my life

Pre-mature New Year’s

It’s such a mood to be finally doing this. Listening to ‘Don’t You Forget About Me’, the Simple Minds setting up the stage for impulsive get-your-life-together moments. Constantly trying to recreate a good scene from a movie. The one where the hot mess picks up the broom, puts on a high ponytail and makes an enormous planner — her detailed and intimidating Yellow Brick Road to Success. Is this my Yellow Brick Road? Will anyone ever read this? Is this Julie and Julia and will people recognize this? Will this catapult me into literary fame? A book deal? Or is this just another whim that would die out just as softly as it was loud when it crackled into life?

Based on many legit-looking but probably unquotable articles, I have decided that any successful New Year’s Resolution is made ahead of time. And started ahead of time too? After a long walk along a cold desolate street, I finally came home to a piece of paper and a black pen. I made three lists— a list of what I needed, what I wanted and one of what I thought I wanted but didn’t actually need. And honestly, even though I have probably talked about it a million times, there was something peaceful about putting it all out on paper. It took two minutes to make them because I had known what to write for the past five years.

Every year is the same and every week has a breakdown-Monday and a we-can-do-it Sunday which doesn’t work. Never did and never had. I keep telling myself that I work really well under pressure but honestly, I’m pretty sure it’s like denial for ace procrastinators. So I decided on a Pre-mature New Year’s which is just as arbitrary as the actual New Year’s— a hyped event only useful for statistical purposes but celebrated because it bears the conferred value of hope. We are defined by created symbols and in the end, metaphors dominate our lives, phone backgrounds, and cars. But the point is that some impulsive low-pressure goals have a higher mortality rate than New Year’s Resolutions. Because the moment you say “resolution” you are encouraged to fail. Also, has anyone noticed that we live in a culture which really coaxes us and tells us that its okay to fail? My depressing experiences are validated and molly-coddled by meme templates and pop culture. So now there is this ironic narcissistic-self hate chain where I know I suck but I can tell myself that its all good because everyone can “relate” and my failures are a “big mood”. I don’t know if I hate this yet.

Fuck, I haven’t reached the point yet. Okay, so basically I made the three lists and blogging was a big part of it because I need to start writing every day and create a practice and a discipline if I want to be ambitious and take myself seriously. Because someone who wants to be a writer must write and doesn’t just get there. Also, I need to not think as much about what people think about me. My ex once said that many of my blog posts were lame and the others were extra and beyond him. Fuck that guy. Also, fuck anyone who doesn’t get you— they were toxic for you in the first place. And no one’s opinion should dominate your own. The point is — I deleted half of my blog after that. And even though I didn’t create it for him but for myself, and knew that he would never get it even if he tried (which he clearly couldn’t), it’s just not really worth it because you think deleting something would actually delete something even though it will always exist in your mind. You don’t really escape anything if you actively try to escape it. It’s like that really sick thing they say—the only way is through? But yeah that’s true. So the Pre-mature New Year’s is about seeing things through. All my goals are so fucking doable and I have just enough time to get it together. I don’t know if I should make a mood board yet. I have affirmations and they work because if you actually trust something and try to consciously believe in something faith is easy. I just need to learn how to not be pessimistic and cynical, and how to get out of my head, because it hasn’t done much good. I might as well be positive and do the entire emanate-the-energy-you-hope-to-attract thing?

So many of these are questions. Do you also have that inbuilt faceless fuck sitting in your head judging everything you do and saying things like “who are you addressing this to? Fuck you’re sad” or “he will read this and mock you” or “someone will find this and pass it around to prove your worth which really amounts to nothing”. I hope you do too. It would somehow be more peaceful if you have him too. I love how it’s a “him” right now. It is also a “her” sometimes, if that balances things out. And the best part is that their criticisms are highly stereotypical and gender-conforming. Like the chick would comment on how I look and how useless I am and the guy would tell me that I’m undesirable. But really both of them agree about how I’m undesirable so why does it even matter?

Are we just a weak imprint of our culture? Are our anxieties and standards beyond our control and just an imprint of societal standards and anxieties? Are the Post Modernists right in their assumption of everyone being a ‘pastiche’? Do you feel that rush of determination when you watch an empowering film? Does that prove that we are slaves to our culture and easily led? Or does that mean we are empathetic? Is anything about this good or bad? Will the Pre-mature New Years thing go as planned? Does anything ever fucking go as planned? Has anyone ever had the perfect year and a completely ticked-off checklist?


I think this is it for this post. I hope this actually amounts to something because I have written many similar posts before.

Why are there so many question marks all over this garbage?

my articles

All the writers I’ve loved before


So here goes:-

1. Sylvia Plath


Kinda fucked up.


2. Sidney Sheldon






4.Woody Allen




No, I’m really easy.




5. John Green






6.Sudha Murthy





7. Margaret Atwood




8.Ruskin Bond




9. Chekhov




10.Gregory David Roberts





Holy shit am I smelling another post?


poems etc.


It was a thin wire

Spindly thin

And she walked on it

Carefully fast

With her pink clown shoes

As she tried to keep

Her diminishing locks

From prying into her eye


So, with her tired arms

And bony fingers

She wobbled

The deadly waltz

With a sly hoop

Dancing on her neck

And twisting into her hair



The hall gasped

As she spun

And almost slipped off


But the greased line

A loving mother

Kept her bleeding heels

Steadily sloped



“It would be a miracle if she made it”

they whispered

in between their thin mints

and garlic popcorn


Two tickets for a dollar

We bought tampons for more

poems etc.


With every echoing moan

I forget our war against the patriarchy

And now

I’m swamped with these moments

Where I’m more animal than woman

And with each lyric of my night

I wonder if its wrong

To be this submissive

To feel power in losing control

I wonder if my sisters would

look at me different

With hot purple sex bloated on my back


I wish I could be honest

About my color

But when I wake up

I don’t know how to explain tough love

And hide from you

Because its this sad confusion

That whips me harder than them

And its in this chaos

Where I truly lose myself

And fear finally hits my floodgates

Enslaved to an undying sadistic culture

Tied down with no safe word

my life, poems etc.


We went like we came

With loud speed and uncertainty

But long walks and daybreak took us in

And with the sun we rose

Finding each other in the mountain air

And calm lakes from another time

Suspended in moments etched within rocks darker than night

We floated home on a cloud

And closed our eyes