Wannabe Weirdos Vs ME

Right, I get it. Weird's the new Cool. But I REALLY  can't stand it when the in-crowd label themselves "weird" when all they do is the generic cool stuff that the generic in-crowd does. HOW COULD YOU? YOU STOLE EVEN THE WEIRD FROM US WEIRDOS.

Here. These are the reasons why people started calling me weird and why I embraced it:

1) It was two in the am when I decided to brush my teeth after losing a battle with my conscience when my argument was "WHY BOTHER WHEN I'LL BRUSH AGAIN IN FIVE HOURS?" As soon as I made this decision to save my teeth from further deterioration, I take my dad's sunglasses from the 90's, put it on, and while I'm posing for the mirror, I brush my teeth.

2) I just took stock of what's in my bag and I discovered that if apocalypse were to make an entry now, I would armed with three data cables (Lenovo, Samsung, and the usual)-what they connect is loudly absent, lip balm, and the wrong currency (I'm in Dubai now and have rupees in it). End of the world, I am SO ready for you.
(I'm thinking I'll go pull a Sheldon Cooper and fix an Emergency Escape bag).

3) While normal girls talk about films and actors, know how to fix a cup of tea that won't poison anybody, gossip, are familiar with the various Facebook operations and terminologies, (I realize I've presented the stereotyped female, but that's what I've felt), not only have I proved to be inherently incapable of the above mentioned, I talk at mph on any given Physics topic, books that I like (caring tuppence about who I'm talking to), clam up when social niceties dictate me to interact in a non-uncomfortable manner to the poor soul who wound up next to me, keep my Facebook chat permanently off, and continues living for months without updating my outdated Whatsapp version.

4) This is the part where I've felt the whole world's weird and I'm normal. If you acknowledge that you're scared of nothing but lizards, you're normal, but if I scream when some yet-to-be-identified creature of the six-legged variety stings me, all I get is WHY THE HELL CAN'T YOU SHUT UP. The fact that only lizards don't scare me to a scream sometimes elicits a REALLY? reaction from some. Sans the sarcasm.
Sometimes.

5) I'm prepared to "sacrifice" two hours of sleep at night to finish a book.

Yours Unashamedly-Happily-Weird,

The Perils Of Traveling Economy

For sixteen years I called Dubai home. I still do, with more feeling behind it now. I study in India and these bouts of homesickness hits me from nowhere. For example,  I will be sitting in class, paying attention and then APROSEXIA (Google it) hits and I'll be daydreaming the usual (meaning some guy from some book i'm having a crush on and me in some romantic setting, occasionally fighting the bad guys, always ending with me being called the hero) when suddenly the scene changes and I'm walking in  some park in Dubai at around 5:30 in the evening (I don't know why my aprosexia - addled brain bothers with the timestamp, but there you go), with no particular destination in my mind. I have to fly to Dubai every six months else I'll be entangled in some visa nonsense - for which I THANK GOD EVERYDAY else my miser of a dad (who apparently loves me in such a way that won't somehow tear a hole in his pocket) would leave me to the mercy of my hostel warden in India. So this frequent traveling business warrants an economical setup so hey  - welcome to the joy of traveling economy.

What I Get

What I Want

1) The queues: THE QUEUES. The families, with their luggage that violate the max weight norms who murder my patience as they reorganize their luggage, the ones who keep trying to intimidate me out of the line, the ones who run first to the queues while I stand around to figure where to go, and the annoyance that follows when the other line moves faster than yours are all part of the experience.
2) The screaming babies: You learn that blasting Miley Cyrus through your headphones fails to drown that background wailing.
3) The middle seat: The armrests end up being monoplized. Because you're too polite you don't say anything when the man on the one side starts snoring and the one on the other side can't seem to shut up. Or when it's a kid trying to peek into my tablet screen when I resort to tweeting all my frustration. Speaking of tweeting...
4) NO INTERNET: You open your text editor and type pretending your tweeting realtime.
5) No TV: Enough said.
6) The foldable trays: They are about as wide as my palm which people don't ever pass up the chance to categorize them as the smallest they've ever seen on an eighteen year old. After a period of regularly traveling economy, you learn how to balance the various components of your food tray on top of one another. The complication occurs when your partners-in-flight don't know the same and you spend an agonizing half hour trying to avoid the trays on either side that threaten to spill onto you. Which, trusting your screwed up luck, might just happen.
7) The much flexible seat (please note the sarcasm): My skill to adapt has now made me an expert at falling asleep upright. This new-found skill has come very much in handy especially during those Sunday masses when the priest gets a bit carried away with the sermon and stubbornly ignores the clock.
8) The in-flight meals: Science, I'm TOTALLY allowing your theory that taste buds neglect their duties at high pressure. But, from experience, traveling first class gives enough incentive for my taste buds to work harder. And I keep wishing that maybe this time, Masterchef decided to pick my flight for one of their episodes.
9) I'm sorry, but do we get all the flight attendants that piss me off? No seriously. "Ma'am I'm going to have to kidnap your bag to lock it up in the overhead cabins". I blink, my bag's gone and so is he.

The Perks of Traveling Economy:

1) Lower ticket fare: This single-handedly outweighs the Perils so yay I'm going to spend another couple of years flying economy.


To all my brothers and sisters in this exercise in Patience,

The List (including living breathing people) Part II

Prison Break.

When I first saw Michael Scofield, I thought - huh, ok.
Fact: Only 20% of your attractiveness is influenced by your physical features. The rest is brought on by your personality.
That more than explains the reason why he became non - fictional - crush - way - out - of - my - league #3.
And the reason why all the guys I've met in real life, who I thought were drop- dead gorgeous are now just sort of good looking. Or worse.
Back to Scofield.
Dude, he's an engineer who actually is more than worthy of his certificate,and let me tell you, THAT is an achievement in this country where engineers are born at a rate that is just shy of the national birth rate, and about a small percentage is any good (the statistics are not empirical, just a bit exaggerated).
OK I SWEAR THAT IS THE LAST TIME I AM DEVIATING FROM THE TOPIC AT HAND.
Extremely smart (I'm too lazy to think up synonyms to exactly describe his IQ), again, THAT SMILE, the almost there - I'm - screwing - you - smile, SENSITIVE ( everytime he showed it - awww...), and His Eyes.

So routine beckoned. I googled him. His Wikipedia page informed me that he's gay as well.
Now I'd been watching the third season at that time with Joana. At 11:45p.m when I made this discovery, I ran to her room, banged on it, woke up her roomies, and she stepped out, trying to open her eyes, God bless her.
She: What is it?
(Inside mutterings can be heard)
Me: MICHAEL SCOFIELD IS GAY!!!!
She: (rubs her eyes and they bulge out) WHAT? No ways, absolutely no.

Her roomies were sympathetic to our cause within two minutes, so they didn't screw me.
I had never seen her so heartbroken.

All this prompted me to evaluate myself. None of the (8+3) guys are within my league. So right now ( I most probably would regret posting this later), I have in my head a person who has all the characteristics I've absorbed from the (8+3) guys. Point being, it's gonna be very hard for me to fall in love.

Fact: the fifth stage after a person has gone through trauma is acceptance. This is how I'm going through it (the trauma being Wentworth Miller is gay):

1. Wentworth Miller is NOT Michael Scofield.
2. I'm in love with Michael Scofield. Ergo the validity of point 1.
3. Anyways, Wikipedia says he's 41 now. So, puhleez, I don't have a crush on him.
4. And he looks bad when he's not on Prison Break, if I can judge the photos Google threw up.

So, yeah, writing all this down helps some. All these thoughts were flying around in my brain, and it helps with the acceptance stage, seeing all this in words that aren't going to jump around.

Sincerely,
Not - anymore - Mrs. Scofield.

P.S. : Excuse the part where I sound like a thirteen year old girl who scribbles Mrs. (insert name) over and over again in her journal.

P.P.S: I heard Scofield dies in the fourth season. So I guess I can't be Mrs. Scofield anyways. Good, right?

P.P.P.S: Go to hell. In my version, Sara doesn't exist, he and I live happily ever after. The Company got screwed. The end.

The List (including living breathing people) Part I

I have decided that most people are incredibly right about one thing.
Me falling in love is going to be an event that has to be recorded in This Century's Greatest Achievements.
A sub - point that I have to admit is that there is something fundamentally wrong with me. Believe me, that was a point overwrought with dispute.
This sudden confession was brought on by a Wikipedia page. It just strung some things together, and revealed a thread that I had previously dismissed as non - existent. For hope's sake.
The Wikipedia page aka The Culprit? Wentworth Miller's.
So I had Prison Break lying around during a period of time that appears rarely when you're doing a course in engineering, when I was bored out of my imagination. My cousin and I thought, what the heck, let's see it.
Flashback:
Like I mentioned in a previous blog post, most guys that I'm in love with are fictional. Then a non-fictional person appeared, I canvassed him, and got him fans, or in other words, the ambitious club of Prospective Mrs. David Archuleta-s happened. There were fights over who deserved David Archuleta the most.
We were ALL in love.

Those who had the guts (or were foolish enough) to call him baby - faced were murdered by the said club. Each song that was released was put on repeat mode. And advertised. Navi heard that he came to Chennai for charity work, and we lamented over the fact that Dubai didn't have enough scope for doing charity. Or didn't appear to be on his list of top ten places to hold a concert.
Then along came White Collar. Neal Caffrey came - I don't know- in a way that was IMPOSSIBLE  for me to NOT be in love with him. What with that smug smile like it's an inside joke that only he's in on, THAT HAT, his wits, his extremely high IQ, et cetera. Plus little things here and there. Not to mention his good looks. Sorry, understatement. Now, I think of suits, I think of him in it. I turned to trusted PI Google. Imagine my heartbreak when I saw the word 'gay' was mentioned on his Wikipedia page.  Plus, I've seen him only on the idiot box. Non - fictional - crush - way - out - of - my - league #2.

8 fictional characters plus 2  living ones, both who don't know that I exist. That was my crush list. Before.

The Boat Stolen By Rain

The twin paper boats sailed past,
leaving laughter in their rippled trails,
while I stood, lost in the rain,
drowning, drowning in the memories.

Nameless faces framed her face,
A smile hidden behind the wet hair,
pushed a paper boat, it rose, then drowned,
but not before it reached me.

The rain witnessed our secrets, our sighs.
It washed our tears, it bathed our joy.
Dreams rose and dreams drowned,
but the paper boats kept floating past.

Then her boat sunk in the cruel rain,
I was marooned, she stolen from me.
Time had run her course, the scheming brook.
Memories and rain alike, drowning me.

I Embarrass Myself - Episode One

My favourite pastime is embarassing myself. Anytime, anywhere however I want. Sometimes, history repeats itself. Deja vu is a frequent occasion. I have a gift (a RARE gift, mind you) to embarass myself in the same fashion, in front of the exact same audience. A round of applause each time.

(curtain raises)
scene: my classroom, Basic Electical Engineering hour. Seated in the front row.
The teacher Ms. RR draws a (something that's complicated that I don't remember) on the blackboard. She turns.
RR: How do you solve this?
She briefly scans the audience. No one looks at her. Except yours truly.

RR:(pointing at me) Draw it. (Holds out the chalk)

Me: (gets up. looks confident. Puts one leg out from under the table. The class looks on bored. RR drifted to the furthest corner at the back. I move forward. Correction: try to. I look down at my leg that seems to be ensnared in my bag's strap (big deal). I twist my leg around. Try to move. Twist around a bit more. No luck)

Me: Um..

(The class looks on very interestedly. Sniggers break out. One progresses to a laugh. I keep struggling. A sympathethic soul tries to help)

The Sympathethic Soul: I'll catch this. You pull your leg out, ok?

Me:(nods)
(RR walks to the front. For someone who usually doesn't show any expression, cracks a smile at my predicament. The class emboldened by this starts laughing. RR waves at me to sit down. My big moment ruined.)

TSS: Twist your leg.
Me: ( dances. Sits. stands. dances again. Frustrated, I try to rip the freaking thing from around my leg. Succeeds at last. By the time which someone else had been woken up to solve the question.)

RR as it turned out wasn't sympathetic.The next question was for me. This time I didn't know the answer.

(curtain falls)

Waiting-for-applause-ingly yours,

What The Thieves Left Behind

The nights still hosted nightmares,
guns and canons punctuating each.
The air hugging me was weighted with tears,
- was that the epilogue of the songs of blood?

The nights wore the mask of silence,
it muffled the cries and strangled screams,
Hades lay in wait beside each bed,
picking lots on his boat's next passenger.

The land wore blood graffiti,
the crimson scared away the shy green,
while the undead sang eulogies,
to the ash, the blood, the ash, the blood.

I walked among that which bore,
no resemblance to that which were Before.
My eyes were no longer awash in brine,
the horrors had stolen even that away.

The unashamed witness, the sun,
scorched away the shadows, the thieves,
when one undisciplined ray struck,
a rogue dew drop sitting on a leaf.

Hope like that which Pandora never felt,
burnt my soul, my heart, the blood within.
My finger caressed that tongue of green,
the dew drop stinging me everywhere.