WARNING: This post could be contagious, seeing as I have coughed all over the keyboard

(Polls are OPEN over at these wonderful, discerning people, with lovely taste, and you should all go and click on the little thingies that says The Compulsive Confessor, and put me first. Okay? No pressure or anything, you understand.)


Anyway. I'm DONE with being all upbeat and la-la-la and oh look pretty fairies. I have a cold and a cough, blocked ears, which make me feel like I'm under the fucking OCEAN, and a fever that comes and goes as it pleases, and then BREAKS and then I'm all weak and sweaty and chapped lips and dehydration and my CHEST sounds like I'm FIFTY and oh, it's all very notnice. I hate everyone. I want to spin cocoon and lie there for seven hundred years and have NO human contact. I want to be Beast in Lair, emerging every now and then to growl at people who come too close. Right now, though, I'm closer to being Linda Blair in The Exorcist, what with all the green goo, and the gravelly voice of hell. Next my head will rotate on my neck of its own will, and I'll start masturbating with a giant cross. Meh. Phlegm. (And oh, do you think this is too much information? DO I LOOK LIKE I FUCKING CARE? If I suffer, the whole world must suffer too)


You know why else the world sucks? Because, on Saturday night, I DRAGGED myself out of bed, despite the ear ringing and the head spinning and put on pretty clothes and drove to dandiya event and it was all very like you know, no alcohol, and everyone very traditional and everything and good fun. I even learnt how to dandiya without poking myself in the eye. And then (and this STILL brings tears when I think about it) someone STOLE my phone! My Motorazr v3i! The love of my bitter old life! The one thing that kept me sane! The beauty! Just because I thought oh, how nice, tradition and religion and wholesome fun. I HATE WHOLESOME FUN. I declare a war on wholesome fun. No one at TC would've stolen my phone, but even if they HAD, at TC, my guard would be up and my bag would be at my side, and I would've been wearing JEANS and my phone would be in my pocket. This universe is out to get me.

And, I was just congratulating myself on getting through this entire year without being sick, and how the days of falling ill were in the past, and really, I am as healthy as a horse, and then! Like payback! I am struck down in the prime of my youth. My oldest and dearest friend in the whole world, Leela, is getting married. (Only, hmph, I had to find out through ORKUT and really, if she is reading this, she should know THIS would be a good time to call me). So I had dinner with her younger sister Maya and we sighed, and talked about the Days That Were and I'm never going to get married. No one will marry me. I will be that strange lady everyone knows, who grows old alone, with her cats, and children will point at me in the streets and LAUGH. And Leela will no longer be Leela, and we won't be all single (except she hasn't been for a while, but still. It was a POSSIBILITY) and then. She'll have kids! I'm too young to have kids! Even by proxy!

Thank you, by the way, for listening to me whine. It's been dreadful.

Boys don't cry and other stories

> Boys don't cry and they seem to have a fairly good time not obsessing. Not wondering where stuff is going or whether they'll still be loved and respected and wanted in the morning. So, I have decided to be-the-boy. Well, not LITERALLY, of course. Still hanging on to the boobs. And the uterus. (Though what use THAT'S ever been, I don't really know. Still.)

Operation Be-The-Boy involves me (surprise!) basically thinking with my metaphorical penis. I will search and conquer. I will be bold. I will take what I want and screw the consequences. (Hee) I will be the first to roll over and light a cigarette. I will not offer emotional coddling. I will be this ice queen/sex kitten type person who will not do Relationships. Of course, if along the line someone fabulous enough DOES come along, who thinks I'm super etc, then that'll be excellent. But seeing as men like that are few and far between (if they exist at ALL, ie), I think I should not waste my youth, supposedly the one time in my life where I can eat all the chips I want and still retain a fairly flat stomach. Or go out all night and look not quite ready for my grave the next morning. Youth is to be SEIZED, my loves, seized with both hands and a knee grip. Anyway. I won't give you regular updates (for obvious reasons) but wish me luck anyhow at being able to separate sex from emotions. And then I'll write a book about it and EVERY SINGLE WOMAN IN THE WORLD will buy a copy and I'll be rich.

I only hope I have the balls (hee, again. Dude, I'm on fire!) to do this.


> So trauma in the Confessor household. Yet another flatmate has abdicated. I'm beginning to wonder whether it's us--Small and I--secretly torturing these women, being the worst flatmates ever, but really, we're not! We're neat (well, relatively) and clean, we're seldom grouchy, we're friendly, we make a genuine attempt to get our flatmate integrated with our friends. AND we're attractive. What's not to love? But Lily left us anyway, and after placing ads everywhere, this time the process was surprisingly short, and we have a new flatmate come this weekend.

She's Canadian and very nice and like an Amazon compared to the two of us, so, ta-dah, I'm going to call her Tall. I'm so glad she's tall, I've been wanting to do a Small and Tall thing for quite some time. And the best part is, her family's in Canada, right? Sooo, she can't just move back home. Living alone is HARD, dudes, and I know there have been several times when I've just wanted to pack up my stuff and go back to Mummy. (Especially since we don't have an A/C and the electricity kept going and I wanted to die.)

> After much resistance and deflecting several invitations and saying, 'Oh that's for losers', I've finally succumbed to peer pressure and *sigh* gotten myself an Orkut account. And it ROCKS. No, really. There's nothing like a social networking site to make you feel popular (or unpopular, but that's not my problem). Every day I get friend-adding thingies from men with names like love_me, or pictures of them bodybuilding and happily I say, "No, they AREN'T my friends." Almost every day, a blast from the past thing happens and I see people I haven't seen in YEARS, see how they turn out and where they live and then they can write in your scrapbook and it's all very addictive. Especially if you hop from friend to friend to friend and see how many people everyone knows and it just confirms the whole it's-a-small-world theory and the six-degrees-of-separation theory and so on. I guess it DOES make me a loser, but it's such fun. Wheee!

> And I have a cough. Which sucks. And I can't turn it into a funny story yet, but I will try later.

Muah muah dahlinks, be good and enjoy your weekend.

Oh, and don't do anything I wouldn't do. Which leaves you with QUITE a few options.

But I don't like beer

(Pre-script: All hail the Hedonist! Someone I've been trying to persuade to blog for quite some time! Fresh maal from London! And, dude, we missed you this weekend, truly. Delhi is not the same without you.)

And now, back to our regular programming.

So, you know I love drinking. I love it. Absolutely. It qualifies as a passion for me, right up there with like writing, and reading. Anywhere that offers alcohol is instantly upped one level for me. A passion, though, is not the same thing as an addiction. A passion is when you enjoy something, when it's something that you can talk about, when it's something that makes you happy, she said defensively. An addiction on the other hand is when you can't stop yourself from doing something, and when it doesn't make you happy anymore, but you keep doing it anyway. With a passion, you like meeting people who share that love with you. Anyway. Enough defending myself. I'm *ahem* going to divide this post into three parts, so you're forewarned right away, and tackle the issues of alcohol consumption.

Right. Since everyone (except you! You rule! I love you!) has promptly fallen down face first on their keyboards and gone to sleep, I think I can begin unihibitedly. (Oh wait, if you're like a child or something, below 18, I'm going to need to see some ID so your parents don't sue me)

*What you could buy me in a bar, to make me go to bed with you (well, okay, not quite. But I will smile prettily for some time, and listen animatedly and interestedly to what you have to say. Which is quite a big deal, no?)*

> Rum and coke: But, BUT. Make sure the rum is Old Monk, only. Not Bacardi. I don't drink Bacardi. I hate the chemical aftertaste that it leaves in your mouth, and the cringe that it induces going down your throat. I will be your best friend forever if you know this, and you know not to ask me what I'm drinking, when you're placing the order.

> Margaritas: How can you NOT love a margarita? It's the only cocktail that tastes of nothing but the sweet, sweet taste of tequila, that's so palate-burningly distinctive. The salt around the rim has to be perfect though, for a really good margarita. I like the ones where they layer on the salt, rather than put a delicate ladylike sprinkling, and then (if I'm at TGIF and drinking their perfect Ultimate Margaritas, which feel like you've died and gone to Dipsomaniac Heaven) I like to lick the salt rim and then quickly chug through the straw, with the liquid dissolving the salt in my mouth. Small showed me the sexy way to do that too, so it works on many levels. I think tequila shots should count as a subhead in this category though SOME people say they haven't done tequila shots since COLLEGE, but I think they're just missing out on some good fun. (And they haven't been out of college for that long anyway, so hah bloody hah.) The whole ritual of the thing, sprinkling the salt on that little flap of skin between your thumb and forefinger, holding the lemon, saying cheers loudly (because tequila always adds an air of good cheer and celebration to a gathering, even if it's only Tuesday) and knocking the drink back, trying not to let your eyes tear as you suck desperately at the lemon, wait a beat, and another, and then the warmness fills your stomach and radiates out through your veins and EVERYONE is so BEAUTIFUL and really, you're so HAPPY and yeah, tequila rules.

> Vodka-coke: In ze winter I svitch to ze wodka, because it is varming and more high inducing than rum and if I "bottoms-up" my drink, I feel sensation arriving again to my numbed fingertips, and my nails (which usually stay blue from December through February) suddenly get all pink and glowing and oh, the tip of my nose, another cold spot (I have fun with boys I'm dating, or at least, when I USED to date boys, many decades ago, burying my nose into their cheek or shoulder or warm stomach when they least expect it, which means I a) warm up my poor frozen probosis and b) I get to hear them squeal like little girls. Both are fun.) Vith wodka, I grow varm again, and often I strip down to my lowest layer (not the bra, but either the tank top or sweater before that. I am a respectable girl, after all) and oh, vhy von't vinter come already? It's about time.


*Experiences that alcohol has heightened this past weekend (not ALL past weekends. That would be sort of hard to document, seeing their sheer volume and the fact that I forget most of what happens to me)*

Oh, he was so hot. Really hot. BUILT and PRETTY with this mouth, oh his mouth, it curved so sweetly and sexily, and his body, mmmmmmmmmm, what a body and because it was so loud he leaned in to talk to me, and I could smell his hottieness and feel his beautiful hair (well, it was ironed, but still) brush against my ear, and examine his chest, which stretched out his t-shirt and then sat loosely around his superflat stomach and when I reached out to make a point and touched his (beautiful) arm, with its sinews and curves and MUSCLES OH MY GOD THE MUSCLES, I wanted to die.

And then I nearly did, from sucking in my stomach for so long.

(oh, and ps: not happening. male model, waaaaaaay out of my league, but I did enjoy basking in that hotness for a while. Ooh, and he kissed my cheek to say goodbye and I could feel the shape of his mouth and please can I take him home? He can live in my cupboard, and service me every morning. And evening, if I'm not too tired. Actually, for him, I'd NEVER be tired.)


*Here's where I insert a tiny note on my pickled liver and my heightened capacity and how it's really sad that I can drink so much and not get drunk, but you get the general idea, no?*

Cheers, bebe.

The Incredible Adventures Of Ms. Tiny Bladder

Hectic weekend. And rather strange too. Saturday night made plans with Iggy and her friend, Gaurav to go out somewhere that wasn't Elevate (I realise it might be old age--but I simply cannot do Elevate more than once every six months or so. It's still a fantastic nightclub, don't get me wrong, if you want to go clubbing in this city there's no better place, but maybe the whole HUGENESS of it all, the crowds, the vibrating dance floor, the nowhere to sit, the not recognising anyone, meh, it's just not my regular scene). I joined New Job earlier last week--Wednesday, I think it was, good lord, it already feels like much longer (!)--where I am *ahem* working as a blogger, thank you very much, on a new site, and it's all very cutting edge. Only it's in Gurgaon, which means by the time I get home, I'm too tired and too lazy to venture out again.

So, since it WAS Saturday, and since I HAD spent most of my day in bed, only getting out to watch some television, I thought that this was as good a time as any to start seriously clubbing again. Not like, throw on a t-shirt and go to TC, no, no, serious clubbing requires like make-up and a nice outfit, and stamina. I was vegging at my mom's this weekend, and so I drove to Iggy's house, where I parked my car and we waited for Gaurav to pick us up.

We were drinking at the Friend's Club (which is in Friend's Colony, right next to New Friend's Colony, which I always thought was such a funny name for a place. I mean, why name an entire place after your NEW friends? There's no OLD friend's colony. And before you say it, Friend's Colony doesn't count. It's just such a dumb name for a place, compared to all the beautiful evocative names Delhi has, like Hauz Khas or Nizamuddin or even nearby Maharani Bagh, Friend's Colony sounds like you let your 12-year-old neice, newly fitted up with braces, who paints her toes shocking pink and believes that lIfE iS No gOoD w/oUt ur PaLzzzzzzz name the place. Incidentally, New Friend's Colony was where I saw Friends for the first time, at Leela's house.) But I have no objections to the Friend's Club. None whatsoever. This is because they have cheap booze. And when I say cheap, I mean so cheap that you can't even buy a packet of cigarettes with how much money you'd spend there on two drinks. And it's not at all shady. In fact it's pretty posh, and, ooh, the coolest thing? Each table has a little brass bell that you ring for the waiter! (I got so excited about that I rang and rang and rang and rang until finally Gaurav took it away from me. "It's not a school bell," he said. And yes, you can look all murderous and go cough-colonial hangover-cough as much as you like, but I wish I always had a bell. By the end of it, several drinks down, I sang, "You can ring my be-he-ell, ring my bell" every time Gaurav picked it up.)

After Friend's Club, we were all very giggly as we piled into the car to go to Aura, where their friend Abhay was meeting us. Aura is super-expensive, being in a hotel and all, and I have 140 rupees in the bank, which I don't even think is legal, so I sat sadly in a striped chair that twirled (wheeeee) and watched these two firangs--the guy very bald, the girl in very tight cargos--dance around a chair, and two chicks feel each other up, and just when I thought all the guys around them were going to EXPLODE, they kissed long and lingeringly, but with a fair amount of defiance for a camera, and Gaurav turned to me, all shining eyes and I rolled my own, not-so-shining eyes at him and said, "Dude. What IS it with men and lesbians?" but he was all abbawibba for a bit and oh-they-were-quite-hot-weren't-they? and so there was no getting a well thought out response from him.

In a bit, I got up to go to the bathroom. My seven hundredth pit stop that evening, and as you might have figured out from the title of this post, it's a common problem, especially when I'm drinking. I figure out of every five drinks I drink, only about three stay in. It's terrible. So casually, I sauntered to the loo, stopping off first at the mirrors, to check I still looked okay, and then tugged at my jeans just so that they hung halfway off the tattoo, and then tra-la, started to fix my hair, well, not fix, since I don't have much of it, but you know, girl stuff. Over my shoulder, in the mirror, I saw a boy emerge, and I thought, oh, a boy, how nice and then OH, A BOY. He did a double take, I did a double take and then smiled and said gently, "Um.. I think you're in the wrong loo." No," he said, not quite so gently, "YOU'RE in the wrong loo." "Are you serious?" I said, and he shook his head, rather patronisingly at me and said, "Are you drunk?" "Uh.. not yet," I said and then he put his (unwashed) hands on my shoulders and steered me outside till I was facing the door which said, decidedly, in big, capital letters: GENTLEMEN. "Oh," I said, trying to smile and "Yeah," he said, trying not to. And then I vanished into my own loo, designated for my sex and I heard him laughing outside and telling some friends, "Dude, there was a chick in the men's room!" Shoot me now.

Later, Abhay showed up, and we decided Aura was pretty sad and moved to Agni. By this time, I was getting pretty tired, and really, a night without alcohol is boooooooooooring. So I started to make leaving noises, which were ignored and seeing as I didn't have a car, as it was safely and sensibly parked at Iggy's, I had not much choice but to go.

Agni was packed when we got there, and I kept getting stepped on or shoved aside and it was terrible. I was feeling, well, odd, by this time, very cranky and just wanting, more than anything else to go home and sleep for like a year. Things picked up a little when Abhay bought me a drink--a vodka Red Bull, which I love--and which I threw down my throat. The DJ started playing My Hump, and Iggy got up on the bar to dance, and before I knew what was happening, I was given a lift up too, banging my head on the iron lampshade, but still. There's something incredibly strip-tease-esque about dancing on a bar. I've never done it before, but I can so see the attraction. I'm not much of a dancer, usually, but with the crowd whistling from below us, and the music getting louder and faster, I managed to shake it like a polaroid picture on the bar, narrowly missing hitting my head again, and feeling so totally sexy.

And then I got down, and some guys came up to me and said, "You're the girl who was dancing on the bar?" And I was all uh-huh, bring it. Then I asked if we could go, seeing as it was 3 am and all, but no one was ready to leave yet, and I sighed and threw mini-tantrum and went outside to wait for them, and one minute I was muttering WHY can't we leave NOW and the next, well, I... started.. to cry. I know, right? I have no idea what happened. The tears just kept coming, and in my head I'm going, duuuuuuuuude, get a grip, but the more I'm telling myself to get a grip the more I'm going BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. Still weeping like my best friend died, I went back in, where they took one look at me and ushered me outside, and got me a ride with someone else, and I'm pretty sure I freaked the two boys out so much, they're never going to want to hang out with me anymore. And in all this, some other dude is trying to hit on me. Such poor timing.

So yeah. I got home, still shaking my head at myself, and wondering why I was breaking down in the prime of my youth, and why couldn't I even conduct a simple Saturday night excursion without so obviously, acting like a three year old.

And then I slept through Sunday, waking up only to watch Cars and Toy Story 2.


And Wee Meme Update, because it's really way too small to be a post on its own:

And because Chamique asked so nicely. I don't understand though, is it weirdest Google search words ever or just today? I have several very strange ones, but mine change daily. Today's weirdest ones (so far) are:

1) expats in gurgaon looking for fun

2) female drag smoky french kiss

3) Slowly walking down the mall, faster than a cannonball

4) putting toothpaste on zits

5) twins and "TC" tattoo

6) compulsive confessor real name :) (keep looking!)

Ya, that's all that I can find. Lessee, who haven't I tagged in a bit? Jay (because I KNOW he has interesting searches), Jai (because he just posted pics of himself mud wrestling or some such, which MUST have thrown up a few good searches) and Pirate (because he recently wrote about hiding boners in boxer shorts and a sarong). Get to it, boys.

When in doubt, make lists

The comments on the last post actually made me think of this one. I'm fine, by the way, head bloody but unbowed etc etc, and today, I was fiddling around with my music library and I said, hey, you know what's missing on my blog? (No, what's missing on your blog, eM?) A list of the best break-up songs ever, that's what's missing. (Or at least, the best break up songs on my iTunes right now). Anyway, in no particular order, here goes:


1) Walk Away by Ben Harper: I discovered this song only recently, thanks to the wonder that is Pandora and now I can't get enough of it. Oh, Ben Harper! Oh, his sexy voice! I want to marry him and conduct our relationship entirely on the phone and I want his sexy voice to travel through the phone lines and impregnate me with sexy voiced babies. And I know he's all like, "Sometimes you just have to walk away," but if I was the girl he was walking away from, I'd attach little chain things to his ankles so he could NEVER leave me. Ahem. Are we still surprised no one wants to date me?

2) Both Sides Now by Joni Mitchell: Technically not a song about one relationship, but I like to think of jaded Joni, walking down a street, her hands in her pockets, thinking about all the what-could-have-beens. And this song is really sooooooo sad, you have to be very, very happy to listen to it without bursting into tears. "If you care, don't let them know," has got to be the best advice I've ever heard from a musician.

3) Send In The Clowns by Judy Collins: Since we're on the depressed woman side of my player, how I can I NOT put this song in? This is the perfect song for THAT breakup, you know the one I'm talking about, the one I think everyone has had at least once in their lives, when you can see the other person drawing further and further away from you and you are powerless to do anything about it, and it's one of those nights and the two of you are out somewhere and he/she is all laughing and then you catch their eye and you see, suddenly, that this has to end and it makes you so sad, but you know it has to happen. And, oh, when she says, "I thought that you'd want what I want, sorry, my dear." There's such affection in her voice, and still love, but inevitability too.

4) The Scientist by Coldplay: A no-guess entry. Surprisingly, one of my favourite car songs of all times, there's something about rolling down the windows and yelling into the wind, "Nooooooooooobody said it was eeeeeeeeeeeeeasy, it's such a shame for us to part, nobody said it was easy, noone ever said it would be this hard!" And all of Coldplay's songs seem like they're about breaking up anyway, even supposedly happy songs like Yellow, are all full of angst and turmoil. I love angst and turmoil. I'm going back to the start.

5) Babylon by David Grey: Oh, I love this song. Absolutely love it. I heard it for the first time on this double cassette set of new rock or something, and I haven't been able to get enough of it since then. His description of the weekends seem to fit mine so perfectly, for as long as I can remember, and there's this one bit where he goes, "Kicking through the autumn leaves, and wondering where it is you might be going to," and that bit is so beautiful, that I can hear his heart throbbing in his voice. Brilliant.

6) I Love, I Love by Dar Williams: Another recent discovery, but if I could sing, I'd want to sing like Dar Williams. Her songs are kind, not all jagged and they're wistful in a way that's hard to describe. With this particular song, though it's not exactly about a break up, the lyrics are so lovely, that it's nearly like poetry. You know the whole "it is better to have loved and lost" thing? Well, she takes that to a different level, when she sings, "But I live and I know that I'll burn as I grow" and you're like, dude, yes, me too!

I think that's all I can think of now that isn't U2. Feel free to add your own suggestions.

Ladies and gentlemen...

... Romance has left the building.

Meh.

I knew I was having too much fun.

The question is NOW what do I do with my time?