My Second Favourite F Word

My last few posts have been so serious (bordering on morose) that I feel a change is due. I don't know how every time I end up writing something so heavy. Even though for past two days I am in a mood of sticking my finger into people's eye-socket I should try to write something to achieve a sense of catharsis. For a person whose morning begins with a fifteen minutes of limbo in front of her closet I sound so conspicuously morbid on the blog. Sometimes I wonder why the hell I take life so seriously. I mean we are all gonna die, right? This thought always comforts me. The thought of death. Not because I am dying to be dead or something. But it makes me happy to think that all those people I despise are gonna be dead too. I would love to kill them if I could but I really really don't wanna end up in jail. And I am too lazy and absent-minded to premeditate a murder. So I just pray for their long sufferings and move on.

I miss wearing summer clothes. I miss them so much I have never missed any of my boyfriends like that. I miss those long breezy palazzo, maxi dresses and those boho tops. I miss the feeling of getting dressed in the morning without having to utter multiple cuss words through chattering of my teeth. As if I am not doing justice to my nearest and dearest ones. And they are the love of my life. Well, you gotta be in love with something. Darjeeling is a bloody cold place. It's way colder than Gangtok. Even Manali. Gangtok I understand still, because its elevation is much less. It's a different thing that Gangtok is clean, and people are better looking AND better dressed. But Manali? It is 8 meters above than Darjeeling. Summer is so pleasant there. And here I am, strutting about in my Levis jeans and Nike sneakers even in the month of May because it never ceases to be cold. You know why? It's because of the freaking rain. It never stops raining here, except in winter. Winters are mostly sunny; but the cold will freeze your balls no matter how much sun you get. People have no concept of cotton apparel here. Will you wear flowy cotton palazzo when it is raining cats and dogs? Will you?? The other day I saw people selling midi skirts and strappy maxi dresses in the market. Who would buy them? I refuse to wear my short dresses with stockings. Even the idea is so pathetic that it brought tears to my eyes.

Fashion is boring here. Maybe the people here think they are super freaking fashionable; but they are NOT. When I look around it feels like I'm in a sea of clones. The same outfit, same hairstyle, same shoes. And god who wears makeup like that? Are you here to pick up drunk middle-aged perverts? There are many shops here selling kickass Tibetan jewellery. But nobody wears them. People hardly wear their traditional outfits here. Nah, they would rather wear their hair in that same boring straight fashion (at times they look like my nylon broom I keep in my bathroom), wear the same deadass torn jeans, the same sneakers, same jacket. I mean bloody throw in some funky scarf, or a piece of jewellery. And don't paint your face like a hooker. Even the Indian clothes are disgusting and cheap looking; and not to mention overpriced (sold by the Marwaris). The only place where you will get some decent, classy looking stuff is the Bishwa Bangla outlet. But you won't see any local shopping there because they would rather wear the blingy Marwari stuff than wear khadi and linen. I stick out like a sore thumb amidst all this.

The practical, calculative side of me is much relieved though. I no longer have to dwell on the thoughts to shave my armpits or my legs. Well, I neither get to flaunt them nor do I have sex. I buy less clothes as well. What's the fucking point? Everything looks bloody similar once it's gone under the jacket. You have to be Sunny Leone or something in order to look sexy in thick layers of winter-wear. I love my jeans and sneakers. But there's a limit. The last time I dressed to my heart's desire was in Rajasthan. Nowadays I close my eyes and picture myself on the streets of Jodhpur... or Goa. It seems almost funny that once I had a heated argument with my ex regarding holiday destination. He wanted to go to Goa while I was all about the hills. He told me in the end that once I started living in the hills I would begin to appreciate the beach destinations. There's nothing more painful than sucking one's own ego (especially when it's HUGE), but I guess he was right at least this one time. However, that doesn't change the fact that I hate him and I hope he dies with his face buried in his ass. #sorrynotsorry

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