it's been too long, internet. my brother keeps (lovingly) hounding me to write, but i don't think he means this blog. i'm watching 5 swarthy but v sweet south indian men clean my apartment, following which i will leap into the shower and go buy me a kindle. i'm not sure which mall i'm supposed to be going to and i've already racked up a history of going a very long way in the wrong direction for simple things (a tagline for my life if there ever was one). so yes, i'm going to write. eventually. but first i'm going to try and read and see if my ADD hasn't got so pronounced that i haven't been permanently reduced to someone who constantly watches old tv shows and perpetually refreshes all of two web pages. i'm going to get my kindle and see if i can try a disconnected life for a bit. it sounds both sweet and scary.
it's all been building up for far too long. who am i to hold back?
Sunday, October 16
Playful Mouse Murphy
It is a shame that I return to you like this. It has been a long long time and I’ve had a lot of free time on my hands. I don’t know if you’d call it ‘free’ since this quantum of time merely represents time not spent at work. There’s a lot of shit to do when you live alone, coupled with hours of self loathing for not doing any of it.
And now I’m going home in eight days and I’ve slipped completely and inexorably into my holiday mood. This is a light and happy time, as I’m preoccupied by things like thoughts of packing and gift buying. For the record, I’m not required to buy presents. I just feel like since it’s my first time going home after having moved I should take something for my family. Something exotic and middle easty like dates / a baby camel / shoes full of sand / an Aston Martin abandoned on the side of the road. Instead, I’ve bought shit like body butter (moringa, which is this really nice smelling flower), body wash (watermelon + eucalyptus, fig + rosemary, apricot + basil). I’m basically taking my family things that remind people of salad.
I think I was afraid of this happening and it has happened. I like living in Dubai. I don’t like it as much as home, naturally, but I like it. It’s peaceful, I’m settling into a routine, I have cats here who need me (or so I like to believe), I have a nice job that is not too stressful, with easy hours and a ridiculous salary. I like my bedroom, where I get to sit on my bed, next to my giant window which fills up the room with light. I like how its getting cold and I have to necessarily open the windows and the balcony door so I don’t have to live with my skin all goosebumpy. I like that I can wear anything and that I have to shop and feed myself. I really like my flat.
How is it supposed to work when you have someone reporting to you who is v sweet and sincere but who pisses you off endlessly? The constant puppy –eyes, the quiet yet very in your face ‘I’m working hard + being proactive’. It all makes me want to barf. Seriously, universe. Don’t hire me. I should go down on my tubby knees and thank the stars that I never had a boss like me. Do I get points for the fact that I don’t professionally don’t hold it against him? He just had a v good PD session. It’s just me who wants to smack him.
Now that I consider what I’ve written in light of the fact that I’m updating my blog only because my boss isn’t here and I’m frolicking in my holiday mode, I am filled with shame + regret. But I’ve implemented a no delete policy here on Step.Down. which will clearly come to be my undoing.
I have returned to this abortive entry hours later, full of soy milk macchiatos. I can practically hear the sloshing inside of me when I walk. My mind is mulch and my hair fabulous. I smoke too much (something I say now in every single entry) but Saul Bellow said ‘I think more die of heartbreak than radiation,’ which is something to think about. I seem to suffer from pointless, needless heartbreak, even when there appears to be none in my life. Give me time, I’ll also start churning out bitter, angry rambly poetry in my free time. And then we’ll all *REALLY* appreciate the no delete policy.
There are these moments when I’m made aware of my staggering lack of substance. I suppose it’s not fair to expect other people to share all sorts of meaningful insight given the situation. Speaking of lack of substance, are you guys watching Boardwalk Empire? Is the reason that men like the show so much because it’s so oedipal in nature? The commodore is the father Jimmy hates, but whose approval he so desperately needs. Nucky is the father Jimmy had and hates and wants to ‘vanquish.’ His mean dad is the father Nucky wants to prove his worth to. Nucky is the father the SUPER super cute new Irishman whose name I don’t remember wants to prove himself to and whose wife (therefore, his ‘mother’) he wants to eventually do. Nucky is the father Eli hates and wants to prove himself to. ALL THE GANGSTERS ARE THE FATHERS EVERYONE HATES AND WANTS TO PROVE THEMSELVES TO. The only cool fellow is Chalky White, who I suspect will get lynched :( Terrible poetry and CBSE brand armchair psychology is what the new policy gets you. I’m going to India and on my list of things I must return with are my warmer jackets, Chunky Chat Masala, channa masala, maggi masala and bags of Uncle Chips. As you can see, a lack of spice is one of the main problems of the middle east. Nasi goreng flavoured maggi is wrong and let your children eat chips in flavours other than salt, ridged + salt, salt + cheese and the godawful honey barbeque.
I weep for your children.
I weep for how bad the title of this post is :(
And now I’m going home in eight days and I’ve slipped completely and inexorably into my holiday mood. This is a light and happy time, as I’m preoccupied by things like thoughts of packing and gift buying. For the record, I’m not required to buy presents. I just feel like since it’s my first time going home after having moved I should take something for my family. Something exotic and middle easty like dates / a baby camel / shoes full of sand / an Aston Martin abandoned on the side of the road. Instead, I’ve bought shit like body butter (moringa, which is this really nice smelling flower), body wash (watermelon + eucalyptus, fig + rosemary, apricot + basil). I’m basically taking my family things that remind people of salad.
I think I was afraid of this happening and it has happened. I like living in Dubai. I don’t like it as much as home, naturally, but I like it. It’s peaceful, I’m settling into a routine, I have cats here who need me (or so I like to believe), I have a nice job that is not too stressful, with easy hours and a ridiculous salary. I like my bedroom, where I get to sit on my bed, next to my giant window which fills up the room with light. I like how its getting cold and I have to necessarily open the windows and the balcony door so I don’t have to live with my skin all goosebumpy. I like that I can wear anything and that I have to shop and feed myself. I really like my flat.
How is it supposed to work when you have someone reporting to you who is v sweet and sincere but who pisses you off endlessly? The constant puppy –eyes, the quiet yet very in your face ‘I’m working hard + being proactive’. It all makes me want to barf. Seriously, universe. Don’t hire me. I should go down on my tubby knees and thank the stars that I never had a boss like me. Do I get points for the fact that I don’t professionally don’t hold it against him? He just had a v good PD session. It’s just me who wants to smack him.
Now that I consider what I’ve written in light of the fact that I’m updating my blog only because my boss isn’t here and I’m frolicking in my holiday mode, I am filled with shame + regret. But I’ve implemented a no delete policy here on Step.Down. which will clearly come to be my undoing.
I have returned to this abortive entry hours later, full of soy milk macchiatos. I can practically hear the sloshing inside of me when I walk. My mind is mulch and my hair fabulous. I smoke too much (something I say now in every single entry) but Saul Bellow said ‘I think more die of heartbreak than radiation,’ which is something to think about. I seem to suffer from pointless, needless heartbreak, even when there appears to be none in my life. Give me time, I’ll also start churning out bitter, angry rambly poetry in my free time. And then we’ll all *REALLY* appreciate the no delete policy.
There are these moments when I’m made aware of my staggering lack of substance. I suppose it’s not fair to expect other people to share all sorts of meaningful insight given the situation. Speaking of lack of substance, are you guys watching Boardwalk Empire? Is the reason that men like the show so much because it’s so oedipal in nature? The commodore is the father Jimmy hates, but whose approval he so desperately needs. Nucky is the father Jimmy had and hates and wants to ‘vanquish.’ His mean dad is the father Nucky wants to prove his worth to. Nucky is the father the SUPER super cute new Irishman whose name I don’t remember wants to prove himself to and whose wife (therefore, his ‘mother’) he wants to eventually do. Nucky is the father Eli hates and wants to prove himself to. ALL THE GANGSTERS ARE THE FATHERS EVERYONE HATES AND WANTS TO PROVE THEMSELVES TO. The only cool fellow is Chalky White, who I suspect will get lynched :( Terrible poetry and CBSE brand armchair psychology is what the new policy gets you. I’m going to India and on my list of things I must return with are my warmer jackets, Chunky Chat Masala, channa masala, maggi masala and bags of Uncle Chips. As you can see, a lack of spice is one of the main problems of the middle east. Nasi goreng flavoured maggi is wrong and let your children eat chips in flavours other than salt, ridged + salt, salt + cheese and the godawful honey barbeque.
I weep for your children.
I weep for how bad the title of this post is :(
Monday, September 5
Thursday, September 1
I am fresh out of things to say. I am deeply uninspired. Every day I check for tumours, because I can sense one lurking right below my skin. I am twenty five and weighed down by hidden tumours and visible malignancies. I exist only between books and cigarettes and half filled bottles of water.
I am slowly disappearing.
I am slowly disappearing.
Wednesday, August 17
Thursday, August 4
never fuck a gift horse in the mouth
The internet isn’t a sentient being, so I should probably stop starting every post by greeting the internet. But then neither is the universe and the universe and I talk all the time. INTERNET, HELLO.
This is my first Ramadan experience, despite coming from a country with one of the largest Muslim populations in the world. When I’m not marveling at my cultural ignorance, I’m in awe of the hardcore fasting people are capable of. Other than the standard no food / drink fast there are people who also don’t swallow for the entire period, with the basic idea being that nothing should go down your throat. Thirteen hours of nothing going down your throat. And the whole experience is meant to remind you of how insignificant you are, a lesson in humility and the awesomeness of the god you believe in.
I now live in Dubai (have I mentioned that here earlier?) and it’s illegal to eat / drink in a public place during this month. There’s a room somewhere in my office where non fasting employees can convene to eat / drink. I personally find the thought of going to some secret room, with the door closed and stuffing your face while a significant percentage of your fellow employees are fasting in remarkably poor taste. So I also end up not eating / drinking till I get home (reduced working hours means home at 4) and even though today’s only day 4, the whole thing has been a shocking realization of what a toxic sewer my insides are. It’s not that I’m hungry by the time I get home (which I am, but is manageable). It’s the nicotine, caffeine and aspartame cravings that give me migraines and reduce my brain to mulch, that are alarming. Apparently, I can NOT go hours without any of the three. Which makes me wonder how would I live on a deserted island / in a small city / on a farm. It’s a charmed solipsistic life I tells ya.
Can I revoke my invitation to my manfriend to visit me? The women here are too pretty, it’s a horrible mistake. I know I say that a lot (the thing about the pretty women), pretty much every time I travel. But seriously! Dubai is numero uno when it comes to the babeliness of its women. Other than the hordes of beautiful expats who’re flitting about the place looking fresh and lovely, the effect local women have on all who lay their eyes on the only visible bit of skin, their dignified, demure face surrounded by meters of black fabric, is pretty fucking damaging.
One of the kittens I feed has finally finally FINALLY decided that she can trust me and now every day at feeding time I get rubbed against in a manner that if not adorable would be downright perverted. I know I can’t take them home, because a) I’m not home much b) I don’t how long I am in Dubai, but it’s a thought that’s begun gnawing at my heart. Its easier when I put a ‘doing what’s best for them’ spin on it as I figure they’d be pretty miserable being locked into an empty flat for most of the day.
And to continue with the inane domestic roundub (I’m a diarist, not a blogger SEE) I got my lockjaw insurance claim from the evil insurance company. Considering this has been my first ever experience with any sort of insurance company and they coughed up as per process without any harassment (real or assumed) at all I should probably think a little more favourably of them. I’ve however been conditioned to think of insurance companies as the epitome of corporate evil (ho ho ho I work at one of the oldest MFing banks in the world) and was fully prepared to hand over my claim documents and stab the insurance rep in the scrotum.
In what I could consider to be supremely ironic, my brother has moved to the village (while I have moved out of the country). However, since he is my favourite human being I’m also super happy that he gets to enjoy beautiful weather and kickass coffee and very narrow roads and the sexism of the landlord community. Better there than in hotter parts of the country I say. And it’s too early but I’m already excited about my two week long trip back home in October. I can’t wait to get bitten and ignored by my own babies. I. Can. Not. Wait
I’m looking forward to the manfriend’s impending visit on so many levels. In the top three is the fact that I intend to constantly get wasted with him. Dipsomania aside, this visit is also very worrying and I want to keep you posted with daily updates of ‘god, how do I get him out of the house without seeming insane, considering the bitchfit I threw to get him to visit in the first place’ and ‘why must he snore all the time!’ and ‘is it okay if I start staying late at work to avoid him?’ but I can’t since he knows the link to my blog :(
xx
This is my first Ramadan experience, despite coming from a country with one of the largest Muslim populations in the world. When I’m not marveling at my cultural ignorance, I’m in awe of the hardcore fasting people are capable of. Other than the standard no food / drink fast there are people who also don’t swallow for the entire period, with the basic idea being that nothing should go down your throat. Thirteen hours of nothing going down your throat. And the whole experience is meant to remind you of how insignificant you are, a lesson in humility and the awesomeness of the god you believe in.
I now live in Dubai (have I mentioned that here earlier?) and it’s illegal to eat / drink in a public place during this month. There’s a room somewhere in my office where non fasting employees can convene to eat / drink. I personally find the thought of going to some secret room, with the door closed and stuffing your face while a significant percentage of your fellow employees are fasting in remarkably poor taste. So I also end up not eating / drinking till I get home (reduced working hours means home at 4) and even though today’s only day 4, the whole thing has been a shocking realization of what a toxic sewer my insides are. It’s not that I’m hungry by the time I get home (which I am, but is manageable). It’s the nicotine, caffeine and aspartame cravings that give me migraines and reduce my brain to mulch, that are alarming. Apparently, I can NOT go hours without any of the three. Which makes me wonder how would I live on a deserted island / in a small city / on a farm. It’s a charmed solipsistic life I tells ya.
Can I revoke my invitation to my manfriend to visit me? The women here are too pretty, it’s a horrible mistake. I know I say that a lot (the thing about the pretty women), pretty much every time I travel. But seriously! Dubai is numero uno when it comes to the babeliness of its women. Other than the hordes of beautiful expats who’re flitting about the place looking fresh and lovely, the effect local women have on all who lay their eyes on the only visible bit of skin, their dignified, demure face surrounded by meters of black fabric, is pretty fucking damaging.
One of the kittens I feed has finally finally FINALLY decided that she can trust me and now every day at feeding time I get rubbed against in a manner that if not adorable would be downright perverted. I know I can’t take them home, because a) I’m not home much b) I don’t how long I am in Dubai, but it’s a thought that’s begun gnawing at my heart. Its easier when I put a ‘doing what’s best for them’ spin on it as I figure they’d be pretty miserable being locked into an empty flat for most of the day.
And to continue with the inane domestic roundub (I’m a diarist, not a blogger SEE) I got my lockjaw insurance claim from the evil insurance company. Considering this has been my first ever experience with any sort of insurance company and they coughed up as per process without any harassment (real or assumed) at all I should probably think a little more favourably of them. I’ve however been conditioned to think of insurance companies as the epitome of corporate evil (ho ho ho I work at one of the oldest MFing banks in the world) and was fully prepared to hand over my claim documents and stab the insurance rep in the scrotum.
In what I could consider to be supremely ironic, my brother has moved to the village (while I have moved out of the country). However, since he is my favourite human being I’m also super happy that he gets to enjoy beautiful weather and kickass coffee and very narrow roads and the sexism of the landlord community. Better there than in hotter parts of the country I say. And it’s too early but I’m already excited about my two week long trip back home in October. I can’t wait to get bitten and ignored by my own babies. I. Can. Not. Wait
I’m looking forward to the manfriend’s impending visit on so many levels. In the top three is the fact that I intend to constantly get wasted with him. Dipsomania aside, this visit is also very worrying and I want to keep you posted with daily updates of ‘god, how do I get him out of the house without seeming insane, considering the bitchfit I threw to get him to visit in the first place’ and ‘why must he snore all the time!’ and ‘is it okay if I start staying late at work to avoid him?’ but I can’t since he knows the link to my blog :(
xx
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)