss*
Zerefore, I vill begin.
I have never bought perfume for myself. Ever. They've always been presents, usually from people visiting from abroad, but when I was seventeen, my first boyfriend was also very loaded and he bought me Bvlgari. On Valentine's Day :) I bought him a sweatshirt, which he quite liked actually. Anyhoo, the reason I'm going into this is because my aunt was visiting recently and she asked me whether I wanted any clothes, and I said no, but I did want perfume, and so she gave me the money and I went to Shopper's Stop and bought the one perfume I have lusted after all my life, even buying a fake version at Palika Bazaar--Davidoff's Cool Water for women. Mmmmm. I love it. It smells all sexy, as opposed to the usual floral scents I go for, and it makes me feel all straight-haired and small-nosed and HOT.
Guess what else I have? Guess? This fabulous machine, which I love and want to have babies with and live in fear that it will leave me. The screen goes round and round! And it has a cool pen thingummy which activates a touch keyboard! And it has wi-fi! And a DVD writer! I've never owned a laptop before, my cousin gave my mom a hand-me-down one, which I took when I moved, but it just kept giving up every now and then and it was HEAVY. This is light and shiny and it's MINE. I'm thinking of calling it something, like a single-syllabled name. Like Xi. Or, ooh, Mo. My Mo, my mo, my mo, my mo.
I'm soooooooo tired, thanks to running around for the past week and to top it all off, went for the opening of a new nightclub last night. Ssteel at the Ashok is now opening as SoHo, and it's quite nice. I, of course, got very very very plastered, but hello, they kept putting fresh fruit martinis in my hands and there was nothing else I could do, right? Small and I were sitting by the bar, flirting with several people, at least, I was. After a point, she was a blurry thing in the background to me and, as a result, is mighty annoyed with me this morning. I found friend's brother, who was also very hot, and draped myself around him all evening, even bumping and grinding to (good heavens! It's all coming back to me now!) Right Here, Right Now. Also met someone who I made out with once upon a time, and had a fairly strange conversation with him, which sadly now, I do not remember, and it is bothering the fuck out of me. And at some point a girl squealingly threw her arms around my neck and told me we went gambling together in Hyderabad when we were 10 years old and I would have embraced anyone at this point so I said, "Okay!" happily, and introduced her to Small as my childhood friend. Then met another delectable boy who was in love with Leela at one point and dated Priya as well and so sadly could not hit on him, but I batted my eyelashes longingly nevertheless.
Oh and chatted up random boy at bar who said, "Wow, your job reminds me of that movie, Page 3."
"And that's the first time I've heard that line," I said.
The sarcasm, however, was lost on him and he went on to explain how the movie was so "deep" and he kept thinking about it and revisiting it, because it had so many meanings.
Alcohol should not be served in public places. :)
Oh, and I almost forgot to mention. This week the stats counter reads 100599 and I have finally reached my one lakh goal! I love you all, thank you for reading me. *big, sloppy, hungover kiss*
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