Middle Age Limbo

I am being very judgmental here, but some people just bring out the worst in me. As I do too with some, I know. 

Internet was a marvelous introduction into my life, I was blown away by the way you could communicate with people all over the world. Just imagine, you type on a screen and some living person at the other end, in another corner of the world, a living breathing human being responds! For someone like me who shied away from intense social situations this came as a boon, it felt like I had sprouted wings. I have been kept under lock and key, my childhood and teenage years were an endless parade of chaperoning, I am not complaining about that, maybe only a teeny bit, I perfectly understand the sentiment behind all that though I do not buy it. 

Anyway, that’s an entirely different thing altogether, we are focusing on certain well… special personalities that one encounters online and my internet dalliance is by way of an introduction. 

 The very first person I spoke to was called ‘doodle’, that was his/her screen name. I do think it was a guy, I chatted with him for about 5 glorious minutes in a small café in Bangalore. I was with my boyfriend who did not approve of all these, because he was above such frivolities at that point of time, so though I had no romantic intentions whatsoever with doodle, no sort of interaction was permitted. I was adjusting and compromising at the time, so I swallowed it and suffered. Then I got to know someone called com_raine, more about him in another entry and there are also lovely people like Nish whom I have met through the net, but that is not what I am writing about now. 

Through trial and error I have found that the kind of people I am able to relate to more are older men, men who are about 15 years older than I am, at least. (Daddy issues.) They have seen the world a bit more, and my thoughts are ‘old’, they understand those better than people my age do. I am the least bit romantically inclined towards them, however men being men always assume that any woman who communicates with them or attempts to do so is a cunt and is to be fucked. Not that you can fuck online, anyway, the point is that any sort of intellectual or emotional connection is always gently nudged into the romantic territory. I have obliged too, coz first of all, there is no harm done, some old wanker wanking away in some remote corner of the world does not interest me, that he thinks of some woman who has been able to have a conversation with him as something to be wanked over just goes on to prove that he is completely pathetic. And at some level all of us are pathetic without exception. So patheticity[sic] does not put me off, I am a very forgiving person. 

What I cannot stand though, is pretension, without substance. Fucking 50 year old retards read philosophy for the first time in their adult life and discover that it’s actually a little better than pornography. And they can’t help but marvel at the beauty of it all. And they can’t stop talking about it and letting others (women) know that they read ‘big books’ now. So they throw big words around, throw the title around and suck it up like gospel. And their arguments will be peppered with quotes and original concepts that they have picked up from the said book. Half a century old rusting brain cells which were not used for anything but pleasuring the little head are electrified at the thought of philosophy that makes some sense out of all the madness. And for them to open their minds to accept these fresh air thoughts, they have to come from a heavy hardbound tome with an obscure title. 

I know this wanker who would mention the fact that he was reading On the Genealogy of Morals about a dozen times in a conversation. Who the fuck cares, loser. Reading it at 40 years of age for the first time and fucking having the nerve to be pretentious about it! One cant help but laugh and die laughing, huh!

Just The Once

I have never won an argument with him. He’s always busting on me, I’m perfect game. I love the sparring and teasing, and he has the knack of driving me to the very edge. At the crucial moment, if I’m about to win, he breaks into this slang and typical way of talking that throws me off. Except once.

He’s being cocky, and busting on me. As usual. We are friends.

“Look at those eyebrows. Why do they look like boomerangs, man?”

“Why do you ask? Do they keep coming back to you?”

Silence…

Hallelujah!

Marcus O! Marcus :) Hehe

Now, as I write, the many facets of Marcus’ character shape the flow of my hesitant thoughts. He who was my well wisher, friend, my infidel husband and then my most faithful soul mate. Was it a natural progression on the part of Marcus? Or was it that I had let him astray, that as a wife I did not provide him with the comforts of the home and hearth, and that had transformed Marcus from the incarnation of love that he was, to a betrayer. Indeed, I must hasten to admit that Marcus, save for his one philandering escapade was faithful. And if ever a marriage was so blest with tender and honest concern for the other, it was ours. That is the reason I bid him adieu with his newfound lover, many years ago, after I found them gazing into each others eyes and clasping hands. If Marcus found love better and more fulfilling than what my timid self could offer, I was only happy for him to savour it, I’m sure Marcus would have done the same for me. I let him go and he came back to me. It was then that I rained blows against his broad chest and his tears drenched my hair.

These memories come to me in disparate blotches, I must collect my thoughts and tell you about the wonder that Marcus was. I must pull myself together, else I fear I shall be doing great injustice to his sacred memories.

One aspect of Marcus on which my memory does not fail is the person of him. He was a tall man, muscular shoulders and arms that rippled underneath the fabric of his shirt as he moved them about. I fear I might not be quite capable of portraying his leonine nature, the quiet assurance about him, or the fluidity of his movements. He moved with the elegance of a cheetah on the prowl. A face chiselled by God’s own hands and of His finest marble. He was a vision that lifted the gloomiest of spirits, his flower-like irises specked with green flecks were absinthe. Of perfect symmetry and proportion, his forehead was of a King, broad and unlined, rising in the gentlest of curves just above the eyebrows, and the brows themselves lush but not crowded, well defined with not one stray hair marring their perfect lines, they were like the neatly trimmed hedges of palace gardens and I would tell him the same, he would arch one perfect brow at that and laugh at the childishness of such a simile.

Fuck Off

There are a few images or symbols that speak to me of a deep rooted sort of disgust. A kind of disgust that a child who was molested or a woman who was raped would feel. The image that I associate with it is generic, in the sense a certain aspect of some of the very commonly recurring patterns or themes in nature causes this nausea to rise in me.

Numerous spherical objects grouped together; static is bad enough, but if they form a moving, writhing mass I go through hell. During my very very very low moments I have been bombarded with images of innumerable spherical disgusting objects under my skin and them bursting out. I could almost drown in my own puke now.

The reason I am saying this now is because, this, you miserable piece of shit, is exactly how I feel when I think of the subhuman scum that you are, and that I was cursed enough to witness your perverseness. Associating it with child molestation is right, because when you were 18, I must have been just two years old. Maybe you did whip that rotting piece of meat in your hand and jack off in front of young children too. I wouldn't put that past you, you mongrel scum, you who could spew spiteful curses on a mere child, you are capable of anything.

Rot in hell!