The Blog-aholic Award

FeaturedThe Blog-aholic Award

A huge shoutout to the absolutely brilliant KetCage for nominating me for this award.If personified, his writing  could be described as 3 dollops of Ted Mosby with a generous Peeta  Mellark  undertone,but I’m not gonna bore you with a fangirl’s tirade.Head over to his page and decide for yourself.

Blog-aholic Award is an award for bloggers addicted to blogging with creative, ingenious and inspiring posts. They mesmerize their followers with their posts, keep them captivated and riveted to their blog. The Blog-aholic Award is also for bloggers who ‘share and inspire others’”The Recipe Hunter

Ps. If you’re reading this post midnight, which considering my writing patterns, you probably are; and feel the urge to binge on some tasty treats,do check out some of there recipes.

Rules

  • Put the above logo/image on your blog
  • List the rules
  • Thank the blogger who nominated you and provide a link to their blog (it can be to the post in which they nominated you or any other post or you can even link to their ‘About’ page)
  • Mention the creator of the award and please provide a link to The Recipe Hunter (Cook & Enjoy)
  • Write a post to show your award
  • Share a link to your best post(s)
  • Share 3 interesting and different facts about yourself.
  • Nominate 5-10 bloggers, or more of you wish
  • Comment on each blog and let them know you have nominated them and provide the link to the post you created.

3 Facts About Me:

I love my phone and social media feeds and if you ever told me to switch off my phone for more than hour I’d resent you till my dying breath but here’s the thing, what I really want deep down is for someone to write me a letter some day.I feel like I know that no one will. So I write to myself once in a while and if you ever feel like you need a friend , send me a message and I’ll drop your letter in the mail.

I hate chapped lips. So if you ever catch me staring at your lips mid conversation steer clear of my face.Contrary to your wildest fantasies, I’m not trying to kiss you.

I love the rain but hate getting wet. And I have a really weird obsession with windows.

My 3 best Posts {based on the content and message it gave}:

Hey!reader, do you know what’s really politically incorrect? A mother ranking her babies in order of preference. Yep, you guessed it. I’m going to be “That” woman.

1.Airports at 2am: Just your once in a lifetime moment of quiet zen in a roaring world.

2.The MUN Diaries : Milestone1 Bye Bye hesitation  Girl, its time you showed yourself some love.

3.Never in Public: The insides of my head is a dark damp place and occasionally a glistening pearl rolls out.

Bloggers I adore:

1.Xulee1 : If you like posts that make your heart skip a beat or feel like you’ve cycled through spring to fall,winter and on to summer in a matter of minutes,I solemnly swear that there is no one better to write such a piece of art.Or don’t ,if you wanna do without your mother asking why you’re smiling at your phone so much.Ps. I dare you to read her posts without letting a flicker of a smile strut across your face.

2.SnehaFancy yourself a little waltz through time?I love how her poems always transport me to my childhood, to memories of icecream and poetry readings during summer break.

3.KetCageWarm and fuzzy, his blog has the best posts to warm your insides on a December morning.I hope you enjoy reading his work just as much as I do.

 

 

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Puddles and Mirth

FeaturedPuddles and Mirth

Sometimes when I’m bored and just a tad bit too tired for social interaction I like to play a little game called ‘I spy’.

A bottle of budweiser nestled in weary arms,
Feet dangling from the balcony’s floor,
I spy –
A puddle where a girl once stood.
A satin soft scarf.
Lilac lace gloves and a pair of boots abandoned lie,
Heaped in a haphazard pile.

  At school I’m told no letter was found-
Only a small, tattered diary with pages mottled
Post an overnight stint in the rain.
An acrid metallic twang hits my tongue-
I taste laughter, swallowed whole
Shoved down a stubby neck.

Mrs Payne,the homeroom teacher pores
Over the crinkled journal,
Straggling to decipher her pain
After she‘s dead.
A histrionic laughter bubbles forth,
In my eyes, a manic light, curtailed.
The victim announced fragile, unintelligible
Like the diary mottled,
Unsound of mind.

And just like that leaches mirth
nto a puddle by my boots.

Of Insufferable Professors and Offended students

Of Insufferable Professors and Offended students
I thought I'd sit down,buckle my workbelt a tad bit tighter and squeeze some value from the minutes between the presnt and recess.So I strolled down to the language lab.It's this pleasant,air-conditioned room with about 70 desktops with most of them connected to the internet.You can tweet, stream videos, check your social feed,or,if you are  feeling particularly inspired from your daily cuppa coffee;work on some codes.It's where you run into acquaintances you haven't seen in ages (besides the canten,obviously :p) and face your online quizzes and external project evaluations.

So naturally the place was filled out.

My next hop was our department's lab  which just happened to have 10people taking their lab internal test in a room equipped to serve 30.Expectedly, I pulled a chair out and just before I could plop onto the brown revolving chair the professor decide that now would be a good time to find out what my motives were.Now if this were any other semester I wouldn't blame the poor guy. Afterall, labs werent my favorite place to hang out and I rarely ever turned up to my scheduled labs.(I realise now that before this sem, they wouldn't have known my name,but let's not dive into that right now)

And thats when this other,older guy decided that he hadn't heard his croak in a really long time and told me to get out of there. Nope, I couldnt use the systems in the adjoining room either.

Now I wonder why he thought it was appropriate to dissuade me from brushing up my skills and here's what I could come up with-
  1. he doesnt like how high the college's placement records are.
  2. I look too stupid to code so old man thought,"why let her mess with the system?" .( I swear I'm not.)
  3. I know everything there is to know.(Ha!)
  4. I stank up the whole room.(But,I did flick  mom's eau de toilette today. Thought I was generous with it??)
  5. He was just a gnarly old fart. But nah, let's not stereotype that way.
  6. Or, here's the real trouble: He probably thought a chick coding would be too much of a distraction for the guys taking up their test . Wouldn't wanna fuddle up their hazy little minds.
Yeah,if I were them, I'd be offended too.

 

Food doesnt Feed you

My friend likes to sing 

When he’s in a funk 

Says it helps to get rid of 

A bleary brain’s junk.

Mom steps into the kitchen

The bedlam of pots and pans

Sauteed onions and the sizzle

Of melted butter help her heart

Declutter.

Dad likes to shower

To scoop his mojo Outta the gutter

Likes to let the bathwater rinse away the grime

From the darkest confines of his mind.

I know of some who’d rather let

Their turmoils drip

In shades of crimson

Down the sink.

My sister puts her wrist to better use

Guides it over to parchment and ink.

My boyfriend  stands across the ring

Holds it all in , 

Walls up high, 

The pressure builds .

Takes a straw to set him off,

Letting the steam into the sky.

Me?

I like to watch the dreamers dream and the joggers run miles hoping to escape problems pinned to the soles of their Reebok shoes. I pore over parchments of heartbreak, blister under the steams of wrath in pursuit of a way to let it all out. To fill the void that lives in me still and I think of stuffed kulchas. I shove food down my throat hoping that it will fill the emptyness in me, gorge on spaghetti praying that the strands will stitch the rip in the fabric of my soul.But of course it isn’t to be. Hoping for food to feed the soul is like trying to fill an ocean with salt. Beyond saturation, the salt, like happiness will settle down and the ocean appears to expand as you sink deeper into isolation.Sometimes I eat to feel better. Who doesn’t love a good tiramisu?

Of late I’ve learned that brownies and icecream smeared with dollops of coffee with whipped cream don’t solve all your problems. Sometimes food only fuels the hunger in your soul, for something more.Something real. A human presence.

The warmth of butter chicken though undeniable is rarely a match for the gentle flames of a lingering hug.

Tonight, a box of extra large chicken cheeseburst pizza lies next to my bed,half eaten.

My stomach full yet my tongue craves a dish it hasn’t tasted in years -Acceptance.

Lies 

Sometimes, grown ups tell themselves stories to keep from losing their sanity. Stuck at her desk overnight, working two shifts,Ella dreams of a rich,handsome prince. Beaten by an alcoholic father a tall,brutish widower, Snow envies the kids next door. Five foster boys raised by two gay men.Their laughter filters through the thin windowmesh and she wonders how it feels to dwell in a house filled with love and laughter- watches them from afar and gives them names – Happy, jolly and the slightly grumpy teen.

Poor Rapunzel trapped, in a loveless marriage tells herself that it’s a bad dream and the captor isn’t her beloved husband but a wicked witch. She aches for the strength to stand up to him convincing herself that her hair is magical.
Sometimes grown ups write down the stories they tell themself. To see themself escape. Even if it’s only on paper.Some of these stories get passed down the ages, garbling fact and fiction, welding them into one.But what happens when a kid believes the lies these adults told themselves?

Letters in a Tux

They say we are drawn to the arts because they fulfill an emptiness in us.And she wondered how much was true.

Do we seek what’s missing in art or

Do our musings mirror who we are ?

She reads through her private journal, her treasured poems and prose,only to find her work raw, rough around the edges much like her alphabets- cool, crisp and wiry.

Lying side by side. But not quite touching.

Slanted.leaning out,not into an embrace.

Bereft  of loops and soft curves,dressed in a suit.The sentences short and obscure like any display of emotion. Allowing the reader to interpret as they will.Letters  dressed in a well tailored tux. Swept together aesthetically, yet confined.

Your handwriting doesn’t lie.

Death

Food is going to make you fat and booze fucks up your liver. Partying takes away from study time and bingewatching TV shows late at night fucks up your cortisol levels maki g you look n feel like shit over time. What the fuck is a person supposed to do for fun? Knit sweaters?

Like everything you wanna do is bad for you. There’s a million reasons to be responsible n do boring crap.but like say wouldn’t life be so much better if u could just fuck around and do whatever the hell you want then take a pill to dissolve Outta existence? You’re here one moment and poof! Gone the next. Painlessly.

After all, all men must die.

That’s not he part that frightens me.

It’s living. Living without love, with nothing to look forward to. Death is nothing but the loss of hope.