Search results for 'understand women'

Friday, May the 5th, 2006

As sick as she is—gross blood-spewing and everything—the wife is still remarkably perceptive; so she soon finds out that he’s cheating on her. And by “remarkably perceptive,” I mean that she’s not blind, and happened to see him ogling over the other chick in public at some point. She’s understandably distraught and soon becomes suicidal.

Yes, she’s suicidal. And you would feel sorry for her, if, you know, she could act. But a brief recollection of her sexually-hyperactive past with this man clears her head. She begins to see why he had no choice but to fuck another, and so she lets him off the hook to do whatever. As in “she wants him to be happy,” or something.

If that weren’t creepy enough, she soon wants to join the fun. (Not literally of course, because she can barely breathe, and isn’t nimble enough to be of any fun.) She begins to hide and observe them make love; I guess vicariously having sex with her husband as he’s screwing the real estate agent.

By this point you’re like, “Surely this must be the end. I mean, how much more downhill could they possibly go from here?” And before you can finish that thought, you realise how shockingly wrong you are as the next “twist” presents itself. Our little astrophysics friend wasn’t cheating on her with any somewhat-hot real-estate agent. Oh no. He’d carefully picked a kind and generous chick who’d (as clearly stated on her driver’s license) agreed to have her insides donated for the good of others when she passes.

Yep. Attractive. Organ-harvestable upon death. Dying wife needing organ?

(I still want you to act surprised when I reveal the ending.)

Long story short, at about 3/4ths through the movie, he uses his PhD genius (like his amazing ability to modify sound files on a computer. Huh?) to kill this other woman. Not just have her die anywhere, but conveniently, as they were procreating at a home specifically picked for its proximity to the hospital where is wife (now too sick to even hide in the closet and observe the fun) is dying.

Genius, I tell you. Genius!

Briefly. Something bad happens, real-estate agent almost dead, ends up at the hospital near his wife, dies, doctors put 2 and 2 together, rip her lungs out and drop it in the wife, and voilá! Wifey is soon back and capable of satiating him. And if it weren’t for the thick 14″-long scar running across her breasts, you’d never know anything was ever wrong with her.

OK, any somewhat rational-minded person would have ended this god-damned 4-hour-long weep-fest right about now. I mean, this is a pretty acceptable—even if evil—ending, isn’t it?

But noo, there’s even more.

Saturday, November the 6th, 2010

Long time readers of my journal are no strangers to the fact that my mood is extremely oscillatory. Much like the colour scheme of this site, my mind is either entirely black or entirely white. I can jump several times an hour or day or week or month from exceptional bliss to extreme depression and sorrow. Sure, this lets me feel alive, allowing me to experience life in an intense manner, but it is sometimes scary as these wild swings are not under my control.

The entries in my journal reflect this, albeit in a skewed fashion, because I’m personally more likely to write when I’m down.

The closer I get to Stacey, the more I’m beginning to understand why I might be this way. I seem to have an extremely black and white view of the world around me. People and experiences and surroundings are either “insanely great,” putting me in a state of intense bliss, or “horribly hurtful,” driving me down into the depths of depression. There seem to be no shades of grey in my perception of or response to the world.

The same is true of how I experience the women I am with, including Stacey. For the first months of our relationship, I was in a state of ecstasy. There was nothing she could say or do wrong, and whatever she was was perfect for me. But more recently, things started to change. The more she talked about her past, the more perturbed I got about her sexual history. I started to sink and see everything in a negative light, and there was little she could say or do that would help me.

The darkness had nearly descended completely, until she reminded me that we’re all just humans and have different aspects of our persona that could either please or perturb another. She pointed out that how I might not be a perfect man by any objective standards, yet all that she’s been longing for. Looking into her loving eyes and soft body as she told me all this reminded me of how happy she’s made me this past half year. And that her past is just that, her past. I don’t have to fully understand or accept it right away, just to recognise that through her imperfections, she’s someone who’s capable of making me immensely happy.

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Monday, August the 6th, 2007

Ed. Note: And now for a slight deviation from our regular programming. If you feel today’s entry sounds different from what you’ve come to love around these parts, don’t fret, you aren’t imagining it. This entry was brought to us by a guest to this journal during the course of an earlier discussion.

I don’t claim to endorse anything that our Fellow Retard has said, but I don’t claim to be hostile toward his views either. Perhaps it will be beneficial to take a moment to understand where some people come from and the kinds of things they won’t have a problem with.

Enjoy it, or not.

I call myself so [Ed.: Fellow Retard] because most of your entries read like what I’d write in my diary if I was articulate and passionate about writing. I am guessing that we share our delusions and disorientation, in bits, if not almost completely.

I never quite recovered from my platonic relationship with my high school sweetheart. When we broke up on silly pretexts, she was lapped up by willing and far better guys and she ended up getting her cherry plucked to some random asshole she’s not going to marry.

And I with all my vows of respect, trust and undying love was reduced to a shattered and bitter onanist.

Needless to say, I diverted my attention to computers and the internet. I believe, based on conviction and experience, that nothing dumbs you down more than the internet. The more I spent time with the Internet, the less time I spent with my female friends or on going out. I started over analyzing situations and people. More so in case of girls. And that’s the bane of being smart/intellectuals.

You have to be instinctive and driven by your urge and senses to attract the kind of attention that leads to undressing.

I’ve been polemic and eloquent in my circle of friends but it did not help me get laid. Girls prefer to keep it simple. Who’d want to have sex with someone they can’t figure out? Just like we want to have meaningless sex for vindication and validation, girls too want fun without being judged or analyzed. It took me years to understand that. Dating sites and books don’t help because they try to provoke you by talking about confidence and pickup strategies. The truth is, 5 minutes after you’ve spieled, the girl can read your eyes and tell if you are really a horny jerk or a despo trying to run a polymorphic seduction algorithm. I let go of myself esteem and became shameless about my libido without becoming a beggar in front of girls. It helped a lot.

And once you have a girl all over you, others rush in. It’s ironical but that’s the case, girls chase those pursued by other girls. If a girl sees a girl who’s prettier than her chase you, 9 out of 10 times, she’s gonna feel attracted to you.

To cite my own case, since I got this pretty girl to date and do it with me, I’ve been chased by half a dozen girls for straight favors expressed subtly. None of them even noticed me before she came along. I cannot tell the weird and nasty stuff we do and she’s trying to rope in a pretty girl who’s bi to get into a threesome with us. Talk about the ironies of life.

Until you start seeing yourself as an unapologetic and aggressive sexual creature with a naughty sense of humor (funny is not sexy!), girls wouldn’t see you the way you want them to see you. Unlike guys, girls love with eyes and ear, so dress attractively and speak stuff that would tickle their panties, not their intellect. You are aiming too high with brainy wit, stoop down below waist and take aim.

I read that slashdot post yesterday and I know it as much as you do. We aren’t happy that way, so let’s not use eloquence to cloak the depression and dejection. It’s the impulses that makes us human. If I was a prophet, I must have been told beforehand. So, I’ll submit to what pleases me. Enough said.

On the topic of sex for money, well, sex for money is cheaper than sex for free. If you know what I mean. You go on date and there is tension in your balls on whether you’d get to exchange fluids. Paid practices are wonderful in the sense that it kinda desensitizes you to an extent towards sex and allows you to interact with a girl like a normal creature and not like a beggar would look at a Wendy’s burger.

Not to mention that if you visit the same provider again and again and befriend her, she will teach you more about women, their impulses, their sex drive, their body and the initiation to completion routine than anyone would ever disclose.

In fact, to your surprise, she might let you know the art of arousal and foreplay, stuff you wouldn’t expect to learn from such a rendezvous.

So don’t fall for the traps of morality, it’s designed to keep the hungry away from the obese. It’s funny how morality doesn’t apply to William, Dubya and Paris but applies to a struggling dude trying to find some cue on social dynamics by paying for it.

And don’t listen to girl’s version on morality and sex-for-money. What girls say they like and what they actually like is completely different. Girls have perfected the art of self-deception to such extent that even the nicer girls would walk straight into an asshole’s pants and then rant about how really they wish to be with a nice guy.

I guess I should stop rambling here. Hope I was able to convey some of my views and experiences in a way, they’d make sense, if not perfect sense.

You only have 1 life to live. That’s all you can be sure of. So fuck everything else and try to do what you want instead of repressing it. You wouldn’t want to regret like me over not having fooled around when it was the best time of my life. I mean, the only time of your life when you can bang tight and shapely minor teens is when you are a teen yourself. I missed my chance because of the lofty notions of better pursuits and intellectual tastes while my friends wrecked hymens all around.

Don’t miss the bus, it’s still not too late. What you do now won’t matter 1-2-5 years from now. So, go ahead and live out.

Even Neo had a smoking hot Trinity for Chrissake. There is more to life than Slashdot and computers. Feel the skirt over her skin in a club or caress her long hairs in bed. Or better still, hold the back of her soft neck and touch those lips and you would understand what is horribly wrong with nerds and the Lara Croft culture. They have given up on the real sensation. They’ve resigned. You must not.

— Fellow Retard

p.s. I still believe it’s tougher for girls. I can’t imagine taking dicks up my ass or sucking them and swallowing all that slime. They do it.

Wednesday, June the 6th, 2007

As surprising as it sounds, I’ve been paying attention to what the numerous presidential candidates have been saying recently. This is surprising not only because I’m usually of the opinion that politics is balderdash and the elections under discussion are well over a year away, but also because I’m not a citizen of this country; my opinions don’t matter and the election’s outcome is of little consequence to me.

I don’t recall paying any attention to politics back home, but that’s probably because I didn’t live there long enough after turning old enough to vote. And often times, arguments about things I don’t care about were made in languages I don’t understand… or care about.

Anyway, returning to the U.S., what baffles me about the state of affairs here is how the system still manages to hold onto a (predominantly) bipartisan system, especially when there are so many issues worth arguing over. One would assume that these differing opinions, principles, ideas… would soon spawn a multitude of parties. At least, definitely more than two major groups. I mean, even if you just looked at the “hot-button” issues, there’s a good chance your views won’t align perfectly with one party or the other. How then do you make a choice? Why then would you?

Let me put things in concrete terms here. If, hypothetically, I had a vote that mattered, I still wouldn’t know who to vote for (or even see the point in voting), because on certain issues, my views line up with the Democratic party and on others, they match the Republican party. For instance:

I believe that the country ought to be fenced, and all business should be conducted only in English—forcing everyone inside to learn the language. I also believe people who’ve entered unlawfully, or outsiders who are generally a thorn in your sight, ought to be booted out. The last thing any country needs is an erosion of its culture.

I believe that the Iraq war is unjust, and puts a tremendous undue burden on the country. It’s not the U.S.’s problem if Iraq falls apart—does anyone really give a fuck?—they have to cut their losses and retreat as soon as possible, saving money and lives.

There is no war on terrorism, it’s a bumper-sticker slogan designed to distract the public from real problems, and an umbrella under which to silently erode human rights. From illegal wire-tapping, to the PATRIOT act, to secret prisons in Guantanamo Bay, you know things have gone too far. The people we’re supposed to be fearing are not as technically-sophisticated as the fear-mongers and war-mongers would like us to believe. Iran and nuclear warheads? Hah! How old is their nuclear science program again?

I believe in tax-cuts for the richest portion of the populace. They’ve worked hard to get where they are today, and they’ve done a lot of good for society during their ascent, like creating a ton of jobs for the middle-class. They deserve to enjoy the fruit of their labours. Besides, I fully intend on being one of these rich folk and enjoying myself some day; I’ve worked at it long enough, and the last thing I need is 40% of my income being taxed away to help someone else.

I believe in science, and that theology has no place in science classrooms. Humans evolved from apes as apes did so from their predecessors. It’s the way it is, and did not require the “hand of god.” Evolution is not a “theory,” it’s a fact. Global warming is not a “theory,” it’s a fact. Study of human embryos is not “killing innocent babies,” it’s exploratory science; science that will help you some day. Lumping all that you don’t understand under the actions of the “glorious hand of god” is the reason why this country is so anti-intellectual. And the reason why this trend has to be reversed, if the U.S. wants to compete, technologically, in today’s global economy.

I don’t believe in social programs like “universal health care” for all, because I know all this means is that the rich will be made to pay for it, while the poor will just sit down and reap all the benefits. That’s not fair. If you want your medicines, pay for it like everyone else. Or move to Canada.

This does not mean I don’t believe in helping my fellow man (or woman). By all means, support an orphan or three. I just don’t believe mandating it through taxation and social programs is the right way of going about it.

I believe that sexual preferences play no role in determining how good a person you are, and that gay people should have the right to marry and enjoy all the benefits married couples enjoy. Where one sticks their penis is their own business, and besides, is there anyone out there that doesn’t find the concept of two women naked together hot? Remember people, gay people includes lesbians too.

In fact, I strongly oppose affirmative action, favour vaccinating girls against cervical cancer so they can have safer sex, favour the death penalty, favour strict gun control, support a woman’s right to abort her foetus, if she’s talked to the father about it.

So, what could I do? What does everyone do?

Apart from starting their own party and declaring themselves a candidate… only to be later lambasted as a “spoiler” in the race, of course.

Update: Some of the comments below, originally published under a public domain licence, are reproduced from

Sunday, April the 8th, 2007

Yes, I could have loaded the dishwasher and forgotten to turn it on.
No, I didn’t “Not turn it on to spite you.” Perhaps I’m just scatterbrained?

One thing that women—including moms—don’t understand is that it’s not always about something specific. And more importantly, it’s not always about them. Another person could just like or dislike or love or hate or whatever them purely independent of who they are as a person. Really, they can.

I don’t have reasons for feeling a certain way, or not, toward anyone. I just do. That’s why they’re called feelings and if they were as rational as thoughts, then I’d have clear, valid reasons. Don’t you think?

I wish the world would let me be. Let me feel like I want to feel, whatever that might mean. I just want to feel unconstricted. I don’t want another’s life intimately tied to my emotions or thoughts or decisions; that’s just too much pressure. Is that so wrong?

I feel backed into a corner. I feel trapped and choked. There, I said it.

It’s hilarious (actually, it’s not at all) how I’ve even become so troubled about saying anything here for fear of who I would inadvertently hurt. Between the stalkers, friends, relatives, lovers, exs… it becomes too hard to actually form, let alone express, a real sentiment. I long for a time when this was an untethered forum, where I could speak my mind. Where I could yell and scream and curse and no one would know.

Who am I kidding? I long for a time when I wouldn’t need to yell or scream or curse.

Friday, November the 10th, 2006

(There is nothing yours truly enjoys more than taking a random personal observation, warping it way out of proportion and generalising it to all (wo)mankind.)

It’s no secret that women perpetually yearn for men to “communicate more.” Actually, let me rephrase that. (It’s almost no problem if they just yearned for it wistfully, and sighed softly to themselves in disappointment. But no) Women don’t just yearn for men to communicate more, they often demand it. You know, the incessant phone calls (about why there aren’t enough phone calls!), the constant need to express how lacking their man is when it comes to expression, the need to discuss over and over topics that have already been beaten to death… that sort of thing.

Perhaps they don’t realise that men are entirely capable of expression, just without so much emphasis on the god damned talking. Men are clearly more physical, and vastly prefer touchy-feely means of showing (and being shown) how we (you) feel. That is all ladies, it is not like he doesn’t want to express something to you, he just tires easily when having to go on and on translating to a tongue you’ll understand. In case you haven’t realised, for every time you’ve thought “Oh my god, it’s 3 A.M and I have a meeting tomorrow. Why am I still wasting so much time having <insert pleasurable activity here>?” he’s gone, “Oh my god, why am I still talking to her? We’ve gone so many hours yapping without <insert pleasurable activity here>.”

So there you have it; the simple truth. If you’re so concerned about not conversing, start communicating in a tongue he can understand. Remember that he’s the sorts who probably shaves one leg when alone, to feel like he’s rubbing against a woman’s when he sleeps.

Sunday, January the 1st, 2006

In response to my earlier post on lacking companionship, I received this via e-mail; from this talented woman.

hey…i remembered this fwd when i was reading your lacking companionship post. Girls whose eyes light up when they talk to you(and the rest), may not be otherwise engaged. Half the time they’re lamenting how correct this is/seems:

1. The nice men are ugly.
2. The handsome men are not nice.
3. The handsome and nice men are gay.
4. The handsome, nice and heterosexual men are married.
5. The men who are not so handsome, but are nice men, have no money.
6. The men who are not so handsome, but are nice men with money, think we are only after their money.
7. The handsome men without money are after our money.
8. The handsome men, who are not so nice and somewhat heterosexual, don’t think we are beautiful enough.
9. The men who think we are beautiful, that are heterosexual, somewhat nice and have money, are cowards.
10. The men who are somewhat handsome, somewhat nice and have some money and, thank God, are heterosexual, are shy and NEVER MAKE THE FIRST MOVE!!!!
11. The men who never make the first move, automatically lose interest in us when we take the initiative.


Men are like a fine wine. They all start out like grapes, and it’s our job to stomp on them and keep them in the dark until they mature into something you’d like to have dinner with.

It’s by the grace of God that we live!!!!

Honestly, I’m somewhere between 8 & 11, depending on my mood, and the ambient lighting.

Need more detail? Here you go:
8—Sometimes you just don’t find her attractive. It’s not a crime. What is a crime is the way men handle it. We (at least I) can never tell that straight to a woman. So we (I) will concoct numerous (even if implausible) stories and weasel our way out; somehow always breaking her heart.
9—We aren’t being cowards. Sometimes, when you are attractive, in a waaay-out-of-our-league way, we just save you the trouble of having to shoot us down by shooting ourselves down. It’s not a crime, it’s a defence mechanism.
10—Same as 9.
11—This is weird, but only because it’s partially true. If a random hot woman makes the first move on us (us, of all people), she has to have some issue. And I can do better than a woman who’d want me. (Of course?) I lose interest.


But these admissions are not why I put this up. The reason I’m putting this up here is to get feedback from the women in the audience. Are these the sorts of things that run through your minds? Does this mean, hypothetically, that if the guy is nice, somewhat-handsome, somewhat-brave, heterosexual, somewhat-rich, thinks you’re beautiful, doesn’t think you’re after his money, won’t be threatened by you making the first move—you’ll make the first move?

Men can chime in too. But your words will be gleefully ignored.

Saturday, October the 22nd, 2005

I know we’ve been through what I’m going to get into a few times, but you’re going to have to sit through it yet again. If you’re leaving, rejoice in the news that there are a bunch of stellar movies playing sporadically on TV now.

Meet Joe Black, The Others, Phone Booth and Mallrats.

If you have the time and haven’t seen them, do. If you don’t have the time and haven’t seen them, make the time and do. If you have seen them before, see them again. I don’t use words like stellar often, and there are few hotter than Claire Forlani. No, I’m not kidding.

Rather than being packed with hyperglycemia and balloons (as they ought to be), birthdays have now become the new hotbed for critical (and often depressing) life evaluations. By now, you’re familiar with the depressing bits (which recur often, highlighting the numerous things I haven’t achieved), but today I’d just like to point out that such introspection also helps one clearly articulate a lot of things:

What it is they really want, what they want to become, what they want to make of this life, … and other things of this nature.

This has been further fuelled by a bunch of recent workshops, where I’ve had to attempt to put down on a piece of paper the answers to the questions—”What do I want to do?” and “Where do I want to do it at?”.

During the course of my life, since when I was a kid, I have wanted to be different things—a teacher, a singer, a composer, and a chef—at various points of time. With time, this has narrowed down to one of those, and today, almost all of what I do is geared toward learning things and preparing to share what I’ve learnt. I am genuinely passionate about certain things, and don’t consider it a chore to learn in these areas, and am just as gratified by the thought of being responsible for another understanding those ideas from me.

So, it seems perfect that I want to be an academician—an explorer, researcher, teacher, mentor… and so on.

Entering graduate school, I had vague ambitions of doing all this at a “distinguished institution” (read top tier research school). Now that I’ve seen the sorts of stress and additional (not necessarily fun) responsibilities involved, I’m seriously rethinking the prospect. I sat down and carefully pondered over (REALLY hard) what I really wanted, and it dawned on me—I want leisure. All I really want is freedom from (wordly) responsibilites and the time and space to do exactly as I please, in my own pace. All I ask for in return is food on my table (and for my family, if I can’t find a partner who’s OK with footing all the bills) and a warm bed.

It saddens me when I realize these utopian dreams may never materialize. Where am I going to find a line of work that pays me to do what I want, without any guarantees of anything useful in return?

I didn’t want to compose or sing. I didn’t want to bake or cook. I didn’t want to learn or teach. I just wanted the space and time to sit down and ponder over stuff without any worries as to “real” needs. Actually, it’s not that I “didn’t want” any of those things. I really enjoy them, I just didn’t want to be doing them on someone else’s clock, with someone else keeping tab of my (rate of) progress and toward someone else’s ends.

I just want the freedom to work, think, play with anything I want to, with no greater end in mind.

I know I am going to be so disappointed with my life.

Fun “science”: It has just come to my attention that pollution makes for more girls. Really, pollution is a reproductive stress, and the human race tries to repopulate itself the only way it knows how, make more women by skewing future births’ sex ratios toward the fairer, more attractive, sex.

All I have to say is, gentlemen, start your (big fat noisy inefficient) SUVs. Ladies too, you know you want to.

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Saturday, September the 11th, 2004

I have a very strong belief system. Though I consider myself an annoyingly rational person, I also seem to have unexplainably strong faith in things that don’t necessarily fall under the realm of reason. At times, I am oddly superstitious, and I won’t blame you if you find my antics laughable. For obvious reasons (maintaining a serious tone, if it wasn’t obvious enough), I am not getting into those details. As for the things I am willing to admit however, I strongly believe in things like karma.

Now you might think that’s the sort of thing a poor farmer might tell his child after the kid comes running crying to him and tells him how he has to work so hard on the field all day and go hungry, while rich neighbour girl gets to pig out all day and does seemingly nothing toward it. I haven’t been through an analogous circumstance, and no one’s had to make something like this up to pacify me, but I believe in it. I think I sort of like this concept because of the nature of the global governing “balance law” feel. It’s always consequence. You always get what’s coming to you. You’re always the one in control.

Stuff happens. Computers crash, women leave you, planes crash into buildings… . Some good, some quite bad. Some with reason, some without. You’ve got to be able to relax and deal with it. The world’s been good to me. I’ve done nothing particularly of note in return. I haven’t worked toward anything, but at almost every point things have magically fallen in place without reason. And since I don’t like things happening “without reason”, I will make up a pseudo reason and believe in it very strongly if I have to. I attribute it to karma. I must have been exceptionally good to the world at some point, and I’m reaping the benefits. Actually, it’s not entirely true that I don’t work towards things. I just tend to do it in a rather roundabout way. I’m a gentle, kind, nice, generous, understanding person most of the time to the world, and (but only because?) I expect no less in return. You have a tough exam the next day, you could work real hard on some differential equation you’re not going to solve, or you could spend the day helping an illiterate kid take her first steps on her path to literacy, and hope karma does its bit.

People, black rappers mostly, scream things like – “Don’t fish with me because I’ll fish you (I’m guessing in a bad way)” or something. Now I sing “I don’t fish with the system because I don’t plan to be fished by it”. And actually end up doing “I do fish with the system, but only when I’ve reasoned out to myself I have outsmarted it.”

Which unfortunately translates to, when I feel I have karma to burn, I have no real problems in being evil myself. Hey, I’ve done more than enough good to make up for it sort of thing.

You see, it’s easier to believe in an all-controlling-law, when you believe you control it.

Wednesday, June the 23rd, 2004

that made me rich. Well, richer.

Dear Sir/Madam,

My journey originated at Detroit Metro (DTW) (on flight NW68 ) and my travel route to Chennai involved stops at Amsterdam and Mumbai. I arrived at Mumbai late Tuesday (the 15th of June) evening on Northwest Airlines (flight NW42) from Amsterdam to find my luggage missing. I immediately filed a property irregularity report at the airport of which I have a photocopy. At that time, I was informed that my luggage would make it on the same flight the next evening, and would subsequently be delivered home. I was also given the contact information of the local KLM office and asked to get in touch with them for further information.

I had been on the phone with the KLM office contact given to me, and they did respond, but not very accurately. I was informed pretty much the same thing everyday – “That it would be sent home that evening”. On the morning of the 19th, when I hadn’t seen any progress over the past few days, I decided to stop by the office personally. When I arrived at the given office address, I was basically told to voice all my opinions in a mail, and the airline would do the needful. This is that mail.

When I enquired regarding compensation for this delay, I was informed that I ought to wait for my luggage. This was so that I could ascertain that everything was in order, and file for this allowance as well as for anything probably missing together. There wasn’t a form, there was no procedure indicated, and the person I spoke to wasn’t very helpful. He wasn’t even able to give me the contact details of the manager.

It’s times like this when all a passenger really needs is to hear reassuring and accurate information regarding progress. I was offered none of that. All I got were (after repeated attempts) people who didn’t seem like they cared and excuses that were laughable in a professional environment (“Oh, you know our customs sir”). While they were informing me my luggage was sent to Delhi instead of Mumbai, and that the delay was probably being caused by the time taken to transfer my customs clearance papers from Mumbai to Delhi, the tone implied that it was OK for me to be going through this because I am an Indian citizen with a permanent address in Chennai.

Presently, I am a doctoral student in the United States. Having a home here doesn’t imply it is any easier on me to handle any of this. I had no clothes, toiletry or any other essentials on me for over three days. Not all of this is about the monetary value of the items themselves. I had papers and books to help me with my work. Without them, I was pretty much sitting unproductive, twiddling thumbs waiting for them to come.

I would like to be compensated for the hardship that I have experienced and essentials that I’ve had to purchase in this waiting period. I believe fair compensation would be about 300$ (100$ a day, for 3 days) as my luggage arrived late evening on Saturday the 19th, over 3 days after the intended arrival time. I also have some of the receipts for my purchases in this period, which I will gladly furnish if requested.

This was easily one of the most unpleasant experiences I have ever had while travelling, and I don’t believe I would want to go through it again. However, I am glad that my luggage did arrive eventually, and that everything was in order. I do thank you for that.


An aside:

Of course, though I’m not sure how much me saying this is going to result in a positive transformation, I sincerely believe the Northwest counters in DTW are seriously understaffed. There were a handful of overwhelmed women handling extremely large crowds. I do understand the e-ticket machines exist to take up some of this load, and consequently staff are probably laid off on their acquisition, but they don’t seem to be doing their job adequately. The queues for the regular paper tickets for the international flights were much longer than those with e-tickets. And I also noticed a bulk of the regular staff was spending a good deal of their time helping people use the ticketing machines instead of being useful elsewhere. This doesn’t seem very productive.

I do believe my luggage and I would have made it on our intended paths, had we been handled by more than a skeleton check-in staff at that airport.

Friday, February the 20th, 2004

Under most normal circumstances, I would have cracked up every single time I heard the woman say it, but I was having a very hard time trying to laugh.

My ticket stub.

This is about my trip earlier this week to a performance of the vagina monologues. There are a bunch of reasons I didn’t write about this earlier. The biggest being life. Life is messed up, and I’ve never experienced a bigger creativity (or even just enthusiasm) zapper. I’ve just been feeling sluggish and in general, disinterested. The me I was before I morphed for a little while.

Anyway, braving along.

It all started a little while ago when I was walking past one of these ticket selling places, and I saw the little pamphlet sized poster for this act. You know, the one with the dominatrix leather boot thing, with the words “Vagina Monologues” on it. Hmm.. talking genitalia? I have to admit I had no clue what I was getting myself into. I am quite the connoisseur of the stand up comic, and for the most part assumed it was “just another show”. A good one, but nothing out of the ordinary. On to that later. So there I was, near the ticket stand and lil miss I’m so cute you have to buy a ticket was there too.

How often are you going to get a chance to use the word vagina in a conversation with a perfect stranger, and use that as humour material getting her to giggle without being slapped? Not too often, I just HAD to. Needless to say, I now had tickets to the show. And not just that, somehow the rest of it seems to be a blur, but I was now also watching Artemesia (the tale of a defiant and provocative woman artist in the 1600s!) and Kill Bill (I could describe it, but “blood”, should about cover it).

Yes, being a guy is kinda like trading brains with an imbecile, only worse. Anyway, on to the show.

Firstly, a good portion of the show wasn’t even a monologue. They weren’t even dialogues. There were so many women on stage during so many parts, even multilogues won’t cut it. And firstly (there are two firstlies, a tie) I’ve never been at a place with 2000 people or whatever with a 1:100 ratio of men to women. It was a good weird.

Initially, it felt just weird. For a long time, I didn’t see a guy. And I mean a really long time. I wasn’t being overly stared at, but I didn’t want to be some weirdo roaming around where I shouldn’t have been or some such. In a little bit, after I counted 3 or so more men, I realized I wouldn’t be stoned or however it is this half of the species deal with intruders. It rather quickly dawned on me (actually, a lot later than a normal person, but saying “quickly” makes me feel smart, and I will stick to quickly) that this wasn’t about comedy at all.

This was a front for educating people about (and attempting to end) violence against women and girls. A very very dark and disturbing theme, yet a noble cause. It was, at points of time a little too much for me to handle. I mean, in my world, the one in my head?, none of such evil exists. It took some convincing to get me to actually try to have a little fun and not puke.

Some stuff was actually quite funny. But you never really could laugh laugh, given the undertone screaming gang rapes, date rapes, genital mutilation, incest, brutality, sex trafficking, … and strangely enough … melted faces. I don’t know if it is the war, but somehow there were a lot of references to melted faces when bombs are dropped. Now, I am as compassionate and understanding as the next person, BUT THAT ISN’T SPECIFIC TO WOMEN. There would have been as many, or probably more men and boys who lost their faces to explosives too. Men don’t have magical flame retardant faces or something.

I originally planned to describe the show itself in g(l)ory(ious) detail, but I’ve chosen a different (and yes, obviously easier) approach. I’ve linked to an MP3 [3.24 MB] for a sneak peek, incase you HAVE TO EXPERIENCE THIS NOW. This was one of the relatively “funny” ones. There was this one hilarious bit involving a woman detailing on stage the different stages and sorts of moaning. Basically, she was up on stage for 20 or so minutes moaning.

My favourite? The college girl moan. “Oh Oh Ooooh, I should be studying, Ohhh oh, but I..forgive me.. ooooh”. Finally, a bit where I was laughing without worrying about the ultra serious messages and facts that were being conveyed. And obviously, the other woman, who kept calling it her coochie snorcher. Like who knew? The clitoris has TWICE the nerve ending concentration as the penis, and its sole purpose is to please the woman. Sheesh. Some halves of the species have all the luck.

(Obligatory, yet moot question. I am not equipped to answer it, but that’s never stopped me before.)
If my vagina could talk what would it say?
Umm… “Good god almighty! I can TALK.”?

I don’t know what it is, but the term vagina warrior keeps conjuring up the image of Xena, the warrior princess in my head. On a more serious note, you probably ought to check out their sites and how to help them if you happen to have this random piggy bank in your heart in which you store all those “I must give back so much to the world today” coins. Now is your chance. Make that huge withdrawal.

And yes, I just have to say it again, coooooochie snorcher.
You know you want to too. Go ahead.

Coooochie snorcher.

Monday, February the 2nd, 2004


I do love mocking things. I am not talking about “point and jeer kicking sand in their faces” mocking. I am not talking Sienfeld style “what’s the deal with mayonnaise” style humour either. I prefer a more darker and drier approach. Sounding perfectly normal and rational, just highlight a blatantly obvious (to me) observation related to how stupid we really are. Something like an understated Simpsons episode without the gore. Usually bordering on cold or hurtful, but never, primarily because it isn’t directed at anything or anyone in particular. Just the generic dummy who fits that description, who everyone shrugs off as the “other guy”.

Therefore, society and me are my favourite targets. My safest targets. I tend to offend no one in particular, and if I do, it’s just me.

Then there are some days when people make it so easy I can’t help it. I know I am being mean, but I can’t stop because they’re sitting ducks holding a gun pointed at themselves AND hypnotising me trying to get me to pull the trigger. And I oblige. But only because they made me.

It’s hilarious. Hilariously rude, but hilarious none the less.

One of the undocumented chores of being a student at a university (who puts up contact information at too many places) is answering emails from clueless blokes. I am, if I do say so myself, very good about it. No canned answers. I do my research, take my time, and answer them aptly and to the best of my abilities. I maintain a kind, understanding and generally helpful air. These people have a whole lot of nonsense to deal with after this. Last thing they need is a rude / hope crushing / generally evil / misinformed email from me. I have never really received a decent thank you note, or seen or heard from these people ever again, but I do it like some karmic duty. It’s not like I ever mailed anybody when I wanted to know something. But then again, I am I. I was “too cool” for that, and “just knew” all that I needed to know.

Anyway, there are a few of those sitting duck cases here as well. And somehow, an impersonal email to someone I probably won’t ever communicate with ever again makes me feel a whole lot less guilty when I rip them to shreds over the smallest of things. A bunch of typos and flawed grammar say. I don’t intend to. Sometimes their demanding tone just puts me off, and I strongly dislike the person. I am in no frame of mind to tone down inherent impulses. Therefore I mock. Mocking plays a huge role in my “dealing with” and “putting things in perspective” abilities.

For whatever reasons (the uni webserver providing it as a free service for one) I have a guestbook for this site. Not that too many real people use it anymore. It now functions more like a spam honeypot. I rarely check it. But for some reason I clicked it today and woah.

Monday, February 02, 2004 — 10:18:46 (EST)
Name: Obfuscatedforhisprivacy SINGH– Email:
(Of course, I said his. Obfuscatedforhisprivacy sounds like a him. Besides, women aren’t stupid.)
Location: jamshedpur, jharkhand india
# i want to know that my admit card has been mistikaly printed as all the suvject in my previous records but i want to give onlymathematic as my subject please make me the corection

Now I have nothing particularly against Singhs, or people from “Jharkand”, or people who don’t know the difference between an academic service office contact addresses and random website guestbooks, or people who can’t spell for nuts, or people who don’t know of the existence of punctuation, or people who don’t believe in capitalization (on top of not knowing the existence of punctuation so that I can at least figure out when a sentence ends and another begins), or have extreme grammar issues, or don’t realize it might be better to insert spaces between words, or lack the time to proofread JUST A LITTLE, or blatantly attempt to not make sense.

I have no idea what this person was trying to say. But it is just all so easy isn’t it?

Like I said, I am not an evil person.


1 people conned into wasting their bandwidth.