F*CK YOU - F*CK ME

This is my last post. I've been doing this for sometime now and would want to focus on other things that are worth a short at. I started writing without much plan and idea about what and how but have done decently. Some of you have given me too much love and have been far to kind to me more than I deserve. Thank you for that! while others have pushed me to reach further and improve myself, thank you to you as well. Forever grateful but never satisfied. I'm also thankful to all those of you who shared their stories with me and entrusted me with the burden that not all stories can be told and also let me in to different perspective and fresh ideas and thoughts. I owe a lot to you all.

As of now I do not know if I'd ever come back to writing these posts but I wouldn't count it out ;)
Hope you enjoy this last post. Thank you once again!

F*CK YOU - F*CK ME

It’s not about love or chemistry; it’s not even really about like. Sometimes it’s about attraction, but that’s as serious as it gets. In all honesty it’s more about a memory and my ache to feel something, anything at all. I need to be touched for one reason, and that is solely to forget she ever had the hold on me the way she did. When all is said and done, we always fought for a way that brought her and I back together every time we tried to end it—well, except this time I suppose. she was hurt and I meant it when I said I was moving on.

It doesn’t matter if we meet at the bar, at a pub, or even mutual friends. It doesn’t matter if I take you to the movies, dinner, or straight to your place. The end point will always be the same. I will fuck you and tell you you’re the best I’ve ever had. I’ll go down on you, let you blow me and let you talk dirty to me. I’ll bust a load on your face and even snap a few pictures if you’d like. The dirtier the better because all this is really just a way for me to forget the way She loved me night after night. I won’t look you in the eye, I won’t cuddle with you afterwards, and unless you give me a mind-blowing orgasm I won’t give you my number. When you ask how many girls I’ve slept with I’ll lie and if you ask if I’m fucking anyone else I’ll tell you no. I won’t ask if you have a boyfriend and I won’t ask you to tell me what makes you who you are. I won’t spare your feelings and I won’t hesitate to tell you what gets me off. I want fast and I want hard. I want you to get me high with the way I feel when I'm inside you. I want you to fuck me so well that I forget, at least for a minute, why I’m even fucking you in the first place.

I'll fuck you the first time I meet you for the same reason I'll fuck you before the last time. It’s my need to hold onto the few things I’m still capable of controlling and my need to prove something. It didn’t matter that you probably feel bad for me and it doesn’t matter if you’re just taking me home because you're the drunken girl alone at the bar. I need to prove to myself that She would always choose me, and tonight I need to prove to you that I’m the best guy between the sheets in this goddamned city.

When I leave your place, your car, or wherever we’ve chosen to do the deed I’ll take the long way home. Sit alone at station waiting for the last train or the first one of the day depending upon when I leave you and the music turned as loud as I can handle will help drown out the thoughts that bring to me to the darkness that brought me to you in the first place. Old familiar questions will sneak up on me and I’ll begin to wonder if I still love her or if I ever did at all. I ponder whether it was the comfort and safety that She provided or the way She kept my secrets as if they were her personal demons that really drew me in. When I look back She wasn’t all that special but She had something about her, some kind of magnetic force that always kept me coming back for more and never allowed me to fully let go. I’ll make a loop around my neighborhood so I can finish off the song that’s playing and when I finally crawl into bed I’ll wish I was back in her arms once again. I’ll remind myself that next weekend isn’t too far away and it won’t be long before I’m tangled up in another stranger’s sheets fucking the pain away.

I've lived trying to be everything that I hoped you'd like but never being enough. All I ever wanted to be was to be wanted, to be wanted by you. Now I fill my glass faster and not because i like its taste but cause it helps stop all the thoughts from over powering me making me feel like how worth less I am. They say that in order to build something you must first destroy. I'll destroy everything in me that reminds of you. I am the guy that everybody said I am and not the one i always wanted to be for you.
When all is said and done, when everyone has left I still sit and wait for you to just sit next to me and tell me that you really value the things that I do and that maybe the world will never know or maybe they'll never understand but not every superhero wears a cape, not all of them have super powers. Some told the door open for you, hold you when you can't walk and remind you how amazing you are in everything you do.

"You'll get over it…" It's the cliches that cause the trouble. To lose someone you love is to alter your life for ever. You don't get over it because 'it' is the person you loved. The pain stops, there are new people, but the gap never closes. How could it? The particularness of someone who mattered enough to grieve over is not made anodyne by death. This hole in my heart is in the shape of you and no-one else can fit it. Why would I want them to?

I.Hate.You.

I hate how she makes me go to sleep when I’m tired. How she makes everything right, how she makes everything good. I hate how she tries her best to cheer me up, how she encourages me, how she comforts me. I hate how she flips her hair and my heart takes a flip.

I hate how she lights up my life, how she makes my days brighter and my nights warmer. I hate how she made all the other girls irrelevant that I carelessly cut loose from them. I hate how she gets me into so many levels all at once, our connection is undeniable. I hate how she immediately captured my heart walking down those steps, how fast she was able to see through me, how quickly she figured me out. I hate how she remembers every mistake of mine but not the things I was good at. I hate she won't let me hold her a little longer, how she took a piece of my heart and made it hers.

I hate how we match so perfectly like heaven fated us to be together. I hate how she made me believe in love after failing at it again and again and again, how she is my soul mate, how she makes me so grateful every day for every single moment that I've spent with her. I hate how she asks the stupidest questions, how she’s annoyingly stubborn, how she doesn't get my jokes.

I hate how she’s so mean to people, how she teases me, how she calls me a loser. I hate how she cares for me, how she cares about me, how she makes me feel so safe. I hate how she doesn't remember and how she makes me forget. I hate how she makes my head so busy, how she makes me dance, how she makes me inexhaustibly happy. I hate how beautiful she is, how charming and adorable she could be. She is so beautiful.

I hate how she makes my life feel unmistakably luminous and sound, how she makes all the enigmatic things so rational, how she makes all the puzzle pieces fit together. I hate how she accepts my insanity and tolerates my bubble, how she discloses to me things she won't tell anyone and how that just makes me love her without bounds.I hate how she taught me to dream again and how she made my dreams come true. I hate how she laughs at me and how she laughs with me.

I hate how we understand each other so deeply, I could drown. I hate how she keeps my head off things, how I would always choose her, always. I hate how she makes my head spin, how she makes my heart race, and how she makes my feet leave the ground. I hate how she makes me float on the clouds. I hate how she makes my heart beat so fast and so slow at the same time like seriously what sorcery is that! How she makes me worry, how she makes me mad, how she makes me so scared. I hate how angry she gets me and i just want to strangle her and kiss life into her at the same time.

I hate our differences. I hate how she makes me rhyme, how she makes me sing, how she makes me write again. I hate how she is the muse of every line and every work of mine. I hate how she would cook and feed me just cause she know how much I love good food, how she makes me feel so loved. I hate how she is my only reason, how she made null the theories I believed in. I just hate how she is.

I hate how don't matter to her. I hate that I gave up and she never tried. I hate how enchanting and fascinating she gets and how she makes the world enthralling. I hate how she makes shiny and sunlit the dull and overcast, how she makes close by the distant and far, how she makes serene the desolate and gloomy and how she makes even the shattered whole again.

I hate how she makes me love her, how she lights up my life, how she means the world to me.

I hate the ground under her feet, and the air over her head, and everything she touches cause for that brief moment those things mean more to her than I and maybe I never will, I'll never know. I hate all her actions, and her entirely and altogether. I hate her. I hate you. I hate her so much, ugh.

And then there are men who drink rum

Some of you have been asking about my next short story, well honestly I do have a story that's in draft but then a week or so ago when I presented it to a critic for her views, she said "Hahahahah..this beats a Dharma production. It stinks" Hence the delay. My apologies. In the mean while I've a little something else. Hope you like it. :)

....And then there are men who drink rum 

There may be Beer drinking men and Whiskey-drinking men, but there are Rum-drinking men too. Sure, it may not be as common — a drink so often reserved for the boys. While we won’t scoff at the offer of a glass of either of the above, our heart sits in a rocks glass with rum and three cubes. 

Rum-drinking men are adaptable by nature; we can sidle up to a bar or ease deep into a favourite reading chair.

A rum drinker writes poems about the movie he watched in his dreams. He watches people, the moon and stars, the lines around your eyes when you smile, taking them all in and savouring them.

Rum drinkers read (a lot); they love everything from classics to self-help. They read books you’ve never heard of, and quote them in the middle of a heated conversation.

A rum drinker loves on his own terms; whether it’s for an hour or ten years, his love will write on you indelibly. Rum drinkers are romantics in every sense of the word; they believe in the romance of language, of hearts and the romance of living. 

Rum drinkers skip the games, but never outgrow being playful. He will take you for a walk and find all the best puddles, swing with you at a playground, and wish on a whole constellation.

Rum drinkers know when to savour the moment and when to grab it by the collar and drink it down quickly.

Rum drinkers know that vacation isn't somewhere you go; it’s a frame of mind. Wherever he goes, it’s an adventure. Rum drinkers sneak away to the mountains, beach or the neighbourhood park.

A rum drinker is an old soul with fresh eyes. He can show you how to find the magic in an ordinary day.

Rum drinkers listen everything from Bob Marley to Ronan Keating, from Magic to the Foo Fighters, from Yo yo Honey to Bruno Mars, from Taylor Swift, to The Killers and whatever the hell happens to catch his ear, catch his mood, and make him dance. He needs a soundtrack to move him through his day.

A rum drinker is all about the give and take. Take him seriously and he’ll give you a reason to smile. Give to him authentically and he won’t take you for granted. Rum drinking men know when to engage and when to hold back; they’re trained in conversation, so long as it’s deep enough to hold their attention. The rum-drinking man will shut down with small talk and gossip.

Rum drinkers know that The Fault in Our Stars is overrated; but they would still read it and cry because (wait for it) you guessed it right - Hopelessly romantics. He wants to write his own story, and if you’re lucky, he’ll invite you along.

Rum drinkers love relationships, but they especially love relationships with substance. Whether romantic or platonic, rum-drinking men won’t waste precious time with people who don’t fill them with feel goodness.

A rum drinker is a connoisseur. His tastes are specific and have more to do with the way she walks, the way she talks, the way she watches him… than the amount of lipstick she’s sporting.

A rum drinker has been broke. And Brat. And desperate. And maybe heart-broken. Or maybe he fell so far that we can't and won't want to be picked up and that's O.K. Whatever he picked, he loves her with all he has, and if you’re good, he’ll tell you stories, over breakfast in bed.

Rum-drinking men appreciate comfort above all else. They want outdoor, late night in the summer and blankets and amazing books in the winter. They want easy going. They want chill. 

Rum-drinking men laugh with everything they've got; they appreciate smart, subtle humour, but sure as hell can't get enough of sarcasm, it's their second favourite "-asm".

A rum-drinking man is the King of deep conversation. He loves long, meaning chats. He loves figuring it all out. If you sit down to talk with a rum drinking men (especially when he’s got some rum in hand) expect to cover anything and everything. Expect to look up at the clock to realize it’s 3 a.m. and still be hungry for more. 

Rum-drinking men think there’s magic in writing letters— actual letters, with pens, paper and postage. As a result, they've been known to write them. 

Rum drinkers love the scrawl of pen across a paper, but they swoon for the feeling of vintage typewriter keys under their fingertips. 

Rum drinking men don’t worry much about glass-holding rules. They’ll just as happily drink from a teacup as a rocks glass. 

A rum-drinking man can rock t-shirts and jeans like none other, and he’s not afraid to pair denim with an open buttoned shirt. He will dress up on a Saturday afternoon, just because well day drinking is the best ain't it!.

A rum-drinking man can’t stick to a list of someone else’s creation to define him. He isn't finished yet to be defined, he is still being crafted and many a layers to uncover.

A rum-drinking man knows that none of us fit in these neat little boxes. He’d never pigeon-hole other men—or women for that matter. He knows that each of us are infinitely full of gorgeous nooks and crannies waiting to be explored, and that the people who are willing to brave our fire in order to enjoy our warmth are the ones worth keeping in our lives.

He knows it’s not about what it’s in our glass, but the fact that we drink life in completely.

Someday...all over again

Taking a break from the short stories, Sitting here at the Chennai airport I had around 2-3 hours to kill and decided to finish my blog. Here is All Over Again. 

All Over Again

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.

Someday,
We'll forget the hurt,
The reason we cried,
And who caused us pain.

We will finally realise that,
The secret of being free,
Is not revenge,
But letting things unfold,
In their own time,
And in their own way.

After all,
What matters is,
Not the first,
But the last,
Chapter of our life,
It will show how well,
We ran the race.

So Smile,
Laugh,
Forgive,
Believe.

And love all over again!