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Wednesday, August the 19th, 2009

It’d been nearly a week and that queasy feeling in Jack’s tummy wasn’t going away. He’d pondered the events of these past days over and over, and it wasn’t clear to him what bothered him more—what had happened, or the way in which she was handling it.

They’d enjoyed a wonderful evening in the park together. She’d lovingly stuffed their picnic basket with a number of delicious goodies, including his favourite snack: praline ice-cream sandwiches. The children playing football in the background, the noisy party-goers at their barbecue grill, the nature-lover meticulously cataloguing different kinds of birds—all the activity around—was lost to them. They were in their own little world. The hours had flown by as they cuddled and conversed, and it was nauseatingly-cute the way she kept insisting on feeding him.

It wasn’t conscious at first, but even through her smiles, Jack could sense the discomfort brewing in her eyes. It didn’t come as a surprise to him when she abruptly told him she’d like to end the evening and go home. By now the agony was apparent in her eyes, and Jack helped her up and cleaned up a bit before they left. Though he had a hunch as to what the problem was, it was clear that she wasn’t in any frame of mind to talk. And so he didn’t ask. She’d always had the most painful periods of any of the women he’d known, and he instinctively gazed at her cute derrière, not to gawk at her as he so often did, but to examine her clothes for spotting. What he saw—the growing blotches of deep red—didn’t leave any doubt in his mind. Unaware of the seriousness of the situation, he wrapped an arm around her and helped her home.

Her blue jeans were a shade of purple by the time they reached.

She wasn’t crying on their way home. She wasn’t crying when she told him. She had an unconcerned look on her face, and as she puffed her 93rd cigarette for the day, she casually tossed out that she’d miscarried. Though he knew that he wasn’t the father, Jack was distraught. The more he attempted to console her (thinking, hoping she needed it), the more she mocked him for his foolishness. She found it rather silly he should care so much for something not his.

He should’ve realised it when she kept up her heavy smoking and drinking even after finding out about the baby. She never wanted it.

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Monday, August the 10th, 2009

So here’s what I just realised: I’m in an unfulfilling relationship. It took me a long time to arrive at that conclusion, and, quite frankly, I’m still not certain whether I can clearly articulate what the problem is. But here’s me trying.

I’ve come to realise over the course of my existence that happiness and sadness, levels of prosperity or contentment and a host of other things are just states of being. As hard as society has tried to condition me into thinking otherwise, I firmly believe that none of these states are inherently better or worse than any of the others. They’re all little more than strokes in the rich canvas of life; some cheerful and colourful, others deep and morose. And as with any masterpiece that isn’t doused with pretty pastel shades, a life needn’t be filled with joy and contentment for it to be meaningful, moving or even beautiful.

I don’t see why more people don’t see this. Why is there a constant quest for happiness and prosperity and popularity? What’s wrong with knowing fully well who you are and what you have—and being fine with everything, including how you feel about it?

Now, I’m generally a very negative person. (But you already knew that.) I don’t see it as a problem, and I don’t want to fight to change it. And this brings us back to what I was trying to say in the first place. I’m in a relationship where I’m never allowed to be morose without incident. I can’t be bitter or sarcastic, nor can I say mean things about the world which I feel has denied me so much. I can’t peacefully sit in a corner and mope, nor can I hold conversations where I repeatedly bring up past mistakes or revisit bad memories.

But guess what, all that stuff—the queasy feeling that comes in my tummy from all that stuff—feels right to me. I don’t want to constantly talk only about positive things. I don’t want to plan for and “fix” any of these things in the future. I don’t even want to fucking smile sometimes. I just want to be who I be, and not have the conversation topic turn toward the one thing I dread the most: Women and their insecurities. How she doesn’t feel adequate. How she’s not pretty enough to satiate me anymore. How she’s not a wonderful enough aspect of my life to make me cheery.

A man can’t just be melancholic anymore and have it be nothing to do with another.

  • 07.31.09: “I’m less unhappy with you than away from you.” Why is it so hard for women to see that that’s a compliment? (4)
  • 10.24.08: It’s a pity men can’t pull off dangly things as well as women can. Comments Off on It’s a pity men can’t pull off…
Wednesday, May the 7th, 2008

It’s strange how things worked out, but almost as if it were planned, my extremely annoying and painful sore throat and cold cleared completely for the few days of my recent trip to L.A. But sadly for you, I promptly reverted to my unwell self on returning home, resulting in such a delayed update.

(Kinda like the temporary parting of the seas to allow divine beings to cross. Except, there weren’t any divine beings involved here, nor were there any seas to cross.)

I’m so glad (and quite proud, actually) that I decided to go through with my trip. The entire experience was a blast and threw me so much out of my element, it was exactly what I yearned to feel. While things were rather hectic, and with my inexperience frequently coming to fore, taxing, and sometimes even terrifying (I don’t recall ever being yelled at like this since I was in third grade), I got to hang out with a bunch of people whose lives are completely different from my own, opening my eyes to perspectives so very different from mine; which is exactly why I took the trip.

The entire “training” over these few days revolved around hammering home a couple of crucial ideas:

  1. Ensure you have a clear concept in mind before rushing to set up a shot.
  2. You’re responsible for everything in your shot’s frame, so be very aware of what’s in it, and why.

These instructions seem pretty basic, but with the whole environment frequently deteriorating to something of a chaotic scene from a high-pressure creative-competition-based reality show (Top Chef, Project Runway), they were easy to forget. From the oafs nearly starting fires and nearly breaking furniture, to the big wigs and drama queens needing everything to go precisely “the one true way” or you surely got what was coming, to the 30-few year old women huddled on the floor crying after being lambasted for deviating from “the one true way,” the whole place was a circus. An entertaining, magical circus where you actually caught a glimpse of the pressures involved in being a professional photographer—and picked up lessons on handling it.

Tuesday, April the 8th, 2008

I awoke last night in a cold sweat.

Actually, I awoke once many nights ago but I’ve just been too lazy to write about it. In fact, I wasn’t even in a cold sweat at the time—I just threw that in there for effect.

Like I was saying…

I awoke in a panic late last night, extremely conscious of my own singleness. After unsuccessfully racking my brain for the thoughts that concluded in my anxiety attack, I promptly shifted my focus to how I was going to remedy my situation.

And that’s when it started: I began cataloguing the list of people in my life I’ve genuinely been attracted to (at one point or another).

Now, I don’t have a really clear idea how that intellectual exercise helped me, but I’m now desperate to know from them the answer to the obvious question: “Are you married/betrothed/taken… or aren’t you?” And so, I’ve decided to take the bold step of just asking them. I intend on doing this via e-mail because that makes it all cold and impersonal, just ripe for this sort of occasion.

I think it’s going to read something like this:

Dear Admiree,

I’ve always had a bit of a crush on you, but never the guts to tell you so.

Hoping I’m not too late,

Of course, there are some shady aspects to this plan. In particular:

  1. I intend on sending this same letter to about three different women.
  2. In every instance, I’d be utterly devastated if I were to find out they’ve moved-on with their lives and want to have nothing to do with me. And this is where I believe my great plan falls apart.

In any event, I think the reason I’m bringing this up here is because I want to run it by you first. Just what would you do if something like this arrived at your doorstep?

Wednesday, February the 13th, 2008

“But do you feel she’s pretty?” I push on, knowing fully well I can’t implicitly trust her answer. My mother has this odd way of rating the attractiveness of women, and someone who’s a 9 in her eyes is realistically more like a 6. But I chose to ask anyway, for I’d decided to let such details factor into my life’s decisions.

You see, as slowly as things have been progressing, they’ve generally evolved positively and I now have few job options on hand—spanning Europe and the United States. I’ve even received official word from the Homeland Security-types that I am not evil and can legally pursue employment in this country.

But even so, my life has been relatively stagnant. The sticking point seems to be nothing in particular other than me circumspectly dragging my feet—hoping to carefully evaluate the pros and cons of every one of these opportunities, so as to make the one true right decision™.

Incorrectly reading this to be depression-driven sluggishness, my mother occasionally tries to help out by stepping in and helping with an other entirely different problem—mate selection. Not wanting to really exert herself however, she sticks to her tiny, close-knit grapevine and attempts to casually bring up in passing conversation her friends’ nieces and daughters. And since my work search is rather wide, geographically, there are times when it snags one of these women as well. At which point I push her for details, for I am evil like that.

Hey, if you’re going through so much rigour to make the one true right decision™, you might as well work all the angles with all the facts, right?

Friday, October the 26th, 2007

Much of the recent silence you’ve been noticing is because I’ve been busy tying up loose ends, and attempting to return to some semblance of normalcy. It’s proving harder than I expected to get out of “technical writing” mode and into “daily whiner” mode, but I hope to get there soon. For starters, I’ve indefinitely shelved a bunch of nascent entries that soon turned very geeky.

Working feverishly against my quest to just chill and focus on other things, the higher-ups have all decided to jump on the “You’ve got to try this faculty position, it’s right up your alley. Ooh, and this one, and oh, that one too!” bandwagon. Honestly, I don’t believe I’m nearly ready for a step such as this—besides, I have so much else to sort out in my sorry little life—and that’s why I’ve opted for the Cambridge gig. I’m looking for some breathing room, and I’m hoping it will afford me some interesting opportunities, like getting to tour parts of Europe.

There was one thing that came up during a related discussion recently that I wish I’d known and followed in other aspects of my life. At least, in one. Someone sagely mentioned that I ought to try for interesting positions—whether or not they are exactly what I am looking for. The experience that I’d gather while interviewing, giving talks and generally going through the process a few times would allow me to hone my act; allowing me to really impress future higher-ups when I’m trying for a position at a place I really want to be.

It turns out, the same thing is true of talking to women.

Spending ages closed up because no one around fancies you enough to evoke any emotion, or even the need to spark a conversation, is the perfect way to rot your (already meagre, in cases such as mine) communication skills. And when the cutest, sweetest woman comes along, you will botch the encounter up because you don’t know what to do. She’s clearly trying hard to nudge you along and make things comfortable for you, but you end up blowing it anyway; constantly shooting her down with your honorary ogre-worthy charmlessness.

Perhaps if someone had been as gung-ho about my social life as people are about my academic life, I’d have been constantly reminded to try my hand at things—even when they don’t seem to matter—so I’d be ready for when they really did.

I wish I were bright enough to manufacture a reason to see her again.

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Sunday, October the 7th, 2007

Cos there’s so little else occupying my head.

This entry (or a couple, I haven’t finalised on how I plan to put these thoughts across) will surely ruffle some feathers, but what the heck? it’s not like anyone’s going to be reading after all this downtime.

1. It’s not like I am drawn to women who are with other people. It’s just, anyone who I deem worthy of being drawn-to already happens to be with someone else.

2. It’s not fair that the women (from my part of the world) who entered grad school around the time I did were as hideous as they were. What’s worse is that the influx has been getting about twice as attractive each year. Refer the figure below for details.

Increasing hotness

This is most unfair, because I have no avenue to talk to those part of the current crop.

3. It’s not fair that the only person—who, incidentally, crossing the street in her halter top routinely causes accidents—whom you somehow manage to concoct a legitimate reason to spend some time with happens to be a Bible thumper.

Hmm. Perhaps if I trick her into making me one of her pet “let’s enlighten him for his own good” projects, things will look up.

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

Thursday, May the 17th, 2007

Have you ever had that sickening feeling when you know you don’t want something, but also know that deep down, you really need it? It’s such a paralysing emotion to experience; being unable to move neither forward nor back, stuck only in the harsh realisation that whatever you do, you’re about to end up unhappy, unsatiated, or both.

I believe life would be simpler if it were more like fairy-tales; where what’s right and what’s wrong is starkly delineated. Without any shades of grey to get lost in, you can clearly paint yourself black, or white.

With me thus far?

Good, now replace the whole spiel about “being painted black or white” with “desiring women or men.”

Have you ever had that sickening feeling when you know you don’t want something, but also know that deep down, you really need it?

Tuesday, May the 15th, 2007

I know we’ve been through this a few times, but don’t you think that after being here for so long, it’s still really ironic that the only women around I find cute are so out of my league, they wouldn’t even be caught dead talking to me?

And, the women who really want to talk to me are so bleh that I can’t imagine them good for much more than a laugh… at their expense?

I really must rethink my strategy.

And, on a somewhat connected note, the people I’ve been running into around town just seem so beautiful of late. I mean that literally, superlatively so, and not in some weird way. At least, not weirder than having the urge to tell every woman you cross that she’s the most exquisite creature you’ve ever seen. And not be lying about it.

It’s like the town has been invaded by angels—the kinds without wings. Or perhaps they’re alluring elves without the pointy ears. Or perhaps, the town has been flooded by a slew of new fairies—the kinds without pointy ears or wings.

OK, I don’t know where they’re stemming from, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? All this means is that there is now an even greater abundance of women who will not talk to me.

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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.

Tuesday, January the 16th, 2007

It’s a few A.M. and I can’t really sleep. I’m jotting this down as I stroll around outside my hotel room, almost as if I’m searching for another insomniac to alleviate the loneliness. Where, by ‘insomniac,’ I probably mean ‘sexually frustrated person.’ But they’re the same thing right? Right?

This would be a lot easier if I were curled up at home under familiar settings, but no, I’m stuck in some dingy hotel in what is (allegedly) the most happening city my country has to offer. You see, I’m here for a friend’s wedding, a sort of pompous “mostly north-Indian, slightly south-Indian tradition fused” affair; one which has actually been rather charming to experience. There has been much festivity over the past few days here, epitomised by the elegantly-dressed folk and their song and dance… and drink.

The wedding gift lovingly crafted by Crayola with my pictures over the past many nights was a huge hit; complete with phrases like “this is easily the best gift ever” and “I hope you know our kids and you make it to their wedding,” and culminated with my embarrassment on the dais as I was forced to accept hugs and laurels as I was presenting it.

Upon repeated explanation of the piece,

A clear-enough digital version to see some detail:
Complete digital collage.

A crappy picture of the final product showing the mostly-transparent framing and size in relation to a couch:
Complete printed collage.

I began to behave like this masterful story-teller on a book tour—pausing for effect when somebody was gawking wide-eyed, and overemphasising the corny bits I knew people were greedily eating up. While all this was rip-roaring fun superficially, I was furious deep down (What’s new, you say?). Apart from the usual anger triggers, I ended up having to deal with a bit more than I’d bargained for. Harping on specifics never did anyone any good, so I’ll leave you with a couple of unrelated observations:

  1. North-Indian women—at least the ones who were brave enough to show a lot of skin—have the smoothest, creamiest backs I have ever seen.
  2. While instinctively salivate-worthy, they—the ones I was brave enough to talk properly to—still sound as dumb as one would imagine.

Which brings us full circle. Good night.

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