Category: General

(A) paramount. It’s the only reason I make love!
(B) delightful. I enjoy them immensely, but they aren’t the be-all and end-all of our intimacy.
(C) immaterial. I don’t care about them; I derive great contentment from the closeness we share.
(D) a necessary evil. I can’t get him to talk to me unperturbed unless I calm him down.
(E) something else. (Elaborate below.)

Please leave your selection in the comments below, and tell your friends to too. Be loud.

(This post will seem somewhat hackneyed, but that’s only because it is.)

I did a good thing yesterday. Something that I am sure my parents would be proud of if they knew; and something I am sure you, my loyal audience, would adore me even more as a result of too.

Alas, I won’t be informing anyone what I did because that’d just be cheapening things by bragging.

There’s this girl with a soft, pretty face (and gentle smile) I run into often who seems to have a penchant for these huge, ugly black boots. I mean, there she is looking all sweet and dainty… with those grotesque things trying to make her out to be all biker-chick’ey and dominatrix’ey.

How does one go about telling people like this how we feel… without getting slapped?

(This is a true story from a bus stop. Well, mostly true.)

(To set the scene, let me tell you that the following happens as it is snowing… copiously.)

Screaming Cute Girl In Her Socks: Where the hell is the fucking bus?
SCGINHS: Where the fucking hell is the bus? My feet are killing me!

(Everyone looks at her like she’s a crazy person, and are tempted to ask her why she isn’t wearing the pair of shoes she’s HOLDING IN HER (cute) HANDS. And she glares back at everyone in turn.)

SCGINHS: WHAT? These’d never go with my pants!

There’s a teeny black thong with a teenier red bow tied to it hung on my nearest neighbour’s door handle.

How is one supposed to interpret this?

Just curious. Or something.

I’m going to keep this short because the harsh glow of the screen annoys me. And, by “annoys me,” I mean that I am on the verge of throwing up.

You see, yours truly has been plenty sick all of this week, and the general pressures and trauma and workload I’ve been subjected to have ensured that my issues have spiralled well out of control. I’ve been asleep—passed out, more accurately—for over twenty of the past twenty-four hours, and I still feel near-dead drained. My head is pounding and I know how it feels like to be dumb. (As in mute; not stupid. We’ve had our fair share of daftisms.) My bleeding throat has decided to stop functioning and I can’t communicate with anything more than hoarse, barely-audible whispers. Also, I am getting sick of my diet which as primarily revolved around a plethora of soups and teas… and the occasional cognac.

But hey, at least I don’t get slapped when I huddle up close to attractive women and whisper into their ears as I “talk” to them!

(As you’re painfully aware, I’ve been unable to do this for a long time. I am not going to delve into the details, but let’s just say that I’ve been busy, and I was trying to match up to some arbitrary standard that I just can’t reach in this frame of mind. I apologise to any readers who are expecting thought-provoking, skillfully-worded content—this is not that at all.)

I am most definitely not what you would call religious, though I’d like to believe that I am being watched over by a higher power. Not one to take part in ritualistic-formalities (and trust me, there is a ton of that amongst my people), I just mutter my little thank-yous on occasion, and go about my day. I don’t really pray, or frequent temples, or… you know, do the whole organised-religion thing very well. But lately (alright, yesterday), I had the urge to just lie prostrate on the floor for the longest time… begging… for everything in my sorry life to fix itself.

Yes, I know what you’re mumbling: “Great way to fix things, jackass.”

Shut up.

I don’t want to have the kinds of conversations I am having recently. I don’t want to have the sorts of thoughts and urges that’ve cropped up. I don’t want to deal with mounds of tension and stress without a hint of relief. I don’t want the nightmares, and I most definitely don’t want the convulsions.

I am generically quite good to the world, what the fuck is its problem with me?

(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.

(Because I have so much time to work on my core strengths…) I’ve decided to work on a new web site to showcase the work of some talented Indian photographers. These designs are preliminary, but what do you think? Which do you like better? Why?

I intend for things to eventually feel like this site.

I know I’ve been lax about updating the journal, but I have to let you know that my last week was the worst I’ve had in years. Naïvely, I’d assumed that since I was older (and more responsible?), I wouldn’t ever have to spend a night working in the lab again.

I came home perhaps three nights last week. Perhaps.

As tired and spent as I am, I write this entry with a surprising feeling of accomplishment. During the course of the year, I’ve managed to learn (begin learning) something I’ve always wanted to, and was brave enough to give a talk on it too!

Perhaps normal-sounding entries will resume shortly. Perhaps.

It’s halloween season, and apparently, dressing up[1] as a whore seems to be a wildly popular choice.

Not like I’m complaining.

[1] Down?

Let’s pause for a second, so we can all catch our breaths and recall what I was saying earlier, shall we?

Usually, in circumstances such as the one I was describing, I would have gotten wildly angry with everything (including her) the instant I casually glanced at the group; and left the premises soon thereafter to avoid further perturbation. But today was different, and therein lies the epiphany: Remain calm and look around, everything is not how it first seems; there is so much beauty that will go unnoticed otherwise.

And now that we’re all on the same page again, let’s resume our story.

For what seemed like an eternity thereafter, she was looking straight past the guy she was sitting with (as he was busy ignoring her) and staring intently into my eyes as her luscious lips broke out into the most exquisite of smiles. I wasn’t consciously aware of what I was doing, but I distinctly recall that my meal was soon forgotten as I lost myself in her gaze. I was slowly jolted back to my senses as I watched her cover up her top under a beige jacket she’d just returned with from the coat-rack; I realised that they were ready to leave.

And then, the most unbelievable thing happened.

The others left for a bit to grab their warmer clothes, and I, drawn to her gaze not much unlike a moth to a flame slowly got up and teetered toward her, smiling softly as I stammered, “Uhh… hello, I’m Jack, I couldn’t help but …”

I’m going out to dinner tomorrow; and I’m not going alone.

I was trying to snag myself a copy of Fedora Core 6 earlier today and I ran into this:

Oh, the irony of it all!

I understand that the Fedora Core people trust CentOS over their own OS, but to trust it over Red Hat? Couldn’t they afford the licensing?

I had an epiphany of sorts earlier today.

Because of the kind of lifestyle I lead (Read: “Being a loner…”), I often end up doing a lot of things on my own. These include anything from going out unaccompanied to dinner or the movies, to more extravagant things like solitary trips across the globe. While I often make it seem like this is the sort of life I actively chose for myself, anyone paying more than perfunctory attention will recognise that I am not always thrilled by the state of affairs; and that I am struggling without a handle on how to rectify the situation.

The problem for me, personally, rears its ugly head in a most unsavoury sort of way: unbridled infuriation. Let me try to explain what I mean by that. You see, while I’m out “enjoying” a quiet, delectable meal in a fancy place, I can’t help but look around and see all the happy-happy groups having a rip-roaring evening, or the couples sharing their intimate moments. While anyone who is comfortable with where they are in their lives would smile along delightedly at the merriment of it all, you have others—the cold, bitter others who feel denied the very basics of existence—who just get angrier and angrier on the inside. Their blood begins to boil at the slightest of things—the way she tosses her hair as she turns toward him—and before long, they’re not just bitter or angry anymore, they’re inconsolably wretched.

It doesn’t take a super-genius to figure out which camp yours truly belongs to. For as far back as I can remember (3 months ago?), my only response to such a situation has been, as I said earlier, unbridled infuriation. I begin to hate everything. I hate the situation, I hate my life, I hate the people who are having fun… everything. This gets so bad that I soon forget all that I do have, and how pleasant the current experience really is.

But wait, weren’t we talking about an epiphany of some sort?

I am thrilled to report that I noticed a subtle—but rather significant, at least to me—shift in my behaviour earlier today. Given that I had a ton of (mindless) work to do, which was probably going to keep me up through the night, I decided to tank up on the essentials: sugar, cheese and caffeine. As I was chowing down greedily on something sinfully-good, a small group—two couples, to be exact—chanced to occupy the table across from me. I won’t be describing the others for they don’t matter, nor did I even see them, but one amongst this group was a ravishingly intense woman wearing a tie-dye kurta top (Here’s a link for those who know not what I speak of.) which beautifully accentuated her delicate curves and an earthy, chunky necklace that underlined her slender neck. Yes, she was technically part of this group, but it was almost as if she really wasn’t there at all. The others were ignoring her for what seemed like the entire time, and her captivating eyes were roaming bored around the room as she was nibbling on her meal.

Bored, until her gaze met mine.