Can we skip to the constantly blissed out bit already?
Monday, July 19
Mondayed Murphy
Ugh. Sometimes I hate work with a godly passion. It's always the same team that irritates the hell out of me. Gurgaon dwellers, ugh.
Can we skip to the constantly blissed out bit already?
Can we skip to the constantly blissed out bit already?
Sunday, July 18
Sunday, July 11
Malodorous Murphy
Showering with the sound of the rain loud enough to be heard over the sound of the shower I smell of my wild cherry body wash, my honey shampoo and my honey and olive conditioner. I make a confusing salad.
My mother spent two years picking my name. It's hard to be zen about random pieces of offal written by prepubescent artistes with my name in it. It's even more hard to come to terms with the fact that I really shouldn't be such a bitch about things I don't know and understand, and fi-ine, it's not like I own my name.
Though I should.
It's a rainy Sunday and I have a neurotic cat sleeping on my desk, twitching at the slightest sounds. This is of course after she demanded to be let in by staring at me through the window with the most focused energy for ten straight very intense minutes. I hate it when they go all cape fear on me. I've been reading all morning but it's a little hard to focus. Falling in love seems to have very little to do with the other person, it's a largely solitary activity with just you and the inexpressible squirming at the base of your stomach. That and overwhelming gratitude for not having missed out. But it's not letting me read, it's not letting me focus. I can't look at everything in the world as a gigantic sign of how very fantastically ordinary and human I am, of how he makes this bag of bones transcend.
One way or the other, it's all about me.
My mother spent two years picking my name. It's hard to be zen about random pieces of offal written by prepubescent artistes with my name in it. It's even more hard to come to terms with the fact that I really shouldn't be such a bitch about things I don't know and understand, and fi-ine, it's not like I own my name.
Though I should.
It's a rainy Sunday and I have a neurotic cat sleeping on my desk, twitching at the slightest sounds. This is of course after she demanded to be let in by staring at me through the window with the most focused energy for ten straight very intense minutes. I hate it when they go all cape fear on me. I've been reading all morning but it's a little hard to focus. Falling in love seems to have very little to do with the other person, it's a largely solitary activity with just you and the inexpressible squirming at the base of your stomach. That and overwhelming gratitude for not having missed out. But it's not letting me read, it's not letting me focus. I can't look at everything in the world as a gigantic sign of how very fantastically ordinary and human I am, of how he makes this bag of bones transcend.
One way or the other, it's all about me.
Wednesday, July 7
Sappy shit
Certain days are randomly suffused with love. Inexplicably, without justification or warning. I think being ill helps (I can currently feel my body vibrate with every breath); it leaves me depleted, without any energy to focus on the unessential (and therefore irrelevant). So, stripped of all the bullshit that makes up my life I’m a glowing being of love and zen or something like that. Being ill and medicated is also the only way I can get restful sleep apparently. I accidentally slept in a particular fashion about four months ago and now I seem to have been spoilt and rendered unable to get any actual rest on my own. My mind continuously whirrs like it’s been assigned the sole responsibility for solving the relationship between god and man and the universe. My eyes , internet, my poor eyes.
B came home this morning. In all his grown-up, healthy, beautiful tom glory. It was a sight to be seen, internet, all of us crowding around him, making cooing loving noises, getting late for work and not giving a damn. It was just a week ago that my ma had sighed about how she missed him. B’s awesome. He’s the cat with the biggest heart, the nicest person on the planet. He’s the only grown up boy who bothers to come home once every two months just to let us know that he’s fine. That he’s out there doing his own thing, but that he remembers us and feels the need to make a courtesy call to his annoying family every now and then.
In other news, due to certain recent administrative and monetary changes at work I now have a handful of new employees stalking me. Most of them are very nice and quite sweet and make big fervent eyes at me. This sometimes I like very much, it allows me to start my day with my surroundings in sync with my mental state which pictures me constantly walking like this:
But mostly it makes me dart into unnecessary corridors and stairwells, just to avoid having to muster the energy to actually look like I know what I’m doing. However, there is also one very irate new young employee, who is currently not adequately occupied. I can’t help it, internet! The project she’s scheduled on hasn’t started, is refusing to start and there isn’t much to be done about it. But man. She really does not appreciate being kept waiting. I’m constantly being hounded through texts and calls and internal IM for status updates. She wants to know every six hours if there’s been a change, if we have work for her already, and what the fuck is taking us so long. Well she doesn’t exactly say that, but her glowering implies it. And I’m being uncharacteristically nice to her and telling her to be patient. I think I remember feeling similar initial contempt for my industry and its constant dependence on imbecile clients. A simpler time, internet. But since homegirl is so impatient she’s going to get her wish and get some work. Unfortunately for her she’s off to the coal mines and I think that’s my first professional piece of bad karma.
Tchah. All I wanted to do was to sit quietly in one corner and be ignored and allowed to constantly sniffle into my work. Speaking of sniffling, both my grandma and the met department were proven to be totally right about the monsoons. And I’ve come to realize that I too have a meteorological talent. Every time the seasons officially change I fall ill. Like the premature, total tease showers we had in Delhi before the monsoons finally broke had no affect on me whatsoever. You can identify the real deal by the immediate response shown by my immune system.
My hair may still be falling out but I’m happy and I’m in love. What more can I want?
B came home this morning. In all his grown-up, healthy, beautiful tom glory. It was a sight to be seen, internet, all of us crowding around him, making cooing loving noises, getting late for work and not giving a damn. It was just a week ago that my ma had sighed about how she missed him. B’s awesome. He’s the cat with the biggest heart, the nicest person on the planet. He’s the only grown up boy who bothers to come home once every two months just to let us know that he’s fine. That he’s out there doing his own thing, but that he remembers us and feels the need to make a courtesy call to his annoying family every now and then.
In other news, due to certain recent administrative and monetary changes at work I now have a handful of new employees stalking me. Most of them are very nice and quite sweet and make big fervent eyes at me. This sometimes I like very much, it allows me to start my day with my surroundings in sync with my mental state which pictures me constantly walking like this:
But mostly it makes me dart into unnecessary corridors and stairwells, just to avoid having to muster the energy to actually look like I know what I’m doing. However, there is also one very irate new young employee, who is currently not adequately occupied. I can’t help it, internet! The project she’s scheduled on hasn’t started, is refusing to start and there isn’t much to be done about it. But man. She really does not appreciate being kept waiting. I’m constantly being hounded through texts and calls and internal IM for status updates. She wants to know every six hours if there’s been a change, if we have work for her already, and what the fuck is taking us so long. Well she doesn’t exactly say that, but her glowering implies it. And I’m being uncharacteristically nice to her and telling her to be patient. I think I remember feeling similar initial contempt for my industry and its constant dependence on imbecile clients. A simpler time, internet. But since homegirl is so impatient she’s going to get her wish and get some work. Unfortunately for her she’s off to the coal mines and I think that’s my first professional piece of bad karma.
Tchah. All I wanted to do was to sit quietly in one corner and be ignored and allowed to constantly sniffle into my work. Speaking of sniffling, both my grandma and the met department were proven to be totally right about the monsoons. And I’ve come to realize that I too have a meteorological talent. Every time the seasons officially change I fall ill. Like the premature, total tease showers we had in Delhi before the monsoons finally broke had no affect on me whatsoever. You can identify the real deal by the immediate response shown by my immune system.
My hair may still be falling out but I’m happy and I’m in love. What more can I want?
Thursday, July 1
Migrant labourer Murphy
Abortive entry from work. Can't relate to mood of entry now:
I really dislike having to work so far from home. Today I was discussing how I have naturally dry hair with this chick and she told me I need to oil my hair twice a week and keep it oiled for only an hour before washing it off. And in the interest of not going to work with wet, unruly hair this activity must be conducted in the evening after work. Wherein lies the catch as I only get home at 8. Which implies washing my hair at 9:30 at night, followed by four hours of waiting for it to dry. It’s a good thing I have given up sleep.
All the free time I have at work (let’s not get into that for now) I keep thinking to myself that I ought to update my blog, I ought to update my blog. But writing at work is hard. My mind’s clamped shut so that I don’t accidentally end up thinking about how I’m not learning anything new or how I don’t get to spend enough time traveling any more. I can’t do a desk job, internet. My heart’s just not in it and my nomadic habits seem to be too deeply entrenched to break. I refuse to be bound down; I can’t be responsible for the same thing for longer than a while. This whole leaving work on time, every day at 6 business, is a little depressing. I’m bored and I can’t do one goddamned thing about it.
Maybe I don’t know how to be grateful. Maybe I’m a liar and an asshole. But fuck this shit dudes, I should be allowed to sulk as and when I feel like it. Being understanding and accommodating and spelling e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g out is just too bloody painful sometimes and sometimes I just want to resent things in peace.
I realize how much of my life is dictated by my commute. It takes up the time I would normally prefer to spend doing regular 24 year old things, having a life etc. But it also gives me time to think things through entirely which in turn gives me the strength to be understanding and accommodating. I get to see a large number of really varied people also commuting, also going through the same routine, though in different degrees of comfort. This is the time I get to see men on fast moving two wheelers manage to adjust their balls with one hand only. This is when I get to reflect on my inability to sleep, my falling hair and wonder what sort of secret malaise inflicts me. This commute marks the physical distance between having to think about things and spending ten blissful hours daily in a job that is demanding and unreasonable and in all probability not meant for me at all. At least that used to be the case till I got this desk job equivalent with all its free time and fuckall inability to occupy my mind completely. This commute has given me the chance to truly appreciate how functional Indian women are designed to be and also worry about how the only thing I seem to be capable of is making money.
I really dislike having to work so far from home. Today I was discussing how I have naturally dry hair with this chick and she told me I need to oil my hair twice a week and keep it oiled for only an hour before washing it off. And in the interest of not going to work with wet, unruly hair this activity must be conducted in the evening after work. Wherein lies the catch as I only get home at 8. Which implies washing my hair at 9:30 at night, followed by four hours of waiting for it to dry. It’s a good thing I have given up sleep.
All the free time I have at work (let’s not get into that for now) I keep thinking to myself that I ought to update my blog, I ought to update my blog. But writing at work is hard. My mind’s clamped shut so that I don’t accidentally end up thinking about how I’m not learning anything new or how I don’t get to spend enough time traveling any more. I can’t do a desk job, internet. My heart’s just not in it and my nomadic habits seem to be too deeply entrenched to break. I refuse to be bound down; I can’t be responsible for the same thing for longer than a while. This whole leaving work on time, every day at 6 business, is a little depressing. I’m bored and I can’t do one goddamned thing about it.
Maybe I don’t know how to be grateful. Maybe I’m a liar and an asshole. But fuck this shit dudes, I should be allowed to sulk as and when I feel like it. Being understanding and accommodating and spelling e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g out is just too bloody painful sometimes and sometimes I just want to resent things in peace.
I realize how much of my life is dictated by my commute. It takes up the time I would normally prefer to spend doing regular 24 year old things, having a life etc. But it also gives me time to think things through entirely which in turn gives me the strength to be understanding and accommodating. I get to see a large number of really varied people also commuting, also going through the same routine, though in different degrees of comfort. This is the time I get to see men on fast moving two wheelers manage to adjust their balls with one hand only. This is when I get to reflect on my inability to sleep, my falling hair and wonder what sort of secret malaise inflicts me. This commute marks the physical distance between having to think about things and spending ten blissful hours daily in a job that is demanding and unreasonable and in all probability not meant for me at all. At least that used to be the case till I got this desk job equivalent with all its free time and fuckall inability to occupy my mind completely. This commute has given me the chance to truly appreciate how functional Indian women are designed to be and also worry about how the only thing I seem to be capable of is making money.
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