Sans Froid

Dewd.

Like, really.

When is something like this scheduled to happen in Delhi?

(I want to watch, not compete take part.)

 

Warning– N really SFW.

Back Up

Hey, Bengalis.

I’m prepared to grant you some leeway because of the way your language is pronounced. And because the number of your women I covet is in the dozens.

I even knew a fellow whose initials spelt out the Hindi word for tap– and that’s how he liked to be called. “Nal.”

But really, ‘Anal’ as a first name???

I’m not joking. I would tell you to search and see for yourself, but rather astutely he’s made his Profile unfindable.

…

The question is: would you change it, if it were your name?

Hohum

They’ve dug up the road connecting Gwyer Hall and PG Women’s Hostel / Miranda House Backside. Must be for the Commonwealth Games. But who can ever tell?

So I took the long way to Hudson Lines: looping past the Metro station on the Ring Road and back onto Probyn Road. I was driving with the windows down and the a/c on– a trick I learnt from NC– which always puts me in a good mood. And then a cycle-rickshaw came barrelling down my side of the road, all set to make his right turn into the Metro premises a good 300 metres further down the road. (That’s how people make turns in India.)

We did our own little version of the Pedestrian Give-Way Dance. Both veer left (his right). Both veer right (his left). Repeat. Finally I deliberately crashed into him, and we battled each other all the way down to hell. No, I joke. I passed him on the right, snorting in disgust. 

Oh, if only we had a designated side of the road to drive on.

~~~

I can’t write about it, because a friend of mine is benefiting tremendously from it and I don’t want to ruin it for him. Like, tremendously. It disgusts me utterly. (And I don’t usually give a fuck about anything other than breasts and parking spaces.)

Well, it doesn’t really disgust me, not at all actually– I just wish it had happened at a time I could have taken advantage of it. (There, see.)

But it does go to show– there’s simply no point taking the moral high road. As with a making a third right-turning lane at a signal: if you don’t do it, someone else will.

Why the hell should it matter who your father is? You’ll never be a judge yourself, fucking woman.

But it does matter, as we all know. Who’s your daddy, little girl?

IOL

I got this after a couple of Reader shares, but it’s originally from here.

Uncannily true, I find it. (I’m third from the top, myself.)

 

Evidently I’m not the only one who thinks almost everything comes down to girls you want to bang.

Lighted To Lighten

Candlelit dinner, cheesy, but okay.

Candlelit church, okay.

Candlelit memorial/protest gathering, okay.

Candlelit bedroom, okay– as long as sex doesn’t cause a fire hazard.

But candlelit basement gym with no airconditioning (duh– power outage with dead inverter batteries)?

…

You should’ve smelt that odour. Jat, Sikh, Tamil, probably Bengali, and goodness knows what other sweat varieties all mixed for your inhaling pleasure, just while you’re struggling to hold twenty kilos of metal above your head.

…

This is 2009, and I’m sick of living in a country that can’t even get it together enough to provide uninterrupted electricity and water to residents of its capital city. I spend at least one hour every day these days studying by candlelight. Studying by candlelight. Does it sound romantic? It’s a fucking bain in the putt, that’s what it is.*

World power, my hairy brown ass. I hate this country. Only the women make it tolerable. Thank you, luvs.

 

___________________

* My landlady has an inverter for her floor, but she doesn’t share it with the tenants. She-jerk.

Pleadings

“Ooh, they’ve started already?” said a friend of mine this afternoon, when I told him my paper was in two hours.

Aye, that they have; and they’ll be on for the next 1 month and 24 days. It’s okay; I’ve fallen into a routine. 7 hours in the library daily = no need to study in my room.

~~~

“Does a bail application need a verification [by the applicant]?” the person sitting behind me whispered, about two and a quarter hours into the exam. Two of the three invigilators had gone for coffee, and the third was dozing off at his desk at the front of the room.

I pretended I couldn’t hear him. Twerp. No matter what other shit I get up to, cheating in a final exam doesn’t sit well with me.

So he asked the fellow to his left, who told him the wrong answer. (“Yes.”) Serves both of them right. It was an anticipatory bail application the question asked for, to boot: not a regular one.

…

When I write this shit down, it seems unbelievably moral-high-horse-y to me. How do y’all put up with it?

Cock Roach

What’s so attractive about my toothbrush anyway?

Note To Self

> In-shower sightings of fresh sproutings of hair on upper and middle back now confirmed.

> Upper pinnae (earlobes) now remain the final frontier of “manly” body hair to look forward to with pleasure. (A decade ago I thought armpit hair was the cat’s whiskers.) Sadly, said hair also signals the ultimate end of the “sexy time” phase of life: better be married or at least stably hooked by then, you had.

> Reconsider outer-shoulder location of forthcoming June-2009-scheduled tattoo. May not look half as cool with a soft downy blanket in five years.

Ides Of March +1

That marks my first month without smoking. Yes, thank you very much!

It’s hardly even a big deal for me any more. I do look wistfully at people who light up when drinking, and for ten minutes I think of little else. But I remember how my last attempt at quitting came undone when I smoked a “reward” fag in the old dv8 bar after 3 months off, and know that smoking ‘just one’ is the way to failure.

For the most part, though, it’s clear as crystal to me. I used to smoke, I’ve had enough, and following a chest infection that began on March 15 (Iulius Kaiser’s death anniversary, incidentally), I no longer smoke. The switch has flipped from “smoker” to “ex-smoker”, and that’s it. I’m not going back this time.

Being an ex-smoker means I don’t give a toss about second-hand smoke, so others smoking in my room or my car is still allowed, and ashtrays and lighters are provided. I even have three Marlboros left over from March 14, if any of you want them.

The list of benefits for me is of course non-pareil. Apart from saving 1500 bucks a month (30 USD, or a third of my rent), healthier-looking lips and gums, and not having to repeatedly step out of bars for smokes:

 

20 Minutes After Quitting
Your heart rate drops.

12 hours After Quitting
Carbon monoxide level in your blood drops to normal.

2 Weeks to 3 Months After Quitting
Your heart attack risk begins to drop.
Your lung function begins to improve.

1 to 9 Months After Quitting
Your Coughing and shortness of breath decrease.

1 Year After Quitting
Your added risk of coronary heart disease is half that of a smoker’s.

5 Years After Quitting
Your stroke risk is reduced to that of a nonsmoker’s 5-15 years after quitting.

10 Years After Quitting
Your lung cancer death rate is about half that of a smoker’s.
Your risk of cancers of the mouth, throat, esophagus, bladder, kidney, and pancreas decreases.

15 Years After Quitting
Your risk of coronary heart disease is back to that of a nonsmoker’s.

 

Or so they say…

It’s easier than ever to quit now that bars and pubs have been made smoke-free. I honestly don’t think I could have made it if that Ramadoss fucker hadn’t made them all so: I would have caved the first time we went out drinking.

Bottom line: smoking is cool and almost orgasmically enjoyable, but supremely stupid.

Now let’s go and binge-drink.

 

 

Thought For The Day

How do you pronounce the ‘g’ in ‘Bologna’?