actuality.log

It’s probably one of those things you fantasise about your entire life—getting to sit up close to the one captivating woman you’ve not been able to take your eyes off since you’ve gotten past security and reached your gate. More often than not (every single time?), these sorts of hopes spawn and fade nearly instantaneously, but this time things are different.

An eleven-and-a-half hour long flight passes like it’s nothing at all. You’re paying tribute to and wishing the best for the ticketing agents and their families.

Only the next morning do you wake in horror and realise you’ve parted without scribbling down a means to keep in touch.

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:

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

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.

For just a few days of my miserable existence, I don’t want some nonsensical thing or the other causing me extreme rage. I know I am not a happy person generally, but then again, I have little reason to be. For once, just once, I wish only nice, somewhat-happy events keep happening around me so I don’t feel like beating some incompetent moron down to a bloody pulp.

I really wish.

But are relationships harder?

I know you’ve missed me over these past two weeks, and you’re probably at a point where you’ve begun to worry for my safety… or something. But no need to fear, all is well.

And by ‘well,’ I mean ‘horrid.’

You see, I’m technically on a holiday—one that’s extended quite a bit more than officially sanctioned—but it doesn’t feel like one at all. There has been little, if no, rest or relaxation, and most of my days are consumed with activities I don’t care for and drama I care even less for. Forget being at a state where I can write, I am barely at a state where I want to leave my bed in the morning. Life is too frickin’ complicated, and it involves way too much work to navigate successfully.

In fact, forget successfully, it involves way too much effort to navigate, period. And I’m not even sure if it’s worth it.

A happy new year indeed. Bah.

(Ed. Note: This is one of the only posts on this journal that has not been written by me. Technically, it was penned by me, but it’s all a figment of Crayola’s vivid imagination. Actually, it’s more of a cross between her cutesy way of articulating her insecurities, and something of a test for yours truly—one that I expectedly failed miserably. It’s unbelievable how vulnerable one can be; even during restful pillow-talk.)

So there I was, stranded in an airport for what seemed like the millionth time. I braced myself for more of the usual: The pointless arguments with the airline people, the decidedly-crap, exorbitantly-expensive airport cuisine, the rarely-interesting sight of so many people bustling about, my sore body yearning for a comfortable place to rest… and much such negativity and perturbation abound.

I hadn’t the slightest inkling things were going to be so different.

Perhaps I should have realised it earlier, but from my first “conversation” with the sweet-old-lady in the airline counter, things were anything but normal. Through her ouis and her merci beaucoups, and my arbitrary nods as if on cue, I’d communicated the essentials to this stranger in a strange land:

I was heading home for the holidays, connecting via Paris. My original flight being delayed, I missed my connection and I was stranded for at least another day as I waited; painfully missing home. I wasn’t looking for monetary compensation. I wasn’t looking for a fight. I just needed a sympathetic ear, and wanted to go home.

While there was little she could do for me that morning, through her smiling and her empathetic nodding, she’d managed to guarantee my spot in the corresponding flight the next day—the morning after Christmas. She simultaneously—the efficient little darling that she is—arranged for a day-long French visa, so I could step out of the airport and catch a few sights around Paris. I would also get to spend the night at a ritzy hotel—all at the airline’s expense!

As much as I missed being home at the time (not really that much), I jumped like a little girl in a (pink) pony store at the chance to run around such a romantic(ised?) city, even if alone. And so, with a warm hug and my fair share of merci beaucoups later, I was out; out to have one of the most enthralling experiences of my life that crisp Christmas day in Paris.

but I’m someone’s child.

This has been a week that’s brought about some changes. For one, for the first time ever, I bought a coworker a Christmas gift. That isn’t news in itself, but it’s just spending so much time with her over the past semester and seeing how much stress she (and I, actually) was put through, I just had to do something nice for her. And it felt great to do so. Perhaps this will be a recurring theme in the future.

And, a couple of days ago, I completed a final exam for a math class. This is news because it completes the final requirement toward a mathematics master’s degree I was working on (as a slight detour along the way to the engineering and computing PhDs). Yes, I am now a master of mathematics. I know it isn’t kung-fu, but fear me!

I left the hall very relieved, but slightly saddened, for I realised this was probably the last ever class I was going to take, ever. This is a big deal to me since I’ve been going to class and learning things for over 24 years now. (Yes people, I am a lot older than I sound, and I am still very much in school.)

Another forthcoming change, since I have not really highlighted it enough on the journal, is that I’m heading home to India tomorrow. It was all decided kinda sudden, in that one day my mom randomly bought me tickets and e-mailed me the information. I most definitely am looking forward to some much-needed R&R.

And finally, I had a “haircut” yesterday. I didn’t really mean to, for I stopped by and explicitly asked for her to condition it, make it more manageable and just even things out a little. And before you know it, the Asian lady (my regular woman was out of commission) was all over me and Asianising my hair. God damn it woman, I am not that kind of Asian. I hate the fucking spikes you love so much.

Oh well, at least she is easy… to amuse. “Would you like me to blend your sideburns with your beard?” “Beard? What beard? Oh no, there is no beard, I just haven’t shaved in a couple of days.” At which point, she’s laughing hysterically going, “You’re so funny!”

Was it funny? No. I told you she was easy.

Anyway, about the crappy haircut, I think my problem is that I only follow one Golden Rule when it comes to fashion sense / style / appearance opinions in general: Ask the woman in the room. She most probably knows her stuff, and isn’t shy about sharing it. Besides, even if neither of you know what you’re talking about, at least you’re aligned with the one who cares about this sort of thing.

The problem with the Golden Rule is when the only woman in the room is this dumb Asian lady who has an unnatural obsession for anime characters. But hey, at least it gives my parents a focal point to yell at when I get home. That way, it’s just so much easier to compartmentalise!

Not to sound narcissistic or anything, but sometimes I just wish that the world would pause and revolve around me for a little while. You know, genuinely be aware of how I am doing, or what I am going through, and care enough to offer me some comfort.

I believe—and this is only because I’ve been told often enough—that I am a decent human being who’s quite compassionate and generous. And, while it’s all well and good to be unselfish and kindhearted, it’s dispiriting to acknowledge that perhaps the world doesn’t deem you worthy of reciprocation. I say this because I’m exhausted by constantly having to work toward having my basic needs met. I don’t want to try anymore. I want to sit back, calm down, and have something just given to me for a change. You know, without me having to try for it, or work toward it, or fight for it… just given to me. I know the nay-sayers in the audience are going to get all up in arms offering me such gems of advice as, “But if you don’t work hard toward it, how will you really value it when it’s there?” Trust me, I will value it if it is there. Just give it to me, you’ll see.

Some things, I believe, are fundamental and should be handed to you; even if only on occasion. I don’t think I am asking for pity; all it is… is some love; without having to constantly scrounge for it.

(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!