All Your Cakes Are Mine, The Dreary

Office (Mis)adventures Part I


Accidentally stepped on a coworker’s foot at the office.

I seriously felt like a stampeding horse because of the way she almost doubled over in pain. Worse still, she had hurt her hand a few days before so her whole arm was in a sling. I wanted to die.

If I wasn’t concentrating so hard on the godforsaken printer because okay, I get nervous around bits of technology (and they tend to spontaneously explode/malfunction around me) This wouldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t have to bend down to grab the papers and take a step back – AND CRUSH HER TOES LIKE THE HORSE THAT I AM.

Not creepy at all.

Not creepy at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 5 minutes, all I could say was “I’m so sorry!” while gazing in horror at her foot (and the heavily bandaged hand) I don’t think I can ever make eye contact with her after this. Great way to make an impression. Woo.

Apart from the gory drama, I have been eating this cake for the past three days which was awesome until I started getting nauseous at the end.  Of course, I have a crap quality picture which I edited (Meaning: I put in dozens of those Instagram filters, yeah)  I will put it here for your visual pleasure.

You can't see it clearly but heck yes, it was good.

You can’t see it clearly but heck yes, it was good.

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Oh, The Things I Write About, The Dreary

Hey,This Healthy Business Is Hard Work. Also No Cake. La Tortura, Maybe?


As most of you, who very kindly read this blog, know that I recently decided to go rogue , stopped eating tasty food that is fried in heart-burning oil – no wait, I still do that , try to live in a more healthy way.

I will name what I’m going through as “The ? Cond-ee-shunz” – because I’m not original, can’t think because I’m fixated at the sight of my fingers   this is my blog and I can name anything in any way I want. Ha!

Caused by prolonged deprivation of food laden with sins (also known as calories), being subjected to the sight and feel of the treadmill and watching T.V shows with stupid names like: “The Cupcake Wars”, “MasterChef”,Man Vs. Food” [ NOT for those who think it’s about a man/woman trying to beat their cravings to a pulp], Food Paradise etc etc. I curse ye to a painful…

Symptoms include: Rage, cramps in legs, buttocks, other strange places due to profuse walking/running, yelling inappropriate things in public, hating Nigella Lawson and other chefs on the food channel (which should be banned for obscene content), expert command in screaming out creative profanities, inexplicable connection with the participants of the Biggest Loser, displays of exaggerated emotions (WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THE CAKE IS GONE?! I…I only had just one tiny slice of it. HOW CAN YOU ANIMALS EAT TEH ENTIRE CAKE IN ONE DAY?! *tries to pour coffee into her eyes out of pure horror and cake-famine*)

Treatment: patience, going out and shaking what yo’ mamma gave you [read: exercise], making bets with young kids that you can totally outrun them, and then winning the bet without breaking a sweat! Sweet! and also very therapeutic plus gorging on the healthy stuff that will purify your soul and make you feel supahmegaawesome. Rawr.

 

P.S: My internet connection is being a pain in the tush. Again. Please excuse the lack of posts.

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Literature And Other Musings, The Dreary

Ash In Your Mouth


Your mouth is full of ash, but you manage to sputter out pretty words. If I unwrap all of them, they reek of lies and whispers about tearing down

Painting "Still life with white tea-cup&q...

Painting “Still life with white tea-cup”, by Russian artist Kapitolina Rumiantseva (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

my heart.

And then we’re talking again; and I’m counting the time. None of it seems real, especially the winding lines deep in your skin. On your face. One second, one line.
I smile, your eyes linger on my lips.

A frail ray of sunlight hits you in the face, and the tea cup is knocked out of your hands.

The liquid escapes. You curse. Ash everywhere.

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Literature And Other Musings, The Dreary

Psychic Diorama


The sound of Azaan resonates in my ears. I lay perfectly still. My stomach churning from the dizzying array of thoughts unfurling in my head. One twist there, another spin. I am reeling – this is all in my head.

You call my name, It loosens something inside me. The Azaan continues. My toes curl in response, arms raise in despair. I laugh, but it sounds like a whimper from a baby.

You leave like the last feeble ray of sunshine. The Azaan stops. I lay petrified, hoping I won’t break into shards, listening to the sound of defeat that spills out of me.

And we’re all scouring for something…like a pack of rats.

Black

Black (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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I’m currently having a depressive streak (usual stuff) so no happy posts today instead I just wrote what I felt.
I’ll be back to my cray-cray self in no time! 
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The Dreary

Odd time to think about Death


I’m afraid of death.

I’m not scared of encountering it, letting it seep into my bones and allowing myself to wither away – slowly, gradually or maybe forgotten the next day.

I’m afraid of what it brings. I cower in fear at the steady, deadly, invisible mist that dances atop bodies and wipes off smiles and glee. Just. like. that. Snap your fingers.

I don’t go to funerals, I recoil at the thought of seeing corpses laden in fresh white cotton sheets being taken away. Something in the faces of those who had just seen death take someone out of their midst scares me. Frightens me.

I was 12. The ominous sound of my mother crying in the living room woke me up from my blissful slumber.

My grandfather was dead.

I wrapped my bony arms around my mother’s rocking frame and tried to say something but what could I say? Everything is going to be okay? Because nothing was okay and It sure as hell would never be the same. I never said anything because I was afraid I could never find the right words, instead, I was pretty sure, a hysterical giggle would slip out as I saw my aunt, blinded by tears, topple over some woman’s feet and land in a heap on the floor.

When they took my grandfather away, we were all promised one last look at his cold withdrawn face but I didn’t go. I was 12 then and I’m 12 now. I followed the same route for the death of each of my parent’s parents, my class fellow from school, my good friend’s mother, my aunt and maybe some forgotten folks along the way.

My friends berating me over my apathetic reaction to the death of our friend’s mother was justified. While they all sat there with her, maybe even hold her hand, as they tried to console her; I was busy locked away in my room, running the tip of my tongue over my chapped lips, thinking of calling her to express my condolences. Or not. I had no words and my biggest fear was what if she picked up my call and I had to talk to her? Would she hear this: Uhh…So…I heard…and I’m so-s0-sorry….Um.

Probably. But I was sorry, I was. Every single time. Even when she messaged me to accuse me of being the world’s biggest witch of never calling or meeting her.

But how can I tell her? I was scared shitless. I floundered and gasped for words but my mouth, in all its dryness, would never form them. I can never be one of those who know how to comfort someone, with their mouth full of words that I can never quite get how to steal.

But I am sorry. I want nothing more to touch things that won’t break and coo soothing words in your ear. Without stuttering, without fumbling. Without fail.

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