The Uncool

I never really got to have the 'high school' experience back in my high school. I mean, I am not even sure if you could call it a school. It was a convent. With lots of nuns and ignorant girls. If we were Hogwarts, sex was our chamber of secrets. We heard about it, people vanished down that area to never return or returned and were never quite normal again and most of us tried to like... not think about it. (OMG the phallic possibilities of this metaphor! One must Never look a basilisk in the eye. Bwaahahaha).

So high school happened to me when I went to journalism school. When pitted against left-leaning liberal dudes and Chomsky quoting chicks, I felt my teeth sprout metaphorical braces and my skin break into a thousand prickly whitehead metaphorical pimples. This was high school. Those were the jocks and cheerleaders while I was on the bleachers wearing sneakers (as Taylor Swift would say). Suddenly, I was in a world where NOBODY cared that Angelina Jolie had adopted another kid.

Now, I know I am making myself sound stupid. I am not, stupid. It's just that... When intellectual people talk about guilty pleasure - I say, 'bullshit, why feel guilty?'. I am like the fat girl who eats junk food while the cheerleaders throw up in the loo. ( Yup, its still a high school metaphor tethering vaguely into reality. Fat girl-me, junk food-Taylor Swift, cheerleader-the intellectuals, throw up- their intellectual bullcrap).

I hope all the pretentious dickwads reading this can see that while this is thinly veiled satire of myself, it is also a reminder for you to stop taking yourself so goddamn seriously.

Ps- I still dislike people who NEVER liked "Titanic".
Can't trust those motherfuckers.

The Pessimist

I drive like an asshole. I inherited this from my mother - who, incidently, channels all of her feminism onto Delhi roads and saves all her sexism for Kate Winslet's character in "Titanic". You see, I have been reviewing my own downfall. I think somewhere around the time I turned 20, my own optimism exploded in my face. By that time I had already realised I was never going to be a detective/nun/duchess/Carrie-from- "Sex and the City". My existance was pointless. And all of a sudden, I was aware of things like Feminism. Because you can't ignore Feminism. It's right there. It slaps you in your repressed face.

And now I realise, the last time I was truly optimistic was back when I had no idea about all the possibilities...

Listening to: "It ain't me babe"

I love this song. I loved this song back when I heard "The Turtles" sing it. Maybe because it reminded me of that jerk at that overrated party who I was crushing on, while he callously stubbed his cigarette of indifference on the ashtray that was my heart. And I love this song so much more now, when Bob Dylan sings it on loop. Maybe because this is how I like my relationships, callousness topped up with a generous helping of one-sided paranoia. And maybe because if it were up to me, I would scream "It ain't me babe" at everyone. See? This song works on so many intricate levels. Sometimes I think that if it weren't for olives and hummus, and Bob Dylan fuelling my soul, I would surely die.