Some madafuckar stole my lunch bag

My lunch bag was stolen last week. What's the big deal? It had my phone, Kindle, journal, three new Pilot G2s (red, green, and black), an advance copy of the book I'm editing, specs case, BT earphones, meds, cake pops from Daniels, and of course, tiffin. Yeah, all of this did fit in that bag. 

I want to cast a curse from the bottom of my heart — That asshole who nicked it will not shit in peace for the rest of their life. May that madafuckar shit bricks or die of haemorrhoids. They will get nothing out of their spoils.

Don't know where my Kindle is now. Mom had gifted that to me. Will that mofo chor sell it in scrap? Or will it land on some reader's lap? You need a charger for it, though. My phone's gone, too. Although it was over 5 years old, I had grown attached to it. Obviously, because apne jindagi ka sab sach hota hai na apne phone me. All my tattoo references, my notes for the book, msgs, images, apps, data, everything... went with the phone. My jindagi's sach will also be revealed if someone reads my journal. Sometimes I wonder how much of myself I carried in that tiny bag.     

Filed an FIR. The "cRiMe BrAnCh" is apparently looking into it because of the section I insisted the GRP file it under... some 34 (robbery by snatching or some shit like that). As if I'm gonna get my stuff back. 

Somehow, I'm having a delayed reaction to this event, I feel. At the time of filing the FIR, I was calm as a rubber duck bobbing in a bathtub. Did not broadcast my anger, embarrassment, anxiety or sadness to the world. Because, honestly, no one gives two fucks. All are busy dealing with their own problems. They care only till your role in their life is fulfilled. Anyway, later on, I was getting unnecessarily agitated at small things. Obviously, N was in the firing line. Tortured him as if he had stolen my stuff. He was kind enough to ignore/be stoic towards my outbursts. He kindly offered me his spare phone to use and agreed to share his Kindle. But I was being a bitch. I lashed back at him, saying I didn't appreciate the tone in which he said it. I felt he was mocking me. Maybe he wasn't, but the bruised Royal Highness in me wasn't able to see it. Oh god. Sometimes I wonder how he manages to survive me.

How was it stolen?

Despite my gut feeling, I boarded the insanely crowded Virar Ladies Special and got into the luggage compartment to evade the body-clinging crowd. I was standing near the door on the left side that was facing the exit, holding my lunch bag like Queen Elizabeth carried her Launer handbag. Between the signal at Goregaon and Malad, the train slowed down in a dark stretch. I was in my own dreamland, thinking of my rotten life, when a daredevil madafucka swiftly snatched the bag I was then so idiotically holding with only three fingers. Initially, I thought it hit the pole or something. But no. The snatching happened from below. It was so dark that I was unable to see that fuckar. They disappeared into the night like some duplicate nightcrawler. 

I don't know what to feel, and I'm not liking it. I have disabled all my UPI and NetBanking services. I can't refer to the various tattoo images I screenshotted. I don't have a backup of my WApp texts. This new phone has messages from 2024! The low alarm won't be able to wake even the world's lightest sleeper. Flashlight doesn't work. Speaker barely gets out any sound. I don't have earphones to listen to any audio. Because they were STOLEN, too. The upside? Camera is okay. QR code scanner works well, though. My old phone's QR scanner breathed its last a few years ago. This new phone is functional, but not mine. 

All my books on Kindle are gone. The device is not traceable. I was fond of it because my mom had gifted it to me. And now that is gone.

This sucks. But I guess I will have to make do with this for now. Maybe later, I will be able to get myself a new phone or even the latest Kindle.

It's been almost a week, and I'm still bummed. 

mind's a time traveller

my mind travels in the past and lingers there like a ghost. It longs to undo the things that set me on this path of emotional turmoil. It looks to see if I ever was a happy person.

It's not like happiness always evaded me. I remember how amused I used to be when my father would roll me up like a burrito inside the mattress when I was little enough to fit in it. I remember how connected I used to feel when on Sundays my father used to play old Hindi film songs and ask me to join him in cleaning the house. The feeling of being loved and taken care of when you see your empty wallet filled with exact change of 10s, 50s, and 100s, without you mentioning it. There was a weird sense of safety I felt through his small actions. I think about these days sometimes. 

I'm deliberately trying to think of good times here. Because then lingering on the bad ones would surely make me spiral down a black pit I may never want to return from.

Anyway, it'll be awkward to explain to colleagues who might need me for work why I'm tearing up. Will post something later.

emotionally simple, cute mofos

 Most men are emotionally simple, cute mofos. You need to tell them how you feel. They don't do layers. It's too much of a mental challenge for them; too much mental hard work. There's nothing wrong with that, though. Some tend to save their grey cells for old age, I guess.

Even if you live with them for donkey's years and let them believe that they 'know' you, they don't. If, by mistake, you share that your mental health condition isn't that good. They will not understand, probably thinking that you are overreacting or romanticising your pain, or to be precise, displaying victim behaviour. 

Now, you're a high-functioning adult with mental health in the state of a decrepit ruin, and you tend to keep things to yourself. But your body or your actions belie the mask you've put on. These cute jerks will not be able to see through these things. Their practical and logical reasoning struggles to make sense of why you eat your emotions or spend a fortune on tattoos. Nothing particularly strikes their almost nihilist mind, as they don't believe in labels or in anything at all, and wear cynicism like an armour. They just live with you and watch life pass by. 

Knowing this, you tend to avoid having such discussions. Why bother their myopic minds with such challenging tasks, right? Fuck it. You should deal with such things yourselves. No one's gonna die with you when you die. You are always alone, even if you think you have found a cute mofo to share your life with. You are always alone.

I may come across as a judgmental bitch here, but idgaf. My blog, my rules. Besides, no one reads these days. 

Fuck patience

Patience is a virtue—some privileged asshole who had nothing better to do in life came up with this idiotic thought. Being polite and patient and considerate and all goody two shoes just steamrolls you and batters your ego to death.

It's fucking difficult to be patient, especially when you're suffering fools. Why even? What good will it do except avoid conflict? But what about the anger that's seething in your mind? Why do we have to categorise rage and anger as negative and patience and nicety as positive? I would really like to meet that dumbfuck who must have made this rule in society and torture them to death.

Sometimes I try to kill the person (in my mind, obviously), or sometimes I imagine that person (there are multiple, btw) dies of a horrible heart attack, or sometimes they get flattened with the cement by a bulldozer, and people get to see their bulldozed corpse in a twisted position with eyes that are bulgding and wide or broken front teeth as they walk over them. Walk over that cemented path, I mean. Like how people walk on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I would name it Glad-This-Motherfucker-Died Lane.

Anyway. Enough of my useless rant. I need to get back to work now.

Could I be any dumber?

I'm kinda sure now that men think with their flaccid knobs and crave female attention. Well, most of them do. So do women. They are no less in farming male attention or aura. Again, most of them do. 

I have been so disappointed with so many people lately that it's just making me aware of how naive I have been to not see through certain manipulations. It hits me later when it's too late. I never learn from my past mistakes and always trust people without batting an eyelid. Then I trip and fall flat on my face, feeling hurt and disappointed.

Actually, they should not be blamed. It's my lack of ability to see through the BS people try to feed me. Instinctively, I know something is wrong, but I don't listen to my instincts and suffer. And then I come here to whine about such things.

One day, I will share why I started with men and their flaccid knobs and women with aura farming, but for now, let me be angry at myself. Seriously, so annoyed for being so naive; I have always been. 

When will I ever learn? Could I be any dumber?

mirror, mirror on the wall...

I have again started hating being clicked or seeing my reflection in the mirror. Genuinely. There was a time when I had let go of this feeling, but it has resurfaced, and how. 

I will write something here today that I have never written before. I'm pathetically and miserably conscious about my hormonal hairfall. Not that I haven't dealt with it before. It's been following me since my teenage years. The time I began menstruating. The hormonal imbalance I have had since also explains my "stable" mind. It has worsened over the years. It has always been so emotionally scarring when someone looked at my scalp with a look that said, "Oh, is she balding already? Isn't it too soon for someone her age?" Or when they say it out loud. Or when they tease you in good humour. You then bury your confidence in an unretrievable, dark place. 

My hand have gone cold even as I'm writing this, because it has always been difficult for me to even think about it, let alone write. Sometimes I look at people who have extremely thin hair and wonder what it would be like to be them. At least my situation isn't that bad. Why am I so conscious that even if someone as little as looks in the direction of my hair, I feel like hiding my face somewhere. 

I remember once I had asked my brother to draw my sketch. And I had not liked it. Not that he didn't draw a good sketch; that he did quite well. He drew me as I was. But what I saw was—my ugly self, with bad hair, jowls due to excess face fat, unshapely eyebrows, small, bespectacled eyes, and my shapeless, lumpy body plopped on a sofa. There was no problem with the sketch; the problem was the way I saw myself. I realised over the years, I never truly felt beautiful—internally and externally; even when I dressed up. Never trusted compliments, even sincere ones. 

It's so disconcerting to see a bunch of hair falling from your head once you comb, or your shiny and visible balding scalp if you stand under a bright light, or how it affects you so easily when someone even mentions hairfall or balding or even does harmless teasing. I never let my hair loose in public during my teenage years. I still don't. Never experimented with them because I was always so horribly conscious. 

Not that I have never had thick hair before. I had really thick and nice curly hair until I got my period. 

Whenever I see myself in the mirror, I am either scared or feel disgusted. Whenever I see myself in pictures, the first thing my eyes see is my hair, and if the angle is bad, it breaks my heart a little every time. I obviously don't speak about it to anyone. Keep it to myself. I wish I could simply not give a fuck about it. I wish I wouldn't be so shit bothered about it all the time—when air brushes against my hair in an autoride, or when I stand under bright lights, or to consciously not leave my hair open in public, or to keep checking my scalp and correcting it every time I am in my office loo, or not wearing helmets or caps or bandanas because I may have to remove them and that would make my hair damp and flat, or getting my hair wet in the rain to avoid from my scalp being visible. 

It's been years now, and I'm so tired of carrying this feeling with me all the time. I really want to free myself from this emotional burden. Some day, maybe I will. Some day, hopefully, I will stop giving two fucks about this.  

I don't know why I'm doing this, writing all these thoughts here. Maybe because I want to avoid therapy and bare my ugly soul to a stranger who may or may not judge me or understand me the way I want them to. But here it is. I wrote something here today that I have never written before. And trust me when I say this—I'm shaking right now.

sisyphean shitfest

My mind went into hibernation mode over the weekend. I spiralled into that vegetative state again, where I lie down on the couch, blankly stare at the TV, and consume dark and disturbing TV shows or movies to find some comfort or fill the never-ending emptiness that my mind is so conditioned to dwell in. 

I eat my emotions, fatally binge on junk food like it's the end of the world, or the better food which N gets for me, drink water, put my plate aside on the table before me, slide down to my right side by taking support of the cushion and watch the most bingeable horror, thriller, or disturbing show—which according to Netflix—I will love. I don't wash my soiled fingers after eating or clear the dishes; I lie down and continue watching TV, ignoring how crusty and sticky my fingers have become. I don't cook, or brush my teeth, or scrape my tongue, or comb my hair, or shower. I simply lie down, stare blankly into the screen, and hope to escape into the landscapes, homes, and reality that those TV characters live in. Some of these stories I follow, some I don't.

Took me three days to recover from this state. This heaviness appeared out of nowhere, like a huge tidal wave, and dissipated just as quickly. I had to make my grandma fall ill for that; how else would I've been able to take leave from work? N was naturally pissed. I don't blame him for putting up with me. Rather, I don't know why he does it at all. Still got no clue. 

I don't know what's happening with my mind. I think I'm genuinely losing it. Despite no other problems, I don't know why my mind only looks for darkness, the velvety blackness and the embrace of the dark. Like, I find some weird sort of comfort in it. Like, it embraces me without judging—the only place where I can bare all my skeletons and romanticise my pain, and also get away with it. No one to stop me from spiralling into this unchecked vortex of self-pity. 

I don't know how to explain it to N or even to myself. On the surface, I'm leading a peaceful, uncomplicated life. But within, my mind is singeing with a rage so demonic that I might as well do something hilariously fatal. This fire inside my mind never douses. N has been pleading with me to get help. But somewhere I feel that I'm punishing myself by not getting it. Maybe I deserve it. I will burn in hell anyway once I die, but why not punish myself while I'm alive and put my mind through a Sisyphean shitfest?

Signing off now, just came here for a minute to dump these feelings.