Month: April 2006

If you’re even a remotely frequent visitor to my journal, you’d have realised by now that I am perennially pissed about a lot of things. One of these that is always on the back of my mind—something that makes me feel almost sorry for myself—is the fact that I’m going to have to make it in this country (should I choose to) as a first generation immigrant. I’ve probably harped about this before, but this is not a trivial process, and is an unfair burden that no future generation will have to worry about.

Fucking freeloaders.

A term which I hadn’t heard in over two years—primarily because I don’t usually associate myself with people who use it—‘ABCDE’ cropped up recently in pleasant conversation. For those not in the know, this expands (I presume) to American Born Confused DEsi—desi being the generic term encompassing people of south-Asian origin. It refers in particular to the “unfortunate” second generation immigrant kids who’re supposedly “confused” because they’re born into and live in one culture, but the environment and values emphasised at home are remnants of a different society far, far away.

You know what? shut the fuck up.

They aren’t “confused.” They’re American and you know it. They’re culturally acclimatised since birth, mesh well into society, have no awkward accents (apart from being unable to pronounce their own names)—they’re socially, culturally and emotionally conditioned to “just fit.” Don’t feel sorry for them. They have the easy life, with their now-rich doctor parents and their consequent BMWs and super-hot blonde fiancés. What the fuck is there to be confused about?

Really, can’t the god-damned moniker ‘ABCDE’ just die already?

Instead, feel sorry for the genuinely troubled and confused first generation folk. They’re the ones who are really torn between two worlds. They’re the ones who’ll never really integrate themselves into society (if they tried to, I mean). They’re the ones who have to work extra-hard to ensure a fabulous life for their kids.

One that they can’t even hope to have.

Overheard; a guy describing his sandwich:

Guy1: You know, it had this, like, big, big…
Guy2: Slices of bread?
Guy1: Yes, yes, it had this big piece of bread and was stuffed with, you know, like… what does Popeye eat to get strong again?

At which point I burst out laughing right behind them, and then scurried away, embarrassed.

Fight Club is the quintessential “man movie.” You know that as well as I.

The reason I bring it up, is that I’m sick of lying to people when they ask me, “So, how is everything going?” I know I tell them over and over that it’s “all well and going just fine.” I’ve probably told you the same thing recently too. But in actuality, I don’t know how else to describe my state other than to say that it’s about the same state as Ed Norton’s character was during Fight Club.

This is a very weird phase of my life. I am disinterested, unmotivated, tired, unproductive, … and most distressingly, uncreative.

While we’re on this topic, I might as well get another related thing out of the way. I guess it’s that time of my academic life or whatever, but I’m often asked the question, “So, what are your plans for the future?” Yes, I understand I told you a lot of things and painted a rosy picture, but honestly? that’s a lie too; I just don’t know. Lately, I’ve been thinking rather seriously of getting into something totally different and selfless—like social service in some really needy place. I don’t really know what I want anymore; I just know it’s not this.

The number of unanswered e-mails in my in-boxes has been steadily growing for quite a while now. At first, I chalked it down to my general unmotivated state—yes, the one that has plagued me for months now—but upon casual inspection of the pile, I reached a startling realisation: Over 90% of this unanswered e-mail was from married women!

Quoting a scene involving a most underrated actress on a most underrated sitcom:

Newly-turned-single bloke: Was that a smile, Sally? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile.
Sally: Why yes, it was. I only smile at single men, you know; got to conserve [my skin’s] elasticity.

And this, boys and girls, is roughly analogous to what’s going on with my reply pattern. Though I’ve not consciously thought about it, I just don’t see the point anymore with people I’ve deemed “occupied”. The effort doesn’t in the least seem justified. Yeah, it would be “nice” if I could be a part of your life as more than some arbitrary bystander, but honestly, it wouldn’t bother me if I wasn’t.

So, if you’re sitting out there all-eagerly awaiting a response and don’t receive anything, you now know why.

It’s nothing personal; it just doesn’t seem worth it.

In a message that was quickly flagged as spam by my mail client (probably since it arrived with the subject “EARNINGS POTENTIAL”, complete with gratuitous capitalisation), the chair of our department egged us on to actually stay in school. Here is the relevant section:

According to the U.S. Census Bureau, with the following education, here’s how much you can expect to make in your lifetime:

High School: $1,700,400
Bachelor’s: $2,700,900
Master’s: $3,200,400
Doctorate: $4,400,900

Since a bulk of my audience lies in the last two categories, give yourselves a pat in the back. And to the few chickens who lie in the third and don’t plan to attempt to reach the fourth, “nyah, nyah nyah nyah nyah”.

Sometime in the middle of last year, I realised that good hair days and good skin days are sort of mutually exclusive for me. After a suprisingly long spell of delightfully-soft and manageable hair, I decided to push my own agenda and planned on messing it up—in order to benefit other things.

And just how does one go about something like that? Get a crappy hair cut, of course!

And how does one get this crappy hair cut? Easy as pie. When the cute hairdresser chick asks you all-excitedly what you want to do today with your hair, you nonchalantly say something like, “whatever” or “I don’t care”. The operative word being nonchalantly, of course.

Never fear, the moment she hears this, she’ll go from gently caressing and playing with your hair to being the evil monster-lady who just chop-chops arbitrarily; almost angrily. Voilà, instant bad haircut.

Now all I need to do is wait for the second part of the plan to work itself out.

Site note: I hope that you’re adequately satisfied by the new underage-deterrent link on top and the related modification to the site usage policy. Proceeding further implies that you’ve read, understood and agree to its terms.

One of the many things that men aren’t really open to talking about, is why they want to break up. They just do, and that’s that; deal with it. All they want is to fade away—gracefully or otherwise—without overly analysing or clarifying the situation. On the other hand, the one thing that women most definitely want to talk about—and want to “work on”—is preventing such an event. They seemingly love to discuss (in excruciating detail, no less) why things are evolving the way they are, and present their brilliant plans to fix the scenario.

Let it go; he’s just not into you. And there’s little you can do to fix that.

(Probably apropos here is something I heard a comedian say a long time ago: “I don’t know how else to tell you this honey, but it’s your face. And no matter how much you run every day, it isn’t going to get any better.”)

Not satisfied? Does “I’m not into you” not work for you? Do you still really want to pester him as to why he doesn’t call you any more? Sure, here goes; it’s only fair since you asked for it (like a trillion times).

Remember the time you asked him if the thought of making love to you excited him? Remember how he deflected the question with a joke? Now here’s the real answer: Not once in his conscious thoughts or dreams was he able to imagine being intimate with you in ways you wanted. It might have vaguely fallen under the definition of sex, but it sure wasn’t an expression of love. Sure, he enjoyed the actual physical act, but in every situation, it was almost as though all he was doing was taking. He didn’t in the least care about how happy you were, or even care that it was you. He was demeaning, insensitive, and selfish. Now, this scared him, because in other instances—when he actually liked the woman—all that mattered to him was her happiness.

There, happy? Can’t you see why he might have had a problem with a relationship with you? Wouldn’t you rather not have known that?

Men don’t have the same sorts of inkling and sensitivities when it comes to relationships. But it doesn’t mean we lack feeling. We have our own mechanisms to figure out when things aren’t fine. Now do you still not believe in breaking up to be the right path? I’m sorry you didn’t get this verbose answer the first time you asked, but these are not the sorts of things which guys talk about. You pestering and acting all super-sleuthy will get you nowhere; nowhere pleasant, anyway.

Let it go, he’s just not into you.

Warning: Oh, and in the future, retarded comments correlating entries in my journal with Hindi movies will be deleted with extreme prejudice. Do not waste your time and mine.

Though the last post started-off as some April fool’s joke gone totally wrong, I realised that it felt so much nicer to write free-form and not have to worry about things like sanitising language for fear of offending the prudes. Every attempt I’ve made since then to post an entry on this journal has seemed so… contrived and artificial in comparison. I’ve ended up scrapping them all as a result—much to the disappointment of most frequent visitors, I know.

I’ve realised that I do want to talk about far more mature topics (hey, I’m an aged man, that’s what we do)—in language that I feel fits my frame of mind. I am thinking of an elegant way of letting people know that this journal is for mature audiences only. I don’t want to cower behind pseudo-pseudonyms or have to constantly dream up fancy euphemisms and analogies. I just want to pick a topic that’s on my mind, and say it as it is.

To this end, I’ve been looking up stuff from my host to see how to move my domain name behind private registration—so you can’t just “do a WHOIS” and end up on my doorstep. But then again, it’s not really lack of anonymity that’s preventing anything. It’s more like I have this personal filter. It’s like, I’m always thoughtful and sensitive—or at least always seem so and am construed to be—so now I’ve begun to truncate any feeling or thought whose expression would paint me in a different light.

I wonder why this is so; it’s not like anyone is judging me. It’s not like anyone even cares.

Alice is one fat fuck. You know the kinds; the morbidly chubby chick who’s unfortunately too “comfortable with her own body”? No matter how much people tend to avoid her, she’s always there. At every event, at every party; wanting to be the centre of attention, right in the centre of every activity—and the centre of every one of Jack‘s pictures intended to be of the beautiful people; ruining them. She’s bubbly, giggly and repugnantly confident, but no one gives a fuck; she’s just not aesthetically pleasing to be around.

No one, except Jack.

Though he too is often embarrassed by being seen out in public with her, Jack has spent a lot of time putting up with Alice. He doesn’t fancy her in the least, but he’s superficially very nice to her. He accompanies her for things when everyone else turns her down. He doesn’t laugh about her bulging body; at least not right in front of her face. He doesn’t turn away when she begins her incoherently-excited ramblings about one uninteresting topic or another. No. He plays the perfect gentleman. He’s patient, kind and treats her like she deems she deserves to be.

The only reason Jack does this, is that Alice is good friends with Jenny. You must know Jenny; the long-legged, doe-eyed, perfectly-proportioned goddess? The one with the smile so warm she could melt a glacier or three? You know, the smart, sensitive, adorable little thing who has an intelligent, thoughtful thing to say about everything? The woman whose effortless talent and creativity often leaves everyone in the room awestruck?

Yes, that Jenny.

Now, everyone is nice to Jenny. It’s not such a big deal—I mean, just her presence will make you want to win the world for her—and I’m sure she’s more than used to it. As Jack often tends to misstep, he calculated that being nice to Alice instead was a brilliant way of impressing everyone; especially Jenny. It was the perfect plan in Jack’s mind. Alice would adore him for who he was to her, and the bubbly fatty would surely keep harping about it to Jenny, wouldn’t she?

I mean, they are friends right? Isn’t that what all women always do when Jack isn’t around?

As it turns out, no. They most certainly do not.

Somewhere along this debacle, Jack begins to realise that Alice doesn’t advertise one bit of the going-ons to Jenny. She just sits there, the dumb-fuck that she is, basking in the glow of not being ignored. His calculated niceness has no bearing on Jenny’s feelings toward him. What’s worse, Jack’s now stuck with the fat fuck who genuinely believes he sees her “true inner beauty.”

Is it even remotely surprising that Jack soon breaks Alice’s heart? How many Alices will it take before Jack realises that the only path to nabbing a Jenny doesn’t involve any middle(wo)men?