I am fat, and it’s all your fault.
When every happenstance seems mundane and ordinary, when you disappear, and they all slowly walk away, and all of it threatens to push me over the edge, into vast nothingness, I try and focus on my breathing. Inhale, exhale: over and over again, until the need to regulate it ceases, until I can focus on nothing but me, alone, safe, and warm, still alive and breathing. I focus on the smiles and laughter sequestered by the defense mechanisms honed by me and by you, by us all: romantic comedies/ action movies, popcorn, Coke with lots of ice and copious amounts of chocolate ice cream.
how to avoid evident demise?
No. We are not going to discuss death or life or how all of us will die one day and so, what’s the point of it all while you live. No, no. We are not going to ramble on about global warming or eternal damnation or impending doom/ Armageddon. The title just stands for the slow death of this place. Yes. This. Place. Or space. Call it what you will. Heh. It’s dying. And I know not how to revive it. Any ideas?
Well. We can quit job to ensure we write here. That won’t sit well with anyone, not even me, for the moneys are needed. So, we can just type whatever comes to mind. But nothing, absolutely nothing comes to mind. I can think of nothing to write about. I have stared at this “Add New Post” page and just continued staring till I got a call or had to get something done or the cab arrived to take me to office or home or somewhere away from here. Yes. We cannot write. How does one save a place like this without being able to write? Suggestions? Suggestions are welcome.
So, this state of intellectual dead has led to me resort myself to being on the receiving end. There’s work, there’s more work and then there’s no scope left for anything but bleh. So much so, that I am now obsessed with another sitcom, One Tree Hill. Yes, I’ve finished Sex and the City, How I met your mother, Gilmore Girls and 5 seasons of One Tree Hill. Yes, it’s disturbing. Yes, I read too, and watch movies as well. I need to watch Bruno and savour this collection of borrowed books. Despite all this, I cannot write. Each sitcom, each book, each movie is ridden with the idea of love, true love, the one… finding the right person, your soulmate for the night, for the month, or for life. I cannot write: how different would my words be from the gazillion words written on the subject already? Right?
anything for you.
I wish I could make you happier. I wish you would laugh with me, or at me, if you like. I wish to make you smile, not just at my witticisms and one-liners but at the world. A happy, happy smile. I would like to take you out for ice cream with toffee sauce in this gorgeous weather. I’ll pay, of course. Come, take my hand and lead me to your favourite store before it starts to pour again.
A view from the bottom?
Every year many, many management books are sold; a million trainings/ conferences/ seminars/ webcasts/ podcasts/ presentations are created/ delivered to a gazillion Managers/ Managers-in-training/ Manager-hopefuls. All of these are trying very hard to become Corporate Whores or reap the benefits while they claim not to be Corporate Bitches. What do these books and trainings do? Nothing really, they give you hope or turn you into a bigger cynic. They make you realise how much more jargon you need to pick up and also, reiterate the importance of your network over your errr talent. Heh.
The Whores rule over the Bitches, for they tickle Big Daddy. The Bitches clobber the Slaves, for they provide support to the Bosses. The Slaves in turn will, if needed, gouge your eye out for some attention. That’s what it’s all about, attention. Who gets some, who gives some, how someone reaches a position where just your designation ensures you get some, and allows you to give some. Some people might disagree with me and claim that attention giving and taking is very unprofessional. I would like to tell them to retrieve their heads from their asses and then breathe. Ah, you smell that? Doesn’t smell like your head is full of shit eh? Take some time off, de-stress and tomorrow, you may try communicating.
Obviously, all this Corporate Whoring has a lot to do with the money. They say, if you’re good at what you do, you can always earn enough. Alright then, let’s assume, you may be able to earn enough by free lancing. Then what? Where is the office cab? Where are the air-conditioned interiors? What about ‘em perks? Medical and HRA and all that jazz that can be charged as Expenses to the company. What about the steady monthly income? What about the yearly humiliation called the Performance Appraisal or some such. What about the beautiful and much-awaited bonus? They turn you into dependent leeches! They do.
Some accept it, some except it. Some sell their soul and declare it to the world. Some claim their soul is intact. Yeah right! When you do this 5-6 days a week, ignore every other committment in your life if something urgent comes up and consider 40 hour weeks a luxury, then how is this not about your soul? You sold it. Yes, for that annual vacation or for your kids or your siblings or even your parents for they did so much for you. Didn’t they? Or just to repay the education loan or the rent on your close-to-office-apartment or the EMIs on your car, which you had to buy because of your work. The irony? of it all. Sigh.
The Bid Daddy, the Big Boss, the Boss’ Boss, the Boss, the Gods, the Friends, the Backstabbers, the Whores, the Bitches, the Bastards, the rich brats, the idiots, the Hardworkers, the Aggressors, the Politickers, the Ass lickers, the Ball ticklers. Baby, who says you need to be busting your ass in Advertising or Movies to have an “interesting” job. You see people bending over here too! You see favouritism, you see immature choots, you see it all. You are promised transparency and growth and the sun and the moon. What you get is material, for jokes, for cussing sessions, for torture plans that remain in your head. And the saddest thing, is that the Hardworkers who end up being sincere and not the Aggressors, are usually the Doormats. The doormats.
Maybe not, but my job has only taught me how I need to exaggerate and at times exacerbate.
PS. It’s still pouring here. If only transportation wasn’t an issue.
September. Already?
How can it be September already? The massive-post-New-Year’s-eve-party-hangover seems like it was suffered last week! The winter didn’t live up to the usual hype, the summer crushed us and the monsoon never really happened. I only saw 2 or 3 movies in the theatre. I haven’t even seen any plays. I didn’t headbang at any gig. I got only one bad haircut and it’s September already? Alright, so she got married but she had left Delhi for another long time back… Yes, he got engaged, but it involved only one roadtrip. I haven’t baked or cooked all day. I haven’t had nihari or phirni. I have hardly had enough cravings, the chilly chicken hunt is the only one I can think of. I have had only one expensive pedicure and, and… this is all very hopeless.
How can it be September already? Where did the past eight months go? Oh, well, at least the new shampoo works. And I have shopped enough to be broke and/or in debt! And I did sing on a mic, to Toni effin’ Braxton! So, what if I might be a corporate-whoring-emotional-wreck-of-a-wannabe-psycho-sociopath? That can be worked on, it’s only September eh?
