An ode to the purveyor

Dear You,

Your emptiness aggrieves me. The past few days, I’ve eagerly come to you at every hour of need..be it at the nadir of a raw night or at the screech of dawn, but you just stand there…with nothing much to offer. I stay for a while…hoping I’ll be able to get something out of you but your cold, void demeanor kicks me hard in the pit of my stomach. Every night I’ve headed back..a hollow, sinking feeling weighing heavy on every vein of mine.

But today, as I decked you up, you bounced to life. I know you’ll be there again, just like you used to. I hate seeing you all barren and desolate, and I vow that every time it happens I’ll bring you your coke zero and not coke light, orange juice with pulp and not the one without sugar, apple juice with aloe vera and not by itself, milk that is only low fat and high calcium and nothing else, jasmine green tea , slices of reduced fat cream cheese, a smoragsbord of fruits that cannot be sour and little cute cups of richly flavoured yoghurt.

You understand now why your emptiness hollows me out too, don’t you?

Love,
Your lipid-lined hog

Woe of the week

Dear greasy dishes, rotting grub, little imaginary insects that I hope aren’t there, algae, moss and water that won’t go down the sink,

I’m terrified of you. She was supposed to come perform the exorcism and relinquish my squeaky clean sink from your grungy grapple but she knew what awaited her. No wonder every time I called her, the first thing she would ask is whether the mother is back. Well, she will be in 2 days. But if mommy sees this, she’ll take off again and never come back. And you’ve already scarred the maid.

So it’s going to have to be me. I can almost imagine my cold, clammy hands wriggling toward you..and you roaring in protest and splattering me with tepid slimy water, with little globs of filthy food playing tarzan to my mane. And then the dishes clanging heavily in collective disobedience, sliding off wickedly or even pushing their fellow grisly cup off the sink just to leave me in a shower of splintering glass. Sheer diabolism is what it is, those filthy little demons.

But it can’t be that hard. I just have to wade through the muck, pick you up, rinse you and throw you into the purgatory for you to expiate your sins and come out all angelically sublime. And then we’ll deal with the gas counter, the floor and the laundry before we enter….The Room.

Mommy’s not coming back to a haunted house.

Burn in hell,
Exorcist who’s friggin scared of ghosts

Blubber and Blabber.

Dear You,

You realize it now…don’t you?

That wasn’t your fault. You’re not a runaway maniac that needs to be tamed.

It was the heavy chocolate, cream and coffee frolicking with your head. Down with Java Chip. Maybe it’s some covert operation by Starbucks to get all the girls lapping up sugar and stoking conversational libido with inebriated spirits.

It was the big round slab of cold, gooey poached chocolate topped with thick swirls of liquor cream at ‘Awfully Chocolate’ cavorting with your cognition.

So, next time these friends force chocolate down your throat, learn to move your head a bit to the left, and a bit to the right..nice and firm…’shaking’, they call it. Nod violently all you want in the depths of your heart but not the slightest indication of an affirmation should escape your dry, parched lips in need of melting chocolaty goodness that just makes you swoon.

All that chocolate is just going to get warm and comfy and hang out of your skin, sweetheart. And a divorce is as hard as is easy the matrimony. Be a teetotaler hereon, yes? We need to get you back to your previous psychological dwellings that barred all blubber.

And hopefully, we won’t have you jabbering away till dawn either.

Amen.

Warningly yours,
Your future Yokozuna body

Yet another fit.

Hello up there,

Why? When the desire to break the shackles and leap to where I wanted to be choked her today, I impetuously spurted a driblet of adulterated water to rake her in further. You barked at the hand to reach up and wipe off every trace of it. When I made the young, enraged, raw blood gyrate inside her, all you allowed was a slight tremble. I know you had your weak moments…in a flash you thought of all the possibilities, and in a flash you blacked it all out. You imagined..you placed her right there and she nodded determinedly..and then you harshly yanked her out by her scruff and shoved her back to where she was – a dark, cold theater with a forgotten tub of popcorn. I know you want to as well, but then I’ve always been the restless one between us. She doesn’t like it here, where the benignant sun always grins merrily. We’re neurotic clowns, the two of us, the way we juggle fervor and fear. You’re the smart one right, then figure it out. If you don’t, I will. She likes me better anyway. But remember..I am what I am…the better clown.

Warning you,
Down here on the left.

Lazy to Live.

You’re always a surprise; I can’t ever imagine when you’ll come knocking at my door. You quietly slip in beside me in the dark, and the next morning I wake up with you. Or I don’t, because you make me feel like I could be in bed forever with you. I groggily try to shove you away, but you cling on ever so softly that only innate cruelty could make me deny you the pleasure of those two more minutes. And then and there I know, that I’ve erred, yet again.

Because after that, you infiltrate. So overpowering is the voracity with which you begin to usurp me that no matter how violent a fight I put up, I fall back limp, powerless and helpless. I stop fighting. You enslave me.
I let you.

If ever there were a masochist, a sadist with whom the whole world knew not what to do…It would be you. You enjoy this don’t you…lurking around..looking for victims..and the minute someone lets his guard down ever so slightly, you take the leap and render people defunct.

I don’t like you, you’re an asshole. And one day, I swear, I’ll come up with something to kick you in the rear with. Be Gone.

Honour Killing.

So I couldn’t take it…I dabbed on some acne cream, and the woman mellowed down with a silent scream.

Love ’em or hate ’em…they’re here to stay.

The cheeks are comfortably cushioning a lovely romantic couple. I guess the one that’s glowing in glory and screaming for attention is the woman. The man is a silent killer..he’s had his share of the limelight and is now busy making his mark. This one’s a long distance due to the barricading nose, but they’re deeply, irrevocably in love and seem resolute on being there for each other forever, come what may.

Do let me know if you two plan on having any children…I’ll make the necessary arrangements.

There it goes again.

Dear Foot,

Do you not like me? First you went and stuck yourself under sharp pencil heels, and bled away happily. Then, you had yet another rendezvous with another unwitting, innocent shoe wedge that had me limping around school for a couple of days. And yesterday, even on a pure, festive occasion such as Diwali, you couldn’t resist the urge and plunged into the darkness, only to land up in a bog of rotting squishiness. And now you’re swollen and incapable of supporting my body mass, and the pain shoots up my leg every time I walk. I tried to tame you, hold you back with proper footwear, but no..you have to lash out at them and rip them off yourself in the middle of the road. What do I do with you?

Sigh,
The rest of me

Stop dropping my cradle from the tree top.

Stop avoiding me. Stop being so mean. You haven’t come to me since a week. And whenever you do come, you give me hell. What in the world did I ever do to you?!! What can ANYONE possibly ever do to you?!! You come, now and then, full of attitude and by the time you leave I’m so mentally perturbed I could scream them big freaky eyeballs out. You know I can’t do without you. Nobody can, really. Then why? I tried last night, to ease you in…to read a boring book…seduce sandman…but no. I think it’s pure hatred for me that lurks within you. I can’t stand your perpetual horrific interruptions. War, people, terrorism, oversleeping, exams, death. If you want to come, come gracefully and spare me the subconscious drama dose. Else don’t come.

Screw you,
Your supremely distraught victim.

Management of monsters at work.

Dear Things,

You’re all getting out of hand. Please stop such reckless, recalcitrant behaviour. I know you love to inflict malaise and are aware that I can’t let go of you, but stop being spiteful. Else I’ll draw up a checklist, put you down, and one by one I’ll cross your little friends out. Then we’ll see who’s jabbing who.

Yours,
A fretful little Me.