Yes I went on this trip again. I stalked distant judgmental, officially loser-ly relatives on Facebook. Again. Ever expanding waist lines and deepening by the minute wrinkles make me giddy with delight. Was this not the same bunch of maasis and chachis and other assorted relatives that appointed themselves judges of my life?
Because you've got the money and the time and the vellah-ness to spend hours at a beauty parlor, you totally earn the right to point your puny little manicured fingers, yes. My apparent lack of good looks (The mirror says I'm pretty, surely it can't lie for such an extended period of time, can it?) warranted their eternal pity. My parents' lack of excessive assets was probably a manure for their thoughts.
It was the time when I'd curl up, read up some Sheldon, think of myself as the next Lara Camaron- The Iron Butterfly, or Elizabeth Roffe, a real HCB (Hard Core Bitch, for the n00bs). Vivid scenarios would play in my head, where I'd be tall, rich, slim, wearing ironed formals rushing from one big round table meet to another, signing papers and firing off tasks to the trusty secretary. Then I would think of a point in time when these big weenies would need me and I'd be a mean bitch to them. On good days, I'd imagine helping them because I chose to be nice person.
Today when I look back, the vulnerability is funny.
I'm not really tall. (Well, in *ahem*, juxtaposition, if you know what I mean)
I can't wear high heels to work very often.
I'm not rich. (Insti regulated stipend, people!)
The only formals I can wear are rich desi numbers.
I get yelled at by mum in the morning, boss during the day and professors in the evening.
I sleep like a log through the night.
I've got dumb seniors, and dumber juniors.
I've a bunch of friends that can be called up at any point of time to bitch about the aforementioned *problems*.
I've a couple of friends who enjoy all my feminist, sexist, masochistic jokes and don't judge me.
I chose to be in this profession, in this state of life and I'm happy.
I don't pay taxes to a government that doesn't even consider me one of its own.
I can talk to mum dad about career, love, life in general and receive "culturally sound" advice, if you know what I mean.
I'm too busy to go on to Facebook and post desi jingoist agenda from my house in the US of A.
I might actually have posted a full blast entry on this money-seeded hypocrisy but I'm too busy making tasteless jokes and snorting as a laugh to care.
Fuck you migratory relatives and fuck your ABCD kids, I'm happy, bhenchod.
Tu tera dekh.
-WispySilver: The Undercover Jingoist
P.S. Hate Toblerone. And Hersheys has a vomit like after taste.
Because you've got the money and the time and the vellah-ness to spend hours at a beauty parlor, you totally earn the right to point your puny little manicured fingers, yes. My apparent lack of good looks (The mirror says I'm pretty, surely it can't lie for such an extended period of time, can it?) warranted their eternal pity. My parents' lack of excessive assets was probably a manure for their thoughts.
It was the time when I'd curl up, read up some Sheldon, think of myself as the next Lara Camaron- The Iron Butterfly, or Elizabeth Roffe, a real HCB (Hard Core Bitch, for the n00bs). Vivid scenarios would play in my head, where I'd be tall, rich, slim, wearing ironed formals rushing from one big round table meet to another, signing papers and firing off tasks to the trusty secretary. Then I would think of a point in time when these big weenies would need me and I'd be a mean bitch to them. On good days, I'd imagine helping them because I chose to be nice person.
Today when I look back, the vulnerability is funny.
I'm not really tall. (Well, in *ahem*, juxtaposition, if you know what I mean)
I can't wear high heels to work very often.
I'm not rich. (Insti regulated stipend, people!)
The only formals I can wear are rich desi numbers.
I get yelled at by mum in the morning, boss during the day and professors in the evening.
I sleep like a log through the night.
I've got dumb seniors, and dumber juniors.
I've a bunch of friends that can be called up at any point of time to bitch about the aforementioned *problems*.
I've a couple of friends who enjoy all my feminist, sexist, masochistic jokes and don't judge me.
I chose to be in this profession, in this state of life and I'm happy.
I don't pay taxes to a government that doesn't even consider me one of its own.
I can talk to mum dad about career, love, life in general and receive "culturally sound" advice, if you know what I mean.
I'm too busy to go on to Facebook and post desi jingoist agenda from my house in the US of A.
I might actually have posted a full blast entry on this money-seeded hypocrisy but I'm too busy making tasteless jokes and snorting as a laugh to care.
Fuck you migratory relatives and fuck your ABCD kids, I'm happy, bhenchod.
Tu tera dekh.
-WispySilver: The Undercover Jingoist
P.S. Hate Toblerone. And Hersheys has a vomit like after taste.
