spanked by a stranger!

Okay, so I was told that no matter how many pedicures you've gotten all your life, consider them zilch if you haven't gotten one done by a Man. It's gotta do with pressure, I was told. Brute force. The only way that you can experience that 'oh'-inducing pain-pleasure of a foot massage. Pulp Fiction, I was reminded. But when I was haunted with the prospect of an absolutely unplanned, blank three-day weekend when all my friends were too busy to get outta town, I placed Pulp firmly back on the DVD rack, and headed to the parlour.
Got one of those reticent pencil-moustached boys, a little grumpy but not altogether jaded (or gum-chewing smart alecky, for heaven's sake). It started out well, when he expertly sloughed the holy dust off my grubby knarly feet. It was drizzling dead skin on his black towel as he battled with my soles, making me well up with joy as he buffed and polished my toe nails (also when the woman next to me drizzled as much dead skin as I), and then removed toe jam with such utter concentration, it was almost disturbing. So far so good.
Then, he began massaging. Just when I had begun to think that I've probably never had this kind of intimacy with any man, I was proved wrong. It was altogether strange to have a stranger do swirling rubs on the back of my knees, squeeze my calves, and and and and... spank them just a little lightly! I know it's supposed to be a massage technique (and he looked most bored when he was doing it) but I mean, if you just look at the action, it's a little too...erm.. perversely hanky-spanky. Not saying it didn't feel good. So good, I got a head massage too. (Gawd I sound deliriously desparate).
Weekend was fun, having begun on such a marvellous note. Yesterday I went to CP to buy gifts for the MTBs, and shopped twice as much for myself. Which reminds me, Khadi gramudyog should hire good copywriters, NOW! I went to their ayurvedic cosmetics section, and was looking for some help over shampoo (they have a shitload of choices), when I made the mistake of trying to read the labels. They make NO sense at all. I will just quote to avoid my usual flurry of adjectives:
Honey and Vanilla conditioner: KHADI HERBAL HAIR CONDITIONER THAT HELP SMOOTH & EASY COMBING MAKES HAIR SOFT, SILKY, SHINY, LUSTER AND HEALTHY HAIR, GROWTH, WELL HYDRATED & SOFT.
Not only is it a most likely inspiration for Eats Shoots and Leaves, complete with a smattering of babu intonations, it also promises to do so many things to the hair as to make you immediately suspicious. And the directions that follow are for shampoo use! The good thing though is that it makes my hair smell like it's just been triple-dunked in vanilla milk shake (thankfully, it hasn't made it look like that) .
More good news as Yamzie told me her bro's outta town for the weekend and that a girlie drunkie night at her place was a possibility. We made it a cheap (quality, not the money tho)wine and cigarettes night (very Bridget Jonesy, I look back now), and I made the mistake of drinking alone with her yet again. The last time just the two of us went drinking was after a CP stroll, stopping to catch just a couple of micheladas at Rodeo. I counted upto 7, after which I swayed and shimmied (and screamed when I talked coz I couldn't hear myself) on my Metro ride back home, got into my room, and crashed about a split-second later. In the morning, when I was swirling disprins in water, i saw yamz' last nite's message, sent about half an hour after I got home: 'Am going drinking again! Yay!', making me a giddy as a gorgonzolla goose goldfish. So, we finished two bottles of red wine between us lat night, and I had the sense to down the disprins before I went to sleep (as learnt from a friend after another friend-led vodka-shot self-annihilation program, in which my parents were involved as rescue operation team. Not so pretty.). Still woke up feeling pretty sick, but madam was fresh as a daisy, and raring to get to CP for a pancake breakfast! What? How! Why? No getting high beyond control. No puking. No getting sick. No hangover. It's as unfair as men being able to pee while standing.

topless me

LOVE this song!

Trickbaby's Slipping Through Your Fingers

Hurrying to catch my comet
No destination shown - I wanna get on it
Taking a day trip from this tragic kingdom
Give myself a small safe taste of freedom
To live forever is my new fascination
Coming back’s my inspiration
A two-way choice. A cynic or believer
Make the wrong decision watch life slipping through your fingers
Worrying about my reputation
How I’m gonna get out this situation
Faith in control of my destiny
Nobody’s gonna get the better of me

Flog the Next Blog

Just been exploring the blogspot window and totally over-tripping on the Next Blog button. Weird, the experience it offers. In two minutes flat, I was made privy to the inner turmoils-demons-dilemmas of a paedophile who is “struggling” for respect for his ‘type’, who would “NEVER abuse a child” (still trying to solve that delusional riddle); a Spanish woman (I don’t know Spanish – I mean, it sounded like it – but I’m assuming she must be in some kind of turmoil, coz aren’t all bloggers, including Yours Truly? I'm very sure Blogspot was created by one helluva clever fellow who had too many moping/doping/philosofucking friends); a teenage girl in Australia, another in California, another in Japan; and some random scientist-researcher. Freaky, to know so much about another person without him knowing that you know. Subject for a book I tell ya (as is everything peculiar. That’s what books these days are about aren’t they? A collection of random observations on lifestyle and relationship trends tied up with some random plot and much philiosofucking. Piece o’ cake.)

It’s a little spooky having your own blog too, isn’t it? People will know what mood you’re in, even if you don’t want them to. Like if my friends ask me ‘What’s wrong?’ and I say ‘Nothing’, they’ll just turn away, click Internet Explorer on their comps and find out. Nobody’s gonna pester me with ‘Tell me’ or even that relieving ‘Okay’ that gives me that nice, subtle bhaav without my asking or them presenting it with flourish. Disgusting. The only way my friends get me to give ‘em this URL (sounds like ‘urinal’ said real fast, no?) is Over Mah Dead Body. Actually, it could also be during a phone call while I’m asleep (though you risk the danger of being screamed to deaf. What clevvver writing.) or a game of truth and dare during a particularly no-holds-barred drinking session just after the mag has gone to press. Hmm.

So who do I write for? Hell, I don’t care about writing for myself. If it’s gonna be heartfelt stuff, it won’t always read like a piece of good writing; so I wouldn’t enjoy reading it later. Strangers won’t care about this; only people I know would want to know my current thoughts (I hope they do. They’d Better). But I won’t always want to share it with them (I mean, I’d rather tell them). So.
Maybe I should refer to the 4-point program in first blog, again.

P.S. Just love the cute kitty office assistant on my MS Word! There she is, blinking-blinking, turning her buddhu head to what I’m typing, and then back to me! She’s with me all day, since I pretty much never shut Word while I’m at my comp. So I come in the morning, switch on my comp, and as soon as I click Word, she jumps in from the cat flap (which keeps appearing thru the day, and she keeps nudging it away with her tail). She keeps curling her tail, wrapping it around her paws, then stretching, even chasing a butterfly sometimes! Once in a while, she comes real close to the screen and 'meeeooows!' for attention. She also does some very doggie type thingies tho’, like licking her paws and trying to rub her ear with one paw. Altogether, she’s good cat-dog combo, without the hassle of having to feed, clean potty and take for walk at 6 am on a winter morning. I’ve got the pet I always wanted! Heheheheh. I’m a sick child.

Paperbag

Can't bear to hear this song. But still long to.

I was staring at the sky
Just looking for a star
To pray on, or wish on
Or something like that

I was having a sweet fix
Of a daydream of a boy
Whose reality I knew
Was a hopeless to be had

But then the dove of hope began its downward slope
And I believed for a moment that my chances were
Approaching to be grabbed
But as it came down near, so did a weary tear
I thought it was a bird, but it was just a paper bag

Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills
'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up
I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love

And I went crazy again today, looking for a strand to climb
Looking for a little hope
Baby said he couldn't stay, wouldn't put his lips to mine,
And a fail to kiss is a fail to cope

I said, "Honey, I don't feel so good, don't feel justified
Come on put a little love here in my void"
He said, "It's all in your head"
And I said, "So's everything'" but he didn't get it
I thought he was a man but he was just a little boy

Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills
'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up
I got to fold écause these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love

Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills
'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up
I got to fold because these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love

Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills
Because I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up
I got to fold because these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love

First Blog!

Now that I have resolved my issues with the whole blogging thing (or have I? Hmm.), thought, Might As Well.

I'm a great one for procrastination. Actually, I'd been pushing this first auspicious post too, for that right day, the right mood, the right moment, that happy state of mind that would make me write the happy witty clever post that would be girlie-yet-womanly, flighty-yet-mature, I mean, just a brilliant piece of writing that would just charm the pants off any man who reads it and fill every woman's heart with everlasting awe/envy (I believe in choices), and make me smile with surprise at my unbelievably fantastically too-good-to-be-true pataka personality when I read it 50 years later. None of that happened.

I decided to wait till I got internet on home comp, then until I got a TFT at my workplace, then till the dust settled down in the renovation spree, then till interesting intellectually stimulating work came my way. All of that happened.

I wrote the blog in my head, while I bought groceries, while I (out)manoeuvred jerks on the road, while I cursed the world at large for it's inferior intellect, EQ, FQ. The mental notes were getting a bit too much to stash away. And a leeettle bit of perspective did throw way too much light than I was comfortable with, on the Mindfuck Quotient these notes were generating. So. Pliz to refer to point number 3 in next paragraph. Yes, I like non-linear narratives, dear lit crit).
So then, I found the other half of my pearl earring (The Girl With. What Literary allusion in real life. Wah!) I'd lost a couple of days ago and turned the house upside down searching for, and suddenly, in true filmi style, the electricity came back! It must be a divine signal I thought, making the most of whatever it was that got me a light year close to Epiphany - that great mystical phenomenon that inspires great writers - and I chose to open my khata on blogspot. Taaliyaan, taaliyaan.

This blog is a multifaceted, mutlipurpose, multilingual, multimulti, etcetc (my favourite word - etc - for the sheer lazy convenience it offers)...erm..thing. Through it, I seek to strike off the following points from my Life's To Do List:
1. Keep in Touch with Friends: Why call and say, 'Aur...kya ho reya hai'. Just log on, conserve energy (mine, if you don't care for yours), and get to know me better than I do.
2. Write everyday, For Some Day It Might Lead to a Novel.
3. Vent; It's Good for Days Full of Mindfuck. My invisible not-quite-faceless reader cannot put me on hold/ look at goodlooking passer-bys/ yawn/ look pained/ interrupt and start his monologue while I talk here.
4. (Well I'm not megalomaniacal enough to put this on the To Do list, but it never hurts, does it) PUMP UP YOUR EGO!

This blog is also a product of a day of blog reading. Yes, I took friends’ recommendations. I read the blog classics. I read the friends’ friends’ blogs. I read blogs from different parts of the world. Then I thought, if I have to read self-obsessed babble, WHY NOT READ MY OWN! Hence, the title.
Gosh. I sound like I’m giving an interview on my new book! To myself! I think the profusion of profundity in the world at large is driving me insane! It’s rubbing off me! What’s one to do when there’s no time to catch movies, TV is A-class Crap, and authors have lost their sense of humour?
I have no profound experiences to share, my lovvlies, so don’t look for any Epiphanies here.