Gumption.

Iris: It’s over! This twisted, toxic thing between us — it’s finally finished! I’m miraculously done being in love with you! I’ve got a life to start living and you’re not going to be in it! Now, I’ve got somewhere to be and you have to get the hell out!”

Jasper (the ex): What exactly has got into you?

Iris: I don’t know, but I think what I’ve got is something slightly resembling gumption!

The above is an extract from my favourite romantic comedy – The Holiday. Apart from my Jude Law; Yes, he’s mine, get over it and stop drooling, the movie brings to life so many conflicts that we face in our lives, crisis that we all deal with and it’s treated as beautifully as Jude Law’s jawline. I haven’t written for a while and have been meaning to about gaining gumption.

Aren’t we always fascinated with the idea of the unknown? We’re so fixated on the ‘what ifs’ and ‘could haves’ that we start living 2 different lives. One is the real one, and the other one is a figment of our desires, the ‘what if’ world. I remember telling a friend how ridiculous the game ‘Sims’ was. I found the idea of playing a game to live a different life when your real one is already so exhausting, bizarre. Little did I know, I was playing a bigger game in my head all along.

In high school, my parents forbid me from talking on my cellphone post bedtime. Result? I’d sneak in my phone, talk to my friends till wee hours and it would totally be worth it, even if I had gotten like 5 or 4 hours of sleep. Now that I’m in my 20s, I literally put my phone on silent, switch my internet off and go to bed at 9 pm sometimes because SLEEP IS GOOD.

So this is what I’m trying to get at, no matter who tells you the right thing, you will never really understand it…truly, unless you learn your own lessons. Your BFF might have told you a 1000 times to not text that low life, but you do it anyway because you have hope that he’ll change AND the reason is you (Thanks a lot for setting unrealistic expectations Hoobastank). You probably have no money for dinner for another week but you WANT to buy that imported packet of Cheetos and it might be worth it right then because CHEETOS IS GOOD, but later, you’ll be starting to get tired of Maggi.

People always tell you to follow your heart, do what your gut tells you, but they forget to tell you that in the beginning it may all feel very liberating but later it may or may not destroy your soul depending on the kind of person you are. Thankfully, my soul isn’t destroyed. I’m so glad I did what my heart asked me to, only to forever close the door of ‘what ifs’ and finally walk down the road of what is.

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9 Things Mindy Taught Me

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In an interview of hers, I had read “I always get asked, ‘Where do you get your confidence?’ I think people are well meaning, but it’s pretty insulting. Because what it means to me is, ‘You, Mindy Kaling, have all the trappings of a very marginalized person. You’re not skinny, you’re not white, you’re a woman. Why on earth would you feel like you’re worth anything?’”

Makes sense right? People often come up to me and ask, “How are you so happy all the time?” or “How is it that you tend to get over things so quickly? Lucky you.” Of course, it sounds like a compliment but with a tiny crack, through which a little disappointment seeps in. You’re not perfect, and yet you’re okay with it. But here’s a question – Would you have preferred it differently? Everybody loves complaining and our friends are there to hear us out through the drama sequences of life. I complain a lot, and yet you may never have been at the receiving end of it. Count your stars my friend. While some of you may have been and have returned the favour much gladly. Don’t worry, I’ve loved listening to you rant. If I didn’t, you’d know.

So this is probably 1 of the million reasons as to why The Mindy Project is an all time favourite tv show for me. While I enjoy the humour (understatement) the show makes me think. Ponder. Learn. Want to know what? Here goes;

ONE. Life’s a mess. Make the most of it.

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TWO. It’s okay to be irrational. In fact it’s more than ok, it’s hilarious.

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THREE. Don’t settle for love, demand a fairytale

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FOUR. It’s okay to get offended, just learn to let it go.

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FIVE. Since when was having one best friend enough?

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SIX. Be your own role model. It’s the best. You will never love anyone more. Maybe your dog, but what does he know. A lot. Yeah.

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SEVEN. If you decide to get a prenup, don’t forget the 3 crucial rights. Chicken wings being the most crucial, of course.

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EIGHT. You don’t need self help books to solve life problems, all you need is a donut. Try it sometime. With whipped cream.

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NINE. And finally, speak your mind out. This is going to benefit you 10 years down the line. Trust me. I’ve learnt it the hard way.

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Much love Mindy. Much love.

10 Secrets I Learned at The Wedding Filmer Workshop + A Giveaway Worth ₹10,000!

Always wanted to attend this but never had the opportunity to.
*Added to the bucket list*

An Indian Wedding Blog

You can find out when the next workshop is happening here – you can register at the same link, and get date and venue details as well.

The Wedding Filmer Delhi workshop review #ClassroomOfLove

I’m a HUGE fan of The Wedding Filmer’s work. I’ve said it before, I’m getting tired of saying it, but I will still say it again for the benefit of those who have been living under a rock the last 3 years – they’re the best wedding videographers in the world. THE BEST. No doubt about it. So last year, when they decided to hold their very first workshop, I knew I had to attend it. They were going to teach Delhi-ites a thing or two about creating world-class wedding videos, or “films”, as they like to call them. I took a seat, crossed my legs…and my fingers. I was hoping this workshop wasn’t all-hype-no-content. What if they didn’t actually reveal any secrets? Was I just…

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No Labels, No Drama, Right?

This isn’t written by me, I couldn’t reblog the damn thing so just so that I never lose this beautiful piece of writing, here it is:-

“My Jeremy is coming to visit this weekend,” Maddy whispered to me one night while we were out for a friend’s birthday.

“Your what?” I asked. I thought I had misheard her.

“My Jeremy,” she repeated. “I’ve told you about him. His name’s Will. We grew up together in Washington. He’s visiting from school. My Jeremy.”

And just like that, a name — one I referred to often — became an archetype, a trope, an all-purpose noun used by my college friends to talk about “that guy,” the one who remains for us in some netherworld between friend and boyfriend, often for years.

I met mine, the original Jeremy, at summer camp in the Poconos at 14, playing pickup basketball by day and talking in the mess hall late into the night. Back home we lived only 30 minutes apart, but I didn’t see him again until 11th grade, when we ran into each other at a Halloween party in a Lower Manhattan warehouse.

I was dressed as a rabbit and he as a vampire. As we converged, he put out his hand to meet mine. “Has anyone ever told you how well you rock a tail?” he teased, tracing the lines on my palm with his fingers.

“You should really get those bloody fangs checked out,” I replied, suddenly conscious of my bitten-down nails.

As Maroon 5 blasted in the background, he murmured drunkenly in my ear, “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” I murmured back, standing on tiptoes.

Under the muted flashes of a strobe light, we shared our first kiss.

We stayed in touch for the rest of high school, mostly by text message. But we also met up in person when his school’s basketball team played ours and when I ventured from New Jersey into Manhattan for academic events or to attend another warehouse party.

I was eager to move on from high school, and talking to Jeremy was an escape, a peek into an alternative universe where shy boys with moppy brown hair and clever minds seemed to care about more than their next hookups. When I published an article about my struggle with Crohn’s disease in an obscure online magazine, he wrote with praise and to tell me it moved him, lessening the shame I felt.

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Every time his name popped up on my phone, my heart raced.

Still, we were never more than semiaffiliated, two people who spoke and loved to speak and kissed and loved to kiss and connected and were scared of connecting. I told myself it was because we went to different schools, because teenage boys don’t want relationships, because it was all in my head.

Two years after our first kiss, we were exchanging “I’ve missed you” messages again. It was a brisk Friday evening in our first semesters of college when I stepped off a train and into his comfortable arms.

He had texted weeks earlier on Halloween (technically our anniversary) to ask if I would visit. We had not talked since summer, and I was trying to forget him. We had graduated from high school into the same inexpressive void we first entered in costume, where an “I’ve missed you” was as emotive as one got. I decided to leave him behind when I left for college.

But he wouldn’t let me. Whenever I believed he was out of my life, I’d get a text or Facebook comment that would reel me back in.

And I wouldn’t let me, either. His affection, however sporadic, always loomed like a promise. So I accepted his invitation, asking myself what I had to lose.

I lost a lot that weekend: A bet on the football game. Four pounds (from nerve-driven appetite loss). A pair of underwear. My innocence, apparently.

Naïvely, I had expected to gain clarity, to finally admit my feelings and ask if he felt the same. But I couldn’t confess, couldn’t probe. Periodically I opened my mouth to ask: “What are we doing? Who am I to you?” He stopped me with a smile, a wink or a handhold, gestures that persuaded me to shut my mouth or risk jeopardizing what we already had.

On the Saturday-night train back to Manhattan, I cried. Back in my dorm room, buried under the covers so my roommates wouldn’t hear, I fell asleep with a wet pillow and puffy eyes.

The next morning I awoke to a string of texts from him: “You get back OK?” “Let’s do it again soon :)”

And we did, meeting up for drinks in the city, spending the night at my place, neither of us daring to raise the subject of what we were doing or what we meant to each other. I kept telling myself I’d be fine.

And I was. I am.

But now, more than three years after our first kiss and more than a year after our first time, I’m still not over the possibility of him, the possibility of us. And he has no idea.

I’m told my generation will be remembered for our callous commitments and rudimentary romances. We hook up. We sext. We swipe right.

All the while, we avoid labels and try to bury our emotions. We aren’t supposed to want anything serious; not now, anyway. But a void is created when we refrain from telling it like it is, from allowing ourselves to feel how we feel. And in that unoccupied space, we’re dangerously free to create our own realities.

My friend Shosh insists that I don’t actually have feelings for Jeremy.

“You don’t know him anymore,” she says. “I think maybe you’re addicted to the memories, in love with a person you’ve idealized who probably isn’t real.”

Maybe she’s right. Maybe my emotions are steeped in a past that never presented itself. Still, he envelops my thoughts. And anyway, Shosh has a Jeremy of her own, another guy at another school she holds both close and far away.

To this day, if I ever let a guy’s name slip out to my father, his response is always, “Are you two going steady?”

He means to ask if we’re dating exclusively, if I have a boyfriend. I used to hate it.

“People don’t go steady nowadays,” I explain. “No one says that anymore. And almost no one does it. Women today have more power. We don’t crave attachment to just one man. We keep our options open. We’re in control.”

But are we?

I’ve brooded over the same person for the last four years. Can I honestly call myself empowered if I’m unable to share my feelings with him? Could my options be more closed? Could I be less in control?

My father can’t understand why I won’t tell Jeremy how I feel. To me, it’s simple. As involved as we’ve been for what amounts to, at this point, nearly a quarter of my life, Jeremy and I are technically nothing, at least as far as labels are concerned.

So while I teeter between anger with myself for not admitting how I feel and anger at him for not figuring it out, neither of us can be blamed. (Or we both can.) Without labels to connect us, I have no justification for my feelings and he has no obligation to acknowledge them.

No labels, no drama, right?

I think my generation is venturing into some seriously uncharted waters, because while we’re hesitant to label relationships, we do participate in some deviation of them.

But by not calling someone, say, “my boyfriend,” he actually becomes something else, something indefinable. And what we have together becomes intangible. And if it’s intangible it can never end because officially there’s nothing to end. And if it never ends, there’s no real closure, no opportunity to move on.

Instead, we spend our emotional energy on someone we’ve built up and convinced ourselves we need. We fixate on a person who may not be right for us simply because he never wronged us. Because without a label, he never really had the chance.

When I realized I hadn’t misheard Maddy, I asked her to elaborate.

“You know what a Jeremy is,” she said. “You practically dubbed the term. He’s the guy we never really dated and never really got over.”

Most people I know have a Jeremy in their lives, someone whose consequence a label can’t capture. In years past, maybe back when people went steady, he may have been the one who got away. For my generation, though, he’s often the one we never had in the first place. Yet he’s still the one for whom we would happily trade all the booty calls, hookups and swiping right. He’s still the one we hope, against all odds, might be The One.

Written by-

Jordana Narin, a sophomore at Columbia and the winner of the Modern Love College Essay Contest.

But until we’re brave enough to find out for sure, there’s life to keep living. Until he can be labeled ours, just calling him Jeremy will have to do.

The Girl With The Birthday Jinx…Happy Birthday. Here’s hoping the internet doesn’t crash.

I grew up listening to fairytales, thrilling stories, ghost stories…but you know the story my kids will grow up listening to? Will be this one!

Once upon a time there lived a girl. Skin fair as the fair and lovely cream itself and hair that could give Barbie a complex. It’s not common for one to hear; “I lived in Panchgani.” We all knew there was something different about her since then. So the pahadi child spent her time in boarding school there, discovering herself…becoming the rebel, the little wild child that she is. She almost met her Prince Charming there, but that wasn’t the time for their love story…I hope and pray that time comes soon. As she grew up, she became a confident and accomplished woman with luck so good, she probably was a horse shoe that crushed nimbu and mirchi in her previous life…really. She’d know the most perfect gentlemen, spend time with the most caring friends and knew a hell lot of frikkin hot men (Some with a sense of humour and a sexy smile. We now refer to him as sexmuffin, but more about him later. It’s not his birthday). She loved to celebrate life 358 days of the year. The 7 days in a year that seemed to be the most unfortunate was known amongst her friends and her as – The Cursed Birthday Week.

I can say without doubt that this woman was celebrating her birthday many MANY years ago on the Titanic. If she had directed the movie Titanic, movie doob jaati! So you know where I’m going with this, her birthday week was a BAD WEEK FOR EVERYONE AROUND HER AND HERSELF. Planning a birthday party for her would be a disaster. You’d book a cab to surprise her at 12, when later enquired you’d find out the cab booking wasn’t registered. You’d want to make a Cadbury Shots Cake for her, but unlike every other day, it would be nowhere to be found. You’d want to make sure her birthday is a hit, but you suddenly discover you’re out of town (Has happened a multiple times). You’ve wanted to gift her the perfect gift you think she will love on her birthday, but it takes more than a month to ship…it seems as if it were being shipped from The Shire and not Singapore (Birthday Gift Hint. No longer valid since it bloody reached you!). Nothing/No one has broken the curse yet. It is like a fairytale isn’t it? A princess with a curse. It’s just cooler because it’s a birthday curse, someday Disney will make a movie on this shit! Unfortunately, I know not the end of this epic tale…because the curse is yet to be broken. Will it be the Prince we spoke about earlier? Will it be sexmuffin? Will it be someone utterly unexpected? Well, we will know soon enough. The day I do, it will make for a great blog post!

So today is the day, may wordpress not crash and may this beautiful picture story that I have below reach out to the most epic human being I am fortunate enough to know and love, Foram =]

We Met.1

We judged people.2

People judged us.3

But that didn’t bother us. Ever.4

You’d be the math whiz in all our assignments!5

Also be the 1st to strike a pose with me whenever 🙂 6

It never really was goodbye for us7

Because the clubs in Bombay awaited your arrival!8

Goa was yet to experience the awesomeness that was well FoMo.9

The crazy phases of life that makes us facepalm now *blush* 10

But look how happy the Happiest Musical Festival was with us around!11

Look how seamless long distance seems!12

Well to all those times and to the future, let’s get sloshed13

Let’s shower each other with PDA forever14

Let’s blaze more often! You know you love me more when I’m hungry and hyper!15

Let’s dress up like nothing matters!16

Let’s just lie down and talk – Life17

Let’s go out and live life 🙂18

Let’s meet studmuffins like him more?19

Let’s look forward to living together again someday!20

And just going out to drink on girls night!21

For now, let’s celebrate all these memories because life is a long journey baby, and we have a million memories more to make ❤ 22

Happy Birthday again Foram! Pyaar & hugs!

P.s: This is my 50th Blog post. It’s half a century 🙂 Yay!

*Cue to play the Jaws theme song*

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “1984.”

 

The question posed here is this – “You are locked in a room with your greatest fear. Describe what’s in the room”

As I open the door, all I can think of is the incentive I shall get for this stupid dare I took up. There I was in swimming gear swooning into the room, the crystal blue water is always soothing to swim in. It’s like a swimming pool in a room and that’s always fun isn’t it? So what’s the catch? (He He He Fishermen Joke) As I peer through my goggles I can see a large object breathing on the floor of the room. It’s part white and part charcoal black and has a devilish grin…with more teeth than I can count.

My heart rate drops…it felt like my heart suddenly got up and said “Ain’t nobody got balls for that” and just hid in a box that had sign saying “Do not open till all clear of ‘shark’ objects”. As it swam towards me I could hear the background music go dun-dun! dun-dun! dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun, da-na-na! (You wont believe me but my heart is racing just typing this blog post).

I swam to the sea bed I mean room floor or whatever. Since Deep Blue Sea, I had decided. I could die in the mouth of a lion, or burn to death or choke to death or get stabbed to death but NEVER will I even give an opportunity to myself to die in the mouth of a Great White Shark. Yes, I hate sharks. They are ugly scary. They are huge. They attack snorkling swimmers thinking they’re seals and then spit them out when they realise otherwise. They are scary as shit. Did I say they have teeth that can carve you into party streamers? Maybe that’s what Shark Birthday parties are like. A seal cake, human party streamers, blood shots, dancing to the Jaws Theme Song and all the jazz. Getting back to my story, I had watched this 48 minute documentary about the Great White Shark. That documentary spoke about it’s behaviour and characteristics. Remember this, if you, also like me do not want to die in a mouth of a shark, Sharks will never attack you sideways. They will always try and catch you by surprise i.e. from the under (See, devilish son of a wicked shark). So it’s best to always level yourself with it, or to swim sideways. I never thought the peeing on yourself trick would work with me, you see even to give a urine test, my bladder acts pricey even if I drink 2 lts of water, so when I’d probably need to pee during a shark attack my bladder will go “Nope. Not in the mood today woman”. Thus while the shark knew I was onto something it kept circling the room. That is not a good sign either, they always circle their food. It’s a mark of territory…like hey! that’s my food, I will now circle it because I can’t really take a marker and write my name on it or stamp “Shark Food” on it. Now it was all up to me to escape this living hell.

Stay tuned. Part 2 coming up. Yes. That is how the shark looks like in my story. He wants you to come back. Or else he will eat you like a Human BBQ Cocktail.

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You don’t need an eye for Photography. You need a vision.

In a generation where self portraits (i.e. selfies) have taken over the lives and phone space of millions, I came across an advertisement that wasn’t just a visual treat or brilliant copy; it was a full package experience.

While I was in college a professor of mine had told me, “Mute the ad and watch it. If you understand what the message is, the work’s done and done well”. I came across the thumbnail of the Lux Perfume Portrait Ad several times this week, but didn’t bother opening it. What new is left for Lux to offer? Another sensual ad with Katrina looking dreamy? (Tip: Watch all of Katrina’s ads on mute. Slice, Choc On, Lux choose your pick, you will see what I mean). But then I came across the Behind the Scenes with Bhavesh Patel – The Photographer. It caused an intrigue, and I clicked on it. Go on! Watch it first! You wont regret it. Keep the volume high and your senses open to absorb this piece of art.

First let me do a happy dance because good ads are back and it’s only the start of 2015 *Does Happy Dance*

Now, to delve in deeper. Notice, happy people are ALWAYS beautiful. They have more colour in their cheeks because their blood is coursing through their veins at a more rapid pace. THAT is the scientific justification. How I see it is, when someone is happy – They are comfortable and being comfortable is sexy. That dash of perfume you use for your date night, it’s the special perfume, the one you use for special occasions only. Why? Not because the components of the perfume are any different, they are all just different moods/fragrances bottled up in fancy cut glass jars. But that dash of perfume tends to kick in the confidence, helps you pick your chin up and flash that million dollar smile. You feel no less than Katrina Kaif or ever better perhaps. Katrina in this ad does the exact same thing for the photographer – looks stunning, knows it and owns it. Her aura overwhelms him. He calls her fragrance ‘sensual yet playful’. The colour purple brings out the sensuality and the ‘fabric playing’ is playful. But how does HE know that? The Fragrance. Notice how the word Fragrance is used. Not smell, not odour, not scent but fragrance. The source of this fragrance is Katrina who is represented as the Black Orchid that in the initial part of the ad both the photographer and her are seen smelling. That’s how the photographer could make the connect between the two and create magic.

This wasn’t an ad, it was Art. A Perfume Portrait of Katrina Kaif, keeping in mind her sensual and playful fragrance – All thanks to Lux.

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Rightly stated, we all discovered the power of fragrances.

Shit Happens

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Once Upon a Time.”

Once upon a time, in a kingdom very close to the Arabian sea, lived a girl in her 20s. She was home after 4 years of living independently, it was time for some good ol’ home food. She was fond of cooking things that only she would love (That way she didn’t have to share it with anyone). She had a helping hand, who would keep all the necessary ingredients cut and ready. As the grand cooking began she realised how much she had missed this…last year if she had to cook some chicken she was sure to find rats and cockroaches waiting for their share right beside her on the kitchen slab. But not here. Here was home, the most cleanest place there is and where ingredients were magically present and dishes were not to be worried about.

Everything was going perfectly, a packet of chilly flakes was half poured into the preparation- “Hah! Nothing is too spicy for me, these chilly flakes are never spicy enough”. Soon enough the entire castle seemed to have teary eyes and a cough fit. The chicken was prepared and it was amazingly hot. “Of course, the spice could be tamed” thought the little Chef. An entire jar of cheese and a tin of cream later, the preparation looked amazingly mouthwatering. Note: Cream cheese and fresh cream is the secret to mouthgasming food. The girl quietly took some of it and ran to her chambers to enjoy her work of art. As soon as she took a bite of what seemed like heaven, hell broke loose on her tongue. You may never know the feeling…but I’m going to try my best and describe it to you. It’s like your tongue suddenly catches fire, while your cheek seems to be adding kerosene to it and your throat seems to be closing up on you. Immediately a bottle of cold water was emptied into her mouth in order to extinguish the fire. Once the burning sensation died, she had to admit the chicken was tasty as hell! She could put it between bread and enjoy it, or mix it with pasta…but the rebel in her just couldn’t let that happen, as that would somehow diminish the fiery taste to it. She sat there day after day eating a small portion of her heavenly hellish preparation. It was the best dish she ever made, the taste so enticing that she kept wanting to sneakily munch on it even at 3 in the morning. But it was too hot. In the end, after endless hours on the pot and swearing to God as to never adding chilly to anything, it made the girl wonder. A lesson had been learnt…every story has a moral right?

Well here was the girl’s a.k.a mine: Shit happens, you might as well enjoy what you can, while you can.

I would also like to add a little bit of genius advise my dad had given my mum a few years back. If a person is picky with their food, let them cook it. No matter how shitty it is, they will enjoy their own work of art. Always. Stands true to me and if you know me, Im the pickiest picky of them pickys. So from one picky to another, explore the joy of creating a dish, I’ve realised that it’s very accomplishing!

One Day.

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That quote right there. It can be a fancy quote for some, a mobile wallpaper of a sobo friend, a poster to stick at work, a motto for teenage girls…for me; That’s inspiration.

I remember when I went for a family holiday to Europe. It was a package trip and the last stop was France. My parents had saved every penny possible for this dream to come true – something I never understood at that point. I’d look out of the moving bus at the wide green fields and the crystal blue rivers, kids don’t enjoy this much and so, neither did I and well I slept through most of the trip (Boy do I regret it now). But when we reached Paris, I just knew I HAD TO RE-VISIT THIS CITY MORE THAN ONCE!

From being the fashion capital to having the perfect weather, to the beautiful roads and the amazing atmosphere I FRIKKIN LOVED PARIS. When I went to the Louvre, every painting had a story to tell, when I came across the Eiffel Tower – I instantly felt a pang of romance in my system, from the tiny coffee shops to the gorgeous looking people – the city was perfect. Something made me want to stay longer, sit at a cafe – write my journal while sipping on Hot White Cocoa or just walk around the city and inhale the culture if that was possible. No other city had ever rubbed off on me as such…I’d like to think of it as that guy you had a giant crush on and never really got to know well, you always wish to bump into him so that you can soak up some more of that hot stuff.

Having felt all these bizarre emotions, this quote inspires me because someday I’d like to see this post, pack my bags and leave for Paris. These struggles, ambition, sacrifices…everything is to enjoy the luxury of wanting to travel to a city that makes you want to fall in love with it over and over again. You know what? Someday I will, and that someday I’ll probably write another blog post sitting at a cute cafe, sipping on some Hot White Cocoa…wonder what I’d write about?

Maybe the wanderlust to fly off to another foreign land…and fall in love with it just as much as Paris.

Au Revoir

The Class Cutie

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “It’s Friday, I’m in Love.”

It’s a good thing I had the habit of maintaining a journal, that way my friends and I can remember the excruciating details of our first crush back in school.

Back in the day when mum tied my hair into pretty little chotis *sigh*, Kaajal was supposed to be for Highschool girls, socks were to reach up till your knee if possible, and being chubby meant being cute, obviously meant that getting a guy to like you was not really a walk in the park, especially if he is your *CRUSH*. I remember it so well, he had walked into the class – Lean, tall, fair, big eyes and a great side smile. He was Teenage Ken in the world where we yearned to be Barbies. Normally during lunch hours girls would gawk at him, oh but I wouldn’t…”Aint nobody got the time for that” I said, but only if they could read my thoughts. In my head, I was with Teenage Ken. He used to worship me and treat me like THE ONE. I used to bake him cupcakes and he would buy me flowers. He would sing and dance for me like Shahrukh Khan did back then and I would blush away. He would sing, dance, write, draw, play, save the earth, beat Superman, was secretly Batman and possibly everything perfect…of course all in my head. But little did I now, wooing a guy was going to be SO DIFFICULT.

I remember developing a keen interest towards Pokemon since he played it so much! I bought a Gameboy Advance, Red, yellow, blue, green version cartridges, trading cards and read up on them all. That’s when we had a common ground to communicate. Yes, Pokemon was the basis of the real life relationship that we shared.

Teachers would like me a lot, I liked to be organised and they were well, in need of some organisation…so the classroom romance would bloom in ways you’d never believe. Distributing notebook buddy, lunch buddy, Pokemon buddy and oh the classic…when you’re the monitor of the class and are asked to write the names of the boys talking in class – Write Teenage Ken’s name and then erase it right before the teacher arrives – Little excitement and mischief always tends to work…doesn’t it?

Although first crushes are remembered only for those little butterfly-ish effect in your baby fat filled tummy, it’s a short lived experience, for most of us. I invited Teenage Ken for my birthday party and he gifted me a book, it was all awwww till I found out he previously owned the book and gave it to me as a recycled gift.

Sadness filled my soul, and then his parents decide to move. More sadness filled my soul. WHO will I look at when I don’t understand jack in math class? Then the time comes when he leaves. Soon, he grows up to become an investment banker with a hot girlfriend.

And you thought this was going to have a happy ending?

Hah just kidding, you grow up to be a sexy badass who finally becomes a billionaire. Woo Hoo!

The End