Tag Archives: adulthood

Blocks, Money, Shame, and Me.

I have been blocked. For quite a while. Its a combination of not liking a singe word I write, not being able to think of anything to write, and not being able to write even when I do think of something, because my mind says, “nobody cares, skunk”. My mind has the tone and voice of my middle school bullies.

So, in penance for not writing when I said I would write, as well as to try and fuel my writing with a dose of brash honesty, I’m doing two things. One, I’m writing a post about all the things I feel ashamed of as a twenty-five year old non-adult. And two, I will be bringing back my old alter ego from college, ME, just so you guys can get a real taste of how awful living with me actually and truly is.

ME: I think we both know I’m not the problem in this relationship.

Shut. the. fuck. up.

Anyway, lets begin with money.

Viola Davis celbration 1

I make so very little of it, its barely taxable. That’s right. I went to fucking law school, and stare down my parents, my sister, men, and even my friends with well constructed, cool as a fucking ice tray arguments, but for some reason, I have no money. And just to be clear, I’m not complaining about how little it is, I’m ashamed at how little I feel I have come to deserve. This is what happens when you jump into the job pool at twenty-five.

MENot that you deserve what you get now. I’m surprised you got this job. They should really be throwing you out like the piece of turd you are. They seem sufficiently intelligent. They definitely know you’re useless.

Shut. Up.

So the money – its barely taxable. And maybe I wouldn’t be bothered, but I love my friends. And I love spending time with them, and sometimes I hate myself for not meeting them or being straight and saying that I can’t meet. My wee heart sinks a few centimeters when I think about all the times I have lied and said that I already ate, or that I’m not hungry – because I can’t afford anything more than a 10 buck packet of very unhealthy chips. And maybe I wouldn’t be bothered but I don’t like asking my parents for money unless its for necessities. And maybe I wouldn’t be bothered but I really fucking love restaurant food. Or any food, but since I don’t cook, it all involves restaurant food.

And maybe I wouldn’t be bothered, but everything costs money.

And yes, I know not having money is not something to be ashamed about. I read all the moral science stories and the books that taught me to value people etc. over things etc. But it doesn’t stop it from hurting when I think about saying – I just don’t have money. I can’t hang out with you. No, I don’t want to go dutch because there’s a reason I just ordered the desert. Yes, I do want some more clothes sometimes, but the few I have were brought with a lot of care, and a shopping trip will overturn my financial capabilities for the next 3 weeks.

Next there is the house. I love the house I live in now, but to be honest, its a money drainer. Isn’t it fantastic how having less money means you have awful shit in your house, which ultimately means you have to spend more money? A better house that would cost a little more (read, more than I can afford) probably would have better plumbing. Which would mean that twice a month, I wouldn’t have to call a nice, but severely overcharging plumber to come do things I could try to do, if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m a hopeless nitwit with things that involve plumbing.

Except for that thing where everyone’s ass crack shows when they bend over and do anything plumbing related. That I can accomplish even without doing any actual plumbing. I know. Pretty boss, right?

So in all this, I’m pretty ashamed at the state I leave my house in. The terrible things about jobs is that you have to go do it every day. And as much as its still a cool job, I doubt I can explain my life to the big bad world of private enterprise. “I live in a shit house that breaks down – yeah, the whole house breaks down in a puddle of cat piss – every few weeks. Which means every few weeks, I’ll have a “work from home” morning and I reluctantly eat breakfast at home, and I will get a pay cut, and I will pay a man to come fix things that I should really learn how to fix myself. You guys won’t think I’m a slacker, right?”

Which brings us to the next section of shame.

Boss Dance

Clumsy as I am (Y’all know I rammed my bicycle into a parked car once?) I’m usually able to handle myself pretty well. I get a lot of satisfaction from fixing things. When I bother to. Which, as I half heartedly step further into adulthood, seems to happen about once in a never. I suppose I could figure out basic plumbing if I dedicate a day’s time to figuring it out. But I don’t. I could but I won’t. Should but I shorn’t. Maybe pick up some skills so I can cook more than maggi and eggs? Shorn’t. Maybe figure out how to do that threading thing so I don’t have to rely on irregular beauty parlor payments to keep me looking like a 21st century female standard of grooming person? Shorn’t. Maybe try harder to get my PAN card application through so I don’t have to go through insane cuts due to taxes later? What part of shorn’t don’t you understand?

ME: Go die somewhere. Please?

Yes, let’s get to the PAN card thing, shall we? I really ought to get one. I have done one thing towards it. Two if you count asking for a letter I need from the office. But I have done nothing further for it. Shorn’t, baby. In this case, I suppose, what can I do? Sit at my desk during the moments of respite in a day and wonder if flinging myself dramatically over my office’s 10th floor balcony would help life a bit…

ME: *holds up “YES WE CAN!” poster*

Viola Davis celbration 2
So. Much. Fun.

My finances are in a terrible state, even outside of basic money. I have not kept accounts in a long ass time. I just trust that because I don’t buy clothes, watches, phones, shoes, alcohol, drugs, and other shit that other peoples of the world fret about spending money over, I will be fine till the next month’s pay day comes up.

And it usually works out, but my inner organized soul weeps at what I have become. I’m not the kind of asshole who puts the bedsheets on the bed with the flowers growing from the direction of the head. What am I, some sort of perverted heathen? No! But then I see the state of my bank account, and I have to admit. Maybe I am! Youguys, I’m the perverted heathen of the financial world. I’m the Fifty Shades of Accountant Grey of the daily finance world. This, you may guess, is not ideal.

I keep wondering if I should be trying to be fitter. But that’s a whole area of life I’m not fond of. Why be fitter? I’m not really planning on holding any trucks off the ground so pedestrians can escape a crushing death. I say let ’em die. I’m sure they did something very bad. On the other hand, being healthier would mean I will eat less fried food which will cost me less money. Which in turn can only be a good thing, considering how much of this post covers money. Makes you really think about how money minded I am, right? But truly, the only people I know who don’t have to think about money either have a lot of money, or live with their parents while earning. I have to think about money around twenty times a day, roughly. Will the ten bucks on daily pick me up tea be worth it? Can I afford to have a 30 buck lunch instead of a 20 buck lunch today? I know its late, but an auto will cost 30 bucks more. Do I have the resources for that?

Shame is a pretty ugly thing to live with. Thankfully, I’m very used to it. In fact, my alter ego is mostly shame combined with a very pronounced, confident sort of self loathing. That said, its still no picnic. And of all this awfulness, the worst shame of all, the one I don’t like to think about, is the fact that there is so much more that I don’t talk about. That as annoying as this may be, it’s nothing compared to the torrents of shame I feel about every little lie, every big lie, and every mediocre lie I end up telling to hide the millions of ways in which I know I don’t measure up.If you think there is brash, complete honesty in this, you don’t want to know what I don’t write about on the interwebs, right? I have yet to find that distance from my problems and my shame to be able to craft language well enough to relate this, the simple truth about said shame and self hate – that it is always, and it guides every thought and every gesture.

I'm Fine. Is this the gin I asked for

And the truth of the matter is, you can’t always tell people you’re not going out because money, or you can’t invite them in because house is a mess, or that you’ll be late to work because you’re going to spend another morning insipidly watching as a plumber does some knocking and sucking and charges you 4 days worth of food budget. What a dickensian life, she says, as she types away on her Apple computer.

Of course, I don’t really talk about not talking about it either. Except for right now I suppose, when you lucky bastards get to know all about my neuroses and how it has very harsh, real world consequences.

I wonder if this is the kind of thing that eventually leads to excess sex, drugs, and/ or rock and roll? Will you find me begging for knives to stab at street rats to make meals out of rat meat in a few years? Will I have those red rings you see around the eyes of people who use too much drugs? Will a decade see me poofed out from history with only those who remember me personally serving as living memory… We’ll see.

But maybe, just maybe, things will be better. I have recently asked someone halfway reliable to teach me the ways of the Jedi. Soon, I plan to have accounts. Maybe, Oh god, maybe, please, please, please fucking turdburger god, I know you’re not real but if you could see your way into making me a whole different person who has accounts by the end of this month, I will so very very grateful, I will think about maybe not thinking something non-believing about you for a day.

The only other thing I can hope to do is to have better weather so I can sign up for swimming pool shit, swimming being the only form of exercise I’m willing to do. That will probably have to be in March, when going into a swimming pool won’t result in full body frostbite. Also, I will have money in March. Especially if the whole crazy accounts thing works out.

Till then, I suppose I should keep my head down, and skip meals as much as possible… that helps with being fitter (because when has starvation ever killed anyone, right?) and also with the money thing.

Don’t judge me.

Much nervous.



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.