My Day.

To be 12 again.

The reader here needs to know 2 things :

1. My birthday is in July.

2. The preparation starts in January.

Having established that I am quite the loony when it comes to my birthday. It’s a day of unabashed self-importance, glutenous indulgence and being fussed over by all and sundry. It’s the day I unleash my narcissistic side for all to see.

Age 12.

We had been living in Delhi for 8 months now. The apartment complex where we lived was nothing like the cozy bonhomie one finds at an Air Force station. People were cold, mean and disinterested in the fact that it was my birthday. Yes, I had no close friends. Up until the 12th, all my birthday parties have included a whole lot of lip smacking food, me decked up in a pretty dress, a huge party where the birthday girl wished upon the cake that all the people would now go and let her just open her presents in peace.

So, this year was disappointing. There were no friends, no room full of presents either. Shame.

What was there were my parents, a whole lot of lip smacking food and my cousins and relatives. It was no Page 3 party but it was great. I was decked up in a cool dress, I was happy but I did not like a single gift.

Not one.

From that birthday on, I pledged to let every single person know from year beginning onward about what I really wanted on my birthday. My parents think it’s awfully stupid but I disagree. I get what I want at least! For instance last year I saved up and bought myself a ridiculously expensive watch. Am I ashamed? Hell no! I love it.  I saw it in January and by July I was wearing it.

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My birthday is all about proving to myself that I can get anything I set my heart too. Be it fighting for the last Harry Potter book (which incidentally was releasing right next to my birthday) to a phone or anything for that matter.

It’s all about celebrating my crazy determination to go and get what I want.

That’s what my birthday meant to me.

So, thanks to the failure of my 12th birthday, I now make each year a kick-ass celebration of the awesome that is me.

Rocket To The Moon .

Risks.

Funny little decisions aren’t they? That moment of trepidation, the anticipation of what decision to take, damn the the brain.

Have I taken any risks?

I have risked my neck and eaten all of the chocolate the parents bought for my cousin. I have risked being caught reading novels while I should have been studying. I have risked my heart falling for a guy whom people considered to be bad. I have risked buying a ridiculously expensive top in the hope I will someday fit into it. 

That’s all, you may ask. I don’t think I view big decision as a “risk”. You either do what you want or stay there letting the world choose for you. Maybe my taking up journalism is a risk? My parents feel so, I don’t. Its what I want, its what I feel is right for me. How could it be a risk?

All these metaphors to define “the jump”, “the leap of faith”, “you got balls!” etc, they’re just beautifully lyrical expressions to say that you finally did what you wanted. Yes, the heart does palpitate faster while doing these but then that’s exactly what the heart is there for isn’t it?

 

 

 

Seven.

Khalil Gibran once said that people will never understand one another unless language is reduced to seven words. What would your seven words be?

 

This prompt reminded me of Miley Cyrus’ song: 7 things I hate about you.

Moving on to the ACTUAL prompt writing. My seven words would be:

1. Awesome, well because life is generally awesome. 

2. F**k, well because life often f’s up, doesn’t it? In a totally awesome f****ing way.

3. Love. I am in love and this needs to be there in my world of language.

4. Thank you. If my words were reduced to a mere seven, I would actually thank every single person in my life for all that they have given and made it to be. The best part? They’d know I meant it right from the bottom of my heart. A thank you is more important than sorry or please . 

5. Beautiful. The people in my life, the world around me, just about everything that there is, it is beautiful. Music, writing, poetry, books, nature, me; beautiful!

6. Wow. This word is a dynamite. You may use it in sarcasm, “WOW, I cannot believe you just said THAT!” or to express amazement, “Wowwwww.”

One word, many emotions for everything else there is f***.

7. Hello. 

 

 

Sick of six.

Tick Tock
Tick Tock

Six am.

My alarms read like this:

1. 0600 : WAKE UP.

2. 0615 : DAD WILL KILL!

3. 0630 : YOU ARE DEAD!

4. 0700 : C’MON, HAVE SHAME!

I sleep on time, around 12 am and leading scientists are of the opinion that six hours of sleep are quite sufficient for the mind, body, beauty and soul. Well that is true only in some cases.

I suffer from a disease that is as rare as it is common. Name you ask? It is called the “Lazy Just When The Alarm Ring-itis”  aka ” Sick of Six” and there is no known cure for it. My mother and brother leave for their schools at seven am and I leave with my father at eight thirty am. The time between six to seven is rush hour.Our kitchen seems like a scene from Masterchef America one day, with orders being barked and someone ending in tears or it could be Masterchef Australia the next.

Most days I don’t wake up as I come back home at five pm and am in a constant state of tiredness. I need more sleep. I do feel guilty about not getting up to help my mother but my disease just doesn’t let me.

I hope scientists find the cure to it.

Sculpt me.

Hello Michelangelo!

Sculpt me baby!

Sculpt me baby!

 

To sculpt something exclusively for me?

What would it be? No rocket science to guess that it would be ME. I mean, come on, who else would I like to immortalize and put on display for the world to see? It may sound self obsessed but it is true.

And that is all have to say at the moment.

 

Post-a-potty.

Strange place, huh?

I usually write at home. In fact, I ALWAYS write a post at home. I do not carry my laptop around as it is heavy and I travel a lot.

The first “strange place” that pooped into my head on reading this prompt was the time I wrote a post on the toilet seat while waiting for my face pack to dry. Best utilization of my fifteen otherwise useless minutes. In those fifteen minutes of bathroom glory I accomplished the following:

1. Wrote a nice long post that was voted in the top 5. Yes, I do say to myself that the toilet is one place where all negativity goes down the drain only to make place for creative genius. 

2. My face pack dried while I was typing. This meant that I was not sitting there uselessly nor was I moving my jaw to see whether the pack had dried enough. Win win.

3. I also cleaned up my bowels which was the whole point of sitting on the potty seat. Obviously.

I don’t know if this post undermines my seriousness towards the art of writing. Maybe it does. 

 

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Now this potty-table would be immensely helpful for further such writing sprees. The laptop sure does feel hot on bare thighs, trust me on that.

 

La la la.

You make a new friend. Make them a mix tape (or playlist, for the younger folks) that tells them who you are through song.

On seeing today’s prompt a mental image of Barney And Friends popped in my head.

 

barney-and-friends

 

Moving on from that disturbing mental image what would I put in that mix tape? Now this would have to be a pretty amazing person, I mean this much trouble over making friends with someone so-so is not my thing. Whoever I do this for, you’re obviously amazing and awesome. Now I have many, I kid you not, MANY songs that are meant for me and make me go “OH!MY!GOD! That is SO me!”  but I’am not aiming for that now with this new friend.

On that mixed tape I would put only one song and that  would be : Ludovico Einaudi- I Giorni (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P2K7D-uMH2g)

Dear friend, that is me. Lilting tones of the piano rising to a crescendo and immediately falling back to a dulcet that makes you feel safe and calm. The rest of this tape shall probably be a voice recording of myself telling this person who I am. No songs can cover me fully, I am too complex. My “friend”, I hope you know that.