I'm not dying.
I haven't suddenly contracted hermititis, a rare disease that makes you want to stay at home and draw the curtains and snap at people who call you.
I'm not in depression. (Although in a vague Slyvia Plath Bell Jar kind of way I wanted to be all melancholy and slit my wrists in the bathtub)
AND, best of all, I'm not ageing before my time either.
The most exciting things that have happened to me recently are buying a brand new deodorant (*gasp* I KNOW! I like to live dangerously) and the proofs! The proofs are here!
(eM's proofs poem:
The proofs are here!
Let's give a cheer!
And smile, happily,
from ear to ear.
Um... I write prose, in case you haven't already guessed.)
The new deodorant is actually quite exciting because it's Nivea and the most popular girl in my class in the seventh used to wear Nivea and every time I smelt it I thought of her and now, yes, I smell of popularity. I'm aware that I'm a loser.
But that's not my fault. There are no cute boys in Bombay. The person I was dating briefly, dates five and six and seven, if you recall, well, that didn't happen. Not for anything I had done or he had done but just coz we weren't feeling it, I guess. And there are now no cute boys in Bombay. Or Delhi, because you know, I've TRIED Delhi. Maybe they're hiding in the small towns.
Instead, I'm learning to cook. I'm like the QUEEN of instant food in my house. Maggi? I innovate by adding cheese and chilli garlic sauce and sometimes, when I'm feeling wild, chopped up green chilli. I know how to make a kick-ass South Indian dahi-chaawal, just like my mother's. I can also make a decent omelette and further on to that, a decent omelette sandwich, which tastes awesome at three in the morning. BUT, I haven't told you the worst of it.
I'm addicted to aloo bhujia. The Haldiram's kind. And okay, that's not so bad. But I CANNOT eat this aloo bhujia unless I add to it a) lots of lemon b) rock salt and c) red chilli powder. I've tried eating it without the above, or just minusing one and I can't. It's terrible. I eat it all day, sometimes as a substitute for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And we've been out of lemon for the last two days and I'm ready to climb the walls. This may also be the reason for recent sundry weight gainage in sundry areas. I'm like a crack whore, except with a salted snack. A snack whore! See, that even rhymes and is all cute in a Cookie Monster-esque kind of way instead of images of Amy Winehouse that the words 'crack whore' instantly project inside my head. (Okay, she might not be on crack. But she looks scary enough in the photos on Smoking Gun.)
I just realised on a completely different tangent that at the angle I am sitting, if I look down I cannot see my stomach at all. Man, I have big boobs. (NOTE: This is NOT an invitation for dirty comments or email) So, you know how when you're 12 or 13 and one morning you wake up and look down and are all like, "Hel-lo ladies"? Well, that happened to me and like, six months ago. Suddenly I have had a growth spurt in the chest area and don't get me wrong, I'm not being like arrogant or anything, but I had a perfectly adequate chest before that. I'd like a little attention on the ass, to tell the truth, if the universe is doling out growth spurts. I look like Pippi Longstocking waist down. ANYhoo, since I'm a small person, I now look like I could fall over on my back at any time due to extra weight. Okay, I'm exaggerating a little, but still. My clothes aren't buttoning up properly and this is annoying me.
Wow, I just talked about my boobs on the internet. I feel like my old self again. Awesome.
EDITED TO ADD: Also, I was wondering what you guys would think if I added on a little advice feature to this blog--either as a post once a week or as a different URL. I get quite a bit of mail asking for advice, so all I have to do is reply to it and post it (anonymously, of course. I won't *ever* print your name or email address unless you're being completely assholic, and even then sometimes I think twice.) Let me know in the comments, or send me your questions (with 'I need help!' in the subject line to thecompulsiveconfessorATgmailDOTcom). If there's enough of a response, maybe an Ask Aunty eM blog, eh?