tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46439785507683243232024-02-20T16:05:16.867-08:00beware the undertoad.Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.comBlogger142125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-59355435503320524132012-04-09T04:04:00.000-07:002012-04-09T04:04:35.265-07:00I've Moved.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://www.thelatebloomer.blogspot.in/" target="_blank">Here.</a><br />
<br />
I haven't decided what to do with this here blog yet. Every time I reach out to click 'delete', I can't. So while I deal with that sappy mess, if you've liked what you read here, do please meet me at the new address.<br />
<br />
Thank you. </div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-82593793904937700552011-10-21T01:24:00.000-07:002011-10-21T01:24:57.569-07:00I'm Done With My Dying<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">As I get older, I get braver -<br />
with each year, I have less and less to lose.<br />
Tragedy isn't sad anymore, just comic relief. </div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-11484160746890113282011-10-19T11:15:00.000-07:002011-10-20T02:10:48.560-07:00The Importance of Girlfriends<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I consider my natural disposition about as friendly as a doberman’s. I have this unique superpower which lets me, by the sheer act of showing up to a social gathering, cause comfort and conversation to shrivel up and die. Then I proceed to fill this new cavernous void with deep and resonating awkwardness, which I will exponentially worsen by clearing my throat about twenty thousand times. I have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">literally</i>, without even using my hands, awkwarded people’s relatives into sudden hospitalization and unforeseen donut emergencies on the other side of town, for which they needed to cut our meetings short. I tell you this not because I take some twisted pride in it – even though I kind of do – but to illustrate how I’m really not very skilled at interacting with other humans. So you will understand why then, every couple of days, when I’m going about my business writing a story, tormenting the dog or trying to lick the floor of a Nutella jar, I’ll suddenly stop and think, “I have friends. I have friends? I HAVE FRIENDS.” It has the very same effect as when I eat that first French fry after a long hiatus – tremulous happiness mixed with terrible foreboding. But I digress. The real epiphany here is that when I think this happy thought, I only think of it in terms of my handful of girl friends.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This goes back to my all-girl, convent education perhaps, or maybe it’s just that from a ridiculously early age I was very aware that boys were boys and girls were girls for reasons that are only for my future therapist’s ears. I have often thought of this as one of the many great tragedies of my life (WHY did they cancel Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip?!), but what it meant was I never ended up developing any unselfconscious friendships with boys, while simultaneously forging a number of relationships with women that, if they were romantic, would easily qualify as epic love stories. Actually, you know what, they are epic love stories.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Forget about the big boorish clichés like going to the bathroom in groups, discussing in-growths in unhappy places and how all men are alternately awesome and awful. I’m talking about the ones that don’t make it to sitcoms – the rise in a girlfriend’s voice when she’s viscerally feeling outrage on your behalf. The way she can tell your happy silence from your awkward silence from the silence that is barely holding back your guttural sobs. The way we have defended one another’s honour and indeed, dishonour, alike. The way it’s ‘Us against the World/ Whoever’s Pissing You Off At The Moment’ season all year between me and my girlfriends. The code of ethics we have constructed piecemeal over time, whose nuances we intuitively understand, but can’t explain, especially not to the uncommonly daft boys we like. The way our relationships essay every other kind of relationship at different points in time – I’ve caught myself telling a friend that she is not to do a certain something-something in the very voice my mother used to use to make me drink milk of magnesia. I’ve also exchanged I Love Yous with these women, with the kind of intensity and truth I hitherto thought belonged only between a couple. We have been confident enough in our friendships so that we’ve spat virulent, unedited BS at one another and then begged forgiveness without the slightest cost to our egos. Like I said - I was aware of my ostensible girlness - not girlieness - very early on, but only truly became aware of its gravitas in the enduring company of these women.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At 26, I have managed to accrue a nice lot of meaningful male friendships as well, and I can confess that often I like to escape the girlfriends for their relative simplicity and linearity. I cannot even begin to tell you what an unqualified jock/jerk I’m capable of being around these guys. Until of course one of them offends some ladylike sensibility neither they, nor I, knew I had. Then it’s race-dialing the bestie with “GUESS WHAT HE JUST SAID TO ME…,” fervently hoping she’ll be able to tell me why I’m this mad. And you’d better believe she will. </div></div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-51807900840934240352011-09-18T05:20:00.000-07:002011-09-18T07:38:41.428-07:00Chimera.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It is uncanny how you are every protagonist I've encountered in the books I read before I go to bed. The serious English schoolboy with a club foot, the dirty old islander of many worrying fetishes, a six foot dwarf unequipped for irony, a Brazilian Alpha male who cries at the drop of a hat. Sometimes you're even the women in my books. For years I wondered how you could be all of these people; was I desperately in love with you and just didn't know it yet? Or did I know you so well, I could seek out these kernels of your astronomical personality as unapparent as they were to everybody else. But it isn't either. Quite the opposite, actually. Your face is a blank mask that doesn't twitch, not even when I'm in pain. You are these protagonists in one way and one way alone - you are all creatures cobbled together from imagination, meant to be romanced and then let go of. And when I shut my books, you crumple in a lifeless heap. Reality is no place for your kind.</div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-4710465816483238572011-09-07T14:50:00.000-07:002011-09-07T14:50:58.929-07:00S'all right.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">For the first time in as long as I've known myself, I've begun to feel something approaching peace. It isn't apparent yet because I'm trying to settle around this strange, alien feeling before I debut it out in the world. My world. Filled with people who've only ever known me as a walking factory of nervous ticks and self-deprecating humour, prone to dramatic outbursts and intimate with illogic.<br />
And I find that these unfamiliar stirrings of self-acceptance, apart from making me beam ridiculously at the most inopportune of times during the day, are putting several of my personal relationships into perspective.<br />
<br />
For one, I expect my social currency will plummet drastically, and quite quickly at that, in the months to come. The departure of the Gyuri-shaped disaster that has always been around for an instant ego boost is taking a toll on a few, real pieces of work this lot - I wish cankles upon you.<br />
<br />
I realised that just because one looks like a screw-up and talks like a screw-up, doesn't<br />
necessarily mean one is a screw-up. Relatively, speaking. And holy mother of vice versa! Some people are so calm, collected and corkscrew crazy, you just want to reach in and emphatically and purposefully pet their inner, frightened animal before they tedbundy out of control. I'd rather be messy and disheveled of appearance than of heart and soul, I'm clear about this. <br />
<br />
As for love, forever it has meant approval. Longing to be physically desired, longing to be acceptable to other people's sensibilities, falling in line wordlessly. I've been virtually Buddhist in previous relationships - no tantrums, no demands, accepting what I got and then walking away silently. "I can't force anyone to feel any less or more than they do" I'd say, ascending slowly heavenward.<br />
And now I'm very, very pissed off.<br />
I don't think I'll ever be successfully mean-spirited because... let me put it like this: If I had my own animal spirit, it would likely be a fluffy, pink marshmallow named Caligula - that's how menacing I am when I've <i>rehearsed</i> a hate speech. But I cannot passively absorb copious amounts of horseshit anymore, either. Love is love is love is love. Love moves your bowels and sometimes, as in one of the most soulful love stories I've ever read, constipates you too. Love makes you stupid, free and strong, delighted and hopeful and compassionate. It waits while you pore laboriously over an interminable list of pros and cons and then points and laughs at you with abandon. The best kind of defibrillator and you're still a goner. Love moves you. And if it does not, it isn't love.<br />
Then there is that which sounds and feels like love to the touch. And this is very enjoyable too, but temporary, and based more on self-indulgent illusion than anything else. It's like stroking yourself to full romantic erection, only to suddenly be accosted by a thought like 'bed sores!'. No happy ending, just a rude awakening and mild nausea.<br />
I try to recognise the difference now.</div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-76486041191597563712011-09-05T13:31:00.000-07:002011-09-10T23:04:05.635-07:00Shiver<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">We had all gone deaf.<br />
The silences had been so interminable, so exacting and reprehensible<br />
that we'd abandoned all use of our ears. They had become terrors.<br />
The corridors were the worst, when we passed one another<br />
inching carefully by, afraid of touch,<br />
and loathing the chance mixing of our breaths.<br />
At night we lay awake, our minds sick with worry - <br />
just don't let any of us ever take a tumble along those grey passages<br />
not on a bumpy bit of floor, or from the puddle where the wet clothes drip,<br />
and never, never in our presence. <br />
Not one of us knows how to hold, much less comfort, a real, live body.<br />
The warmth will be the devastating.</div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-82894323874970582612011-09-01T09:01:00.000-07:002011-09-05T09:54:33.379-07:00J,<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I overheard at the club last Saturday that you've now got yourself a scar? Or car? Actually it's probably definitely a car. What would a new scar even mean? A tattoo? That doesn't make very much sense. I was sitting three tables away from the Alburquerque sisters but was practically horizontal from trying to hear them. J, of everything you've ever done to me, this is the worst. You have made me envy those vapid idiots with their colourful drinks and small, mice-like breasts. How lucky they are to know your family, to know so much about you, about your life, about your new car (or scar). And I sit there, silently willing those horrible girls to turn my way, let me hear them better. How ever did this happen? All these changes are too ridiculous to even process. Sometimes I wonder if I've suffered five years' memory loss and someone's forgotten to mention this to me. I passed your mother on the church stairs later that evening and she smiled at me, gracious as always. She has no idea who I am. To think it was I who never allowed you tell her about me. I made you swear on Loops, do you remember? My god, what an idiot I was. I deserve to eat those Alburquerques' dirt, I do.<br />
<br />
Don't chuckle. I know you are. Or will, when... and if you read my letters. Have you received my letters, J? I don't dare to hope for a reply just yet but I want to believe that you're reading them, slapping your forehead at my rubbish. Smiling, even? I had this idea that maybe none of them had reached you. Nineteen of them just lost somewhere, misplaced, opened by strange fingers, saved at the bottom of a drawer we'll never find. Will my letters become somebody's anecdote that he or she tells with great flair. Don't laugh but I have thought about writing better here, with more flourishes, some embellishments, not too many. Attempt some poetry, maybe. Engineer the ghost of a romantic epic and give some poor girl the chance to mouth off to her cynical friends. She'll wave my letters in their faces. "Here, I told you! This love exists! This love can be had!" and they will shrug but inside they will feel suddenly excited and frightened by this.<br />
<br />
I am smiling J, I feel so ashamed of these silly thoughts. It's why I began writing this letter in the first place. I was at Pemb's this afternoon, remember it? The tiny little place next to the tailor's shop, with the great burgers? Anyway, I was drinking the best glass of basil lemonade I have ever, ever had, and right then, with the glass still raised to my mouth, it came to me. For the first time, ever since I've known of romantic love (that would be, say, nineteen years? Colin, his name was) I realised that that transcendent, big love opus I've always known would be mine eventually, might not. I don't know what it was. The glorious lemonade? The empty burger shop? Those adorable red and white awnings that flapped disconsolately? I cannot know. I ran out of there so fast I almost knocked over a chair. Mum thinks I have met someone and I'm keeping a love secret. How shall I tell her how much it is not that?<br />
<br />
Read my letter, please. And remember me.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-32979410685221957612011-08-20T10:19:00.000-07:002011-08-20T10:32:51.361-07:00Are you stupid? Well, yes and no.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I have noticed the proclivity of those who know me, to talk to me like I'm three. You know that voice? The one a parental type reserves for a shifty-looking child when they're trying to understand why the dog no longer has hair on one half of his body. It's a mixture of incredulity, bemusement and the overriding feeling that it's their responsibility to be your voice of reason since events clearly indicate you do not have one. And when said child is actually 26 years old and a peer, there tend to creep in delicate harmonics of superiority and disdain. And for the most part, I get it.<br />
<br />
I'm impetuous and often regrettably so. Outrage comes to me as easy and frequently as total amnesia in my interactions with people and even if I can get a good, solid grudge going, it's nothing a superior meal won't magic away. When I'm around people who make me feel vulnerable, I take to my heels and I don't even mean that figuratively. I am pointlessly defiant. In fact, currently I'm not talking to a friend because of a conversation about hypothetical fall outs and I resented how sure he was that I'd give in first. Mind, we haven't <i>actually</i> fallen out, I'm just making my thoroughly unnecessary point. And you see I realise this, but I still won't give in because then he will be right hypothetically and I'd rather rip my nails out than have someone be so sure they know me. Even though they probably do. With me still? Oh and the hair, I just do not have sensible hair. So I get why when people regard me with a certain sense of "Here's a nice project to take on/ befriend".<br />
<br />
But. A chubby, hairy But.<br />
<br />
I wouldn't have it any other way, believe it or not. My mistakes are what I like about myself the most. They always leave me with laughs (when enough time has elapsed), stories and scars both emotional and physical (Best not to happen upon a sleeping dog, if you didn't already know that) that I'm very fucking sentimental about. We're always cautioned about The Hard Way, this supposedly terrible fate that befalls those who don't have the good sense to have good sense. Well I've been there a time or thousand and if today, I know exactly why I should not attempt to straighten my own hair with strong chemical products 'For Professional Use only', or why I will never again attempt to possess a man I love, or why I will always hold my peace most when I'm viscerally angry, it's because of The Hard Way. <br />
<br />
So if my laboratory lifestyle should make you feel relieved about the organisational miracle that is your reality, so be it. I have just a few things I need to tick off my list when it comes down to it. That I am alive, with my various appendages in working order, having managed it with a little bit of grace, a little kindness and with no serious physical or emotional cost to anyone/anything I know. That I do my job well and I am liked well enough by a sufficient number of people who matter to me, and animals. And that every once in a while, I too can become transcendent, whether witnessed by another or just during a long, solitary walk, where I am perfect and godlike for a few moments before once again I am not, and I return to my bungling ol' self. <br />
<br />
In short, I'm doing serviceably well, thank you.</div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-87694043036363114692011-08-12T10:52:00.000-07:002011-08-12T10:55:43.990-07:00Sink.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">What were bulwarks once, have turned obstacles.<br />
What were convictions, have become weaknesses. <br />
Unscathed and alone.<br />
<br />
</div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-20459168237557864232011-08-10T13:59:00.000-07:002011-08-10T14:03:26.790-07:00It was lovely, it was awful. It was that kind of feeling.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Crrrkfloopp, the rusty hinges run headlong into the bouncy silence of flesh.<br />
You peel the door off them, and I schlep those fingers across a thousand miles of pain, to my face.<br />
It's settled then, there's worse ways for chewed nails to look.<br />
My digits are having a heart attack, they're flushed with a hot, biting, terrible ache,<br />
one is turning a colour whose name I'd hate myself if I knew.<br />
<br />
My forbearance is exemplary, it's this big haired girl whose making me look bad -<br />
holding out her hand to you like that, crying those chubby, kindergarten tears.<br />
Stop it, you girl, you stupid girl! What's he going to do exactly, tell the door it's been bad?<br />
Stupid girl, you bring our hand back right this minute and say you're fine.<br />
No! NO! Don't you da...<br />
<br />
Iced, caressed and splayed across your heart, my fingers covered by yours.<br />
I am collected to you, nose to the blue squares on the inside of your collar,<br />
lips smooshed against your buttons - why do you keep so much rubbish in your shirt pocket?<br />
You're attempting to hum.<br />
<br />
Where is that door? I want to hug it.<br />
But later. Not now. God, not now.</div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-1815703353922302182011-07-28T04:13:00.000-07:002011-07-28T04:13:55.748-07:00A Hope<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="post-content"> <div class="quote-content">"He had one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced, or seemed to face, the whole external world for an instant and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself."</div><div class="quote-source">— F. Scott Fitzgerald</div></div></div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-4959328578206495882011-07-14T12:10:00.000-07:002011-07-14T12:10:30.176-07:00I asked the boy for a few kind words.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He gave me a novel instead.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/YfJrwLJJp3A?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-1459736828990038622011-07-08T10:59:00.000-07:002011-07-08T11:10:43.640-07:00Rainy Afternoons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLemWsxJWhonI72VErUrx4k1rG8zLMGjsHEHbCbI3IMRXXYWq_dA9wvcBPxGp6XJSKkCeoLPi0eGT9NiJAOi9YV1AdWQS5yGoAdnsfVUbNzHWOpausG6tqjZj5lJO1aE2dVaZNc84omQ/s1600/Girl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBH8wKmdncr_hsy4AHiYhx6iLzh4UZ-4NJSwLZr7JtqlWyBHiL20S_zJNCWy5w9MwJcxT6v368xx-kOdToWZPywZOBM40OoC4tj-KU5sHkV82kXJpHCc6di5Ov7t9QwYOI4iO8OLXYRA/s1600/Tea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="504" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBH8wKmdncr_hsy4AHiYhx6iLzh4UZ-4NJSwLZr7JtqlWyBHiL20S_zJNCWy5w9MwJcxT6v368xx-kOdToWZPywZOBM40OoC4tj-KU5sHkV82kXJpHCc6di5Ov7t9QwYOI4iO8OLXYRA/s640/Tea.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Melancholy's got a bad rap if you ask me. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-87007806928764286892011-06-11T01:41:00.000-07:002011-06-12T13:31:27.145-07:00The Familiar<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">When I am happy, it feels like indulging in a fun activity for a while,<br />
Novel and heady and quite exhausting<br />
By the end of it, I'm ready to scurry back to my soundproof melancholy.<br />
<br />
Happiness is like that wonderful old friend who knew you when you were a child -<br />
predominantly in petticoats, terrorising pigeons -<br />
who, for even five raps of the cane across her palm, wouldn't tell on you.<br />
Long lapses of time are spent working up to her visit.<br />
You will show her the sights, spare no expense<br />
lavish her with that gratitude you've safe-kept in some shadowy recess of the heart all these years.<br />
But she arrives and soon it is time for her to go<br />
and you haven't even left your living room.<br />
Crumbly photo albums have been brought forth, wine has been spilled<br />
and batter been devoured before it had the chance to become cookies.<br />
"Do you remember the nut job who'd follow you to the egg vendor's each day?!" you'll chortle.<br />
"My god, I cannot forget," she'll laugh. "Do you remember the way we were?"<br />
"I do," you'll say. "I do."<br />
Right then you are that child once more; incorrigible and vulnerable,<br />
your instincts crackling, possibility thundering in your ears, gossamer clouds of hope everywhere.<br />
Disiloojene...menent sounds like something best left to the adults.<br />
<br />
Once you've waved her off and her bus has turned a lane and out of sight,<br />
you walk back down the street, so pregnant with quietness, it's like a silent scream.<br />
Your thumping heart once more slips into its familiar, dopey cadence<br />
you're back to your tea-and-toast evenings, pegging away at that mountain of bills,<br />
the brain no longer an implosion of noise and colour.<br />
Edges and shadows roll back into focus.<br />
Your empty house seems to regard you kindly.<br />
willing to let the last few hours (was it days?) slide without mention.<br />
You stumble upstairs to bed and lie there, dead centre,<br />
until sleep tip-toes in and your eyes no longer brook protest.<br />
You forgot the locks, but then you never have interlopers. </div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-36642658380481593692011-06-01T12:24:00.000-07:002011-06-01T21:53:06.745-07:00Party In My Pants<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK6lS7W0uuJSYy2uUKD5u-n6Hw0xTcPuYU-3m8k4rhxyfj1KaXjCQoVgXYDQRDZKUa-K8GJva6uugoJSSXBXyU3yP_XNE57WgkNCbi7m2vb0Vc268DunA5zOAKY_DU92IHpquzg7OmXA/s1600/wideleg-pleat-trousers-navy-blue-210797_photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK6lS7W0uuJSYy2uUKD5u-n6Hw0xTcPuYU-3m8k4rhxyfj1KaXjCQoVgXYDQRDZKUa-K8GJva6uugoJSSXBXyU3yP_XNE57WgkNCbi7m2vb0Vc268DunA5zOAKY_DU92IHpquzg7OmXA/s400/wideleg-pleat-trousers-navy-blue-210797_photo.jpg" width="341" /></a></div>Must have these pants or a fab knock-off of 'em. Even if that means my arse turns lunar each time I have them on.<br />
<br />
You see my clothing choices run two ways. There's the list in my head of clothes I'd give my granny for. Jersey maxis, tailored shorts, cute little fauna-print dresses and Peter Pan collars. Naturally therefore, if you're at all familiar with my world, none of these suit me even slightly. Originally I'm a pear shape. Currently I'm the shape of conjoined pears doing a great The Hulk. So instead of sitting around crying about it, I eat deep fried potatoes and go buy safe, characterless clothes that won't draw too much attention.<br />
<br />
I want to slowly edge out of the dowdiness, one unthreatening yet unusual (for me) separate at a time. These pants combine my love for comfortable, slouchy silhouettes while adding structure and a bit of um...style even?...without too much choo-choo peh-peh.<br />
<br />
I'm raising my mango lassi to change.</div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-34222678409744971122011-05-26T09:12:00.000-07:002011-05-26T09:12:27.576-07:00Cry Baby<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/uTxythHY09k?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
There is that feeling that I have my proverbial wires crossed. Look, people have died on me and all I've done is packed their belongings, swept the floor and called the rest of the family. So I'm not exactly the sort to go all to bits. UNLESS apparently I hit my head really hard on the railing of the bunk bed I'm occupying currently. Then everybody's scrambling for dry land.<br />
<br />
The big stuff I can weather; the silly stuff, I'm hapless against. Falling down new-camera-lens-forward, having my knees jam into concrete in the presence of several pitying tourists, losing a sizeable chunk of my shoe fund because I forgot to ask 'what rate?' when changing basically ALL my cash, running out of M&Ms when I least expect it and finding that sometimes One-size-fits-alls don't exactly fit me.<br />
<br />
Lots of soggy tissues in the wastepaper basket today, basically. </div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-51702685373375562202011-05-23T15:57:00.000-07:002011-05-23T15:57:36.277-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><b><br />
</b><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>हजारों ख्वाहिशें ऐसी कि हर ख्वाहिश पे दम निकले</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> बहुत निकले मेरे अरमाँ, लेकिन फिर भी कम निकले </i></span></div></div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-76120848397067673392011-05-22T15:11:00.000-07:002011-05-22T15:17:18.392-07:00Things I Will Never Tire Of...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">- Little old Japanese ladies wearing visors.<br />
- Meat and potatoes. You know how you once looked at an obese person and thought 'geez how'd they let themselves get that way?'? I'm understanding slowly - I don't recognise the hanging gut and billowing thighs in the mirror at all. (I am very worried about this actually, but more on that later).<br />
- Looking at candid pictures of celebrities<br />
- Buying tonnes of eye make-up I'll never use.<br />
- Watching (often shamelessly gawping at) people. The shapes of their silences, the way they shuffle their feet, the way their fingers grip a spoon and the way they arrange themselves around life's awkwardness in general.<br />
- Wondering about my place in the scheme of the world. Actually, no, I don't enjoy this. It pummels at my brain endlessly, questioning questioning all the time. I've forgotten how to live in the moment. In fact, when I suspect I've met someone with a proclivity for living in the moment, I try to get as far from him/her as possible. I don't want this, but that wont do either.<br />
- Stewed peaches. Finally I have an answer to at least one in the spectrum of 'What is your favourite _______?' questions. My favourite dessert is peach compote. This is progress.<br />
<br />
And for (badly taken) picture of the day... <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFYlqMJOlwr_9vA6zbXDb4RdHlbnwS81c-MhjytrRRvPimK8x8P2bcQUOYPpVNs4sSXijP9WDfABznnjhZklR3M4Vn5xLIXRO4pT8DqbA6EyceIUVgbiPbjOJbLeol0hB92EDniOEFfw/s1600/DSC_3203.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFYlqMJOlwr_9vA6zbXDb4RdHlbnwS81c-MhjytrRRvPimK8x8P2bcQUOYPpVNs4sSXijP9WDfABznnjhZklR3M4Vn5xLIXRO4pT8DqbA6EyceIUVgbiPbjOJbLeol0hB92EDniOEFfw/s640/DSC_3203.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They stopped kissing when I walked by & he asked if I'd take a picture. He showed her off and she was shy & mock embarrassed. <3</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
</div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-77418413297295960062011-05-20T07:59:00.000-07:002011-05-20T07:59:15.938-07:00It's Been That Kind of Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ZIoEgyzdc8tRLxruL6ImesZyHDs7HPAMRfnBmpqI9YXxFxfvpBsxuHwgcIE5eqC4G1_t8a7kc2k5uCxb-Q1mLJO3ta960yM9YJQEyRW08-97FsrHVvxgNh5WoqRRtDco6YH3RTFJxA/s1600/Wineface.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ZIoEgyzdc8tRLxruL6ImesZyHDs7HPAMRfnBmpqI9YXxFxfvpBsxuHwgcIE5eqC4G1_t8a7kc2k5uCxb-Q1mLJO3ta960yM9YJQEyRW08-97FsrHVvxgNh5WoqRRtDco6YH3RTFJxA/s400/Wineface.jpg" width="291" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not how I'm feeling at all right now. Nope, not me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
You know you're down on your luck when you have a sugar craving and all you can afford are cruddy digestive biscuits.<br />
<br />
Have lost my blasted glasses yet again so yes, take it away, migraines!<br />
<br />
I have always waxed eloquent about the balls of my feet - poetic things like sand grazing them and water tickling them like a shameless teenager with no reserve whatsoever. But I've only just met them, like <i>really</i> met them. They are not pleasant things, these, especially after they've been pounding pavements for 10 hours each day.<br />
<br />
I think I'm quickly turning into what are usually known as 'humourless broads'. When I see people kissing in public and squeegeeing each others fun parts, I get all red in the face and squinty-eyed with judgement. Is that weird? I have to point out, in my defence, that this kind of kissing is less sweet, more alarming. Also, is EVERYONE in love or something? I'm glad I'm not part of the cliche. I'm single and grouchy and have recently relaxed into wearing granny chuddies most of the time. Me:1; Love: Thenga.<br />
<br />
That's all folks. I shall now spend several minutes talking my butt out of this chair and back on the road.<span style="font-size: small;"> Viszlát! (I think)</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-50589347779556141582011-05-17T09:37:00.000-07:002011-05-17T14:13:09.169-07:00This and That<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The last few days have been a sensory overload. In a mostly good way. The excesses were many - too much beauty, food, melancholy, art, aches and pains, sleeplessness, satisfaction, gratitude and as always, enough confusion to make me feel like myself :-/. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVLVVAOzrKCsKzQXo1lPb1dfhgZ264z6GPwED5Vzw9TfO1psFjhvd-c-q9oB-QY_Gn7tBCgWwxD1nYGwAFCjtINNXuk3Kx0392KmLVIgXKdDsvKAJuYUarGp-o4yioN1pRzL5AOSrIdA/s1600/sleeping-woman-johann-baptist-reiter.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVLVVAOzrKCsKzQXo1lPb1dfhgZ264z6GPwED5Vzw9TfO1psFjhvd-c-q9oB-QY_Gn7tBCgWwxD1nYGwAFCjtINNXuk3Kx0392KmLVIgXKdDsvKAJuYUarGp-o4yioN1pRzL5AOSrIdA/s640/sleeping-woman-johann-baptist-reiter.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slumbering Woman by Johann Baptist Reiter</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuQjj96jqL6sA35VtpsDDMvO1y1c3zl_vV1v39Auc7TpQhLgUJ7VW4bRqk3udGP75rHvEiqRsmBwqa8hADHUPYYcZ0Va3aCXUQ9F7hbYbawQlbney_hKL415LYMi8EF6O72mnrzoO8fw/s1600/sok1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuQjj96jqL6sA35VtpsDDMvO1y1c3zl_vV1v39Auc7TpQhLgUJ7VW4bRqk3udGP75rHvEiqRsmBwqa8hADHUPYYcZ0Va3aCXUQ9F7hbYbawQlbney_hKL415LYMi8EF6O72mnrzoO8fw/s400/sok1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Ru6AJU8CNAy7a6poLGXIxoJUeMgxmX0A7pDf0Om3ulVExd36zkd18ru65RWylk4UJnKo1DZcp4SknD1hTVFdmJkSgoVIl5GsPZas6ALyweSx1B7CQis1s_cOVMZDMN2N3Y30k5hRWQ/s1600/DSC_1531.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Ru6AJU8CNAy7a6poLGXIxoJUeMgxmX0A7pDf0Om3ulVExd36zkd18ru65RWylk4UJnKo1DZcp4SknD1hTVFdmJkSgoVIl5GsPZas6ALyweSx1B7CQis1s_cOVMZDMN2N3Y30k5hRWQ/s400/DSC_1531.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6fltVSAL82CrrzD3y7LN74E2U0VvkDmx2q3VIqXj9EVabbS8PPB-gd3dqz7vBfXRGPWQ62tBdpv6Ob_TOo74HQf-ILUUBTbmHSW9jxeWrg-GeGnrjVdABree6lGalRPlVqPIu4idLw/s1600/Dog.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="552" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6fltVSAL82CrrzD3y7LN74E2U0VvkDmx2q3VIqXj9EVabbS8PPB-gd3dqz7vBfXRGPWQ62tBdpv6Ob_TOo74HQf-ILUUBTbmHSW9jxeWrg-GeGnrjVdABree6lGalRPlVqPIu4idLw/s640/Dog.png" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg63pzpkSRW4zI21QtRvYEGjFs-US67OOTgoVc0ZlzZ-lSGTUBJHmZ4_OQGlCC6hZesHALbzorV-vGlGqzakXKfEr62bMXs2gotC_YWQSJpgLyxaW2rCTO99kNSV-9-skQXR-opDKP6UA/s1600/cardinal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg63pzpkSRW4zI21QtRvYEGjFs-US67OOTgoVc0ZlzZ-lSGTUBJHmZ4_OQGlCC6hZesHALbzorV-vGlGqzakXKfEr62bMXs2gotC_YWQSJpgLyxaW2rCTO99kNSV-9-skQXR-opDKP6UA/s400/cardinal.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cardinal and Nun by Egon Schiele</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">If love should mean rapture, then I have either been in love hundreds of times or never once.</div></div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-69301847348395717972011-05-03T10:59:00.000-07:002011-05-04T00:13:33.027-07:00Slumped Shoulders<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I suspect I have what my mother calls a 'black tongue' when she's feeling particularly provincial. A black tongue, for the uninitiated and the minimally Mangalorian, is the 'mooh' in 'Tere mooh mein keedey, tere mooh mein dhool'. It is the harbinger of inauspicious, unfortunate circumstances and its proprietor is roundly decreed by all, a bloody nuisance. Folks, I have a sixth sense for the awful.<br />
<br />
Thing is pessimism is my chief defence mechanism. I fetter my expectations to the bleakest eventuality and figure it can only be good news from thereon. I'm the Worst Case Scenario girl. The girl that, when everyone's chirruping about how we're going to have a big posy of an outcome, will go deathly quiet and nod weakly.<br />
<br />
Grimacing and scorn... "What? <i>What</i>? Just say it."<br />
Sheepishness and shame... "I don't know what you're talking about."<br />
Irritation and exasperation... ". . ."<br />
Hijacked and pleading... "WHAT IF IT'S AWFUL? WHAT IF IT SUCKS SO HARD WE'LL NEVER RECOVER? WHAT IF IT REDUCES US TO EMPTY SHELLS OF HUMAN BEINGS IRREVO-IRREVI...I-R-R-E-V-O-C-A-B-L-Y?"<br />
<br />
Glaring and subtle gulping. Resumed chirruping but now a touch uncertainly. Setting down the plate extra hard when I ask for the bread to be passed.<br />
<br />
Mercifully, I've been wrong every time it has come to other people's potential misfortunes and this led me, quite foolishly, to risk some optimism in my own affairs... <br />
Last year, I lost seven phones in a span of 6 months, each within 2 to13 hours of thinking 'Hey, I've not lost this phone in a while." Or "Wow I'm really growing up, I'm so responsi... WHERE THE HELL IS MY PASSPORT?! I'M GOING TO BE STRANDED IN THIS AWFUL COUNTRY I'VE BEEN PRETENDING TO LIKE." OR, and this happened twice, "I think this might be it, he's the one. Yep." Next day/ week, relationship kaput.<br />
<br />
Now when I feel optimism or self-congratulation threatening to ruin things, I quickly distract myself until the feeling passes. I've been disaster-free for a couple of days now. It's quite dull, really.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-75184305426557885992011-05-01T23:32:00.000-07:002011-05-01T23:32:31.952-07:00The Way Forward<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b>I wish to be like the sea,</div><div style="text-align: center;">formidable without intention.</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">I shall come and I shall go</div><div style="text-align: center;">and with me I will bring happiness</div><div style="text-align: center;">so crackpot simple, it cannot be second-guessed.</div><div style="text-align: center;">So too abiding loss to drown the heart. </div><div style="text-align: center;">A thousand times I will promise intoxication</div><div style="text-align: center;">without as much as a word.</div><div style="text-align: center;">When I roar, I will be heard -</div><div style="text-align: center;">colossus without mercy, watery impasse. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">And all the time,</div><div style="text-align: center;">I shall not have once thought about it. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/gxWxiuJRApU?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Loveliest thing I've seen and heard in a while. Thanks KK. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-64717338336894777092011-04-26T23:11:00.000-07:002011-04-26T23:16:06.594-07:00Safety-Pinned Mind<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">My mind's been off having adventures. Identity crises, moral ambiguities, confusing arousal, and euphoria and depression chasing each other in circles - and I've just sat back and allowed it do its thing. Usually it returns in time for Top Chef. <strike>Composure </strike>Coherence, on the other hand, arrives about as often as my freelance cheques and I'm rushing to make good of today's sudden burst...<br />
<br />
I've realised only recently that my quest to understand people would be strides simpler if I stop trying to solve them. <br />
<br />
The handful of relationships that I cherish have one thing in common. They're all based on the premise of Quality > Quantity. I'm not built for too much familiarity, I don't like knowing every last stitch of anyone's day or recounting mine, for that matter. Unless you can tell it well and the conversation has potential to descend into lots of meta humour, then I'm all ears. Otherwise, let's just talk when we actually have something to say.<br />
<br />
I think I enjoy struggle way too much to ever really succeed in the conventional sense. I'm at a professional fork-in-the-road currently and while one path definitively leads to being able to afford poncy hair accessories I don't need, the one I'm on has me under house arrest because I can't afford even coffee without feeling like a shameless wastrel. It's still a tough choice. The writing jobs I enjoy the most are the ones that often push me to tears of inadequacy, the ones that come easy are forgotten almost instantly no matter how well they turn out.<br />
I wish to have it all though even the thought of it bores me intensely.<br />
<br />
Stupid trends irritate me so much I feel like punching my screen. This business of saying 'super like!' on Facebook, SHUT UP, IT'S NOT A THING. Also, this sudden adoration of droopy hipster girls with limp hair wearing oatmeal-exciting fashions. WHERE WAS ALL THIS HYSTERIA WHEN MAGGIE GYLLENHAAL DID IT WAY BACK WHEN? Herd. I spurn you.<br />
<br />
I have been feeling quite good about my weight even as I remain the fattest I've ever been. Except for this past week of beer and fries and Easter pastries and Pepsi, I've been pretty good about working out and eating well. I suppose it's freeing to know you've done your bit and it's now out of your hands.<br />
<br />
I am diabetically girlie. Lace, florals, ruffles, sequins, pastels, sorbet make-up, aforementioned hair accessories, box clutches, diaphanous everything and I'm sold. I haven't triumphed in any popularity contests because of my love for jeggings either.<br />
<br />
Ever since I watched Chashme Buddoor a few weeks ago, I've been mesmerised by Deepti Naval. Forever she's been no more than a clip-on Smita Patil to me but Christ, such beauty and vitality. 90% of the stuff below is from <a href="http://www.deeptinaval.com/">here</a>.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3eRrS9S26pge2M4eL6Dmbwi8dCCGsotRXS5axjhIUKgW1ATEOzkx4fjccBPGLYdarfp4H6EivEQ1a6magnm2uIlLEfkVqO2TwWPV0PqwLvilKWGRNS6zk6Cj91cMJFf7YOLD3tt-zdw/s1600/new-york-days-03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3eRrS9S26pge2M4eL6Dmbwi8dCCGsotRXS5axjhIUKgW1ATEOzkx4fjccBPGLYdarfp4H6EivEQ1a6magnm2uIlLEfkVqO2TwWPV0PqwLvilKWGRNS6zk6Cj91cMJFf7YOLD3tt-zdw/s400/new-york-days-03.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Am I right?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhezk6W71BnTG52JdFENtxIOg8B8uGwo_O7rsqMvYVQaUsNaiIedVztkkkGAHsr6oS2PZbKWo3YI68MtuzDsakzxuFfLVBEnsFLyW1LyLSrWxntinLygKpapATNe3J0gcNJwg_otj_Mrg/s1600/7B27E2470AC53A8088E63F_Large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhezk6W71BnTG52JdFENtxIOg8B8uGwo_O7rsqMvYVQaUsNaiIedVztkkkGAHsr6oS2PZbKWo3YI68MtuzDsakzxuFfLVBEnsFLyW1LyLSrWxntinLygKpapATNe3J0gcNJwg_otj_Mrg/s320/7B27E2470AC53A8088E63F_Large.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miss Chamko!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW2fqMbBEpHQ2zi-YfQwcM3sNSD8-PYKIoIeFHUm64wFMmZNsdPadPSGq2W3aNGgqCz73uUiP_icddZGdMaqMFsorhWxCrrwGxdWzF5vS0kbV3ArgOh6AOWP8mm2GDLpo5E7OeQQXruA/s1600/friends-smita-i-full.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW2fqMbBEpHQ2zi-YfQwcM3sNSD8-PYKIoIeFHUm64wFMmZNsdPadPSGq2W3aNGgqCz73uUiP_icddZGdMaqMFsorhWxCrrwGxdWzF5vS0kbV3ArgOh6AOWP8mm2GDLpo5E7OeQQXruA/s400/friends-smita-i-full.jpg" width="330" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So Thelma & Louise :)</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh072VExnW6NRIlQdyx3jWa8Au5FOZqpBH57eGg7Kz9e7VdPrc-YGcVkTLJWLlr9paJ_7IzdSMxP7owLkqCb_UB5tf67JAEfydN6SXCjXMJqqk0S9v8h7gYxHnq2MHRRzh9peE5eVvsuA/s1600/chalo_dur_tak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh072VExnW6NRIlQdyx3jWa8Au5FOZqpBH57eGg7Kz9e7VdPrc-YGcVkTLJWLlr9paJ_7IzdSMxP7owLkqCb_UB5tf67JAEfydN6SXCjXMJqqk0S9v8h7gYxHnq2MHRRzh9peE5eVvsuA/s400/chalo_dur_tak.jpg" width="201" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'course she's a poet.</td></tr>
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</div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-78100615157573486982011-04-16T05:43:00.000-07:002011-04-16T05:43:00.207-07:00Happy to Board This Bandwagon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/rYEDA3JcQqw?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
The first time I heard Adele, I pooh-pooh'ed her out of my natural instinct to pooh-pooh anything and anyone labelled 'the latest sensation'. The second time, well,<i> Jaysus</i>. My head began to bob and my insides started to gloriagaynor of their own accord. Pre-empting "events", I walked silently to the door and securely locked it. Then I brought out my highest pair of heels, belted my nightie, dabbed on every item of makeup I own and... un. leashed.<br />
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I am writing this from a very happy, tranquil place.</div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4643978550768324323.post-40605216819522009352011-04-11T04:03:00.000-07:002011-04-16T08:18:08.931-07:00Andie.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr style="background-color: white; color: #cc0000;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> <3</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">"What about me, Phil? Do you know me too?"<br />
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"You like boats, but not the ocean. You go to a lake in the summer with your family up in the mountains. There's a long wooden dock and a boathouse with boards missing from the roof, and a place you used to crawl underneath to be alone. You're a sucker for French poetry and rhinestones. You're very generous. You're kind to strangers and children, and when you stand in the snow you look like an angel."</span></div>Chttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17610507047603325315noreply@blogger.com0