Blues

I have done a lot of reading in the last two days. Most of my classmates seem to have a rough draft ready. Some even seem to have begun polishing their fair draft. I haven't begun writing my essay yet. But I think I have a fair idea of what I want in my essay. Every time I get jittery about my essay, I think of her. I hate her really. But I know I will do it well. I am passionate about what I am going to write about. I will be fine. I can write. I have no block. I did well last time. I can do well this time too. I don't care about what others have written. I will be fine. I don't like comparing and contrasting. I will do my work at my own pace and I will be fine. I will be fine. I will be fine. I have been pleased with myself for all the work I have done in the past 2 days. It doesn't matter if you read for a month or you read for a day. What goes into your essay ultimately needs you to use your head. I think I can. I will be fine.

I have been ignoring my Spanish homework for sometime now. Somehow I don't feel as motivated enough to work on my Spanish coursework. I signed up for the fast-track Spanish course because I remember being super-enthusiastic about my French coursework. I spent six hours every weekend in Bangalore studying French. Saturday 2pm - 5pm and Sunday 9am - 12pm. It required a lot of effort. Especially after all the traveling I had to do just to get to and from work during the week.

But yes, I did it well. I was the second best in my class. There was another girl who sat next to me. I can't remember her name anymore. But she was the best. I scored a 9.25 in my final speaking test.

But I can't do the same with Spanish. If I start doing it, I know I will do it well. But I just can't seem to start. My mother encouraged me to take Spanish. Language gives joy and pleasure, she said. And she is right.

Did I do French so well because of ego? Is this why I lack motivation now? Did I want to satiate my burning rage and anger by doing the language well? Do I require that kind of external stimulus to constantly keep me going? Do I need anger to fuel me and motivate me in life? I certainly have more time now than I did when I was learning French.

Sometimes I just want to shake myself up. I want to throw away all the bitterness. Is this normal? Or is it not? Am I not capable of doing anything for myself? Do I always have to do things to prove how awesome I am to someone else? What is this obsession with wanting to make someone feel something through my actions? Did I do well in French because I wanted this someone to feel small? To feel useless and worthless? I shudder to think that it could've been that way. I wish I had some control over these things.

Now that this person has ceased to exist in my horizon, I don't really care anymore. Is this what it is? Or maybe I am just plain lazy. I am not that evil after all. Or is that feeling even evil? Maybe everyone feels this way at some point. Maybe I am just drawing random co-relations.

I haven't done my Spanish coursework. I am contemplating skipping today's class. I shouldn't. It is expensive.

I want to do so many things. I want to do so many things. But what is stopping me? What's with this whole inner turmoil drama? Get it over with girl. Just shake yourself out of it. You have to go now. You have a seminar in exactly 15 minutes.

Needs a new blog.

This one is naked. hmmm...

But moving on from that thought, there is something that I definitely have to post here. From Oatmeal. I found it amusing :) So I am going to post it here. Just so I can remember how cool this one is. I cannot bookmark anything for nuts. Shame on me! I don't deserve to call myself an ex-internet industry professional. But let's face it, I cannot for some weird reason bookmark anything at all. I always found it amusing how my colleag(u)eeks talked about importing, exporting, organising, digging, redding, slashdoting and stumbling upon their myriad bookmarks. I have no bookmarks and hence have conveniently escaped stumbling, getting slashed and consequently finding myself buried in this scary world of internet hyperlinks. Freaky shit this! :-o

Anyway, here's Oatmeal. Oatmeal is nice. Oatmeal makes life look simple. I like. And I also don't like people who make spelling and grammatical errors. I have a REAL problem with those people. I also believe that there should be no reason to make any of those errors if one has access to the internet. I understand and respect the fact that writing a language as precisely as possible has a lot to do with the kind of education one receives in their early years.

But that said, if one has access to the internet, the possibility that they've heard about this concept of the 'search engine' is quite high. A particularly popular one happens to be called 'Google'. And this wondrous website can actually teach the most dull-witted people about almost everything that is vital to life - and for free! I can't help but stress the importance of my 'cause' here. The cause to clean up 'language'. For those who still can't fathom what the hell I am talking about, I'll put it in print here - If in doubt about your spelling or grammar, GOOGLE IT!

From where I come from, if something is offered for free, people devour it. I would like to assume that the rest of the world shares similar sentiments towards freebies too. Unless it comes in the form of military action from the Big Brother, of course.

So enough about my pet peeves now. Here's Oatmeal.

If you believe you are turning blind because you cannot read the text in the images below, please go see an ophthalmologist (eye doctor). But before that, click here to read this in large print.

So now that this has been enjoyed. Please click on http://theoatmeal.com/comics/apostrophe and learn how to use the apostrophe. This could possibly be one of the most important choices you make in your life. Who knows! Your potential husband / wife might reject you for not learning how to use the apostrophe right. Now, no one wants such horrible things to happen to them.

Like Marie in 'When Harry met Sally' says, "...and you'll have to spend the rest of your life knowing that somebody else is married to your husband."

Yes, if there is one thing that is more lunatic than social bookmarking, it certainly has to be this.

Hooverphonic - Mad About You

Monthly Curse

I am alone in my room. I scream out aloud. I wince even as I write this. Ouch! It hurts. Aaargh! I don't want to talk to anyone. It is good that there isn't anyone else in sight. If anyone tried to talk to me right now, I am pretty sure they'd have it super-bad. I could bite their head off. I could spit fire.

The pain is excruciating. It spreads everywhere. There isn't a single inch below my waist and above my knees that doesn't hurt. An old Tamil song is playing in the background. It doesn't seem to help. I am breathless and I am trying to take in some O2. I can't seem to find any.

I am lying down in my bed. I try burying my head in my hands. It doesn't work. I clutch my stomach willing the pain to stop. It won't go away.

This is an incomplete post. In the middle of this post I decided that I couldn't write anymore. I went to bed. Tried to sleep. Didn't work. Twisted and turned a bit. Didn't work. Took tablet. Tried to sleep. Slept. Woke up. Feel drugged. But no pain anymore.

I only have one more thing to add. This is not fair. And if I ever meet that God person who everyone claims to have created me, I am totally going file a Human Rights petition against him. It is just not fair what he has done to us women. Not fair at all. Bad God.

Another Untitled

I hate her. Why does she have to disagree with everything I ever say? Maybe I hate her because I feel threatened by her. But maybe she disagrees with me on even the most inconsequential things because she feels threatened by me. Yes, I think she feels threatened by me; and me, her. We are so similar, in so many ways and yet so different. I hate her because she is free. She hates me because I am not. She hates me because I have already accomplished what she aspires to - I hate her because she still can accomplish in so many ways that I never will be able to.

There is camaraderie, but there is also hate buried within. I smile at her and so does she. It is pretentious. Of course, we both own plastic lips. Yes I hate her. But I also admire her and aspire to be like her. I see in her a reflection to my own past... the youth I have long lost... I don't hate many people. I dislike a few and hate fewer. But I clearly hate this stranger for reasons I am still trying to fathom why... I feel uncomfortable in her presence. It is as though a dormant part of my heart suddenly wakes up to question me about my lost youth. 'Where is the fun person you lost?', a hushed voice in my head prods me. A shiver runs down my spine.

I try to be a nice, but, she never really reciprocates. So, I'll assume that she hates me before I hate her. I'll tell myself that she started it. Why does she hate me, but? I always thought I was nice. I'll never know why she hates me. But I'd like to assume she feels threatened as well. There isn't another reason really.

I sometimes wonder if the fact that we share our birthdays have anything to do with this...

Untitled

And then suddenly... his invisible dagger tore across her fragile skin. Blood oozed out at first and then it froze. Crystals of red. Seething Pain. No scar left.

Woman to woman: For all the men who broke our hearts

They didn't just break our hearts. They didn't just walk over our feelings. They just didn't take us for granted. They under-estimated our intelligence and questioned our integrity. They assumed we were emotionless mannequins and mesmerised us into a lie that never existed in the first place.

A lie they that could suitably be christened according to their volatile state of mind. It ranged everything from the subtle 'You should wear white more often,' to the rather explicit 'Oooh! that's a sexy dress... defines curves rather well,' to the seemingly genuine 'I will love you today and always will' complete with the deep look in your eyes (and of course, we always thought they were talking to our souls).

And then all of a sudden, one fine day, when our souls were still working overtime, theirs chose to shut down. And years later, you still wonder if his soul only required a maintenance break or if it even really existed in the first place.

What? I thought it was going fine... Did I do anything wrong? Was I being too demanding? Did I not give him enough space? Was I not affectionate enough? Does he find her more attractive? Why does he suddenly want to treat me like trash? What did I do wrong? Where did all the perfection vanish?

Sounds like love? It was probably just a crush or maybe even a fling? But, the bottom line is that they forgot to respect us. They forgot to treat us as self-thinking 'flesh-and-blood' individuals. They lied to us - about their ideas; about their aspirations; about their dreams; about their ideologies; about their perceptions and more importantly how they really felt about us.

These are the men who made us feel terribly sad, shed tears. They made us feel suicidal. They made us feel used. They made us feel like trash. They made us feel unintelligent, unpretty, incapable of feeling love. We screamed in anger, wailed in sorrow, wished it had never happened the way it did. Not once. Multiple times. Every single time. Yes. For we are hopeless romantics.

It wasn't normal for us to want to detach from our hearts and never get in touch with with it ever again. We couldn't love without inhibitions anymore. We shut a part of ourselves. Out of fear, out of precaution. They made us do it. Suddenly, we grew up. We became adult. Cautious.

But when life seems run amok, out of control, there is always a concerned girlfriend (yes, and here's when we realise that some of our male friends do actually belong to the 'nice' category) telling us that we are beautiful... that we are awesome... and that he was a complete jerk for doing whatever he did to us. And then, they take us out for coffee, shopping, a movie... they talk to us... and we smile again. We are ok. It might not heal. But we are ok. We women might not forgive easily, but we certainly learn to move on quickly. We are practical and we are sensible. We feel. We love. We learn.

I do not speak here for the adult woman who believes her sole purpose of existence is in one way or the other attributed to the members of the opposite sex. I detest and detach myself from women who believe that. And I am afraid, I do know a lot of women like that.

But, these are also the men who quietly aided us build our personalities. They taught us how special we were and made us realise that we deserve nothing but the best. They motivated us to achieve greater things. They gave us the maturity to handle the toughest situations with responsibility, with sensitivity. They raised us from mediocrity. They showed us we were better than the best. They've made us women of character. They've played their part. We will be fantastic professionals, partners, friends and mothers because of the pain they put us through. We are winners. We emerge and we show the world what we are capable of.

We are women. Not only can we give love in abundance, we also have the power to give life to that love - to create and nurture, to spread warmth, to care, to spread peace, to create joy, beauty, love. We are women; women of substance.