Princy’s Private Journal

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I have not visited my private journal for a long time. Now that I have, I don’t know where to begin. The week has been horrendously taxing. I wouldn’t call it happening although that appears to be the right word for it. I’ve lived a life too long and too rich to be bedazzled by the antics of two immature colleagues. They’re far from colleagues, really. It’s a travesty that I’m required to spend as much time as I do in their unflattering presence. Research, or rather popular wisdom, says that you become the average of the five people that you spend most time with. I shudder at the thought of what I could become in a few years. Excuse my vanity as I say this (although it’s more of a refined and reasonable self-awareness) but, truly, I really just want to become more of myself. Continue reading

Alcohol – The social Glue

One wears super hero T-shirts, the other one drools when he talks — and he talks a lot, often yaps for hours, almost as if, he has never seen his frothy lips in the mirror, and as if, no one has ever told him, that it is almost impossible to draw logic, if surprisingly there is one, coming out of his disfigured skeletal jaws.

This first one goes by the name Sam, he wears floral knickers — mostly an inch or two above his pencil jeans, and has cravings for Fattoush, Pistachio and other pretentiously unutterable garbage.Litlatte_Wannabes

The second one is…well he is not Sam for all I care. He talks and chews gums at the same time. It never helps an unendingly drooling face. Does it? It never has, and one should tell him that. He judges moms who smoke and dads who don’t. Continue reading

Woes of motherhood

So, recently, I started chatting up with this young mother I just met. A consultant, like me; and as usual, we moms started discussing what a challenge it is to work and manage kids.

As the discussion went on, I had this sudden epiphany that she was nothing like me.

It started with her gushing on about her four and two yearolds, and how she could never forget the beauty of giving birth. I pretended, genuinely pretended, to “Awwww” at that remark. Instead my treacherous mouth lined into a snigger; birthing, beautiful! Continue reading

Black cat- A witch’s familiar and her revenge

I see her from the corner of my cornea. I see her devour a plate full of fresh lamb meat. I see her wipe the drool off her face, one fat-cheek at a time. She has unbuttoned her top from the top. Her cleavage, I bet, smells of sweat and metals. Her cone-hat has rolled away on the other side of the table and she burps, and farts, carelessly, way too many times in her house it’s annoying.

I look at my bowl; I am being fed hash. That’s what I am usually served. I look at the other inmates; the owl, the rabbit and the pup. We all are being ill-treated. But surprisingly, they seem okay with all that. The owl, never really talks, he blinks Pic Credit: Stumbling OverChaosand sleeps. He is just old, but not quite wise. The rabbit is too quick for his own good and the pup…well he is…just dumb. Obviously they all have issues. Continue reading

Twenty-Five is a very attractive age

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Lady Bracknell, Importance of Being Earnest, Oscar Wilde

Twenty-five is a very attractive age. Bangalore Society is full of women, who of their own free choice, remained twenty-five for years. Take me for instance. I have been twenty-five ever since I arrived at the age of thirty, which was many years ago now. Frankly, this whole practice of age and its every increasing nature, is quite a vexing social malady, and in my opinion best done away with altogether. Osteoporosis, Alzheimer’s, Arthritis, such unpronounceable ailments it brings with it. As a society, as a collective conscience, it is time we seriously considered obliterating the problem of age.

Depression, I can personally ascertain, is the singular consequence of increasing age. Here I am working, nine to five, twenty days a month, exhausted, with a boss with a mind of a fluttering butterfly and a client with a cactus chair, and I come home tired, late, to a high-strung two-year old who wants dinner at two, and an irate husband who wants dinner for two, and I catch a quick shut-eye between it all.

The clock chimes. Twelve. And the phone rings…a hundred different times.

Continue reading