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Archive for the ‘Happiness is a warm gun’ Category

They all came and left in the same vein. I waited.

I don’t blame them, they had their reasons. Except, the problem with me is that everything affects me much more than the other person.
The problem with every other person is that they are as selfish as they should be.

I am really drained out. And unwilling to give anyone a chance, even this blog.

It maybe a week, it maybe a year. I might just come back tomorrow telling my stories. I might just wait for a year to collect enough mishaps

Until the time, I am ready again, this blog is going dark.

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I used to love a song. I used to love a woman. Once long back.

Flashbacks are not good.

Yes I am doing good, and am tracking the successful chart, and yes the day is not far. and yes I am in love with the perfect woman for me. All that is true. I am content.

Two months of idle existance is not good for anyone. One remembers….

Unfortunately, one never forgets.

Weakness? Strength?

(Edit: to quote

The love wasn’t wasted. Maybe we wasted our passion on people who didn’t deserve it.

Seriously, How many losses? How much regret?

)

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I liked hating him. It gave structure to my life, somewhat like love did. To be the one who shrugged off the identity of being the bad one, to be the one who built friendships from scratch, to be the one who didn’t bad-mouth him and yet, to be the one who was wronged, to be the one who emerged and (as they say) bloomed.

Every year I go through the little do-I-dont-I hopscotch of whether or not to wish him. For couple of days at the very least.

This year, I genuinely forgot.

Is it early onset of old age? Or am I just too burnt out to care? Or is it just that the passion of hatred is lost?

Or, more importantly, have I finally made peace?

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That day ReX and I met again. I didn’t tell anyone for I was afraid they would all worry. ReX looked scruffy, long haired, messy. He hadn’t shaved. His arms and feet had the patchy whiteness of dry skin. His t-shirt was faded. He picked me up from where he would normally. We went to where we would normally. In a replay of many scenes from many years ago, he added one packet too many of sugar in his coffee, and I complained about being late. But not everything was the same — I had expected him to grow up. I had expected him to be on time. I had expected him to have changed. The least I had expected out of him was to have had a shower. All of a sudden, I was all grateful for my life, and what I had become.

It’s been 9 years since we first met. It’s been a few years less than that since the irrevocable damage. And as usual, I will spend the day, today, in quiet mourning. To remember and to remind myself what I lost. And build a case for why not all important dates are worth remembering. And why I systematically destroy everything sacred. And why I am so feverishly protective about PD.

I’ll cry after eons today.

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They all come back. Sooner or later they all do.
They come back and tell me that since the last time we met their lives have changed, and they have too.

Whenever the last time was, it left me broken for a brief period of time.  Which is okay, but the aftermath was that it made me insensitive.

Insensitive towards apologies.

Ah, growing up is hard to do.

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So this was a long long time ago. Just because everyone and his dog had a girlfriend or atleast wanted to, I developed a thing for Longago Unremembered Girl (LUG?). Yankee Bastard (YB), my then-best-friend was also Lug’s best friend. YB, with his sleek style, his cheapstakes chutzpah and his general glibness (oh I was far from glib those days, far from classy, far from the me you see every morning, really), ensured that Lug does not stay with me, but go out with rather-OK-some-other-guy (ROSOG). Because Rosog was best friends with this girl who Yb wanted to go out with.

Why is that important? It was long long ago, no? Because I track these people. I track Yb and I track Lug (and rarely even Rosog) and what they are up with. Internet makes things easy, no? Yeah, kinda stalker only.

So here’s what’s up with Yb. He went to the US (he did have a greencard), and then came back. Got admmitted to a top Bschool through some foreign student shit, and then managed a job, and managed to lose it too. Got married. Is supposedly in Singapore, but I doubt it. He is seen all the time in Cal. Nobody knows whether he has a job or no.

So this is what Yb is doing now. What’s more? This is extra, dear reader.

He replies to online free classified ad sites, to posts like “Married lady -looking for extramarital relationship”. And he replies as
“Hi saw your details on the net. Let me know a bit about you nad if you would like to go out on a date. I recently returned from Singapore and am vacationing in Cal, dont know many people. (blah blah blah) I am 30, I am an Investment Banker, working in London and Singapore. Love intelligent women.

Phone number,
Yb”

So very fake. So very Yb. He is not 30. He is not an Ibanker. He is definitely not in London, and most probably not in Singapore either. And he picks up random girls on the internet. He very definitely is married too.

Yes, I won.

And I hope you know by now who I am referring to in the title of this post. Yes, that’s me.

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Arcanum

I thought of you in my sleep. Which is another way of saying, I dreamt of you but I wouldn’t want to give your bloated ego a boost. It has been a long time since that has happened – that a thought of you has run through my head. I am glad.

It was interesting, that thought, the one I situation I went through in my head last night. To have dreamt of you, and to have had the event in the dream whereby I showed you that someone else had become more important to me. Othersomeone. And we were sitting across from you.

I sat next to the othersomeone, laughed at an inane joke with the othersomeone. And the othersomeone gave me that little look and shared that little secret. The one we would have discussed later, had the dream been generous enough to stick on. The things the othersomeone and I did, are only shared between best friends.

And you were right there. Looking, strangely enough, hurt. And then you got up and left.

I am not sure if I even wanted you to feel hurt. I don’t even know if othersomeone is important to me. But I want you to know that I indeed have moved on.

You claimed I had too many best friends. The secret is, I was glad you had none..

And I am so damn glad that it passed.

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