Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Just because she comes off strong, doesn't mean she didn't fall asleep crying, and even though she acts like nothing's wrong, maybe she's just really good at lying.

I've been noticing that admitting to possible personality disorders breeding in you is the in-thing right now, and for the first time in my life, I'm flagging down the bandwagon, because, oh, do I ever want to get on it. Don't judge me, yet, because, hey, if I wallowed in the mire forever, it would hardly get me anywhere. However, this has always been a space where I talk about things I don't normally talk about (it's not really surprising how THAT works, but that doesn't mean I don't talk shit in real life. I do, just of a different kind.) and this is also where I can make the jokes I do, because I don't have to worry about people getting them, which I constantly do. There's your level one anxiety-disorder right there.

I suppose, there could be multiple issues with my personality, but I've thought about them long and hard and narrowed down the root of all of them to one main problem: intensity.

When I say 'intensity', I'm using a term I can apply to every single emotion I've ever had. I mean, even when I have a tiny chocolate, the back of my throat tingles intensely for the first fifteen full seconds. Which, I know, is not so much an emotion, as much as my throat telling me to have my stupid tonsils taken out, but you get the point, right?

For example, we all get asked on multiple occasions daily to do favors. Stuff like your friend telling you to pick up a package they need or a colleague asking you to review their report, etc. Now imagine you've been asked for one such favor and you're completely swamped with work of your own. You prioritize and come to the conclusion that it's not always possible to do what you've been asked to do and that's that. You go about your day in the most normal fashion there is. Life goes on, what's for dinner, et al. Not for me, though. Every single time I get asked to do something like this and I can't, because I just don't have the time, (which I don't, more often than not) I go on full breakdown mode. I compulsively obsess over it long enough to feel guilty for not doing something that wasn't my job in the first fucking place and then torturing my mind over it. 

Speaking of compulsive obsessions, here's my other 'problem'. Everyone's obsessive-compulsive to a certain degree, that's a scientifically proven fact. This phenomena has also evolved on a mass-scale over times, giving birth to things such as rituals, festivals and, guess what, culture. Most of it doesn't make any practical sense, but we go on keeping with our beliefs anyway lest the world may fall to pieces. That, however, doesn't make me feel any better about the fact that I can only write numbers by spelling them out completely (unless I'm writing down the time), that it annoys me if there's an inch of a difference in my daily travel routine, I mentally calculate the number of seconds every daily activity takes me to compare any irregularities that occur and I'm talking calculating the number of seconds it takes me to go down the stairs at the metro station (which is, roughly, 6 seconds) type of stuff. So, yes, I measure my entire fucking day.

Of course, the winner of the cigar is the paranoia. I'm not afraid of heights, but scared shitless of planes. Some smells scare me, some questions scare me (which is normal, I guess), dusk scares me and fills me with mini-bouts of depression, and then, obviously, there's the reason I always wear the most comfortable shoes I have - an impending apocalypse. I'm not saying that I have firm beliefs that plagues will break out, spread and wipe out the world or zombies will run amok. I'm not even considering the possibility of a nuclear war. It's just that if something does go wrong, I want to be prepared and I suppose you can't do that with tiny brogues or enormous heels.

I'm tired of playing out every scenario of my day in advance in my mind, every way it could transpire, and then, being disappointed when it doesn't even come close. I'm tired of paying equal attention to all stupid tabs on my browser, because otherwise I wouldn't be 'fair'. Most of all, I think my shoes are silently plotting my death from having been shut in the closet too long.

Monday, October 31, 2011

So hold it in cover up, pull up your sheets, your sheets.

Overall, I'm a top gal. In real life, I'm polite, respectful, I pause to give your opinions a thought + I make garlic toast that kicks killer ass. If you only ever had a look through my blog and hadn't met me in person, chances are that you think of me as obnoxious, slightly poisonous and at loggerheads with most people in the world and with a knife carefully hidden in my sock. Just in case. Hate to break it to you, but nothing could be further from the truth. The only reason most of my writing includes me throwing bombs at people is because I'm a total sloth. No, wait, let me explain it; I promise to make it make sense. 

My indolence achieves unparalleled heights every day. I don't buy shoes with laces on them. The one pair that has laces was untied maybe back in the times of tyrannosaurus rex. (Also, I just spelled tyrannosaurus right in one go. If this isn't the total win people keep talking about, I don't know what is.) I've slept for 18 hours at a stretch. On multiple occasions. I can do that at will. I've never been an Apple person, but have been seriously considering getting a 4S in hopes of having Siri make my decisions for me.

I'm lazy not just physically, but also in my thoughts. Mostly, because the conversations I'm having in my head with myself are truly more exciting than the ones I could have with, you know, real people. Also, I just can't make the effort to get excited by much, ugly or not. My laziness also gives me rhino hide so it's pretty much impossible for stuff to break through even the initial barriers. Don't let that fool into thinking that my judgment is complacent, too, though, because I'm judging you alright; I'm judging you and everything about you eight ways to Sunday, yes, but that doesn't mean I'll share it every time. Basically, my 'writing-trigger' is me telling myself, "dude, if you don't write at least a hundred words somewhere, you might as well give up on that whole becoming-a-writer-thing altogether." Which I'd be okay with, except that I'd like to be able to publicly announce one day that I write for a living.

"So, what do you do?"

"I'm a writer."

Things automatically became exponentially cooler, right? Getting back to the point, I'm lazy and it's for me to just bitch, because come ON. I could just find about 37 things to complain about with just one cursory sweep of my surroundings right now.

All this by the way of saying that I, umm, don't have much to report, so you're gonna have to do with last week's tweets. It wasn't me, I swear, it was Lazy Me. That bitch sucks.

(I know you're thinking that's a lot to write as an introduction for a handful of tweets for a lazy person, because if you're not, well, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?)

- Heiter gonna heite. (You better believe I saw The Human Centipede. Will watch the sequel. And then watch both again.)

-Subs for lunch, 5 days in a row. "It's not something I'd recommend, but it IS one way to live."

-I do not appreciate that my favorite funny blogger has morphed into a self-help-style moron. Enlightenment sucks.

-Just so you know, dressing up as Jobs for Halloween is not the most innovative idea. Blue jeans & black sweater doth not a costume make.

-Here's how many fucks I give about the Formula One race:

-I hate walking past hair/skin care kiosks anywhere. Those ladies look at me like I'm raw meat.


-Would really like to go home, lay in bed and make mental movies of perfect life scenarios right about now.

-Watching videos of penguins do nothing but WALK is a perfectly good thing to do when you have a bazillion years' worth of work to do.

-Oct 31st is 7 billion day. Way to go, world population. Multiply, because I'm not squished NEAR ENOUGH in the metro.

-Someone should sneak up a cow in my office. Just 'cause. Cows can't walk down stairs, you know.

-EVERY TIME I read a Dilbert comic, the voiceover in my head, for some reason, is by Jason Alexander

-For the amount of time it takes me to actually wake up, I might just call it recovering from a grievous wound and be done with it.

-I think there's a cleverly shrouded pervert in my timeline. A classy pervert is still a pervert, mister.

-Pain au Chocolat, French for little pillows of air that you can't have, because the bakeries in your area never graduated beyond rum balls.

-That awkward moment when you're contemplating tweeting with a French accent (just because, okay?) & someone on your timeline does it first.

-I now know of a song composed (almost) entirely about whales (I think). I WIN.

In case, you guys were wondering what I was for Halloween, here's a bonus picture. HH was  an ironic Edward Cullen. I was supposed to be Lady Ligeia from the Poe story, but the dress bored the hell out of me so I decided to go as a zombie, but I was still looking pretty good to be a zombie, so I decided I was a Narcissistic Zombie, and that's when HH pointed out that I looked nothing like ANY kind of zombie so I ended up going as a Six Non Textures artwork, because that's the name of HH's design firm and he did the make up.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

UPDATED: Drop him out a window and he’ll fall. Set fire to him and he’ll burn. Bury him and he’ll rot, like other kinds of garbage OR haters gonna hate OR I shall cut you, etc., etc.

This last Saturday was World Zombie Day and I did my bit by shooting a post-dead friendship, still quivering unhealthily smack in its head, because some people just need a high-five.

In the face.

With a chair.

Here's why - I received a wondrously sappy email from an ex-best friend. Ex, because there's a back-story somewhere in here about how he used be totally awesome, but I ended up leaving the school and moving on the other things in life (like getting a job, making a living, etc.) and then we got in touch a bazillion years later and then he got too clingy and I got properly creeped out and put an end to the friendship-gone-bonkers by getting unresponsive to which he responded by dishing out rude remarks on our mutual friends' FB and my boyfriend's phone and blardy, blardy blar.
I didn't retaliate. THAT'S how cool I am, okay.

But this email that I just received (similar to one I'd received earlier) was monumentally embarrassing. For him. I suppose that never occurred to him. It's as if he retreated to the corner of his brain where all the passive-aggressive bullshit he was so kindly bestowing upon me was stored and wiped it squeaky clean, meaning, he actually forgot the things he had said about me AND the guy I'm in love with. On fucking FB. 

I will not print the email here, but, in essence, it just re-iterated how he misses me and wants to hear my voice (which, FYI, is a fabulously-disturbing thing to tell a girl who used to be your friend) and making several choice comments about my personal life. AGAIN.

At this point, my patience has run out, but I haven't yet gone nuclear. I wrote back a short email telling him to, basically, mind his own fucking business, get a life and not contact  me again. And I'm only using the 'f''-word here, nowhere in the email did it show up (so proud of me).

Now, any decent person would leave it at that. Or maybe tell me that I'm a bitch and be done with it. Not this guy. He shoots another email my way, getting preachy. A 350-word email dedicated to ME and none of it nice and at one point he included the sentence 'although wanna say FuCk Off to you both bt wnt do that... will nt steep down to the level on which u r standing ryt nw...' (and I'm quoting here). What pissed me off wasn't the various allegations made by a snubbed boy with an ego the size of my pinky toe, but the grammar.

I mean, did us being friends teach him absolutely nothing? Zilch?

Fear not, though, for I took the matters upon myself by sending him a fully proof-read and edited copy of his email, in response. Followed by this:


As was expected, I got a passionately wound-up reply from him, beginning 'Ohh I didn't knew that this fight was abt our grammer..' and then telling me what a lowlife I am, etc., etc., closing with a 'now get lost.'

Bit rich, coming from him, don't you think?

Below is my final email to him. 

"Sorry, I couldn't find one with his tongue sticking out.

Also, *grammar*.

Tch, tch, hopeless.

This is the end of responses from me, and the beginning of being forwarded to spam for you."

I'm sure he responded in some ballistic way, but true to my word, he's now food for my overstuffed spam-box.

Moral of the story: Choose your battles carefully, because when you pick up a useless, meaningless fight with me - I WILL proof-read. Also, I will win.

As a side note: he made it pretty clear in his email that he reads the blog (which is, yay!, because I thought no one ever did), so I'm certain he may start the bitchfest here. There's only one thing I've got to say to that, really.

Bring it on, motherfucker.

P.S. Completely forgot. In honor of the (belated) World Zombie Day, here's the most-sung-ever song by Indian bands with female vocalists - Zombie (The Cranberries), but if you're looking for something 'le fresh', listen to this, and yeah, I'm the person going 'lather, rinse, repeat' in the song.

Update: No biggie, except the worm in question responded in the comments (*gasp*, *surprised*, *shocked*, et al), thusly:

Don't worry Miss Wahi, there won't be a bitch-fest here, sorry to disappoint you. You replied in the manner you know best, now I'll reply in the manner I know best. It won't be a text message, nor a phone call, not even an e-mail. I'd reply back face to face and believe me it will be a one shot K.O. 

Cutie-pie you want me to bring it on, guess what, The War Is On.
Till then enjoy your happiness.

I don't even know what's more exasperating -  the shitty punctuation, the unnecessary capitalization or the horrifying phraseology. Dear lurkers (yeah, all 4 of you), this might be a good time to come out of the shadows and edit the shit out of the comment, because I'm all tuckered out. Interpretations of the message and aspersions on the guy's personality toadally get bonus points.

Jokes apart, in all probability, the comment points in the direction of possible violence or at least a public 'scene' involving some level of humiliation. I'm not stupid. However, I'm also quite the tenacious bitch. I stand by my previous witty, albeit completely honest insults, because in words of the great Dr. Alban, "It's my life".

(That last line is also the quickest test in the world to find out if you're a 90s kid. If you have to ask how, you're not.)

Also, why is this guy still on my blog? Get off, you.

And, yeah, my last name's Wahi. Do what you will.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

She tells the story three times, convinced he does not understand. He is trying.

This past week has been slightly off-kilter, people-wise. Between a condescending waitress, grammar Nazis with serious punctuation issues and reporters peed off with life, in general, a lot is happening. However, that's not what I'm busy doing right now. I'm busy earning the hard-earned paycheck I just got, busy waiting for it to cash and busy planning some seriously obscene spending sprees. A bit hard-pressed for time, I'ma leave with you a collection of my tweets from the week. I included only the good ones, pwomise.

For constant uninterrupted stalking, follow me @crazyanddrunk.

-Contemplating a worldwide basic grammar tutorial, however, I believe the climax shall include a stun-gun.

-Sometimes, I deliberately use extremely long sentences to tick people off or to confuse the hell out of them, simply because I know that I can.

-Wonder what it'd feel like to stuff Kinder-Joy eggs with Nutella and call them Kinderella.

-So, now you can't even call a spade a spade. Apparently, that's hurtful to the spade's feelings.

-Sing (Blur) is the perfect going-up-the-escalators and staring-incessantly-out-the-window-while-in-the-metro song.

-There is no future in time-travel - On a girl's t-shirt this morning. Also known as my new idol.

-And then, you even outgrow your bumper stickers. Sheesh.

-Oh, PLEASE, hasn't everyone once wondered if George Lucas is Santa Claus? The resemblance, people???

-Indian Railways denied permission for the 'Bond 23' sequence. No Craig. Nor Bardem. I can't catch a break.

-Drake's eyebrows are so far apart that they have to Skype if they want to play Battleship.

-I think I just coined a new term. 'Engtertained'. It's when you're entertained. By a cat.

-Turns out Mountain Dew Neon doesn't REALLY glow in the dark. *sniffles*

-New FB: More stalker-friendly and even more intrusive, for your pleasure. YAY.

-Time to jostle my way through the other 3,628 trillion public-transportation users. Where's my bayonet?

-Open letter to Delhi: Please, stop turning into Mumbai. You know, with the rains and everything. I still haven't learned how to swim. XOXO

Friday, September 23, 2011

...and to you, who are wonderful, magical, and amazing...

Time just goes by without me paying any attention to this and, suddenly, it's six months later and I am overcome with the sudden realization of the changes I've undergone. There are people who may be saddened by this lack of self-awareness, but me? I get a little kick off it. Making my way through pouring rain, one fine day, I realize that I don't notice the smell of rain anymore like I used to. I don't scrunch up my eyes, look up and smile at the clouds either. The person responsible for bringing almost all of these changes about is a man. Him of the virtually complete control over my consciousness.

This man has taken all my actions, decisions & opinions and put them through the wringer, leaving me questioning every single thought of my own and while all this is coming off as quite sorrowful, let me show you how it's not. Sorrow has no place in my life as it is now.

In all these years, there's a lot of small pieces of junk I picked up in form of thoughts. I'm a hoarder by nature, so people just kept throwing them my way and I just kept stacking them haphazardly one after another. He's shown me I don't have to do that anymore. That uncluttering your mind is the best thing to do, no matter how attached you've gotten to the chaos you've organized.

He has this power not because of some perennially-joyful life we lead. The fights between us probably outnumber the fights between every couple I've ever known put together and their intensity will make you scream. I hate changes and he makes me hate myself for changing, but once the metamorphosis is complete, I have to bite back all my arguments and just concede to being defeated. The changes make me better.

So, now when I do smile at the rain, I'll do it like I mean it.

P.S. I don't know if any of what I wrote above make any sense at all to anyone apart from me, but that doubt isn't reason enough for me to not write it. However, the next post shall be more in my usual style, so if you don't get this one, just hit your mental 'ignore' button, okay? Or, busy yourself with these 'Everything is Sunny' bloopers.

P.P.S The number of times I used 'any' in the sentence above is CRAZY, man.

P.P.P.S. Also, uncluttering isn't a word? Is this a joke?