Love in the Time of Emphysema

We're all addicted to something
that either helps us feel a little 
or stops us feeling quite so much. 
But we're all addicted to something,
because no matter what you or I do
what we feel is never quite enough.

I'm not addicted to you. Or at least, that's what I tell my friends. 


I don't need you. But I do really like you. You have some sort of spell over me - I think about you all the time, even when I don't have you; I miss you; I dream about you; I cry about you. 


And then, when I'm tired or stressed or lonely and I feel your arms wrap slowly around me, I smile because I know you're there for me. And then, when I haven't seen you for a week or so, and you pull me close and hold me, I feel out of the world. I couldn't walk if you asked me to. My head spins but in such a good way that I never want to let you go. 


So many of my friends hate you. It's so very high school, so very dramatic. They say you're cheap, you're bad for me, I could do better. But no one makes me feel like you do.


No one makes me forget the rest of the world like you do.
No one makes me just let go, and stop caring like you do.
No one makes me see things as clearly as you do. 


And sure, no one else probably fucks up my lungs as bad as you do, or make me cough all the time, or puts me at a risk for cancer, but god damn it, I love you and I don't care. 

A Piece

I stepped out from the bright lights of the metro station, into the deep, dark shade of the pavement. Fighting through the hordes of rickshaw-waalas offering to take me anywhere within a 2 km radius, I started walking home. The leaves had begun to come down in large numbers and as they crunched underneath my boots, I looked up to look at the pitiful orange sky peeking through the bare branches of the trees.

There were surprisingly few people on the streets that night. The Old Man in the Beret seemed to have skipped his evening walk. The two Kheera-Waalas sat behind their carts, sharing a cup of tea by the light of their customer-free stalls. Even the pan stall was empty that night, something that so rarely, if ever, happened. I needed a new lighter, but I didn't feel like stopping. It was one of those nights when my feet just kept going. I kept walking.

I tucked my hands into the pockets of my jacket and picked up a pace for no reason but the chill that had started to bite me a little. I breathed a little harder and my breath condensed in the cold night air. 

At the end of the street, I turned into my lane and I instantly saw a belt of smoke rising up in the distance. 'Some bastards are having themselves a bonfire', I thought, at first, but as I got closer, I realized that this huge swath of smoke couldn't be coming from even a large bonfire. This was someone's house going up.

'That poor bastard', I thought, and I crossed to the other side of the road and kept walking. It had been too good of a day and I wasn't going to bother myself with some other idiot's sorrow.  My heels had begun to ache from being on my feet all day, and I couldn't wait to get home and soak them in a  bath nearly hot enough to scald my skin. 

So I dug my hands deeper into my pockets, kept my eyes on my feet and I kept walking. The air had started to smell like acrid smoke, and the sounds of the crowd got louder and louder till I realized they were coming from the house above which Leo lived.

I stopped completely short for a second. A strange horror came over me, the eyes widened and I had to remind myself to keep breathing. Suddenly, the fire engine/ambulance sirens that had been mere background noise a few minutes ago became a loud, raucous screams. But I kept walking.

As the sounds drew nearer, I broke out into a run till I was at the outskirts of the huge crowd that had gathered outside the house. I pushed my way through all the neighbours and jumped over the fence to see Leo sitting on the lawn, knees up, face in his hands. I ran to him and put my arms around him, but he just wordlessly curled deeper into a ball. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to comfort him and say soothing things, but something told me it was wiser to walk away.

I unwrapped myself from around him and walked to the edge of the lawns.  The firemen were putting out the destroyed wreckage of the house, as Leo's landlord watched with blank eyes. I turned to him.

"What happened?" I asked.
"Heater short circuit" he said.
"I'm so sorry" I said.
"It's fine. I was insured."
"Not for the memories."

A tear rolled down his cheek and I mentally kicked myself.

"No. Not for the memories."

"You know, your friend wasn't insured for anything" he said.
"I don't think that's what's going to hurt him, though." I said.

"He's sitting there, crying about his shirts." The Landlord said.
"His... shirts?" I was baffled.
"You know those concert shirts he's always wearing. He had dozens, from dozens of concerts, he says, when anyone asked him. It's just shirts. Jai shri krishna. These kids."



"It's not the shirts, uncle. His whole life was in that room. All his music, his guitars, his journals. Everything was there. And maybe the idea that he's lost everything, all his family photos, the books his father bought him, the memories.... maybe that's too much right now. For some reason crying about the shirts is easier than crying about the utter destruction of so many things of sentimental value. Who actually thinks their house is going to burn down? Did you? Try to imagine yourself dealing with the fact that the things you once cared about so much were nothing more than ash. A life's work is wasted. So maybe Leo is crying about his shirts. But maybe Leo is actually crying over being completely, utterly lost. Shirts might be the easiest thing to admit to, instead of pure devastation."

I could have gone on with my rant, but at that moment, Leo looked back at me, with a glassy stare that made me feel like he was looking right through me. I walked over to him, crouched down and put my arms around him again.



He put his head on my shoulder, and I put my hand over it. I ran my fingers around his head, through his hair. His breathe was warm and short on my neck. I stroked his back, and he looked up.

"I can't believe it, Trillian."
"So don't. Just close your eyes right now."
"No. I need to find a place to stay."
"No, you don't. Come on. Let's go home."

He looked at me for a whole moment, at the end of which we got up, still wrapped up in each other, turned around and started for my flat. The Landlord looked at us with his blank eyes, but we kept walking.

I didn't know what I was going to do. I didn't know how my tiny 9' by 9' room was going to fit the both of us. I didn't know what this meant for us, or how the sleeping arrangements would work. I didn't know what I was going to tell my own landlord.

All I knew was that for the first time, someone needed me. For the first time, someone needed my help and support. For the first time, I had to take care of someone and I was damned if I wasn't going to do it.

So we kept walking. 

Eight Miles High

Acid is a strange drug. Everything you've heard about acid is absolutely true, and it's true because everyone trips in their own way. Acid lowers the perceptual filters of your brain, but it lowers different ones to different levels for different people. 

The first time I tripped was almost unknowingly. I was at a friend's house and the five of us had been talking about dropping some acid. Unbeknownst to me, JD had put a couple of drops in my drink. It sounds very rape-y when I write it down, but he'd tripped before, and he thought it would be more interesting for me if I didn't expect it. 

For what I judge would have been about a half hour or so, nothing happened. We sat around, listened to some new music that one of my friends had recorded, and talked about it. Soon, I started to feel a slight body high, like being slightly tipsy or having like the slight buzz from the first two tokes of a joint. I was drinking just plain coke that night, and smoking classics, so I thought it was a little weird. I told my friends as much, and JD said 'ust you wait. You're going to love it.' and I realized what he'd done. JD had taking a dose before me, and Candy, Slash and ANM took a dose each soon after. We decided we wanted to go to the park, so we got up and left.

On the way to the park, it was beginning to hit me. The first thing I noticed was that my shoelaces were moving on their own. I nudged Slash, and pointed as my shoes and he looked at me weirdly. By that time, the shoelaces were changing color too. I nudged Slash again, and he laughed. 'It's started', he said. 

'Oh, holy shit', I remember thinking to myself, 'This is really happening'.

We got to the park soon and sat down, facing the pond. Candy had a guitar, and he was idly strumming it. No chords, nothing, just running his fingers up and down the strings. He wasn't tripping yet, that was obvious, but he wasn't all there. 

I was just sitting there, watching the water. Some of the ripples would rise up to about four feet high, and suddenly disappear. The water would split into two, and take on different colours. It would swirl like a whirlpool and suddenly stop. I took my shoes and socks off and decided to put my feet in the water, ignoring the fact that it wasn't the cleanest of ponds.

I dipped a toe in and suddenly, the water bit me. I backed away and crouched on the floor for a while. Slowly, I calmed down; the wind was in my hair, and I felt hands caressing my cheeks. I got up and started walking around. The grass felt wonderful between my toes. I felt ticklish, but in a good way. I stood where the grass was highest, where it was reaching my ankles, and I dug my toes into the sand. I started feeling like I was going to dissolve into the earth, but in a good way. Slash came and stood next to me. I said 'I can feel the grass, Slash. Can you?'. He said 'I don't know. Listen to the wind'. So I listened to the wind. That was the most unreal part. It sounded like music. I couldn't put a finger on it then, but now, when I think about it, it was like a very slow, Chopin waltz. Something in C sharp. 

'The wind is beautiful,' I said, and I said it again, and again and again for the next half an hour or so. We talked about the beauty of nature and how we wanted to be a part of the grass, and dive into the earth and live in a garden under the surface and love the soil and the plants and the animals and how we'd ride fish and sing with the deer and have a family of rabbits. That's almost exactly how our thoughts went, from one topic to another, not really needing a connection, just letting out imaginations run wild. 

Slash took out a cigarette and it looked bigger than his head. The word 'Classic' around the filter looks huge, and then, tiny and then, all different shapes. When he lit it, the smoke started forming letters in the air. They didn't form any words, it was just a Y here and a J there are a B in the middle and so on.

JD was starting to come down, so he suggested we go back to the house. So we started walking back; I was still barefoot. We walked on the pavement, and I could feel the rocks under my feet and I thought I was going to die. I cried and I cried and I told my friends to leave me and carry on, to save themselves.

JD picked me up and carried me piggyback the rest of the way. I felt like I was flying. For a second there, I thought I actually could fly, and I let go of JD. He caught me just in time, or I would have fallen on to the road.

We got to JD's house, and we got in the elevator. Someone pressed five, which was the number floor JD lived on. The little screen on top of the board showed a red 5, and it grew till it was as big as my hand, and it caught flames and soon, the whole ceiling of the elevator was aflame and we were all screaming, even JD, and my arms were around ANM and I could feel her fingernails digging into my skin and Candy was crying and suddenly, the elevator door opened and we tumbled out. We couldn't have been in that elevator for more than about 40 seconds, but it felt like an hour. 

Anyway, we made our way into JD's house, and sat down in his room, and turned on the tv. Guns n Roses was on VH1. Patience was playing, and the lyrics were all skewed. Axl was talking to ANM, and she was talking back. For a moment, he looked right into my eyes. I didn't know how to feel. 

So I just sat there, and watched Axl sing to ANM. After about two more songs, things started to look a little more real. The comedown was like any other comedown - slightly disappointing. But unlike any other comedown, it was also slightly relieving.

Acid makes your mind do push-ups, and mine had been doing one handed ones with a 50 pound weight on my back. 

I dropped acid a few more times after that, each time stranger than the next. Why did I stop? Life moved on. I wasn't going to sit back in an LSD haze and watch it go by. About a year later, I dropped acid again, with a different friend. It was different, strange in a strange way. Would I take acid again? Now that I have so many hallucinations I'm always trying to prove to myself are fake, I don't really feel the need for more. Would I suggest you take it? Absolutely. Acid is a strange drug, and what is life without strangeness?

I'm With You In Rockland

Blue put down his old, battered guitar down next to the amp, as Leo started unplugging the many wires.
I sat, cross-legged, on the table in their tiny room.

"So what did you think?" Blue asked.
"I'm not sure. It felt like confusion. Was it confusion?" I mused aloud.
"Almost exactly" said Leo, as he grinned his almost sheepish grin.

"Anyway, I'm going to play football. You coming, Leo?" Blue said.

"Nah." Leo shook his head. "I don't really feel like it." He turned to me, as Blue closed the door behind himself.
"You gonna stay?"
"I could"
"Good." And he smiled again.

His smiles made the colour come into my cheeks.. Although they probably weren't, I felt like they were somehow meant specially for me. I watched his nose crinkle slightly and his eyes both squint and light up and I had to stop myself from fluttering my eyelashes. There was just something about this boy.

Maybe it was the slightly curly hair falling down on his forehead. Maybe it was the way he didn’t really enter the conversation, not in a socially awkward way, but in a way that suggested he was content merely to observe. Maybe it was just that damn smile.

"You okay?" he asked.

I snapped out of my reverie and shook my head a little. 

"Yeah, of course." I hopped off the table and went over to the two mattresses that served as his bed.


He was rummaging in his cupboard, I suspected for a jacket, because he was shivering.


I sat down and started looking through the pile of books beside it; most of them looked old and battered, and a few new, and well, battered. He seemed to be on a Beat kick. The Subterraneans sat atop Dharma Bums and Naked Lunch. Fear and Loathing was lying open and face up. "This is bat country!" the first line on the page screamed.

Leo came and sat down beside me, sans jacket. He had a small pouch in his hand, which he dropped down next to him, and took out a small bag of pot and some papers.

He looked at the book in my hands; "Have you read that?"
"More than a few times."
"I'm only just getting into it. You'll laugh, but I've only just gotten into the Beat Generation."
"Hey, each to his own" a smiled. "So what were you into before this?"
"This and that. Last book I read was If On a Winter's Night a Traveler. Have you read that one?"
"No, but I plan to. Do you have a copy?"
"Somewhere here."

He finished rolling the joint in his hands, handed it to me and held out his lighter.

"Thanks" I said, putting the thin joint in my mouth and leaning forward to light it.

I took a deep drag and closed my eyes as I exhaled. The silence was immense.

When I opened then, he was taking off his belt. I must have looked a little puzzled, because he smiled his sheepish smile again.

He pulled up his sleeve and looped his belt around it, holding it taut with his teeth. I'd figured out what was going on; Blue had told me he was a junk user, but I'd never really seen him do it. I didn't want to seem like an idiot and stare, but it was almost as if I couldn't tear my eyes away.

I took another toke.

Out of the corner of my eye, I observed him slapping the inside of his elbow, I assume to expose the vein.
He picked up his syringe, already loaded, and stuck it in. I winced a little; just watching made me nervous. As he drained the contents of the needle into his arm, he let out the breath that I just realized he'd been holding.

As he started to sit up, I grabbed the nearest book and opened it up to the first page. I blew softly on the end of my joint and took another drag.

"What have you got, there?"
I found the title. "Howl and Other Poems." I said.

"I've been meaning to start that. Everyone always talks about Howl and I've never read it."
"Really? I can't wait till you do. It's an amazing poem."

He looked at me and smiled again.

"Read it to me."

"I... what?"

"Read it. Out loud."

"Um... okay. I guess."

I opened the book to Howl and looked up.
I knew the first few lines.

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by

madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn-"

"-looking for an angry fix."

"I thought you hadn't read it!"

"I lied!" he giggled, his eyes wide with delight.

He lunged forward and grabbed my joint out of my mouth. Inhaling deeply, he said "Read it."

"angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly

connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat

up smoking in the supernatural darkness of

cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities

contemplating jazz" I read. I was beginning to enjoy this. It sounds stupid, but I love reading aloud.

He grabbed the book from my hands and read.

"who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and 

saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, 

who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes 

hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy 

among... the scholars... of war"

I took another drag off the joint.

"who were expelled from the academies for crazy & 
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, 
burning their money in wastebaskets and listening 
to the Terror through the-

And he kissed me.

The Sun is Up, The Sky is Blue

If it's true what they say about life - how it's a journey, a path, a road - I'm sort of lost.
I'm somewhere in the by-lanes of a town far away from anywhere I've ever been and I have a road map and I know where I am, but I'm still sort of lost.

I have my green lighter and 24 rupee pack of my favourite cheap smokes. I'm not even alone; I have a lot of new, exciting people surrounding me, and some from my old path.

The Boyfriend isn't here. Well, he isn't The Boyfriend any more. One could say that might be why I'm in this new town, but the truth is, this town is just too far from the town he's now in.

Edge is here. He's right here with me, in the passenger seat of the strange chariot that I use to traverse these streets, helping me navigate, sometimes even taking the wheel. I ride in his chariot sometimes, because though our paths aren't the same, they often cross.

There's quite a few new people, though. Prudence's throaty, jazz-y voice is a mirror for her low, relaxed demeanor. She has a few shrill tones too, as we all do. I've known her for a little over two months, but every day, I find something interesting about her, something congruent with my own thoughts and opinions or just something new and fascinating.

Then, there's Red. He's new too. I think this several times a day, and I feel silly each time, but he's like The Boyfriend except better in every way. He's a fantastic writer. He's very well-read. He's constantly witty, and even when he's playfully ribbing me, it doesn't feel cold and petty like it does with The Boyfriend. And he has none of TB's bad qualities. In fact, he's the exact opposite in so many ways. He drives his chariot right next to mine, because our paths are almost parallel. He knows how to ever so subtly guide me, though, and support me when I skid. He knows just the right things to say. He's in love though, so that angle doesn't really enter into it. A lovely girl, she is too, and she makes him so very happy.

Then, there's Violet. I see myself in Violet in so many ways, and in so many others, I wish I was more like her. She and I have found each other so weirdly, so suddenly, but so very rightly. I guess she's filling a void in me that was previously occupied in parts by The Boyfriend (I should start called him The Ex now, I suppose), by Esh Dec In, and a little by A. Violet's the first person I've opened up to in a long time. We talk about feelings. I haven't talked about feelings in so long. She's the first person in a long time that I've felt comfortable sharing the bipolar and my episodes and fears and all with. It's almost as if she's riding in the back seat of my chariot. Sometimes, I guide her along. Sometimes, she supports me.

I cried in front of Violet. More than once, about more than one issue. I haven't cried in front of anyone but The Ex (X?) for almost three years. It's strange, but not unbearably so.

Esh Dec says she looks up to me. I hardly think so. She's such a free spirit, but like me, she's a little lost as well. She's an adventurer, though, so she'd find her way without me too.

Truth be told, it's quite comfortable, this town. It's new, but it's exciting. It has a transcendent quality to it, like it's just passing by (or rather, that I'm just passing by it), but I have a feeling it leads to something amazing. I quite like it here, but simultaneously, I can't wait to see what comes next. There's a lot I miss about the old path, but there's still a lot I can't wait to leave behind.

Here's hoping.

That's Me In The Corner

I used to be this:

Carefree, up-for-anything, whiskey-drinking, cigarette-smoking, jumping, dancing, screaming idiot.

I was fun.

Now, I'm this:

Or rather, this:

I'm all about getting into a good college, and *shudder* the future and baking stupid (albeit delicious) cherry pies. I used Kirsch in the pie, and a bit of vodka in the crust and I didn't even take a swig.










I was watching a friend's concert the other night, and I wondered how this happened.


When did I get off the stage and become a part of the audience?

Men.

Boyfriend and I were laying in bed, post-coitus, today. We were listening to Chopin's Symphony No. 7, a waltz.

My head was on his shoulder, and my hand on his chest.

"I can feel your heart-beat," I said.

He looked into my eyes, put his hand on my chest and said, "I can feel your boobs".

:-|

Men.

Jimmy Says It's Better Thaa-aa-aan Air

I don't love to smoke, nor do I crave cigarettes. I'm not addicted, but sometimes, I like being alone with a cigarette.

I can see the highway from my balcony. Trucks trundle past, bathed in the orange light. When I'm not wearing my glasses, they look like orbs of orange, floating away into the distance.

Tonight, the air smells like rain. Lightening lights up the sky every so often. 

I have Green Day and Pearl Jam playing, but only the slower songs.

I have a cigarette with a tiny filter. The ones with the small filters are smooth like you wouldn't believe. I almost don't even feel the smoke going down my throat, except for the woody taste. So here I stand, mouth open, lungs full, for a moment. As I exhale, and watch the steady stream of smoke escape into the night, I feel the light-headed nicotine rush you only get once in a while. The smoke is orange in the faint light of the streetlamp. The ash-y smell tastes like so many nights before.

Sometimes, you have to just exist. Let everything go. Stop thinking. Stop caring.

Just be.

Out of body and out of mind
Kiss the demons out of my dreams
I get the funny feeling, that’s alright
Jimmy says its better than air

Always Only Average

I got my final report today. It made me realize something.  


I’m average. 


I’m a 75%. I’m not fit, but not morbidly obese. I’m not a terrible writer, but I’m by no means a great one. I’m a good cook, but I have enough failed dishes to cancel out my spectacular ones. I don’t fit in either BD I or BD II. Mixed episode is the keyword. Not one or the other, just a bit of both.  


I’m not a bad person, but I’m no fucking angel either. I’m not a great girlfriend, and I try to fix that every day, but hey - at least I’m not a total bitch.


I’m stuck somewhere here in the middle. I can go up or down. No incentive for either. I have no drive, no motivation, no hope, because my life isn’t bad enough. I have no satiety, no calm, no fulfilment, because I’m just not good enough. So I’m stuck here. I’m not special. I’m not a beautiful and unique snowflake. I’m the same decaying organic matter as everything else. I have no where to go from here. Not up or down. Fight Club hits me whenever I uncover a truth. Tyler Durden says “Only after disaster can we be resurrected.”.


I’m average. I don’t have a disaster, or a resurrection.

The little things,  little things they always hang around  
The little things  little things they try to break me down  
The little things  little things they just wont go away  
The littles things  little things made me who I am today  

Better Off On My Own

I have wasted a large majority of my life simply taking the shit people throw at me.
I'm weak that way, and I recognize it. I crave approval. I will go out of my way to do nice things for these people, for their acceptance. But not just for their acceptance alone. I do it because I genuinely care for them. I enjoy doing nice things for them. I enjoy making them happy.

I realize now, though, that I can't keep living my life like this. There's no point trying to keep a flame alive if it's dead. I don't need to take the constant shit, and the pain and humiliation. I'm fairly certain I'd do fine without them.

So I'm through. I'm through running after them, trying to please them, trying to make them happy. It's not my job to guarantee their happiness when they can't even deign to be nice to me.

This is my 'FUCK YOU'.
If you don't want me, I don't have to give myself to you.


I tried to be perfect, but nothing was worth it,
I don’t believe it makes me real.
I thought it’d be easy, but no one believes me,
I meant all the things I said.


If you believe it’s in my soul,
I’d say all the words that I know
Just to see if it would show,
That I'm trying to let you know,


That I’m better off on my own.

A Throbbing Toothache Of The Mind

I've been listening to St. Jimmy by Green Day. I don't care what people think about Green Day and people who listen to Green Day and skinny chicks with dark make up and All Stars.

Green Day is good and it's good cuz it doesn't give much of a fuck and just makes their fucking music. And god damn it do they make music. There's a difference between singing songs and really putting your fucking soul into the music.

American Idiot, despite the fame is bought Green Day and how far it was from Nimrod and Dookie, was still a great fucking album. Jesus of Suburbia was my anthem for years. Are We The Waiting was so real. Give Me Novacaine was pure fucking soul.

The story was so good.

I like Green Day. I like having my own fucking opinion and not getting influenced by other people too.

I like Green Day.
I think whether I do drugs(I use the term loosely, to include anything I might want to do) or not is my fucking decision.
I like giving a shit. I don't like being indifferent. I like caring about the environment, and I like knowing what's happening in Sudan and I think the UN really is making an effort.
I don't like to 'party' and I don't have to. I like spending time with myself and that's okay.
Only when you discover yourself can you discover others.
I fucking hate fashion.
I'm sick of wearing heels.
I like art, but I don't give a shit about the Mona Lisa.
I'd rather walk down Hauz Khas Village than the Louvre.
I'd like to give myself a chance, not you.
Not any of you.

Survived Another Year, Bitches

I turned seventeen this past Saturday.

On Christmas Eve, I went out with a couple of people to celebrate. My boyfriend was out of town, and my real friends busy with family and work things, so I went out with the people I call my ‘party friends’. They’re perfectly good people, and I enjoy there company, but only when it is accompanied by the company of alcohol. They’re fun to go drinking with, and party with, but our personalities don’t really match when the sun comes back up.

They’d been trying to get me to come with them to some lame party, and I only gave in at the last minute, and only because the thought of spending my birthday alone depressed the little hint of party girl still intact, deep down inside me. The party in question was a Gossip Girl ‘concept’ party. One was apparently supposed to dress as a character from the show, and there were supposed to be ‘blasts’ throughout the party, according to the facebook page. What actually transpired was just another lame party. No one dressed up as anyone else, there were no ‘blasts’ and quite frankly, it was as far from the class of the upper east side as possible.

As bad as the party was, though, I must confess, there were bits I kind of enjoyed. I enjoyed sitting at a VIP table, away from the plebeians. The thing I hate most about these parties is consorting with the stupid and the vulgar; a loathing rendered redundant when you’re a VIP. I loved the taste of Jack after such a long time of drinking the cheapest thing on the menu. I loved having a Jack and coke, followed by a Jack and water, followed by Glenlivet on the rocks, whilst the girls I was with took shots and drank their ‘blairtinis’. I loved wearing my new ASOS PERFORMER Multi Buckle Platform Shoeboots. I liked relaxing, not thinking about anything but the moment. I find it hard to relax at parties specially if my boyfriend or real friends are there. I feel most relaxed in a room full of strangers, to tell you the truth. I loved letting go, and just being, for once.

I almost managed to get into the house music. Almost.

I did something quite cool the next day too, but that’s another story.

I Haven't Got Any In So Long That I'm Starting To Delusionally Believe I'm Funny

I think I know what its like to be married.

My boyfriend and I have been working on something together for the past two weeks or so, and we've spent practically every waking moment every day in each other's company. We see each other from about eight in the morning to about ten to eleven in the evening. The other night, we were working till one thirty.

Because we're working, though, and in a group, at that, we spend most of that time being professional and not engaging in any displays of affection.

Occasionally, we take a walk or go get coffee, but for the most part, we've spent all the time in each others' immediate vicinity, just talking about work-like things.

We also unconsciously cover for each other. He had a family emergency about a week ago and had to leave immediately, so naturally, I took on all his work. When someone else in our team commended me for it, I realized that I hadn't even thought of not doing it - it seemed natural. In the same manner, no matter how much work he has, or how stressed he his, he never thinks twice before running to the chemist for some medicine if I'm feeling under the weather.

Despite all that, though, we try and maintain a respectable amount of distance and keep our personal lives personal. Some days, we're in the same room all day, and barely say anything directly to each other.

Plus, we haven't been in bed together in almost a month.

lol jkzz, im so funni.

It's Like I Was Never Gone

It seems that old habits do die hard.
It's almost ridiculously easy to fall back into a routine.

I cut myself today.
I don't feel bad about it yet, but I know the regret is lurking somewhere at the back of my mind. Right now, I just feel... relieved. Painless. Calm.

Cutting's been on my mind this past month or so, but I haven't actually done it till today. Things have been getting hard for me to deal with, and I've had a lot of dark, angry emotions running through me, lately.

I don't have an outlet any more. I don't get high, I don't drink myself into a stupor, I don't even go to my therapist any more.

Today, I felt terrible, almost suicidal. So, I cut. It seemed like the easiest thing to do. 'Drowning my sorrows' (I hate that phrase) in drink would take to long, I didn't want to smoke up even though I had some pot on me and cutting seemed like the only thing that would work.

So I cut.
It strikes me now, how... normal it felt. The same bathroom, same terrible lighting to make my reflection look insane, the same 'cutting music' - Matchbox 20 to convince me I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell, the familiar smell of Dettol mixed with water. It could have been a year ago. I was desperate just like I was this time last year.

I did everything the same. I took a hot shower, to see if maybe, I just needed to relax a little bit. When then was done, and I was still frustrated, I bought myself some time, moisturising. That just served to make me even angrier, though, so I wrapped myself in my towel, got my blade out and looked for a scar-free spot on my shoulder.

I have to admit that before I actually made the first cut, I hesitated. I had the blade poised on the skin, ready to slice, but my hand wouldn't move the first couple of times I tried to move it. I know this sounds very dramatic, but it's true.

I did end up making the cut, though.

And then, another.
And another.

It didn't happen how I expected it to. It stung a lot less than I expected (or perhaps, wanted) it to, but my breathing did get a lot faster than I remembered it getting. Once, long ago, I wrote a post describing it as 'a set of fleshy white lip parting, beads of blood leaking out, eventually covering the entire canyon, and flowing out'. This time, the blood all came at once. Quickly, but steadily.
The sensation of the drops of blood streaming down my arm came as a bit of a surprise. I'd totally forgotten what that felt like.

When the blood had run its course, I washed it just the way I always did. The smell of Dettol is a real trigger for memories.

I remember so clearly when I used to do this every day, several times a day.
I don't want to fall back into that.
I hope this was just a one-time thing.

That regret's setting in, now.


All day - Staring at the ceiling 
Making friends with shadows on my wall 
All night  -Hearing voices telling me 
That I should get some sleep 
Because tomorrow might be good for something 

I'm at My Best When I'm at My Worst

Today, I realize I look better when I don't wear make up or brush my hair than I do when I spend an hour making an effort on myself. This is not me being narcissistic, by the way, it's just something my friends, my boyfriend and my mother* pointed out.

My friends came over today, and I woke up only an hour before they showed, so I didn't have time to make an effort.

This makes me wonder why I make an effort at all, and indeed, why any of us spend time preening. I realize that a lot of people genuinely look better once they're made up, of course, but what I wonder is why we all, regardless of our looks, feel an inherent need to preen.

I understand the pressure to look good, but where, along the line, does the connect between beauty and beauty products appear?

Is the advertising really that good now? Are we such hopeless slaves to the beauty sections of fashion magazines?

Do we all really believe we need our hair irons, our foundation, mascara, eye-liner, eye shadow and lipstick to be presentable to other people?

I know this post is rather scattered, but there's really just one thing I wanted to say:

I've made a decision to go au naturel. No more ironing my hair, no more dark eye make up, no more bright coloured lipstick, no more 'concealor-ing' every tiny spot on my face.

I'm at my best when I'm at my 'worst'.

* Despite everything, my mom and I have a relatively normal relationship, now.

Self-Hate At Six In The Morning

You're always told "If at first, you don't succeed, try and try again." Winston Churchill wanted us to learn from our mistakes. Oscar Wilde believed that mistakes were merely experiences.

I call bullshit.

I made a mistake, last year. I don't want to go into it, but I did a terrible, terrible thing and ruined things with my boyfriend.

A mistake is not an experience. A mistake is a failure.

That one mistake I made, without thinking, without contemplating upon the consequences, or whether it was wrong at all, still haunts me, more than a year later.
That one mistake fucks with my mind more than anything else. I'll be happy and beginning to like the way life is turning out, when it'll just come and smack me across the face, knocking me down.
That one mistake causes me more pain, more guilt, more sadness and more fear than all the other things in my life, put together.

I had hope, of course, that the pain would fade out.

'Time heals all wounds' is another piece of bullshit you shouldn't believe.

Time doesn't heal all wounds. You can try and try to fix your mistake, hope it'll gently get better and do everything in your power to just make it go away, but it won't.

That one mistake will stay with you, leech out all your happiness and turn you into a suicidal mess.


Confucius doesn't want you to be ashamed of your mistakes, thus making them crimes.
Too late. They already are.

Last Dance With Mary Jane

I have a long and varied history of drug use. I started using marijuana when I was thirteen, graduating to regular use before my fourteenth birthday. Smoking up was my form of stress release. My parents came home from work everyday and had a drink. Me smoking pot was just a variation on the same theme.

Soon, my older friends introduced me to LSD. Now, LSD isn't exactly a teenage drug, nor is it a party drug. It's almost past it's time. It's not the sixties. We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
Nevertheless, my friends had a steady supply, and we'd drop acid every once in a while, to 'open our minds'. We were all extremely volatile people in our creative phases round that time. Tripping, though I tried it only round three or four times, was one of the best and worst experiences of my life. I haven't thought about this for a long, long time, but now that I do, I realize I don't regret doing it one bit. I wish I would have waited a couple of years, so my mind was better equipped to handle it, of course, but I don't really regret it.

I tried cocaine once, at a party. I mustn't have done it right, because it didn't really feel like anything.

Apart from the occasional stint or two, though, I've been mostly drug free for the past two years or so. When I first started dating my boyfriend, I made up my mind not to alter my state of consciousness any longer. He's very sure of his stand on drugs and, well, it's not a very tolerant one. Of course, I still smoked the occasional joint when in social settings, and once, when things got very unbearable for me, depression-wise, I spent about three weeks straight, high.

For the last year or so, though, I haven't even thought about smoking up. I've left most of my 'unhealthy practices' (thrapistspeak) behind, actually. No more cutting, not more getting high, no more drinking every day. It also as something or the other to do with my boyfriend, of course.

I do, however, want to get high one of these days, for just one last time. I have one last nugget of wild to get out of my system before settling into a 'healthy lifestyle'. I want to just let myself be calm and carefree for a day.

Just one last dance with Mary Jane. One more time to kill the pain.

Love In The Time Of Adolescence*

My life is not perfect.
I went through terrible child abuse right up to the age of fourteen.
I have bipolar disorder, psychotic episodes, an anxiety disorder and some sort of borderline personality.
I have no real friends.
I have brains but no will to use them.
I could be pretty, but I stress eat.
I cry myself to sleep, most nights.

But every once in a while, I look into my boyfriend's eyes, and all the pain vanishes. I look back and wonder how I ever survived without him. It's hard, now, to remember a time when he wasn't the only face I saw in a crowd. I know it was less than two years ago, but I can hardly imagine not being in love with him.

He makes me smile, and laugh and feel beautiful even when I'm feeling ugly. When he laughs, is whole face lifts up, and he looks like the happiest man in the world. His hands are never a normal temperature - they're always either freezing, or burning up. He's one of the most intelligent people I have ever met, and I admire his mind so much more than anyone else's.

He almost makes me wish I was religious, so I could thank God for him.

*Because yes, adolescence is a disease comparable to cholera.

Fashionistas The World Over Would Weep

I just realized I use my single Marc by Marc Jacobs bag primarily to store and transport food and drink.
I also wear my sole pair of DKNY booties to the park.

In fact, my most worn item of clothing is a black Quiksilver t-shirt that actually belongs to Le Boyfriend and is at least about three years old, closely followed by a pair of shorts that cost about 200 bucks.
And sometimes, I pretend spoons are jewelry.

Lost And Found

I suppose an explanation is in order.

A little while ago, I logged into blogger to find that my blog had simply disappeared. I had no idea what had happened. I still don't. I suspect it was a blogger glitch, though the tech I wrote to denied it. I still have most of my writing, thanks to an ardent fan (stalker is such a strong word) who kept it all in word documents, so not all is lost.

I feel a little cheated, of course, that my writing won't be here for posterity like I originally intended. More than two years of this blog has come down to these two posts, now. It's kind of sad, really.

I stopped writing for a while because I was so distraught. I know it sounds very unnecessarily dramatic, but when your only outlet gets ripped away, it hurts.

Eventually, all the stuff I needed to say kept backing up in my system, clogging up my memory space and making me slower, so I just logged in and wrote a post.

No more dramatics.
I promise.

Did you exchange a walk on part in the war
for the lead role in a caaage?