I grow to despise the place I live in, a little more each day. Everyday we drift further away from the idea of humanness. When I look at how monstrous the problems have become, it seems beyond repair. The patriarchy our culture fostered in subtle little ways is coming back to bite us. Us girls have grown used to eyes shamelessly gawking and mouths making crude remarks. We’ve grown used to our mothers reciting the safety checklist every morning we step out of home. But this isn’t about pervert uncles looking at our breasts while asking how we’ve been or strangers who wrung our skin in crowded places. Nor is this about people because of whom we were forced to change the way we dress. Because we already made peace with all that.
This is about what we haven’t grown used to – hearing that in this country, a girl can get raped and her body burnt. The very thought that we coexist with people who can perpetrate such crimes makes me sick. I disdain the parents who raised those monsters, the teachers who taught them if those fuckers ever happened to go to school, the people around them who let them get away with everything with their ‘boys will be boys’ attitude. And everything that went into the making of these repulsive creatures, who can assault and butcher a girl, go straight to home and go to bed as if their world is just as it was before. Calling them human would be a stretch, they are a disgrace upon all of mankind. Just when we though humanity had hit its rock bottom, we were proved wrong yet again.
In the usual scheme of events, the nation throngs the streets asking for justice one more time, in solidarity with another girl who became a victim of lecherous animals. Candles are lit and prayers said for the girl who lost her life. Between political confabs and conversations among college students, horrifying news stories and the yelping voices at India Gate, this becomes the case of just another ‘rape victim’. Another family will be one girl less – ill fated that they didn’t get to see their daughter’s corpse because it was reduced to ashes. Another bunch of scumbag rapists will be incarcerated until the court decides what to do with them. A one-shot, painless death is the last thing that should be given to them. I say their parts be chopped and fed to them, until they puke on themselves and drench in their own blood. Whatever’s left of them be burnt. But nothing would ever be enough to undo the damage. For all we know, one of us could be next.
You make me feel like it’s my responsibility to eat you. I just stuffed up the garlic bread from last night and look, the pizza in the fridge is blankly staring at me. I’m human, okay? I just had rice and almost half a chocolate cake. Even though I was feeling nauseated, I didn’t want to disappoint you. I’m gonna pass up the chances of me ever having a slim body and I’ll make this sacrifice just for you, food. As long as I’m alive, you can’t be alone. You don’t have to say anything, you just need to know that.
When I say food, I’m not talking to you, you box of cornflakes or you stupid oats, where do you get the nerve to call yourself food? I’m talking to everything that’s cheese-loaded or sweet or deep fried, anything that can’t help me lose weight. And green tea, you bitch, what are you even doing in my kitchen? I didn’t ask you here. You cheated on me, gave me the false hope of improving my metabolism. Is this what you give me? I’d rather get some chocolate syrup. At least it doesn’t lead people on.
Okay, now food I know you love me but we gotta part to realise how much we mean to each other. So stop looking at me like that, it does things to me. You have to let me go, we’re not meant to be together. I think Diet Food is the one for me.
Life has its ways of punishing us. But I could indulge in a little adultery, sneak off to see you on Sundays. And I’m pretty sure my marriage to Diet Food is going to fail cause it’s a sham. I’m so in love with you, food.
I turned 20 yesterday, ’twas was the craziest birthday so far. This seems like a safe place to capture the memory forever before it fades away.
I was certain that I wanted to get super drunk and do shit I can’t be held liable for. I had a single objective in mind- to get wasted. Given my zero alchohol system, it wasn’t a tough job to get me drunk. Two vodka shots and a neat whiskey and voila. But sobering me up before shipping me to my house was the herculean task – for my friends. I remember being made to suck lemons and being sprinkled water on, to bring me back to senses. I hazily remember being slapped (or atleast being threatened to get slapped) by one of my friends, when everything else was failing. I remember perversely smiling at guys and saying, “Hi! It’s my birthday today.” I remember saying I want to kiss that guy and being pulled back by my friends. I remember being met by strange looks from everyone, well, I earned it. I remember two strangers trying to help my friends, asking em’ to get me a lemonade and I remember what I said to those two – “Thank you, you rock!” I remember perching on the roadside and harshly singing, “Oh I wanna dance with somebody, I just wanna feel the heat with somebody” . I remember those three charming guys following us, the same ones I saucily smiled at. Note to self: This trick works, if I want to get a guy to follow me. I remember trying to free myself from my friends, cause I wanted to run back to one of those guys and kiss him. God knows what would have happened to me, if it weren’t for my friends. I remember those nearly failed attempts to make my mom believe I’m not drunk, every time she called. I remember safely making it home, getting off scot-free. Even in that stupor, I remember writing an article about the corporate tax cuts being put off in Britain by Boris Johnson’s party. I remember overthinking myself to sleep, wondering how this was one heck of a day.
They say, “The truth is in the wine.” Maybe there’s a part of me that wants to get drunk, dance her ass off on the streets and kiss strangers. It’s hard disguising myself as this epitome of goodness and sobriety sometimes. But you know, C’est la vie!
I recently finished watching season 1 of the series ‘YOU’ on Netflix and I totally loved it. I know I’m late already. The story revolves around Joe Goldberg (played by Penn Badgley), a bookstore manager who gets infatuated to Guinevere Beck (played by Elizabeth Lail), an aspiring author the first time she sets foot in his store. ‘Love’ would be too mild a word to describe the extent to which Joe is willing to go, to woo Beck. He obsessively stalks her on social media, follows her everywhere, establishes a romantic relationship with her, manipulates her, does everything he can to help her sort her screwed-up life and get on with her career in writing. He effectively turns into a serial killer – there’s some really disturbing content in there. I could go on discussing the show at length but I guess you should give it a watch.
Okay, well Joe is psychotic, obsessed to his girlfriend, unable to see when he’s crossing the lines of sanity. But watching the show, you tend to fall in love with this guy. Yes, he’s dangerous, he’s killed people and he might do that to his girlfriend herself – but somewhere deep down you think he’s not to blame – he’s not a murderer, he’s just broken. He’s capable of loving someone infinitely, doesn’t he deserve to loved back that way? In all rationality, Joe is a creep with murderous instincts but quite surprisingly, I empathize with Joe. And no, that doesn’t justify his going on a killing spree but….you just want to find some lame explanation for his fucked state of mind. That’s the thing about guys like Joe – you want to fix them. You just don’t know how. He’s hauling around too much baggage from the past and has done some unforgivable (read: illegal) shit – but you just don’t want to see him suffer more. The guy is a pure romantic, he’s good at heart, he’s one helluva boyfriend, the kind that does your laundry and gets you coffee and pancakes for breakfast, the kind that protects you from anything that could even remotely cause you any harm, I mean just look at that face. He’s adorable. An adorable psycho killer. (Okay, now I sound like the creep with murderous instincts. But after having watched Gossip Girl, you can’t hate Dan Humphrey even if he’s playing a cold blooded killer.)
Joe belongs to that rare subset of people who have way too much to offer in a relationship, to the point of absurdity and sometimes to the point of suffocation. To the point where he doesn’t just fall in love, he lets love consume him. To the point where every move he makes is not a conscious act of his own anymore. It’s like some invisible hand making him do nasty things because that’s not him. It can’t be. Somewhere he tweaks with your brain and makes you believe he’s right. Fair is foul and foul is fair. Can you stand up to him? Can you stand up to love? After all, he wasn’t programmed this way. He didn’t plan on this. But love happened, it happened insidiously and abraded his soul in the worst ways imaginable. It took this violent form of a fetish for this girl he fell for. But how bad could it get? Why couldn’t love come easy? And even when it came, why did it have to play around and break Joe a little more? His broken pieces want to be put together. Is that too much to ask for? Is love too much to ask for?