I had the worst dream last night.

You and I were on top of a really high tower. Kind of like Gandalf at the top of Orthanc, but it was morning, and there was a little parapet lining all four sides. You were standing in a corner, peering over the edge, and I was in the opposite corner, looking at you. I asked you what you were doing, and you said you were looking to make sure it was all clear down below, so you wouldn’t land on and hurt anyone, but you couldn’t see all the way down to the ground because of the mist. And I leant over the wall in my corner and saw the same opaque white haze that you saw.

I told you I was reminded of a movie.

“There’s a little town, and one night there’s a storm, and the power goes out, and a dense mist starts enveloping the whole town, and there’s a bunch of people stuck in the supermarket. And they realise the mist is hiding monsters. There’s a lot of blood and gore, and many people die horrible deaths, and eventually this kid, his father, and three other people manage to escape, and they’re in a car driving away from the town. And they drive and they drive, and everywhere they just see total destruction, and finally they’re in the desert and they’ve lost all hope, and they give up. They decide to kill themselves instead of dying at the hands of the monsters. But there are five of them, and they discover their gun has only four bullets. So the kid’s dad shoots the three others in the head, then shoots down his own son, and wanders out to meet his own inevitable death. But just as he climbs over a dune, he sees in the distance the army approaching, and they’re killing all the monsters, and he realises he’s going to survive. And it completely destroys him. He falls to his knees, and bawls his eyes out. It’s terribly tragic.”

And as your right foot lifted off the floor and settled on the ledge, you said, “So you’re trying to convince me to not kill myself by telling me a story about a guy filled with regret about not killing himself.”

And I replied, “No. Is that what you got from it? You don’t understand. He doesn’t regret not killing himself. He regrets killing his son and those other people so hastily. The moral of the story is to wait for help; that help is always just around the corner.”

Your left foot kicked off, along with the rest of you, and took its place on the wall alongside the right, leaving you teetering precariously on the brink.

“I’ve waited long enough”, you said. “Where’s my help?”

That made me angry.

“Are you seriously asking me that question? What the fuck do you think I’m doing here?”

I couldn’t see your face, so I’m not sure, but you must have started tearing up. Your voice was heavy and shaky.

“Are you here to help me?”

I didn’t let up.

“No, I’m here for the fucking view. Are you a fucking moron? Of course I’m here to fucking help you! Oh wait, maybe I should clarify, daft as you are, that I’m here not to help you kill yourself but to help you survive and fix your troubles, whatever they are. Is that clear?”

No answer.

“Will you now do me the favour of stepping down from there? On this side, preferably”, I said, both index fingers pointing down at my feet.

And you obliged.

Relieved, I walked up to you and congratulated you on doing the right thing. I told you I’d help you resolve your issues, and I asked you what they were.

And you said, “I found a worm in my sapota."

(in response to http://kafila.org/2013/01/04/notes-from-a-bachelorette-party-in-new-india-swathi-sukumar/#comment-38892)

Since it’s semantics we’re quibbling over, you may want to look up ‘sexist’, and then point out where I made a “discrimination based on gender”. Everything I said, I think I made abundantly clear, applied to both sexes. What wasn’t as clear, perhaps, (even though I put out a rider) was that your thoughts and fantasies (and not words and actions) are yours alone, and that visual stimulation aids sexual activity. The man Julia Gillard spoke out against was accused of sending out sexist text messages. I wouldn’t condone that kind of behaviour.

Also, I share your contempt for Latin. I’m frankly quite embarrassed I used ‘per se’. Sorry about that.



(in response to http://kafila.org/2013/01/04/notes-from-a-bachelorette-party-in-new-india-swathi-sukumar/)

First, I’ll address the contention that bachelor parties, as a show of “dominant masculinity”, are “inherently misogynistic”.

A guy goes to see a movie that has Deepika Padukone in an item number. He’s deeply (physically) attracted to her. He doesn’t know her, and never will. He thinks she has a beautiful face, and a great body. The next time he’s beating off, it’s to an image of her.

A month later, a friend of his is getting married. He gets invited to the bachelor party. There are risque props and lewd jokes. He gets wasted. It’s all good fun. Then the stripper shows up (of her own free will), and it’s Deepika Padukone. He watches her performance, goes home, and beats off to her again. He still doesn’t know her, and still never will.

Now, what harm has come of that? What harm may come of that?

Is he objectifying her? Yes.
Does he hate her? No.
Does he hate all women because of her? No.
Does it skew his outlook on women? No. I don’t think people take their kids to these things. By the time you’re old enough to attend a bachelor party, your views on these matters are already firmly set, and genitalia-shaped shot glasses or strippers aren’t going to change or reinforce them.

It’s just purely physical attraction. And that is something people experience all the time.

Objectification of women (or men), per se, is not misogyny (or misandry). But a misogynist uses objectification as a tool to express and promote his (detestable) views. I hope that distinction is as clear as I think it is.

Objectification of people by both sexes, done every day without any ill feeling, is nothing but fantasy. And you cannot be accused of thought crime.

The goal of objectification isn’t a feeling of empowerment. I’m quite sure women having bachelorette parties aren’t doing it as an expression of feminist ideals. They’re just indulging in some harmless fun that women in another era might have enjoyed but couldn’t. You’re welcome to cast a disapproving eye, but in accusing them of perpetuating a practice as abhorrent as misogyny by participating in an activity so trivial, you’re just being churlish.

When you're writing letters to the income tax, it makes a lot of sense to abbreviate some frequently used words, and in the end expand them all in one shot using ctrl+h (replace).
So instead of repeatedly typing "learned assistant commissioner of income tax" for instance, i simply type lacit and replace it later. For income tax act, 1961, i type ita. For assessee, ass. And it's ok to do that, provided you remember to expand it.
Today i didn't.

What makes it a little bit worse is that it's almost never THE assessee. We generally say YOUR assessee. So it wasn't "the ass has paid tax amounting to...". It was "your ass has paid tax amounting to...." and "..refund due to your ass.." and "your ass prays that due note be taken of..".

-----------------------------tear along the line--------------------------------



drop

Now the story of a wealthy family who lost everything, and the one son who had no choice but to keep them all together. It's -------- -----------.

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0044672/

BIGTIME COCKINESS

Today's post, as you can see, has a title. I've decided that every post from this day forth will carry a title.. or maybe not.
Wait, I just changed my mind. No more titles.
Or maybe there will be.

Damn it. I need a moment to think this over.

Okay, no more titles. Final decision, case closed. This will be the only one.
So if you're that guy/girl who's selling printed copies of my blog on ebay, this particular post will be a collector's edition.


Anyway, exams are going on. Yaaaaaaaaaawn normally, but today was different. Additional english was a blast. One of the best papers ever. Not marks-wise obviously.

I left questions worth 26 marks unanswered. If I'd done justice to the amount of effort I had put into studying for the exam I would have left 50. I didn't know a lot, to be honest. But I wrote a lot. Especially one four page answer where nothing but the first sentence had any relevance to the question. But it was undoubtedly the finest piece of sappy, sentimental, tear-inducing shit I've ever authored. In my mind's eye I can see my english teacher crying oceans of tears over my paper.

Maybe I'm just overestimating my writing ability.


I was struck by this exceedingly bright idea sometime during the exam. I looked at a question that made no sense at all, and thought of answering it, beginning with "It would be foolish not to assume..". You know, play some mind games with the evaluator. But then I decided it might offend her, and I might get my ass kicked. So I settled for the relatively less dangerous (and hopefully equally effective) "It would be safe to assume..".


At the end of the exam, I went to collect my textbook which I'd left on the teacher's table because I wasn't carrying a bag. I found that it was under a pile of answer scripts that he'd just collected and deposited right on my book. So I reached under the pile and was pulling out my book when suddenly, out of nowhere, the guy (invigilator) screamed and lunged at me from the side. The stupid ass thought I was messing with the answer scripts. Idiot. I just held up the book and took a step backwards and he calmed down. Jang says I should have hit him in self defense.

Yeah, I should have.

(on my orkut homepage)

Today's fortune:
Your present plans are going to succeed.


Alright then.. I'm off to make some plans.