one of those days

Sometimes I reach a point when the ‘creative’ people in my agency make me want to rip out my throbbing eye and shove it up their ass only so I can actually ‘see’ where their ideas come from.

don’t you wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?

I have never once denied that I was the jealous type. Sometimes, (practically all the time,) this insane (and mostly unwarranted) jealousy gets the better of me.

Today my boyfriend is going on a lunch date with some girl he met online, a month or so before he met me. Initially, I kind of freaked out a bit (quite a bit—more like a drama queen) but then I told him that I am perfectly ok with it and in a surprisingly mature way, said that he is free to do whatever he wants. Little did I know that he was already on his way to this lunch rendezvous with this mystery chick.

Talking to a close guy friend at work, I asked him (a guy’s perspective) if her name was a ‘hot’ name. He told me that he’s only met one other girl with her name and she was very hot. And so the drama began again.
I went online and Goggled her. I found a semi-informative interview she apparently gave, but I wasn’t sure it was her. So I went on Orkut and snooped into his friend list. I found her, but no information and an illustration where a photograph should be.

Right about then, I started to panic (oh yes, everything before this was normal behaviour, I kid you not.) I tried another social networking site and finally found some useful information—a guy from my office was listed as a mutual friend. Yay.

Casually I asked him if he knows her and he says yes. Then he points to the colleague I have been confiding in, and reveals that he has met her too. Turns out, she is ’the’ one other girl with the same name he has met (annoyingly small world isn’t it?).

Now that it was all in the open, I began to prod him for details. Things like ‘is she prettier than me?’, ‘what does she do?’, ‘what kind of hair does she have?’ He began to tell me what an amazing person she is, so multi-faceted. She listens to metal music, a rare woman indeed. A couple of his friends (her acquaintances too by default) joined in—she paints and DJ’s on the side. She oozes attitude, and that’s so sexy.

The more they spoke of how wonderful she is the more my lunch started to surface. The more I envisioned them having a wonderful time at an intimate café. The more I pictured her hair glistening in the sun (stupid lunch date!). I pictured him smiling, enjoying himself a little too much for my liking.

I found myself consciously trying to not be sick. And seeing as how it’s only 2:45pm, and the lunch date is still on... I’m still working on it.

I am not crazy

As part of my birthday celebrations I have called all my friends to a club. Having a not so great salary, I also decided it would be a buy-your-own-booze thing—which also made it a completely optional thing. So, if the person I called did not want to come and spend their own money, then they didn’t have to because I had my set of good friends who were definitely going to make it a success.

Now, to be very honest I don’t have a whole lot of very good friends. And the handful of them who I really wanted to be there were all I really needed. Except I got a mail from one of the girls saying she was not willing to come because Thursday “wasn’t good” for her. Obviously I was very upset and tried calling her several times to get some clarity on the situation.

She finally called back and said that she couldn’t make it because she was broke, and she didn’t have a present for me— I’ve known her for almost 10 years and that was the excuse she was throwing at me. I choked up; I sputtered an “Ok, fine, if that’s what you think I want you there for.” And I was about to put the phone down when she began to laugh and say she was kidding.

Then she said I was crazy. She said I was overly obsessed and asked if I thought she really wouldn’t come. She said I sounded like a crazy paranoid chick, who was worried about people not coming to her ‘party’ when she was not even paying for people. She said I should stop calling it MY party, because it’s really a bunch of people going out drinking, it just happens to be on my birthday. She said I was stupid to think she wouldn’t come. That she thought I would take as a joke and it was a joke, but it wasn’t my party and I should get that clear in my head, before getting upset about people backing out.

I said I would only be upset if she backed out.

And I cried some more.

I'm not crazy.

twenty-frikkin-seven

I was telling a friend of mine how incredibly depressed I was to be turning 27 this Thursday. What I didn’t realise was that I was also talking to him five years ago, a couple of days before I turned 23—and I was ‘incredibly depressed’ then too.

Don’t get me wrong, I love birthdays. And I love my birthday even more. I want gifts, I want hugs and I want all the people who love me to be around me and celebrate the day I was born.

So that got me thinking: Is it ageing that I am depressed about? Is it the depression that comes before being insanely happy as the centre of attention at my own party? Is it depression for the sake of depression—maybe just another reason to feel inconsolably low, and wallow in my own little private pool of self pity?
Honestly, I have no idea (I said it got me thinking, I never said I came to any concrete conclusion).

This year’s pre-birthday depression phase has been more acute. I think it’s the combination of slowly crossing the youthful hill of the twenties and heading towards the weary mountain of the thirty’s (ok I realise this hill metaphor is no fun at all for you, but I’m trying to make my life a little more interesting to read about, so sue me.)

When I was nine, I’m sure I didn’t think of my life as it is when I reached this ripe old age. My nine year old self probably imagined me with a car, maybe an apartment. I probably believed I’d be someone’s boss, doing what I loved and being fabulous everyday. I probably dreamed I’d be all professional—wearing heels, business suits and doing my hair. Heck, I probably thought I’d even have a wedding by now.

The big 2-7 is upon us and in two years—BAM—I will be thirty. Needless to say, I haven’t achieved any of the above, not even close.
I’m a twenty-seven year old, who travels by public transport, lives with her parents, has an odious senior, lives in jeans and t-shirts, hasn’t seen the inside of a parlous in months and yup, no sign of a wedding happening any time soon.

Shame on me.

And apologies to my nine-year-old self.

true story

“Do you want to be sad?” he asked, looking at her more intently than usual.

“Please! Why would I want to be sad?” she said, avoiding his eyes.

“Because it’s easier”

under my skin and on my nerves

As you probably already know, I’ve been seeing someone for over a year now. (Yes, yes, that explains the infrequent whiny, complaining blogs that you all used to relish so much *giggle*). Anyway, he makes me feel wonderfully happy and dizzyingly in love, except on those rare occasions when we fight. Tonight was one such occasion.

I was having a relatively ‘blah’ day, waiting for my boyfriend to come to my office so we could have a nice dinner with my dear friend from college. Looking forward to a nice evening with loved ones, my mood lifted a notch.

I arrive at the location to find my friend with another girl who was a friend of her friend. They had run into each other at this place and this new girl just wouldn’t leave. In the first five minutes of me meeting her, I despised her.

My evening was eclipsed by this loud, pretentious, stuck-up little twit of a witch. She talked on and on about herself until I could stand it no longer. In the agonizing half hour we were with her she announced that she had ‘a nagging for French fries’, a wonderful blog we all should check out, an ex-job, unemployed now, recently seeing someone, traveling a lot, she corrected my English, flirted with my boyfriend, pretended to bond with my girl friend, she told us she worked for an NGO, where she lived, why she was fed up of Bandra, how she loves to drink and smoke—BLAH, BLAH, BLAH.

By nine, my friend had to run off somewhere and left us with this woman. She even made us wait with her while her friend arrived. The annoying bit was that every time I tried to make an excuse to leave, she’d make more inane conversation about herself and her fabulous life. My boyfriend was being genuine and listening, even though I tried to make eyes at him to leave. Eyes that told him ‘this woman is horrible, let’s leave now and never return’—but he read the look as ‘This Subway sandwich is yum, we should come here more often’ and didn’t budge.

Yes, I do judge people easily. And I either instantly like you, or instantly despise you and the decision is rarely ever reconsidered. This particular woman annoyed the hell out of me so much so she ruined my evening. (The other half of my evening was spent fighting with my lovely boyfriend because he was trying to be nice to this conceited *badwordhere*.)

I’m home now. All made up with the boyfriend. I’m still mad at the waste of a perfectly good evening, and I’m fighting the urge to leave a nasty anonymous comment on her blog page.

polished apples and cabbages

I'm doing a campaign about Teaching and the importance of teachers which kind of inspired me to write about one of my own past teachers...

She always wore a sari. Always in dark greys or browns, that complimented her greying-brown hair. The sari was always made of khadi, a hand spun Indian cotton, that was more of a statement that a cloth and had a long history of revolution and revolt weaved into the very fabric.

She never wore a bra. She used to walk into class smelling of smoke and adjusting her sari blouse. She never greeted the class, but instead just picked up the book of verse and read. And when she read everything seemed to melt away, and we’d hang on every word, every full stop and every pause.

Once in the middle of class she got a coughing fit (probably from smoking in the teachers lounge) and could not read the poem completely. When she asked the class for water everyone fumbled to give her their water bottle—like an offering, a polished apple if you will. The lucky student would be privileged to get a ‘Thank you Darling” from her.(She called us ‘cabbages’ when she was upset with us and ‘darlings when she wasn’t upset with us – but she was never ever ‘happy’ with us.)

Her name was Eunice and she was my English Literature professor in college. She retired before we reached our final year, so batch only had her for our first year of Literature. She hardly ever smiled and I would always see her in the teachers lounge, lighting up another cigarette and turning a page of yet another book she read. I heard that she never married, had many lovers and lived with only a parrot as her companion.

I, like most of the others who took Literature as their Major, was completely and totally in awe of this woman. She made me want to do better in my tests, she made me want to participate in class, she made me want to carry a water bottle to college only so she would sip it and call me ‘darling’ and then I would look at the ‘cabbages’ with a certain air about me.

When she yelled at us for not experiencing the work, I used to go home and cry. So much so my sister made me a little card that said ‘you are not a cabbage’ only so I would feel better.

I never would have thought she knew my name. I was one of those students who sat in the back seat – not because I was naughty, but because I didn’t want to be noticed and questioned, I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.
The week before she left I made her a ‘Thank You’ card that I carried around with me in my file, waiting for the right opportunity to present it to her. Finally, one afternoon I met her alone on the corridor between classes and I mumbled an ‘Excuse me, Ma’am’ and handed her the card.

That was when I had my definitive moment of glory. She looked at me and said ‘Thank you, Simone, darling’.

My year was made.

little things i do for me

When work stresses me out – I go dancing – and it only works if you dance like you’re the only one in the club.

When my boyfriend stresses me out – I go to the gym.

When my parents stress me out – I go and have a sleep-over with my girls.

When my girls stress me out – I get a pedicure.

When life stresses me out – I put my ipod to almost maximum volume and I listen to music.

When my boss stresses me out I log on to a free game website and play Zuma or Mini Golf or Copter.

When I want to feel organised - I make 'LISTS' (I love lists!)

When I need to calm down – I put candles in my bathroom and I wash my hair. To get charged up, I make a strong cup of frothy coffee (the frothier the better).

When I want to forget about the day – I go to sleep, I’ve slept for a whole day like that.

When I want to remember days gone by – I dig through old albums with my mother.

If I needed to be peaceful or pensive I’d choose to go to a place by the sea. If I needed to rejuvenate I’d go to the hills.

When I don’t want to write ads I write a blog. When I don’t want to write at all I take pictures, draw or paint.

When I want to feel pretty I straighten my hair, do a home face-mask and paint my toe-nails. Or I go shopping for pink things (my most recent purchase being a plastic hot pink water bottle.)

When I want to feel content I make a sandwich.

And for a little more contentedness – I add cheese.

:D

bag lady

If you've got it, put it in your handbag.

That is the philosophy I live by. Everything that passes through my hands has a very strong possibility of going straight into my handbag, and almost never coming out.

It's true, mine is, what can be called a "black hole of handbags".

It is only in the unlikely event that it changes (due to weather or wear and tear) that things actually might see the light of day.

Not all of it is rubbish though. I have a lot of very essential stuff –well, stuff that I think is essential, anyway. Lets see, lip balm, a toothbrush, toothpaste, mouth wash, face wash, face cream, hand cream (a lavender one – yummy), house keys, an i-pod USB cable, my i-pod, sunglasses, an umbrella (when the weather demands it), a pocket-sized mirror, a novel, an idea book, printouts from work, a bottle opener (don't ask),an extra keychain, tissue, mints, four or five pens and lots of credit card receipts.

I also have a make-up pouch that contains three types of lip gloss, mascara, eyeliner, lipstick and a locket with me and my dad's picture in it.

In addition to this, I also have a big, fat wallet that carries everything from tummy tablets and band aids to visiting cards and crocheted flowers (oh, and money too).

You'd think with the amount that goes in to it, it would be a rather big bag. On the contrary, my brand new, sky-blue beauty fits neatly under my arm and has great storing potential ( read: it's still rather empty).

Bags are probably my most favourite accessory. And aren't always bought based on need. I have to literally chastise myself from buying every handbag that "speaks" to me. (My newest favourite formal bag is a cute little bronze pouch, with a metal handle – but that's another story)

My old everyday-bag was a large rugged, khaki Diesel bag. I could stuff virtually anything into it. When the zip broke, so did my heart. I spent weeks looking for a new one. Why weeks you ask? Because I am one of those people for whom buying a bag is not just a shopping issue, it's a very emotionally-charged experience. You can't just go out and "buy" a bag. The bag needs to sell itself to you.

A bag has to speak to me; it needs to talk to me from a shelf to grab my attention. It doesn't need to shout, it needs to flirt subtlety with me.

And when I put it on my arm, I need to feel like it's mine – and not just some bag on my arm. It needs to be a part of me – an extension of my body. It doesn't have to be branded or expensive, it just needs to speak.

For weeks I did not find a single bag that spoke to me. Then suddenly this blue one just grabbed my attention from an array of bags on a shelf.

My new boy waited patiently as I preened and posed in front of the mirror and then, without hesitation paid for it and happily stuffed everything from my make-shift plastic bag, into its welcoming, water-proof lined depths.

Yay :)

Luna-tic

I’m going to go ahead and blame it on the moon.

The 13th of September was probably the worst day in the history of my life. I literally felt like I would have a sudden shooting pain in my left arm and my life would briefly flash before my eyes while I passed into…well…the other side.
Alarms that didn’t go off, mad men on the road, never-before traffic jams and intense heat - after which, I finally step into my office.

I walk in and before I even put down my bag, this servicing guy parks his pillar-like body in front of my path, looking at me with lunatic eyes, asking if I had a goodnight. I ask him if he has any work with me and why he is following me around like that big black slab in Kubrick’s 2001 Space Odyssey. He doesn’t get it. I walk passed him and when I reach my desk – he is there again. Freakin’stalker dude.

Then the most annoying woman in the office, the stick-figure, walks up to me and starts yelling that I have to do some work for her and she doesn’t care how much work I have, she needs it and she wants it by 4:00pm. This is when I lost it. This is when I thought I would have my first heart attack of the day. In short, I yelled till my eyes were blood shot. I told her to piss-off and come back when she learns how to talk to people. She didn’t.

Then as I calmed down with lunch I noticed that one of the guys in the office was very obviously ignoring me. I asked him if he was and he curtly replied, that he was. I asked him why and he yelled that he didn’t want to talk about it right then and stomped away.

In the evening I was sitting outside the office when he marches up to me, Red Bull in hand, saying he wants to talk about the Tuesday night office party. So I say, okay, talk about it.

He then begins to accuse me of starting this little tit-bit of gossip involving him, an annoying girl in the office and a Swedish condom. Apparently he was reaching this woman home to one end of the world when he stays in another end, and when he told some office guys, they drunkenly teased him and one of them handed him a condom – instead of throwing it back at their faces there and then, he keeps it and leaves. Then when the party is almost over, I notice he is not there so I ask where he is. The drunken boys tell me he’s gone to drop the annoying woman home – at which I say –Why would he drop her home? He stays no where close to her. At which the drunken boys giggle and tell me he took a condom too. Now, because of office grapevine, the ugly annoying girl walks in on Wednesday and the whole office is whispering that this guy took a condom and dropped her home.

So, I’m sitting there as he accuses me of “getting the ball rolling” and how “at my age” I should know better than to “blab” at office parties about things I don’t know. This is when I truly lost it. I told him he had no right to talk to me like that, and that how can someone “get the ball rolling” by asking about the whereabouts of a friend at a party? Further more, if he had no intention of doing anything with the condom, why walk away with it? And if he were to drop me home, would he even think twice about giving the condom back? No? Which means the drunken boys were completely justified in thinking something might ensue between annoying girl and boy?

There was a lot of yelling and crying (yes, I cried) and eventually he wanted to make up because he realised he was being rash, but I just can’t go from yelling to being bum-chums again. And honestly I don’t think I ever will get back to thinking he was anything more than a colleague.

The day was awful and I thought maybe I should go out dancing to relieve stress. We went to our usual adda and start dancing when this normal looking couple walk up to her boyfriend and say hi. But it ended there – they only looked normal.
She made intensely happy smiling faces and mouthed an “I love you” to me. She popped out from nowhere as, I walked to the loo, and danced with me. We tried to escape them and go upstairs and she followed us. We hid behind pillars and made our way to the exit. And we were free.

I went home and the heat was unbearable. As much as I wanted the day to end it just wouldn’t. I tossed and turned in bed and finally fell asleep at 5am.
What a day. I’m going to blame it on the moon.

in the name of loving

I have always been interested in law. In fact, I thought I would make a very good lawyer, I even used to pen out mutually-benefiting treaties between my sisters and myself. I also used to watch Ally McBeal, L.A Law and the like, to see how lawyers manoeuvre arguments in their favour. Anyway, my argumentative dexterity is not the point.

Yesterday I was surfing channels and BBC World was airing a program about the Lovings.

For those of you who haven’t heard about Mildred and Richard Loving, let me give you a low down. They were married in 1958 in Commonwealth, Virginia – it was love, if there ever was such a thing – only there was a rub – she was black and he was white.

By making their love public they broke one of Virginia’s vile rules – no inter-racial marriages. Sentenced to imprisonment, denied bail and forced to leave their home town – they took on family, home town and state all for love – and what’s even more ironically, their name was Loving.

In one of the most racist comments I have ever heard – the judge presiding their first case, found them in violation of the ban against inter-racial marriages – he said –

“Almighty God created the races white, black, yellow, Malay and red, and he placed them on separate continents. And but for the interference with his arrangement there would be no cause for such marriages. The fact that he separated the races shows that he did not intend for the races to mix.”

June 12th of every year is celebrated as Loving Day. A day that celebrates the fact that we’ve come a long way since then – or so we claim.

This was a time when racism was at its peak. It inspires us because it is two people fighting for what they believe in. It was the simple struggle for a basic civil and human right. Sure America accepts inter racial couples now, but what about culture? Isn’t there still a prejudice between a person practicing Islam and a person who is Catholic? Or a Hindu and Muslim?

Give youself a pat on the back, because we have risen above the bigotry, and we have looked beyond the colour of our skin when it comes to love.

So far beyond in fact, we’re now looking at our Gods.

update

I have often been told that heart break makes for great copy.

I think I finally realised that this, is indeed true.

For the past four months or so, I have been happy. Satisfied. Pleased, contented even.

And it’s scaring the crap out of me. The unrelenting cynic within me occasionally creeps up like a little ugly thing. And then I push it back down, with the help of a sweet, gentle man.

Here are some confessions:

I turned 26 yesterday
I’m smitten
I have a feeling he is smitten too
I’m not sure where it’s going, but I’m happy
I’m so happy; I haven’t written a blog in a month.
I don’t think I’m used to being “taken”
I find myself not staring at the hot guy in the gym.

I’ve been reformed. I’ve been changed.

And what’s more, he’s so gosh-darn pretty

:)

jitterbug

There I was, microphone in hand, looking upwards. The disco ball made pretty, comforting patterns on the ceiling. It calmed me a little, but for the most part I was a barrel of nervousness.

Welcome to the Corporate Karaoke championships.

I know what you’re thinking, how can a little singing cause so much anxiety? Well let me tell you, it’s not just the singing, it’s the performance pressure, the stage fright, and to top it all, the strangers, who’d probably pay good money to watch you screw up.

It’s not that I have a bad voice or anything, it’s more that I have bad stage presence – think – making imaginary doodles with your toes and twiddling thumbs.
So anyway, there I was – spotlight on me, my team uneasily cheering me on – their thoughts were screaming out at me – ‘We know you’re a first timer, you better not make us lose’.
The song was a sappy, love ditty – not one I would be caught dead listening to, but a safer option compared to my alternative, out-of-the-box tastes.
The calming ceiling patterns, the muted cheers and the sound of my voice– which didn’t waver, crack, or mess up, not even once.

I won.

101st post

Finally.

After all the complaining, whining, nit-picking, thinking, grumbling, over criticizing, rethinking, hair splitting and denouncing.

After all the quarter-life crisis’s, the ends of the world and the manic depression. After all the mood swings and emotional roller coasters.

After all that messed up nonsense, I’ve finally figured - I am completely incapable of happiness.

Shit.

paani

The person you love is 74.8% water

Think about it. More than half of the person you cannot live without is made up of a colourless, tasteless liquid. More than half of this person is something that is so common, it’s hard to see why you love them. And more than half of this person is something we take completely for granted.

Isn’t that something? Makes you wonder what the whole ‘love’ thing is anyway. What does it feel like? How does it manifest itself? And, have you ever felt it?

I think I’m too cynical to ever get answers to any of these questions. Which kind of sucks, cause I wouldn’t mind knowing.

Really.

yeah

Have you ever walked down the street, staring pointlessly at the nearly-melting tar road, hoping and praying that a big, freakish bolt of lightening would just strike you, singeing you to the bone, just so you don’t have to walk another step or live another minute of this crappy existence you call a life?

Yeah.

sammy update

This past Saturday, I and a friend went to visit Sammy for the first time after he came back from brain rehab in the States.

The whole visit was almost surreal. I couldn’t believe that this guy, sitting in a wheelchair in front of me, was the same guy who used to be the one person who’d dance behind me every time we went out. I couldn’t believe that it has been almost two years, and the progress is still slow – he is improving, but it’s going to take a long, long time for him to dance behind me again.

We had lunch with his parents and his brother, who is the strength that has gotten Sam this far, when doctors said he would never speak, walk or understand anything ever again. We shared stories and I learned that Sam was a man of many secrets and a genuinely naïve guy, who may have been taken for a ride, more than once.
It made me want to beat up all the people who have ever hurt him. I was always overly protective of him, I’d snap at anyone who said anything about him or his art – so much so, when the accident happened, people in the office came up to me to ask if I was ok.

When I saw him, my heart broke into a million pieces, and I thought about what a waste of talent this was. How a stupid split second mistake can affect someone’s entire life and family. How you can curse Fate as much as you want, but still nothing changes what has happened.

His dad had phoned me a week ago saying Sam was slowly coming out of it and getting more and more depressed and needed people around him. He’s not talking much because his jaw is still messed up so he can’t really articulate – it’s mostly sign language and mumbles that only his family understands.

His legs are still weak and he was made to do some physiotherapy while we were there and the screams of pain were even more heartbreaking.

I’m not sure if he recognized me but I did get a thumbs-up when I asked if he remembered the club we used to frequent.

It took everything I had not to cry and be positive and tell him that I wanted him to have that poolside party as soon as possible. His parents have been so strong and his brother is just amazing.

It’s possibly the most difficult thing to come to terms with the fact that he is not well. But to still be positive about his progress and know in your heart that he is going to be better is comforting.

I have that feeling. I’m positive that he will be able to dance behind me at that smashing pool party we will have. Positive.

heart breaker

mcshit with a side of lies, anyone?

I can blame it on the fumes from the fireworks at New Years. I can also blame it on my biological clock that seems to be stuck in a metal box that is amplifying the ticking and making it really, bloody annoying - driving me to lose all better judgement. I can also blame it on my complete lack of judgment. But then why play the blame-game? Especially, when it’s me I’m playing with?

This is in reference to The Guy I was supposedly, sorta, kinda seeing in the beginning of the year.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen he turned out to be a McShit with lies on the side, and Lady Luck decided to super-size me.

Not only did he put me through immense mental trauma (I’m talking about the jealousy-kind) he has now decided to bad mouth me to his posse – within ear-shot of mine – just so I can find out the nastiest way – through the grapevine.

If that wasn’t enough, I have to deal with his smug ‘I’m-so-super-cool-with-my-long-bloody-hair-and-my-big-bloody-Mercedes-and-my-bloody-tattoos’ attitude every bloody day.

Apparently I sure know how to pick ‘em. In fact I think I am like honey to the B’s (and F’s and C’s and M’s – and all the other nasty words you can think of)

Just for once I would like the big deli in the sky to give me my order.

Super-sized McNice - Happy Meal, hold the nasty.

you know you’re ready to mingle when…

You overhear some management colleagues talking about hiring a new account director and you ask if he is cute, rather than qualified.

You are almost willing to forgive all the crap that someone put you through, just so you can snuggle.

You are on the treadmill and a foreigner hottie is doing crunches on the floor behind you, and you peer at the mirror in front trying to get a glimpse inside his shorts.

You think your taxi driver has nice eyes. And you justify it by exclaiming “they looked really intense through the rear-view mirror, okay!”

You think every guy is hitting on you. It’s not true, you’re just hormonal.

Some grey haired man in the gym seemed cute to you. When you mention it, your gym buddy thinks the blood has rushed rapidly out of your head.

You flirt with a child-man in your office – he’s a summer trainee for god’s sake, Mrs. Robinson, you.

You have train acquaintances – because you’ll go home at the same time everyday. Indicating you have no life.

You go for an exclusive launch party and the waiter slips you his number.

You contemplate swinging over to the opposite sex. Just so you can snuggle. It’s all very pathetic isn’t it?

You start making lists of why you are ready to mingle, hoping some smart, intelligent, stud reads it, finds you insanely interesting, comments and the both of you meet, have instant connection, love each others company and make sweet history together…

Crap.
Woe is indeed me.