Old Times

The other day I went back to a website that I had first logged on in when I was 9 years old.

I turn 21 in August.

Ergo, it was a really nostalgic moment for me – according to science (SCI-YANCE!), the worth of a thing increases the more time and energy we spent on it. Obviously. So seeing all those familiar pixels on the screen made me happy inside, even though I had no cause to be considering I was self-destructive enough to have to resort to revisiting my lonely childhood for comfort. (Again, obviously.)

But what really made my day – I am pathetic, I know – was seeing my old profile which stated the interests of my pre-teen self (Books and Literature, Candy, Computer Games) . Over all of the changes that have happened in my life in the past decade or so, it was relaxing to know that fundamentally, I was just as huge a loser as I used to be. I simply graduated from being a Computer Game Nerd to a Computer Programmer Nerd.

9-year-old me would be proud(ish).



I’m socially awkward. Shocking, I know. So much so that it’s not even cute, just really strange. Which is odd, because both my parents are (or is that were?) charismatic and sensitive to things left unspoken. Wherever my mom goes, she knows exactly how to dress and what to say and what to do and what expression to have on her face, even if nobody is talking.

My siblings are like that too. They’re not perfect, no, but they do excel in social interactions. Even my moody brother who just harumphs at everyone.

Then there’s me. I stutter. I am tactless. Expressions and silent cues are lost upon me. I can rarely tell when someone is lying (unless I know the exact story beforehand, and provided I do not forget). I say the exact thing you’re NOT supposed to say at any given time. My face is unable to lie: when I don’t like something, it shows, even around the people I love and even knowing it’ll hurt them. I am unable to extract myself out of a difficult conversation or relationship smoothly. And, well, a number of things. There are many better at expressing themselves than I, so I’ll just leave the rest to your imagination.

Anywho. Perhaps the suave gene skipped me. Maybe I got it from both sides, and it cancelled itself out. Or maybe I’ve got some undiagnosed illness. All I know is that I prefer writing and typing to face to face talks. Even then, I do not know what to say. As anyone who’s had words with me knows.

And I prefer face to face talks over phone calls. But that’s a topic all on its own, worthy of its own soliloquy.


Perhaps artists and authors are simply antennae for the signals of the universe. And those who come up with similar ideas at similar times are simply tuning in to the same frequency.

Maybe I’m on AM. Less traffic, but more distorted.

Bad Liars

I don’t mind lying, because not only is honesty – complete honesty – rarely the best policy, but also because I myself am a pathological liar. I don’t like bandying about my thoughts like candy on Halloween; for one, they wouldn’t be mine any more, and for another, there’s a difference between people who care and people who just want gossip to pass on. I rarely trust, but that’s another topic altogether.

What I DO mind, though, is blatant lying. If you are going to tell a falsehood, spend some time on it. Make it believable, neither too extraordinary nor too mundane. Stick to one story, and tell it to everyone, especially if you’re one of those people who have a good memory.

But if you have a habit of forgetting like me, don’t memorize every single detail. That’s suspicious too. Just get the basic story straight, and every retelling, remove some old details, add some new ones, but make sure they don’t clash.

Not being able to lie correctly reflects poorly on your intelligence. I mean, really; even animals know deception.

There is a Specific Kind of Boy I Dislike

I mean, I dislike boys in general (they’re gross and have cooties) but the type I won’t even consider liking are present in droves at my university. My mother says it’s because it’s a public university, and so you get “all types” of people there. I tell her that she is being classist, and by extent, racist. She just rolls her eyes.

Anyway, this type of boy hates women. Oh, he thinks he loves women, *traces vaguely feminine shape with hands* *makes noises of approval*, but he really just loves the idea of women as portrayed to him by the media and society in general, and his family in specific – docile, submissive, brainless, yet interesting, independent, and multifaceted. The only point consistent in this superwoman he believes all women to be is that they/she cater to his every need, regardless of her own. The self-sacrificing woman who understands that he is the superior being who is so in awe of his manliness that she gives up her family, her friends, and her identity for him. Her existence – and by extension, the existence of every women, because we are a monolith – can only be validated by him, and if she – we – cannot win his approval, she has failed in her purpose in life.

This kind of boy can be very, for lack of a better term, liberal in most of his politics: the only oppressive force he either fails to see or fails to give importance to is that of the patriarchy. He is the type of boy who will take pictures of you at a public place without your permission, then pout and say you are overreacting when you ask him to delete them. He is the type of boy who will come over to your department during break for “the view ;)” and then say “these girls are full of themselves, we didn’t come here to stare at them“.

He is the type of boy who will refuse to curse in front of you because “you don’t do that in front of girls” but won’t hesitate to mimic fucking you to his buddies when he thinks you can’t see. He is the type of boy who tells you when his friends treat you like a fuck toy, but won’t explain why they thought they could say things like that in front of him.

He is the type of boy who will harass you in public places and then charm your mother at private gatherings so that she doesn’t object to his rishta – which he will send through his parents, of course, because he’s respectable.

He is the type of boy who will reinforce through his words and actions that he is aware of the unfair power structures which govern your life as a woman, and he will gaslight you so that those structures continue to benefit him and continue to paint you as an emotional, illogical harpy.

There is no hope for these boys. Circumvent them like you would dog shit on the pavement.


My first day of the second semester of my second year at university is about to start in a little over an hour, and just thinking about it is making me sick to my stomach. Goodbye, sweet Internet, bosom friend of the socially inept, invisibly disabled, avoidant introverts like I. Hello face-to-face interactions, impossible deadlines, unnecessary stress, and street harassment.

And I have to go the bank today too. God, help this poor pathetic soul.