Monthly Archives: August 2013

God and The World According to Skeptic

I don’t think I have ever really talked about religion on this blog. Largely because once I do talk about religion, I’m afraid its not just the religious who believe me to be soul-less. You see, there is atheism, and then there is skepticism. I don’t know the exact definition of skepticism, and I have literally two and a half hours in which I can write and post this, I’m not about to google it.

What I believe in, is unfortunately nothing. I don’t believe in any abstract concept in the way in which other people believe. I realize this makes me sound like an automaton, and perhaps that would just be a good folder to put me in. But it’s a little more complicated, and in light of recent events, i.e. godman being a real fucking asshole and raping someone, perhaps the question of belief needs to be considered. As I said, it’s a little hard to encapsulate how far my disbelief carries, so bear with me as I try and explain what and why.

I read Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens as much as the next rabid atheist. Well, I don’t read them that much, but I have read two of each of their books and listened to them talk at lectures on youtube and shit. However, I don’t really prescribe to Dawkins’ need to point out that every person who follows a religion may need some lessons in science and the social effects of religion. I think most people are fundamentally not huge dicks and they have people they care about that they don’t want to have ravaged by anything, including religion. And most people are aware of pedophile priests, corrupt mullahs (I say corrupt because I have no idea what nasty thing mullahs are known for doing, though I’m sure there’s something), rapist gurus and so on and so forth. Nobody likes it when they realize someone of their faith used it to justify horrifying acts. To presume that just pointing to these awful incidents would make people question their faith is presumptuous. Having said that, Mr. Dawkins, I still want to meet you so I can fangirl. She says as though Dawkins reads her pathetic hack of a blog.

So what exactly does make someone still follow a religion despite these failings? Well, I’ve tried to ask a few people, but as of now, there haven’t really been any satisfactory answers. And now that I’m in art haven college, I doubt I’ll be meeting many believers. I’ll have to get in touch with some old friends, get drunk with them and proceed to ask questions. I don’t know if I want to put that much effort into anything. Definitely not right now.

But presumably, it has something to do with a sense of community, order and perhaps a connection with a world which people hope is better than this one. Now, whether or not that world involves virgins or another life or whores or endless champagne depends on the person who believes.

The only experience I have with actually believing in any god is related to this very after-life thing. I wanted there to be a heaven and a hell. The heaven would involve a room for myself, with clothes, nice walls, and internet connection, where sexually pleasing men would be sent in any time I wanted them. I didn’t like the idea that I would die and not find out what goes on in the world afterwards. The hell would involve a rape room for people like Hitler and people who had rape rooms on earth. Yes, my perceived heaven was mildly vengeful. The rub came when I had cause to examine why I believed in an almighty power. I realized that a vengeful heaven/hell is a silly reason to believe in anything that is not evident.

And since I deconstructed that methodically, I have systematically understood most other abstract concepts. The only one I’m not entirely sure of is the feeling that parents seem to have for their children. But the fact that many parents exist who are horrid to their children makes me think there is probably a practical reason for that as well.

So, is there such a thing as love? Well, yes, for those who want to see it that way. The way I see it, people are social animals and since self-awareness is our poisoned gift, we can’t all be friends with each other. We can’t all like each other because self awareness, our life experiences and our extremely developed brains give us a personality, which may or may not work well with other personalities. When you find people who have compatible personalities/ characters to yours, you tend to enjoy spending time with them. When you spend enough time with someone, you get used to them and start needing them and wanting them and liking them. And when you need and want and like them a LOT, they become important in your life and they become friends. This intense needing, wanting, liking combination is given the term ‘love’.

As for romantic love, sometimes you go through the above process with someone while simultaneously finding yourself wanting to fuck them. And if the other person wants to fuck you too, and you guys do fuck and find that fucking is really enjoyable with each other; your need/want/like for each other may intensify because you have shared a little bit more with each other. This may make you need and want and like them even more, to the extent that you may feel the need to make an official promise to each other that you will be in each others lives till you are both dead. Some people call this romantic love.

God? Well…. I guess since you don’t how the improperly named Big Bang started, or what the universe was made of before it, or exactly why the laws of physics are as they are, maybe a sentient being is responsible. But you see, that’s the problem – it’s a maybe, and more importantly, the sentient being is, to use a phrase from Neil DeGrasse Tyson, “the god of gaps”. A few hundred years ago, people didn’t know how the sun worked, so god was responsible. Once people figured the sun out, they didn’t know how the universe was expanding, so god became responsible for that. Once that was figured out, people couldn’t figure out the Big Bang…  Science is eventually going to find more and more answers (evolution, topography, physics, brain functions, neurology, anything) and the list of things you don’t know is going to change, which makes your god… a little less godly, and a little more your own creation.

I realize that this highly unromantic (?) and methodical (?) thought process is something only someone with some free time, access to the internet, and a rudimentary interest in physics and biology will be bothered with. I don’t expect everyone to do the same.

However, a healthy amount of skepticism and critical questioning of social “truths” should be part of what we teach children, and not just about gods and godmen, but about people in general. Would it really be that terrible if we taught children that their parents don’t always have it right, that if you think your parents shouldn’t be beating you with a belt or coming into your room at night, you should tell someone and not hide it? That if you start feeling things for someone of the same sex, it doesn’t mean you will go to hell or that your honor is lost or that you are not a man or a woman, and that you shouldn’t blindly believe someone if they say so? That if you don’t want to get married at any point of time, you have the right to defy anyone and everyone because its your life and your body? That if the faith you were taught and that you follow makes you feel bad about any part of your personality that is not actually hurting anyone, you have the right to ignore that aspect of your religion or even to leave it entirely? That if your parents tell you one day that someone is to be respected and revered, and that person turns out to be a shit of the lowest order, you should tell your parents, and if for some godforsaken reason, they don’t believe you, you should be questioning whether your parents deserve the privilege of being part of your life?

Or you know, we could have yearly surprise raids on every religious space/ cult, ban religion altogether, have less corrupt and more efficient law and order, have more sex education and less misogynistic and sexist officials/ political leaders and judges.

Although I don’t believe any of that is actually, realistically possible. I am a skeptic.

–          Billy


P.S. – I didn’t post the week before last because it was my birthday week and fuck you guys. No punishment.


Also, here’s some stuff for funsies.


Angel on top


I hate his face. In that I love it. And I don't promise to not use this gif again.
I hate his face. In that I love it. And I don’t promise to not use this gif again.
Hehe. Get it? Like Dick in a Box. It's a song by Justin Timberlake and Lonely Island. Plebians.
Hehe. Get it? Like Dick in a Box. It’s a song by Justin Timberlake and Lonely Island. Plebians.





Chandigarh, Adult approval and Clothes Shopping

I’m a little stretched for time. It’s 9:16 PM in Chandigarh. I’m with a friend. It’s been fun. Yay and all that. But the important thing is that I have less than two hours (accounting for dinner) in which to write and publish something on this blog so I don’t end up neglecting it for weeks on end till all my TV shows come back online. I don’t have my own computer, I have forgotten what my tumblr account is called, fuck what the password was (because it logs in automatically on my computer) and I’m just a wee bit high (leftover from the afternoon). I’m typing this directly onto the “new post” area thingy in wordpress because I don’t want to give myself the leeway of editing time. Yes, I edit, and exaggerate things and dismiss other things. This is one of the reasons why whenever someone tells me they like my blog because of how brave and/or honest it is, I can’t help but mention that for every single detail I spill, I’m hiding about ten.

Ack. There’s no word count on this shit. Fucky fuck. Soldier on, Billy.

So I got to Chandigarh yesterday evening and promptly discovered that its a much smaller city than I’m used to. Apparently its possible to go from one end of the city to the other in twenty minutes by car. However, it is an exceedingly beautiful city, as I discovered today. It is utterly organized (not the parking, but the city planning), and has these things called “sectors”, which as far as I can make out are like colonies in Delhi – Pushp Vihar, Vasant Kunj, Saket A-Block… like those. People also know which ones the rich sectors are. All the roads are neat, the people are people-y, and overall if my parents were so inclined, they would enjoy retirement here. It is also lined with trees everywhere, the most beautiful of which are these.

Google tells me they are called Kosam Trees. Delhi has these too, apparently. Somewhere in Lodhi Gardens.
Google tells me they are called Kosam Trees. Delhi has these too, apparently. Somewhere in Lodhi Gardens.


I’ve always had a thing for trees which have an abundance of any color other than green. They are the purple thread in the white toga. Like what Epictetus talked about (I only know this because of Boston Legal). Greek philosophers are so hot sometimes.

There are two themes that I wish to reflect on this post – adult decision making and clothes shopping. we’ll see if we can’t connect these two at some point.

My friend is preparing for the Civils, which for those of you white schlubs who are not Indian, is a set of seriously intense motherfucking set of exams that people take in order to join the Civil Service in India, which involves a certain amount of public service and administration and government work, and bucket fulls of prestige and perks. As you may imagine, it requires a shitload of preparation and coaching and ability to convince a panel of three people that you will be capable of making choices and decisions for the great country you’re a citizen of. And my friend, H is worried about her capabilities when it comes to writing the shitloads of exams as well as talking to this interview panel.

And I mentioned my new college experience. I like to think that after five years in law school and courtrooms and other places, I can recognize dicks if I have to. And while there are a few things from the new college that nag at me – the few students who seem a bit too positive and a wee bit full of cliche shit, the classrooms that seem a bit damp sometimes, the canteen that is just a box – the people there are not utter shitty dicks. They don’t suck balls. Some are a bit floozy, some are a bit strict, but none of them are shits. They don’t behave as if the world is meant to be the way their parents taught them it is and any other way is immoral and wrong. They don’t look at you weirdly for talking to the opposite sex, smoking, swearing, talking about sex. Probably because in order to get to a point in life where they are teaching stuff like “creative writing” and “film theory” and “comparative performance studies”, they either had very chilled out parents, or they had to defy their perspective on the world at some point. But who knows, they may actually be dicks.

Regardless, as of now, I am thankfully not in a world where my life would depend on receiving approval from adults who seem to believe that your character depends on your intentions towards marriage, children or sex. My friends on the other hand, seem to have for the most part successfully integrated themselves into a world where I wouldn’t know what to do with my pinky toe. Everyone has their own set of talents, I guess. I have the ability to be a nerd about films and make a thousand references in a sentence, and others know how to earn money properly.

Earning money has its many advantages, one which are clothes (note how we smoothly segued from one theme to the next. ‘Tis the mark of a true writer m’ dear), specifically clothes that fit and possibly don’t make you want to slowly cut your throat out when you go shopping. maybe shopping is fun for rich, fit people. For me, middle class and slothy (slothish? slothesque?) that I am, its a nightmare that refuses to end. Dressing room movie montages lie to you if you are on a budget, and went into the shop to find one t-shirt that fits you right in one color that you like. Unless you’re some loaded praying mantis who doesn’t know what you want in life or in your wardrobe, its a functional process which usually ends in staring covetously at the mannequin that is wearing what you wish you could pull off and afford. What fun being a girl is.

Shopping is only fun if you saved up for a year in order to buy a very special dress that you will be willing to go to eighty different shops to find. That is an ok feeling.


ME: Two topics. One post. Terrible writing.

I’m shit tired. Sorry I’m not sorry. Go fuck yourself. JK ILUA.

Seriously though, I’ll put more thought into it next time. I’ve been a bit off my game with anything that doesn’t involve classes and papers. Mea Culpa. Also, I haven’t been able to watch a lot of films or TV and that’s my fix. Other than scoodlypooping, but there’s no sign of that around the corner.

ME: Still. This sucks.


– Billy

Meeting the creative types and going crazy with Jerry Seinfeld and Louis C.K.

We’re doing this again. Listening to Coldplay and 90’s Bollywood, ignoring the presence of the Coke bottle that suddenly appeared in the fridge today despite being very sleepy indeed and being highly passive aggressive with self through the following conversation.

me: unnngggghhhh. *type type… type* unnnngggggggghhhhhhhh.

ME: You could go to sleep you know. You could find time to write the blog tomorrow.

me: I have to start. It’s in my head. Waiting to be put down. What if it’s gone by morning?

ME: Relax. What’s the worst that could happen? You could forget to write tomorrow… find a reason to not write on Saturday, get busy with classes next week, and before you know it, this is an ex-blog, bereft of life, deceased and gone up to meet its maker in the Great Sky of Internet Light Entertainment. That’s all. Shhhh child, go to sleep. There, there.



Which is my way of saying, I’m sleepy, unsure of myself and may not pay attention to things like speling, syntax or the grammar. That’s right, this is a giant flaming finger at your expectations.


So I met my batch-mates. As I predicted, I’m not faring well in the comfortable socializing department. I’m making friendly acquaintances but I’m ashamed to admit that as soon as I find myself in a slight lull in conversation/ comfort I give in to my instinct to say sayonara. It may have a lot to do with the fact that I’m less eager to please than I was the last time I had to socialize with a giant group of people. I was seventeen then. And much like the magazine, I was fluffy, optimistic and full of body image issues and self-doubt. Now I’m twenty two, and much like Frodo later in the book, I’m short, damaged, corrupted and burdened with the one ring of power and a glorious purpose. That last bit was Loki, but you get my gist. Insert analogy between one ring/ glorious purpose and what little remains of body image issues and self-doubt here.

Seriously though, u gaiiiz, I find the outside world very strange. The only people I knew from the outside world two months ago were my parents, my cousin (they’re old enough to have dealt with a plentitude of crap, and have therefore acquired a hard edge), my sister (who is quite dark in her own way, not to mention a social worker/ researcher and therefore a bit less fluffy in her mind), and Delhi N, who I always mentally put in a bubble separate from the rest of the world. And she’s no bag of happiness herself.

And then there’s the new college. First of all, they all have a lot more experience in “the real world” than I do. Most of them have held a job for at least a year. Most of them appear more confident than I am in their ability to do their thang, and their thang involves making of artwork and conceptualizing stuff I’m not sure I understand completely, and awfully enough, in the usual artsy-fartsy way, I’m not sure I’m supposed to.

But here’s the weird thing. They’re…. not the darkest people I’ve met. They don’t do politically incorrect jokes. They don’t have immediate, instinctive, outspoken and often misconstrued opinions about the people they meet. I’m sure they have opinions about everyone including me, but they seem to keep it to themselves for the most part. They all seem…. Lighter, fluffier, than the fare I’m used to. I would know how to deal with opinionated, rude people, because honestly I’m a bit of one myself. I don’t know how to deal with social niceties and positive conversations and what is clearly a silent, persistent, and possibly non-judgmental sizing up of everyone around on some hitherto unknown-to-me meter or art knowledge/ ability-meter.

I’d know how to deal if it was judgmental. Open judgment is easy to deal with – you examine if there is veracity to it; if there is you decide whether it is a problem that merits attempts to change on your part; if yes, you change; if no, then fuck what people think. I’m just not good with meeting new people.

Especially when they’re so much… happier? Very few of them express even a mild cynicism about what their lives would amount to, or what the course in college would mean. Even fewer find dark humor funny. It’s not naïveté; as I said, they’ve clearly seen more of the world than I have. They just seem to have so much faith in the world. As though they’ve never met some of the people you meet in law schools and lawyer’s chambers and courtrooms, let alone spent five years making their concerns part of your problems, even if its in an entirely abstract manner. As though they haven’t had to deal with administrative bureaucracy, tough decisions about what their position in the world is…. as though their whole lives and every decision they ever made has never been questioned and rebuked by people. As if they’ve not questioned it themselves and they never intend to question it.

Wow. I sound chirpy.

There’s the rub, though – I’ve always thought that you need to be a little mad in order to write or create properly. You need to have something unhinged that helps you see what others don’t, before you can put it on a canvas, or build it in a museum, or write it on a word document. Like Van Gogh, or Poe, or dare I say it, Hemingway?

Side note – a good song for such thoughts is the following. it came up randomly on my playlist. I really like Jones Street Station, and not just because Danny Pudi is fucking adorable.


I especially believe the must-be-slightly-mad-to-be-creative hypothesis to be true because I have noted that though others may have differing opinions, I always think of the stuff I have written when I’m unhappy with my situation in life to be some of my best works. They’re funnier, snappier, and they have something to say that I would personally like to read. For anyone who hasn’t worked it out yet because of some sort of mental deficiency, I intend to write stuff in a humorous fashion. And as I pointed out to a fellow pop culture enthusiast as we left college for the last time, all the good comedians came up with their best stuff when they were unhappiest in life.

Seinfeld wrote/ created Seinfeld before he met his wife. That show is one of the most hilarious things that happened on planet earth, but if you ever stop to think about it, you realize it could not have been written by someone who is entirely psychologically healthy. Seinfeld in fact has said that his wife saved his life. Sadly, we can all agree that before his life was saved, and during his presumably unhealthy phase of dating teenagers and general nihilism, he created his best work, and nothing has ever been quite as good since his life got saved. What a waste.

Louis C.K. is the one man on earth who I would marry and be faithful to for the rest of my life. I don’t care if he’s actually a humongous metaphorical dick in real life; I’d still suck his probably normal sized dick for the rest of his life. One of the most erotic dreams I have ever had involves me continuously making out with Will Ferrell (I had just watched Stranger Than Fiction) who somehow morphs into Louis C.K. (In the dream I’m really happy about this miracle, as I would be in life) who proceeds to grow grotesquely old even as I make out with him. And I do mean grotequesly. His face gets puffier and at the same time wrinkly like a ninety-year-old’s. He gets fat(ter) all over, and his stomach starts peeking out of his t-shirt because oddly enough, his t-shirt is not growing with him. Much like the honeybadger, I don’t care and I continue to swap oral fluids with him, while also swooning at times.

The stuff of the most potent fantasies.
The stuff of the most potent fantasies.

The reason I would do this for Louis C.K. is because I love him. Also, he is the funniest person I have ever seen do stand up. Also, his show is the most excellent of all U.S. TV shows I watch. I mean, look at this-


And I have had a thing for red hair ever since Rose from Titanic.

And yet, what you see before you is the result of years of stand-up. This man has been peaking for the last few years. Also, he has been divorced for the past few years. Before this, he was married, with children. He had tried to find happiness and had sort of succeeded. It took a giant steamy wet piece of turd on his personal life (if one chooses to look at divorce in such negative terms, which most people do) for him to acquire that little something extra so he could achieve the potential you can see gleaming through his work before the divorce. I would marry him despite this, make no mistake. But I would be willing to be his depraved live-in mistress just to save his craft. I went there, motherfuckers.

As for myself, I always wanted to be slightly mad. Of course as many of my faithful readers know, I did acquire a certain madness (long bout of depressive behavior, suicidal thoughts… you know, the usual) for a while and it took a lot of effort and work to be rid of it. What sanity I do have, I hold dear. Which is a conundrum, I know, but I try and make it work. But I do know I can’t make do without the dark side; much like Captain Kirk from the original series.

Maybe my batch-mates do have dark sides that they keep much better hidden than I do mine? Yes. Let’s go with that. I’m not the only depraved one full of blind confidence and self loathing. Everyone’s like me, they just hide it better. Yes. That’s the one. Boom.

–          Billy


P.S. – though I’m not much for self help myself, this really captures why I love Louis.


Boston Legal dreams, How Not to be an Adult and Lessons from Pretty Woman

There is something to be said for discovering yourself. And I don’t mean spiritually or anally or metaphorically or any of that, but purely based on knowing what not to waste your time on, or waste other people’s time with. This is something I have had some trouble with in the last twenty two years or so, give or take. Though I have gone through many phases of self-discovery, and am proudly less of a flounder-er (the fish, get it?) I think the affliction will remain with me throughout my life, despite all the after dinner dim-sums and ice-creams I consume.

But I learnt something about myself in the last few years that was a wee bit disappointing, considering the whole Boston Legal thing. See, the dirty little secret about law students like I was, is that all of us at some point worshipped the non-existent ground below the non-existent feet of the non-existent Alan Shore and Shirley Schmidt and Denny Crane and Lindsey Dole. We still do, but in a sigh-the-dreams-we-had kind of way. At some point, we wanted to be them. That’s why we got into this racket (I’ve been watching a lot of Film Noir, so forgive my gams and my saucy yet sultry language, fellas). Most of us discover that we don’t have the fortitude though we may have the aptitude, and perhaps more importantly, the attitude. Some poor suckers like me discover that we don’t have either of the three and don’t want to acquire them either.

I was talking to a friend about it this past weekend – the realization that you will never have the skill or the willingness to pretend to be an adult the way adults want you to pretend to be one. I have never been comfortable at grown-ups parties, especially because they insist on asking about my health or my future. The answer to first – well, I walked here on my own, didn’t I? What else do you want? The answer to second – Well, I’d like to write, but I’m sure you’ll tell me I should be a journalist. Or better yet, a lawyer! It’s like Celine (Before Sunrise) said about her childhood ambitions – they always get converted by adults into these career-oriented money making ventures. Oh woe is me, child of the first world hiding in the third world.

Apart from finally tasting some humble pie regarding the manner in which creative aspirations fare in the real world, there are other adult things I’ll always be incapable of doing. I’ll never be able to wear heels and walk like I’m completely comfortable. I’m never ever going to be that woman who walks into the room to heads turning purely because of my natural gracefulness and my air of shy elegance and sophistication (guess where I picked up that kind of language. Mother? I should wash my mouth with soap). I will always be the person who at most is called “delightfully full of life” or “fun” or “kind of crazy” and at worst is called “Oh my god, who is that freak?” or something along those lines. I’ll always be the schlemiel, as the Ron Swanson and the joos call them. Anyway, those “walks in beauty, like the night” things very rarely exist and are in fact made into a trope to make normal women everywhere feel inadequate. Mitchel and Webb, help me out a bit.


Thank you.

But as I said, there are some things that are expected of adults, male or female. Small talk, the bane of all socially functional weirdos such as myself, is one of them. The odd thing about small talk is that I know it when I hear it, due to it being boring as a coma, completely wasteful as well as my inability to contribute or even nod amiably at it. But for the life of geniuses everywhere, I can’t remember even an iota of it later. I wish I could so I could gracefully pull some talking points out of my behymen every time I was tuck with a bunch of people discussing…. whatever they discuss.

Then of course there is a certain amount of … ability to blend in that I have never managed to execute properly. If one reads all the teen manuals and the women’s magazines that make you feel beautiful (oh, the jokes!) one knows that one has to blend in but never completely. Be distinctive but not outrageous. Which is why I always wear clothes that help me blend in completely because there has been less than three occasions in my life where stuffing my face has not been an option where I haven’t said or done something completely ridiculous. It doesn’t help that in most normal adult gatherings, saying something as normal as “Getting married is not part of the plan. Kids are definitely not” when asked about impending nuptials is seemingly akin to screaming “Jehovah! Jehovah! Jehovah lives in my sphincter!” in biblical jewland. Monty Pythons.

Even in younger crowds that are not based entirely in law schools, anonymity is eventually not afforded to me. Largely this is owed to my own fault – if I don’t want to talk about my sex life or what parts of my body you may want to talk about, why do I write about it in my blog? Well, the logical explanation would be that I like writing because I don’t like talking to random douchebags all the time, but that doesn’t really occur to people I guess. Which is why I get drunkenly and very douche-ily accosted every now and then by some dick who talks about stuff in my blog and/or my life as if they expect me to be ashamed/embarrassed/slap ready. I am very much ready to slap on these occasions believe you me, but usually because I don’t like having someone come up to me a back-handedly toadying manner and expecting me to get all swoony and ashamed of myself.

This, now that I’m going to start on the college thing again, is going to be a challenge and I know that. I don’t know yet how I’m going to deal with it, but Pretty Women, even with the shoulder pads and the unrealistic storylines is some help. I know I should be taking hints from Bergman and Hawthorne and any number of other stuff, but as I said, I’m going to be true to myself. I am girl-woman. Hear me roar. I tend to look at movies and books as tools that help you understand people and the world and the many ways in which one can fuck up the other, not as pure art. I’ve never been good at pure art. So for this purpose, Pretty Woman and Legally Blonde is at par with Citizen Kane and Dumb and Dumber.

Back to what Pretty Woman taught me – you let enough people tell you or even act like you’re worth nothing, and sooner or later you’ll start believing. Hard to imagine isn’t it? That there was ever a time when I let people tell me I wasn’t behaving appropriately, whether it be in laughing too loudly, talking too much about sex (which is especially insulting because unless it’s a that’s what she said joke, I talk about it very clinically. Apparently if I had a penis and talked about it in all the traditions of tweendom dickishness, it wouldn’t be a problem), wearing my chappals to the mall, or even wanting or having sex. But yes, I had enough people tell me that it just wasn’t right, so I had a lot of trouble with myself. I remember one particular session with a random person in a dark stairwell where we talked a bit about whether there was something wrong with me for liking this and not caring if people knew. Thankfully, this particular guy wasn’t a dick so he said people just tried telling me that because I have a vagina, and screw them and their little brains too. That didn’t really convince me completely, but it was nice to hear it from someone else; someone who wasn’t a friend and had no obligation to make me feel better, though of course it worked out in his favor a few minutes later. Nudge nudge, wink wink, say no more.

Even with all the covert mentions of my unmentionable deeds on this and the previous blog, it’s been an uphill battle. But recently, what with the recent accosting by douchebag I recently spoke of (I’m sure someone will tell you who you are even if you’re not sure), I realized that at some point between talking about amplifiers at vibrators and apparently being a sexual pioneer of sorts in college (the term being reserved for me is I believe, a grave injustice to many people I know in college), I don’t give a flying chopped scrotum anymore. Douche eventually douched away to douche at someone else. Meanwhile, only mildly frustrated at how the night was turning out, I went ahead and got head. I think we can all call this a win for coitus all over the world.

I’ve been lucky enough to find friends who only tell me not to act or say certain things when I want them to, i.e. when I actually want to impress someone, usually their parents. Even then, it doesn’t always work and they don’t seem to mind. I recently met Ips’ parents in Delhi and things were good. I was on my best behavior. Then come graduation, they apparently turned to Ips at some point and said, “H and Billy are a little crazy, aren’t they?” Ips laughed and said all her friends were. Me and H just had a harder time keeping it down.

I don’t know if I have the ability to make friends anymore. I’m really out of practice. And given my tendency to be a bit much at first glance, I don’t know how well I’d fare with people who may or may not try to tell me what’s appropriate and what’s not. I’m just nervous. Snap out of it, Billy. Ack.

I’d have met my future batchmates/ classmates by the time I write you next time. Wish me luck. I can’t believe that’s what this post came down to.


Embarrassing Secret in lieu of punishment – I think I might be getting tired of porn. I thought it was weird last week, but now I’m seriously worried. It still turns me on and everything, but it’s like I’ve lost all semblance of patience. I hate waiting even two minutes before the good stuff starts. The obvious solution is to skip ahead to the good parts. The problem with erotic literature is that you only know where the good stuff is if you’re read it and I’m getting bored of the same old porn. If I want something new, I’m going to have to read a whole book. Bummer. And don’t tell me to watch videos, because unless its anime porn, which has its own set of problems, the guys are REALLY bad looking. I get turned off sex looking at most of them. Apparently no hot men want to fuck the really hot porn women. Bummer.


Apparently, that’s all.