To talk about primp is a really challenge because it requires introspection and reflection on my self indulgence, partial narcissism, and pride; these are things that makes me an Asshole of the highest order. I know it and have been more than happy with myself for being the amazingly awful person I am to everybody without bias.

I love the days when I care about primping up for College because I otherwise do spend a little time on primping for anywhere else. I enjoy the attention; regular practice has made me better at primping which brings me some really nice things to hear about me regularly. I hope my practice helps me get better and maybe someday it’d be a habit enough to not doubt myself or my work.

Primping is easily the first word to associate me with because of the vanity I spout with my indulgence with my hair. My hair has way too many stories, there are probably some ancient posts on my blog about my hair. I love the attention it draws and also how much of a great ice breaker it can be.
I’ve contemplating a haircut for a while now, even people who said I have nice hair wanted me to get it chopped off. But I don’t know what I want, if I want it to be gone or if I want it to be longer. The effort and time gone into to caring for the hair and protecting it from hands of the administration makes it harder to let it go. 

She hums

She’s art

She hums in whispers, a tune 

I’ve heard before, 

One my heart makes too.
She dances under the starry sky

In a little black tux, and smiles like the

Happiest memory.
Her electric blue tie, pretty hair tied

And a cigarette between her fingers

A vision that makes hearts throb.
Her tears, break hearts, little

Achy, breaky, hearts; but her heart is

Hidden beautiful at the sleeve.


My life is a series of bad days… Bad decisions, awful music, terrible haircuts, ugly clothes, stupid choices, dead- plants, pets and brothers.

And then the bad days go out on a vacation and I have the time of my life because I don’t have demons to fight, arrows and bullets to dodge. These are ice cream like days of my ice cream like (short)6 adult life (one year, because I’m 22) that are between a series of bad or awful ones. On days like these I’m sitting with a friend(s) at a café or bar, sipping my drink, crunching food modestly and messily as I talked and listened. Days like these I cherish because they are the ones I use to cast my patronus against them demontors.

I’m a gladiator but without my armour, shield or sword, I’m fucking useless because my physical strength isn’t very reliable.

Pic Cred:

My physical strength is a sad joke, and that’s the last thing I can rely on not like there is anything else to rely on when my mental strength fails. And my mental strength and ability, constantly gets fried and fails because of how much I overwork it. I guess life. There are questions that haunt me, which form to become my demontors and demons:

“Does X love me?”

“Why does Y hate me?”

“How can I make Z like me?”

“Why am I so unattractive?”

“Would life be easier if I was fair, pretty and athletic?”

“Why can’t I love?”

“What is life even?”

“Why am I so Whiny?”

I’m a very whiny person, like clearly. It’s my 200th blogpost and this one like the last 100-150 or more blog posts is my whining and complaining. I’ve realised I whine even when I’m happy and love something, so whining is a constant state of being and living.

Since puberty hit me like a truck in the face 9-10 years ago, body images have only grown. Meeting new people, making new friends and building a support system has only helped me see that I’m not unattractive. To say this and believe it are still not easy but it’s possible to make the effort.

You get perks if you’re good looking, that’s no secret but it doesn’t mean life is a cakewalk. There is work that goes into looking a certain way, this means gym, clothes, make-up, food etc. Which too is a challenge.

I can’t help people who hate me for who I am. It took me a lot to get here, won’t be jumping planes or plates in the direction the wind sways. Will hold my ground and stay firm as I take each step, hopefully to go ahead.

I like my Rain Loud

I like my rain loud, noisy, boisterous, difficult, and a little, just a little painful, and it should be able to hold me down in one place. I don’t like rains on a cloudy afternoon with a cold breeze and grim look, if I wanted to feel the quite, calm and dead I’d reach into my soul.

I’ve realised if something isn’t like me and everybody loves it, I’m drawn to it. I want to be it, so much validation I seek from the world. There are too many thing that I can’t make myself do or be and that’s everything I’d easily love to be. It bothers me greatly but I can’t say why it bothers me, is it the harsh reality of facing my desires or just silly childlike stubbornness, I don’t know.

After the rain.

I’m sitting in my driveway, listening to the thunder, the wind picks up a faster pace and a colder current comes along. My hair is annoying because it’s at an awkward length, where it is too short to tuck behind my ear but long enough to get in the way of my vision. So there is a constant battle between my hands and hair, my ear is Switzerland but the war seems inevitable.

The sky growled loudly, it’s like someone is screaming out of joy and I can’t stop smiling. I felt a tingling sensation over my skin, it was nice and a shiver ran through my body, top to toe. The growling continues, the wind is getting colder each minute. A hundred thousand rain memories or stories seem to be popping up in my head in flashes like in the movies.The art and ideas from movies help me place everything neatly, with designated locations and achieve aesthetic appeal.

I took all three pics.

I don’t know if I should spend time with these memories or if I should just sit back and watch the mess tangle and untangle itself like the city traffic. And it just might eventually die or I’m hoping it would. It’s paralysing, these memories but these blasts from the past are still beyond me and manage to drain my everything. During this mess I can feel my face shoot a sad smile that I think looks ugly.

The sky is many shades of grey and the streets like the roof is covered in a mess of green leaves, purple and white flowers. I just sat there staring till I got back in to the house, only to stare at the rain, again.

When it started to rain again.


Why do I miss you?


I hate you, don’t I?

I hate the way you smell. Old spice isn’t a perfume I’d buy because of you. I hate the way your prickly hair pokes, and I can’t seem to forget how much it stings. I cannot stand your voice and hate how narcissistic, stupid, immature, and foolish you sound. Your face makes me want to punch it, but feels like your personality does enough and I shouldn’t ruin your chances.

Yet I look for your scooter as I walk through the parking lot. I take a minute to compose myself when I run into you and you seem to need a minute too. But you don’t feel the way I do, but what do you feel?




Because you never bothered to tell me anything about this. You’ve told me about how you felt about the world, your ex, your family, your passion, love, life, art, music, films, books, food, my choices in life, my life, but never really about me.

You’ve said a lot of things to me. We’ve been to places together, we’ve done things together, we’ve gone out drinking, riding, walking, we’ve fought, screamed and insulted each other, we’ve laughed and cried, you’ve kissed me and I didn’t because you didn’t like it.

It was love of a different kind, unconventional, stupid, and one-sided. I guess after phasing out of denial, anger & hatred, now I’m probably going through acceptance and after this I hope to be over you, for good.

Hope is all I have left.

Dear W,

It’s been exactly one year and a day, since the first night we hung out, on the roof a shady bar that was going to be our regular soon. Since then we’ve had multiple fights, stopped being friends twice and kissed once. I have fallen for you, then you said we can’t happen and turns out you thought I was still hitting on you. There was a lot of tension and we had a brief period of silence. Then we also went out on a date, I bought you flowers, went on a short bike ride, got wet in the rain, and we talked.

You were uncomfortable with groups of new people, or just new people. Wait, no, that’s only groups of women or a woman. I started to pull away, made a new friend and it didn’t go so well, we fought, you stopped talking to me for the first time. We ran into each other accidentally on a fucking crowded busy street that was celebrating iftar and we hugged right there. I felt the world melt away, like the rain you washed away all the grey and soot on me, for that moment I wished the world froze. It was perfect, all the bad things never happened and we were fucking perfect for each other, at least that’s what I thought.

We started talking again, life was pretty, birds were singing, flowers were blooming and all that jazz. Then it started to change again, it wasn’t working out any-more, between us and we were having too many difficulties. My mind wants to blame it all on you and walk away, but honestly that’s not true and I’ll never find closure if I don’t accept the honest to god truth. Once I do, washing it away, like you used to make me feel with life is like eating cake.

These difficulties led to the first time we had a serious fight and you asked me to leave you alone for good, then went ahead and block me on Whatsapp, SnapChat, Instagram, and un-friend me on Facebook. That was probably the worst thing to happen to me then, I was in a bad place and was acting out which only was leading me to a road far more terrible. Later, two months and a week later to be precise we had a conversation of a sorts on Facebook and you had unblocked on whatsapp. But you also had a boyfriend, who didn’t like me very much then and probably hates me now.

I sent you another friend request on Facebook and we are friends again. Took slow steps, we apologised, you a lot more than me, we met each other, and started talking again. You didn’t walk away from me like the last two times when we saw each other on the streets and it was nice to find you back, that familiar warmth that burnt me just the way I liked it. This went on fairly well, till you let all of hell out lose, again. I was a source of fights and problems, you told me. I told you to let me go if I was a source of problems. So you let me go again. Now you’ve blocked me and un-friended, again.

Shame on you for the first time and shame on me to let you do this to me again. So, I hope you have a great life, but if I don’t let you close again, you fucking know why. Honestly, knowing me, next time if you give me the time and wait, I’ll let you back in to wreck a havoc inside and then walk away, again. Take care and spare me the tears, heart break, and havoc by staying the fuck away. So please, please don’t come back.



Vinay Green

Finger tips

The only magic I know is in finger tips. When a mother is feeding her little child, carrying it on her waist with a bowl of rice, dal, or rasam and a lot of ghee, all of that mashed in to dough; the baby is being fed all of this from the mother’s hand. Every Telugu movie, song, or dialogue, about mother almost always makes this reference, of sparks of magic or something like that flying or spreading mother’s affection.

When this kid is older, Freud said it finds pleasure in sucking it’s finger and sometimes it sticks on to the habit for too long.
Then you find a different kind of pleasure from your own fingers and or hands; it’s still very intriguing how one just learns to teach oneself the wonders of the body. The art of pleasuring self feels like practice to learn to be the best for someone else, it sounds dirty.
Finger tips running through the hair and somehow always land across the cheek. Pressing soft tips of your fingers against my stubble, running down to my neck and to under my shirt. Brushing my chest hair and then the fingers rest, running circles.
Now and then craving a finger finds its way around and feed the different kind of hungers I’ve learned or acquired over the years. These hungers buzz in my head, like the chattering lizard in the living room. It eats away the mosquitoes and nobody ever said “kill that thing” so you just let it hang around the wall.


I’m not very sure what B looks like any more, pictures just make B feel like a distant dream, or a faraway memory, or a
Lol fragment of my imagination. I don’t know what B’s smile looks like, or voice sounds like. I have recordings, and pictures of B, but all of them feel funny, like they weren’t real. Maybe I just downloaded pretty pictures from Tumblr and filled gaps in my memory to make myself feel okay, then why do I miss the hugs from B or W if they were never real.

It was an exhausting but eventful day, I’d usually end up at Koshy’s with someone or the other, to grab a coffee and sober down before heading home. Over the last two months my habit of going to Koshy’s that started ten months ago came to a halt. I’d started to do a lot of new things since ten months ago, but gradually over the last two they’ve all stopped or disappeared.

I’ve been to Koshy’s enough times with a lot of people, some more often than others, but for the first time I’ll be there alone, not waiting for anybody. I walked into the warm, mellow, and not fancy section of Koshy’s Bar and Restaurant; sat down at the two seater table right next to the pillar, I would have to bend a little to see if someone walked in, but I won’t be very visible if someone walks in and looks around. I wanted a coffee and asked for a chicken puff, they don’t usually last till 8:30 pm, but wanted to gamble my chances but I lost.
The waiter in a white uniform served me my coffee and a glass of water five minutes later, with a smile. I’d read over five pages of animal farm by then and even went for pee break.

I made a list of all the people I was here with, while sipping the piping hot coffee.

The first time was with Sid and the M’s, a bazillion times with W & E, met D here for the first time, had lunch with M here, chilled with A, waited for a date here, and once or twice took a break with B. I saw memories at each table flashing by as I looked around, a cold piercing pain dug into my chest. My body was hot from the coffee, and pumped up with caffeine, but the cold grew stronger.

It physically hurts when I remember the laughs, hugs, conversations that happened here, the bonds that were built, all the happy memories were and always will be overwhelming; my eyes burned as I tried hard to hold back the tears. A rupees 99/- bill from here lies in B’s memorabilia box. I wonder sometimes, is it so easy for people to walk away from me? Weren’t they telling me how hard it was to be away from someone else they once or still loved?

Glass links

The rough groves, moist yet delicate ran in to the smooth, slippery glass links only to shatter.
In one of the pieces I saw, a right hand jumping to the left ear through a messy lot of hair, to adjust the clip on copper ear jewelry. A wide smile, squeaky voice that sang, wavey hair, thin build, skinny body, innocent face and a broken heart.
And each piece had a different story and I’m scared to look at them.