Thank you, my little monster. I realized that men aren’t the only contenders who strive to turn every hair on your head grey. Women are just the same. It’s only human actually. And what a damper that this is the species we have to love.
Flaws become favourites, acceptance cohere into a compromise and the best of the lot, happiness is measured in scales of Fuck ups vs. ‘Social media post’ worthy.
Hello. You judgemental lot, the pick-what-fits-the-sitch clique, finding the right moment to kick you while you dream and push you so far into the ground that you cannot even fathom to revsit that reverie.
I have just one question for you lot, aren’t you bored? Isn’t there a match of uno that you can host amongst your instabilities? Why caper with the most foolish asset that a human is blessed/cursed with?
Why not let us live, love, and long for a dream to come true? Isn’t it bad enough that we have alarms that wake us up to a reality that we wish would magically morph into that of another’s?
Well monster, thank you for reminding me that this isn’t a world of Grus and Megaminds. We are swamped with Davy Jones, Hims, Katz, and the like.
Sleep well, check in the cupboard once.
I am 24 years old. I have been in love a handful of times. Now that either makes me gullible or completely clueless about what “love” is. No, this isn’t a rant about how I’m “allergic” to that word/emotion, nor is this about venting out without commas trying to put across a point that many have been through and many are still trying to figure out what certain actions mean.
To those who have read my post so far, this is an account of something that is on a constant loop in my so called, shit dripped love life. My complain today is about Brutally Selfish Insecurities that some try to label as “love”.
Hi. All I have to ask is this, what’s the need to squeeze in words like love, relationship, forever, commitment, exclusively, always, etc; when what you truly mean is, “Till your affection is needed to heal my own overgrown, chidlike, but heinously hopped up on steroids Ego.”
Why put a person through fits of unconditional care for somebody when you know you’re just a temporary itch and it’s as one sided as what Gunther felt for Rachel?!
Why not be brave and solve your own problems without needing the comfort and reassurance from a person you’ll forget once your mind gets rewired?
And now, to those who keep running back into that burning house, STOP. Screw your excuses.
They do not inspire art or literature, they do not make for great material, they do not help you in any way. No. For every single sentence you have defending their actions, you my friend are an idiot.
Love, is not pain. Love, is not a test of time, distance, velocity or whatever crap the modern day films are feeding you.
Love, is simple.
So, hang up. They’re not even listening.
In a world where we have been continuously narrated that, “It’s all in your head”, or, “just try being happy”, and the best of the lot, “depression is a state of mind.” Well, here’s a little light on that enormously misunderstood subject: Do not comment on something you do not have the faintest idea about. Not only do you make yourself look like an idiot you also paint someone else who has spent every morning trying to paste a smile on a face as an “idiot”.
I have been on the receiving end of many ignorant yet clever and helpful to themselves, advice. But in that massive haystack of nothing less than self consciousness and self loathing, feeling nothing short of being misunderstood and tagged as an “attention seeker,” “cry baby”, “over-thinker” and much more; I found one microscopic needle. It was simple. And in my case, an approach that was surprisingly effective. The task was to list down reasons to live. Although it seemed utterly hopeless at that moment, I’m pleasantly shocked to say that, I surprised myself.
I live because I love dogs. I live because I want to eat my favourite food. I live because I want to write a piece that will make my species smile. I live because I like it when my favorite people smile. I live because I do not know how many more people need me to make them smile. I live because I’m a dreamer. I live because I am comfortable in my skin, regardless of what is being thrown at my insecurities. I live because I know of at least one person who will cry because I was standing there in front of them when they least expected it. I live because I matter to others. I live because I’m not selfish enough to hurt others by giving up. I live because I love dogs.
There are so many of us out there who cannot fathom to make this list. It is not an easy task my friend. But start. Start with what you love- a blanket, a quote, an old t-shirt, an essay that had once giving your dreams flight. Start. It might remind you of times you had once forgotten or shunned aside thinking they’re worthless.
I live to write. For an audience I have not met. On rainy evenings with songs by Eddie Vedder keeping me company.
I have been forced to start a blog by two of the most stubborn characters I have ever had the pleasure to befriend. They have this hilariously adamant belief that I would do a good job at writing. I don’t have the heart to tell them that I don’t write as much as I Rant. But here is an attempt to put their souls to rest, hoping they find someone else to believe in with as much genuine care as they have for me.
We all get these little shoves towards what others think we are really good at. Well, just because we’re slightly better than them, accidentally, doesn’t mean that we’re a prodigy. But it does feel good to know that someone thinks you’re going to make it in a world where there’s more kryptonite than colored capes. I read somewhere that, “It is impossible to write 52 bad stories in a row,” so this is me proving them wrong but secretly wishing that they’re right.
This is a short story about a dog.
The fluffy, fawn furred, Leonberger hopped skipped and jumped towards the sad lonely pig. Then that adorable mutt, pounced on the pig, and just before the pig thought it was going to become bacon, the dog licked him all over and told him that he was vegetarian.
Does this story have a moral? No. Does it have an interesting approach? No. Do I have an unexpectedly mind-blowing little addition to give the story a sense of purpose? Not in the least.
But it’s a story nonetheless. And people have already just read it. Congratulations to me for my first audience.
Thank you and goodnight.
Also, be kind.