I love you
I never said thank you, for the smiles , for the letter, for everything, for you, for me and the space in between
how u blow through my life, its narcissitic love to love you like it was me, it is something that few people will ever give to another's life,the warmth the honey coloured radiance that permeates my existence in ways better left unsaid .Thank you , thank you child
I'd forgotten how pleasant it was talking to you.
you are nice and special
such a wonderful ability to make friends and get people to like you.... cute eyes... wonderful writing skills
Because I like conversation
not just any conversation
but rather conversation with intelligent people
who possess a certain degree of wit and verbal inventiveness
how do i explain?
you're just good company
well i've been smiling for a while now
definitely attractive, yes. and so tall! and a great smile.
so glad i met you.
i love u too.
*sigh*
That's ten different hes, all chronological, and a different kind of ache each compliment.
A prize for anyone who knows who's who.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
monday mindgames
Pardon in advance, please, any bad or not-very-well-written sentences. Also any spelling errors, because I'm writing from work, and I have not much time.
Today is Monday. I'm here at work early because Boss B's in Kerala but the carpenter for the project will be here at nine-thirty to pick up the drawings so that work can begin on site. So I'm here to hand them over.
I'm here early, and fuming.
I took the scooter to work today. Regular (leave me my timid fantasies, dears) readers of the blog may remember the aforementioned as a rather elderly Kinetic Honda, scene to King stories. I'd remembered that there was no petrol in the scooter, so I left extra early to fill some at the petrol pump near home.
And there, at half-past eight in the morning, I was ignominiously cheated.
Today is Monday. I'm here at work early because Boss B's in Kerala but the carpenter for the project will be here at nine-thirty to pick up the drawings so that work can begin on site. So I'm here to hand them over.
I'm here early, and fuming.
I took the scooter to work today. Regular (leave me my timid fantasies, dears) readers of the blog may remember the aforementioned as a rather elderly Kinetic Honda, scene to King stories. I'd remembered that there was no petrol in the scooter, so I left extra early to fill some at the petrol pump near home.
And there, at half-past eight in the morning, I was ignominiously cheated.
Well, an attempt was made. I still, at first pass, ended up paying Rs. 102 for something approaching one-third a litre of petrol. Of course it was partly my fault for not instantly screaming about the failure of the attendant to show me the zero mark. But I was in a hurry, I hadn't been paying attention, and I was wary of creating a scene. And this is how these people always end up getting away with this kind of behaviour in the first place!
So I stood there, like a silly little smark, and I decided that, despite my immediate feeling that I had been made gull of (oh, and believe me, it was immediate. the attendant had been pouring the petrol into the tank for no more than a few seconds, and the tank looked startlingly empty, and i thought "fuck, i've been cheated"), I would wait to make sure that I was before I began yelling. (i am rather wary of open-foot-insert-mouth. it makes for too much embarrassment.)
So I drove along and watched the tank indicator. It didn't move past the quarter mark. And then I knew. To confirm, and to gain some more courage, I drove home to check with the father. The father confirmed my fears, but, to my horror, seemed to think I would let the matter slide. Do you want some more money to fill petrol, he said. Go somewhere else and do it, he added. Shock!
I refused to stand for such tame acceptance, so I scorned his kindly attempts at consolation, picked up my jacket from the house (one of T's little life lessons: never pass up an opportunity to pick up things you have forgotten.) and drove back to the petrol pump.
There, I proceeded to throw a right royal tantrum (which T enjoyed very much, the crazy creature that she is.), demanding to know whether they thought I was an idiot, whether they thought they could fool me just because I was a woman, showing them the petrol level in the tank and asking them in what planet that looked like two litres, threatening to call the cops...
It was a short, but powerful, performance. I wish I could have seen it from the outside.
"Put one and a half litres of petrol in this tank right now, or I'm calling the cops!", I screamed. (incidentally, arjun, there was a repeat performance of the spittle-on-visor incident. Alas for you that you missed it again.)
After five sentences, one of the attendants filled the tank with thirty rupees worth of petrol. I drove away feeling distinctly that I had been cheated again.
I'm going back there this evening to get a litre's worth. I have the entire monologue written out in my head, so I should be fine.
The T absolutely refuses to be an easy mark.
Await developments, please. Moral support is welcome. :)
Update at half past five:
The T is disappointed at the anticlimactic end to her tale. She returned to vent the rest of her anger, and found that the morning attendants were off duty.
She then went in and complained, in an exceedingly boring and dignified manner, to the supervisor. He then put a litre of petrol in her vehicle, and gave her a bill for the morning's two litres into the bargain.
Either the T is very persuasive, or this thing happens often enough that a litre makes no earthly difference.
Meanwhile, the T is also more than slightly staggered at being apparently excessively memorable. Strangers are coming up to her at unusual places and saying, "Aren't you <insert T's real name>? Hi! I'm so-and-so from school/your Spanish class/some other vague place."
One lovely person recognised my voice. And I'd only seen her twice in my life!!!
The T knows not what to say. She is flattered.
:)
Update at half past five:
The T is disappointed at the anticlimactic end to her tale. She returned to vent the rest of her anger, and found that the morning attendants were off duty.
She then went in and complained, in an exceedingly boring and dignified manner, to the supervisor. He then put a litre of petrol in her vehicle, and gave her a bill for the morning's two litres into the bargain.
Either the T is very persuasive, or this thing happens often enough that a litre makes no earthly difference.
Meanwhile, the T is also more than slightly staggered at being apparently excessively memorable. Strangers are coming up to her at unusual places and saying, "Aren't you <insert T's real name>? Hi! I'm so-and-so from school/your Spanish class/some other vague place."
One lovely person recognised my voice. And I'd only seen her twice in my life!!!
The T knows not what to say. She is flattered.
:)
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
remembering tempers
A week ago, I drove to work for the first time. I left with no time to spare, which meant that I could not afford any extra stops along the way. Naturally, therefore, I hadn't been driving five minutes before I got stuck behind a garbage truck.
Patience, I told myself. It's a mantra I often find myself repeating. It's a throwback to older times.
Suddenly, I felt a strange pressure on the back of the scooter. I turned back to see what it was, and discovered that the driver in the car behind me had decided to inch forward while looking out of his window at the autorickshaw on his right. Which meant that he was slowly inching into my vehicle, which was now tilted at an alarming angle and practically falling from my hands.
I yelled, Hey, and Hello! (he bellowed help! and let me out! who knows where that's from?) The person in front of me turned back to see what the commotion was about, and kindly added his voice to mine. It was rather reedy and low, but it's the thought that counts, surely?
The car continued to inch forward.
I couldn't move forward, I couldn't move to the side, I couldn't move at all. My bag was falling off the front sideboard, the smell of garbage was in my nose, and all at once I lost my head. I let go the handlebars with my right hand and made a fist, and banged on the hood of that great big smug silver car. I banged and screamed expletives and watched the spittle from my mouth make tiny drops on the visor of my helmet. Naturally, the man noticed the insane woman denting his precious car and he stopped moving.
The light changed, and the vehicles moved ahead, and I went on to the office with an adrenaline rush I hadn't had in a long time.
When I was younger, I was famous for my short temper. Flare and flash, and explosions. Violent tantrums, more often than not. Banging my head on walls, banging my sister's head on walls, slamming doors, throwing things around. Later I progressed to less noisy methods of venting spleen - breaking pencils, tearing sheets of paper into shreds... I remember walking around in moods just begging for someone to trigger an outburst. I had a short fuse, and it was too much work to lengthen it. It was also much more fun being volatile.
Eventually, of course, I grew up, or grew wise, and I found ways around the anger. It still bubbled, one of those little background simmers, but any time the temperature got too hot to handle, I ran.
That day, I felt again the rush that being deliberately cruel gives me. And as I felt it, I missed it. A painful visceral ache. Perhaps the way reformed alcholics feel when they lapse and take a drink again.
I wouldn't know.
I am addicted to the strangest things.
P.S. cat's paw.
Sigh. I'm so witty I slay me.
Patience, I told myself. It's a mantra I often find myself repeating. It's a throwback to older times.
Suddenly, I felt a strange pressure on the back of the scooter. I turned back to see what it was, and discovered that the driver in the car behind me had decided to inch forward while looking out of his window at the autorickshaw on his right. Which meant that he was slowly inching into my vehicle, which was now tilted at an alarming angle and practically falling from my hands.
I yelled, Hey, and Hello! (he bellowed help! and let me out! who knows where that's from?) The person in front of me turned back to see what the commotion was about, and kindly added his voice to mine. It was rather reedy and low, but it's the thought that counts, surely?
The car continued to inch forward.
I couldn't move forward, I couldn't move to the side, I couldn't move at all. My bag was falling off the front sideboard, the smell of garbage was in my nose, and all at once I lost my head. I let go the handlebars with my right hand and made a fist, and banged on the hood of that great big smug silver car. I banged and screamed expletives and watched the spittle from my mouth make tiny drops on the visor of my helmet. Naturally, the man noticed the insane woman denting his precious car and he stopped moving.
The light changed, and the vehicles moved ahead, and I went on to the office with an adrenaline rush I hadn't had in a long time.
When I was younger, I was famous for my short temper. Flare and flash, and explosions. Violent tantrums, more often than not. Banging my head on walls, banging my sister's head on walls, slamming doors, throwing things around. Later I progressed to less noisy methods of venting spleen - breaking pencils, tearing sheets of paper into shreds... I remember walking around in moods just begging for someone to trigger an outburst. I had a short fuse, and it was too much work to lengthen it. It was also much more fun being volatile.
Eventually, of course, I grew up, or grew wise, and I found ways around the anger. It still bubbled, one of those little background simmers, but any time the temperature got too hot to handle, I ran.
That day, I felt again the rush that being deliberately cruel gives me. And as I felt it, I missed it. A painful visceral ache. Perhaps the way reformed alcholics feel when they lapse and take a drink again.
I wouldn't know.
I am addicted to the strangest things.
P.S. cat's paw.
Sigh. I'm so witty I slay me.