I finish my exams in about 15 hours.

15 hours from now, no one will give a tiny little rat's ass about whether I study or not.

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

And the pujos start from the 5th of October.
And lots of people I actually like are returning to the city.

ohthehappiness.ohthejoy.
and my font's going back to teeny.
Balls to you, Anushka.


For some reason, I am not studying Biology. The damned "b" key isn't working on my keyboard anymore, except when I jab it with extreme force. 


I feel extremely useless, even more than on regular days. Sometimes, when I feel like this, I go to sleep, but yesterday, I slept for fifteen hours (yes, that long.) and now I feel like Superman. I want to DO something, only I feel rather incapacitated by my laziness. 

I do not want to study Bio. I shall study it later. 

I do not want to watch television. There is nothing interesting. I would like it if they aired an Ugly Betty rerun right about now. I love that show so much.

My mother has gone to some whole-sale cloth selling place. I don't even WANT to comment.

I do not want to call up anyone and talk on the phone. I do not like talking on the phone. It makes me feel very disembodied. And only people who don't know that ever call me up.

There is nothing on Facebook that I haven't already seen.

Even Stropko, the wonderfully-insomniac (Jesus-lovin'-White-Boy), seems to be either asleep, or otherwise incapable of instant-messaging services.  Bah. Even Anushka isn't online. She's probably learning and re-learning her Psycho.

And I have an intense need to bite my fingernails, but I am trying to grow them (my fingernails), and the two needs are toying with my brain.

My Whole World Is Dead, I Tell You.

Agh. I wish the weather would stay like this forever. So comfortably icy. Also, I wish Snow Patrol would just hurry up and release their album. I want some new songs.

And I wish the Pujos would hurry up and come. I can't wait for the dhakis to begin playing, and the food, and the lighting, and the fact that no one really cares about how much you eat, not even your own digestive system.

PS - Because Anushka said so, I'm upping my font size from "smallest" to "small". Pff.



One more, and then it is time for the Pujos.
*Evil Laugh*

Watching a Movie with Mummy

So basically, me and my mother were watching Rock On! together yesterday, on DVD because we're too cheap-ass and bored to go to a theater, and there is this one line in the film which Purab Kohli, aka K.D., says - "When you're twenty, twenty-two, you think you can rule the world."

So, that made my mum exclaim, "SO true, SO true!"
And then she said - "It's so cute how these boys think they are rockstars."
At which point I was beginning to wonder whether she really understood what the movie was about. So, I said, "But they ARE rockstars."
Mum: "No, they're little boys who play on their instruments and pretend to have a career."
Me: "But being a rockstar is a real job. Like, with money, fame, and you know... stuff."
Mum: *puppy-dog eyes* "You're just seventeen, you wouldn't know."
Me: *obviously miffed with the age-related comment* "Mmpf."
Mum: "When you're 30, you'll know."
Me: *has thought of wonderfully witty comment* "Aww, you still remember what 30 feels like, Mum?
Mum: *is sending out wave upon wave of death threats and curses.. silently*
Me: *sidles away* "HAVE YOU NOTICED THIS BAND DOESN'T HAVE A BASS GUITARIST?"
Mum: *squints at television* "But they HAVE two guitars, na?"
Me: "Yes, but Joe is lead, and Aditya is a vocalist, and he's not bass, because he's not playing continuously."
Mum: "Which one is Joe?"
Me: "The one with the long hair."
Mum: *squints again* "They ALL have long hair."
Me: "The one who's playing a guitar, and has long hair."
Mum: "Oh. His hair is awfully floaty, you think they filmed the movie with a spot boy lugging a blower fan under him whenever Joe was on screen?"
Me: *is dumbfounded* *shudders slightly* "I don't know."


And so, now you know why I'm so dastardly random sometimes. 
I do believe it's a little bit genetic.

Seventeen!

This is my first blog post as a seventeen-year old.

Tomorrow's Chemistry exam *sigh* will be my first exam as a seventeen-year old.
Tomorrow's Chemistry exam will be the first exam that I shall fail as a seventeen-year old.
The debate at Delhi will be my first debate as a seventeen-year old.

Yesterday was a lameass birthday, by even my standards. I thought sixteen was sad, because I didn't get any presents, and no one really cared because it was right in the middle of the Half-Yearlies, and everyone was so assured and content in their failing grades that my birthday swooshed past without anyone noticing. 
Yesterday was my seventeenth birthday, and I made everyone promise that they wouldn't call at midnight, because I fricking hate being woken up, especially to scream HAPPY BIRTHDAAAAAAYYYYYY!!! into my ear. And I even switched the cellphone off. When I woke up, I was magically seventeen. I still had to study Chemistry. And the only thing special about yesterday was the pasta for lunch. And the chocolate pudding. I didn't get many presents. Some lameass friend of the mother got me a towel. 
Yes.
A towel.
And a song.
It was a very nice song.
It rhymed, and it was sung rather well too. (I'm not lying. Really!)
Well, okay, it was a very nice try. And I am very flattered. 

Thank you.
I am now officially seventeen, and loving it.

It was five in the morning, and I woke up cursing, because awakening a thirteen-year-old at the crack of dawn is tantamount to felony, and I promised myself, that once this was over, I would curl right back into the covers. I sniffled and wiped my nose on my sleeve because no one cares about hygiene at five in the morning. No one cares about anything at five in the morning. And I shuffled downstairs to the parking lot, in oversize slippers that slapped against the dusty concrete, raising puffs of mud, leaving a trail of bigfoot-esque footprints. The dirt made me sneeze, I was allergic to dirt, it was five in the morning, I should have been sleeping, but I was at a dusty, allergy-causing parking lot, squinting against the annoyingly bright sky and the birds that sounded so rested. Rested, unlike me, and I sniffed again, and I realised that I loved my sleep a little too much, maybe? And the guard got out of that car which I didn't recognize, and I leaned against our own bug-like one. You bought it before my birthday. It was supposed to arrive on my birthday, but the delivery men screwed it up, and it came two days later, but the car, in my head at least, shared birthdays with me. But I didn't recognise this car. It was pearl-grey, it was shinier, and it was newer, and more expensive than ours. You told me it was a Baleno. I didn't care. I liked our car, our bug-car better. It had more scope for imagination. It looked like a bug. This car didn't seem friendly. Our car was home. That car was not. And it had a stranger at the wheel. A man in a white-suit and a white hat, and the starched stiffness of his clothes hurt my eyes and so I looked away. Behind me, a voice told me to say goodbye nicely ("You're not going to see him again for two months, the least  you could do is smile and say goodbye, you know he'd like that. Stop being such a crybaby and wave goodbye to him") and in front of me, there you were, hugging me ("You don't have to smile if you don't want to") saying you'd visit in two months ("It's just sixty days, and just when you begin enjoying life without me, I'll be back to annoy you with Math again")  and it would be great fun ("We can talk on the phone whenever we want, we can talk everyday, and when you visit, we can go to the beach!"), we'd go to the amusement park ("Wouldn't that be nice? Did I not love the amusement park?") and you'd buy me something ("I'm going to buy a new car when I get there, what should I get? A Baleno like this one? Isn't this Baleno nice-looking?"), and that I should do well at school because that's what matters ("Practise your math, and 9 times 3 is 27, not 24. Never mess that up like you used to when you were six"), and before I could reply, I sneezed again, the car door shut, and the pearl-grey hostile car drove out, and I knew it wasn't friendly, because it never let me say goodbye. ("Vroom")


And I snifflingly trudged back through the dust, the slippers hitting my heels, slapping the floor, raising more dust, making me sneeze more. Maybe it wasn't the dust, after all, that made me cry. 

The Grandparents are leaving tonight. Which is a good thing, for me, atleast. I know, yes, that I sound very callous, and yes, I do believe that there is some form of love for them at the bottom of dark, black shrivelled up heart. But still, they're leaving tonight, and that makes me happy. Call me evil if you will, but I'm still pretty happy about it.

It's not that I don't like THEM, I just don't like the fact that while they're here, there's always someone around in the house. I'm not a people-person. I don't like phone calls, and I don't like unnecessary talking, I don't like small talk with people I barely know. I actually derive a sort of composed pleasure from coming home to an empty house. I like the power of having to open that front door with a key and walk in with no one to smile at and no one to ask about my day, or how my test went, am I hungry, do I want to eat or take a shower first? I don't like concern, and I find my relaxation in the sterile glow of the television as it blares on and on, and I eat my cold food in front of it, with my socks still on, and the bag thrown across the floor.
I don't like having people around all the time, I think absence does make the heart grow fonder. And I WOULD be, definitely more tolerant towards people if they let me live in a bubble. Which is why, despite all her (glaring) flaws, I do not actually mind living with my mother. She lives in her bubble, and I live in mine, and we're both quite non-invasive (most of the time). I like solitude. I like the sound of silence, and I like when no one is around. It does not make me goth. Or emo. Because I am not depressed, neither do I want to kill myself. I just like non-invasiveness.
In other news, I've been listening to a lot of Damien Rice lately. The man, if I do say so myself, is the baap of Gary Lightbody. His music is gut-wrenchingly heart-rending, and its primarily because his songs are stark and stripped down, using just the basic piano, strings and simple drums. And then, there's Lisa Hannigan, who's haunting echoes in the background make the soung even more dreamscape-ish. His music is slow, and it's raw, and controlled enough so that each song stops short of a masterpiece, making you want to listen to the next one. And if you can get past the highly-publicised "The Blower's Daughter", have a go, plunge into "Accidental Babies", and "Unplayed Piano". You might even like it.

There are six year olds playing cricket downstairs. It's almost noon, but they're still in their pajamas, and they haven't brushed their teeth. And even they're still a bunch of stinky, immature children, I think I envy them.

I wish I was my iPod. On some days, when I plug it in to the laptop to synchronise, all of its own accord, it just self-destructs and mulishly refuses to respond to anything. I wish I could mulishly sit around and be stubborn. With reason. Because I do it for NO reason many times over. 

I woke up this morning, completely optimistic about the fact that I was going to study Physics, and study it well, and that I would finish all of Section A today.
Bollocks. Here I am, and I've done nothing, except text Disha several times, whining about Electromagnetics, and then I came online. Stupid Physics.
I'm going to have to go back, eventually.
Last evening, blessed evening, we visited the great Ramesh Pandit. Ramesh Pandit is the world's most awesome puchka-man. I am aware that the title of Most Amazing Puchka-Man is a very disputed one, and there exist several Puchka-men who claim to have been bestowed with this title, but Ramesh Pandit is the best of all of them. His whole lineage is into the business of puchkas, and therefore, he's not just the best Puchka-man. He's the pioneer of the Best Puchka Dynasty. Let's the guy next to Harshita's Math tuition counter THAT! 
Anyway, Ramesh Pandit's aloo dum is the finest. It makes your eyes water and your tongue cry out in protest, and yet you will be compelled to eat another one and feel completely psychedelic. This psychedelic feeling is actually just you walking around, and everything is blurry only because your eyes are watering. But still, the whole effect is rather trippy. The ice-cream man next to Ramesh Pandit keeps eyeing all the trippy people hopefully, hoping against hope that one of the trippers will succumb to the spice and buy an ice-cream to alleviate the pain. Never going to happen, that. Only snotty -nosed kids too wimpy to eat at Ramesh Pandit's buy the ice-cream. 
I didn't eat any dinner yesterday. 
Now you know why. Even though you probably didn't give a damn in the first place.

P.S. - If you don't know what a Puchka is (this means YOU), then googling it will not help. If you do know what a puchka is, give me a call, and we'll go to Ramesh Pandit's place. 
P.P.S. - Ramesh Pandit's stall is at Lake Kalibari, at the edge of the road, opposite that building called Ashoka. 

Redirected from Facebook

Okay. Being the awesomely nice soul that I am, I decided to make a note of all the stuff I had for my math paper, and this may help you, and if it doesn't, well then, bollocks.

Matrices and Determinants - Supremely easy. I got one on transposing properties, a Determinant property question, and Cramer's Rule. Pair of Straight Lines, Conics - Proving an equation to be a pair, and using this to find "k", then solve the pair and find individual equations. From conics, there was a question on tangent to a parabola, which I think was a stroke of luck, because it's the simplest formula of the set. >Inverse Trig. - Barely anything. The stuff that was there was a cakewalk. Just the proof of a straightforward identity. Differentiation- Double diff. (we all knew this was coming), and one question on variable^variable. Integration- Nothing by-parts, but the Special Integrals chapter is proving to be the most important thing. Definite Integrals too; I got a whole 10 mark question on this (didn't attempt it, though.) Maxima Minima, Rolle's and LMVT - The maxima sum was supremely crunchy. I ended up not solving it (left it midway, actually, after trying thrice.) The compulsory section had one of these as well, but there was a 5-mark thing on LMVT, which was quite happy. Correlation, Regression- I got Spearman, with the correction factor thing , and for regression, the standard question of find byx, bxy, r and the value of one when other is given. Also, combined mean and s.d. featured in compulsory.
Section-B I'm getting zero on twenty, for this. Grr. Triple product, and geometric proof using vectors. Marry them. And also, intersecting planes and normals to planes. I'm getting zero on this. =( Hope this helped. No, I don't remember the questions. Since it was a separate paper, I also do not have my question paper with me, so no point asking for photocopies, it's a no-go there. And don't you dare sue me. Tag people who may need this.

Gossip Monger

Sarah Palin in a bikini. 

Sarah Palin's daughter is knocked up.
Sarah Palin is knocked up.
Sarah Palin's daughter's baby daddy is a self-professed "effin' redneck" who doesn't want kids.
Sarah Palin's husband is half-Eskimo.
Sarah Palin is using tax money for personal travel.

How come there's no suchlike shit on Joe Biden?

Not to be partial or anything. My political views are all over the place, although according to one site I'm conservative or thingummy. Anyway, my point is - why is there no scoop on Joe Biden? Why are the guys on Obama's side getting some sort of immunity? And how come every stand-up comedy act includes (1)John McCain being a crazy old coot (2)Sarah Palin, Bristol Palin or Levi Johnston or all three, (3)Cindy McCain's plastic face?
There's no mockery of the Democrats anymore. I mean, Hillary Clinton was around adn people poked fun at her, but now SHE'S off the scene. All the rockers and all the actors and all the actresses wear the T-Shirt for Change, and everyone is pimping Obama. Not that I mind the man, but it's just very odd, from an outsider and neutral passer-by's perspective, that a political candidate is more or less morphing into a celebrity of a different kind, and no one seems to have the gumption to stand up and criticize him, his inexperience, and his prophetic yet seemingly planless mantras for a Changed Future?Why? Are they afraid that the criticism might make them racist? It's absolutely okay to call an old guy old to get the laughs, but now what?
I don't support McCain.
My problem is, that I don't support Obama either.

I'm just a lame-ass kid with a laptop.

Happy Families

Stealing just a teeny bit from Anushka's blog, I shall, I shall! 

My Happy Family Consists of - 
Eddie Vedder as my father. If I promise not to go all Electra on him, can I have him as my daddy, er, father, please?

Marcia Cross, only as Bree Mason-VandeKamp-Hodge, from Desperate Housewives, as my Mother.
 She's deliciously neurotic, fantastically interestic, and just the right amount of fastidious to meet my needs. It would also be pretty damn interesting, seeing Crazy-Perfectionist Bree with Grunge-Dude Eddie Vedder. I'd be a tormented kid, but I sure would love my home.

Jack Sparrow as my elder brother. Yes, I have a poster of him on my wall. Yes, he is hot. I'd like a hot elder brother. Even my friends would like my hot elder brother, Jack Sparrow, Captain Jack Sparrow. Bree would probably not let him into the house, but I'd willingly sneak the rum out for him. What are siblings for? And when he's not off sailing the high seas, he could teach me how to swordfight. Pretty darn bad-ass, if I do say so myself.

Gary Lightbody as that-friend-who's-your-best-friend-but-I'm-not-really-sure-if-I'd-date-him-but-if-I-did-we'd-be-perfect. Yeah, that guy. And he can write songs, talk in a sexy Irish accent, hang out,ride our bikes to the sunny isles of the Hebrides and take his shirt off or whatever, I'd love him. Welcome to the fold, Gary!
P.S - If you're reading this, I <3>
 LOVE YOU. If you're not, I still love you, but a little part of me is sad. No, really.
Audrey Hepburn as the foxy aunt. Every fake family has a foxy aunt. Audrey would be mine. And I'd steal all her clothes, and enlarge them, and then wear them, and make sure she never died of Appendix cancer. And I'm quite sure Bree would like Audrey as a sister. They could be all 50's together. And I could have their clothes.

George Orwell as my grandfather. I'd think him to be odd when I was a kid, but then, as I would grow older, he'd be one hell of a guy to practise my debating and speaking skills with. Great conversation, and great man too. Not the typical grandfather. But then, this family is pretty screwed up anyway. I'm just addin' to the fray.
  I'd also want a kid brother called Philip.Or Phoenix. Ooh, Phoenix it is. I don't care what he looks like, but he shall be called Phoenix. Phoenix is the sort of name that sounds just right. All I need to do now is figure out what he'd look like. I have a feeling he'd act somewhat like William Brown from the William Series by Richmal Crompton. I'd be his awesome elder sister. And he'd be my nutty kid brother. <3

There are a couple of 'real' people to be added to this list, but I'm not going to.
Maybe some other time.

I haven't posted in so long, and that makes me feel guilty. What also makes me feel guilty is that I haven't been studying. What cancels out this guilt is the fact that even when I do study for a test, it still goes just as badly as it would have had I not studied. In other news, I am sick of school. Even English classes, (which are about the only classes that were still bearable), have turned hellish. Who in their right minds would test students on Quote Completion from a Shakesperean play? 
Example - 
Question - Fill in the blanks using the appropriate quotation from Shakespeare's Macbeth.
"To be thus is nothing _____, 'tis much he dares:_______ guide_____. There is none ____ and under him ______upon me, and  ____; then ____ succeeding. If't be so ____kings!"

And so I hate English. And school, also.
We all knew this was going to be hard. Who thought it would make me want to gouge my eyes out? The school says your tutorials have already taught you, and the tutorials say that the school will help you learn in greater detail, and somehow when you get the time to read it on your own, it doesn't make sense in any case. 
And as if all of this wasn't enough, you know that you need to do well, and that you cannot fail, and no matter how much everyone around you laughs off the fact that they study - 
"Did you study last night?"
"Do I ever study?"
You're a liar. We all know you stayed up half the night solving numericals; what makes you so sure that we're going to believe that you didn't study? And what sort of heroic feat do you display when you do well in something and then proclaim loudly to the world that "SHIIIIT! I DIDN'T study and I did so WELL!!!
No one believes you, you pompous, lying braggart. You stayed up all night. You skipped school not to sleep but to revise. You're not fooling anyone, dumbass. Stupid dumbass. Stupid because you think we're so gullible, and dumbass, because dumbass. Don't dispute it.
There is only one subject that I can stand. Biology. Even botany pisses me off now. I am sick of studying. I still don't mind Bio that much. But still.
I'm a cantakerous, grim-faced, snappish sixteen-year-old. What I want to do, most of all, right now, is to eat large quantities of very greasy Chinese takeout, wear my rattiest T-shirt, and watch Mulan. 

But I have to study Chemistry.