Why shoes are better than boyfriends?

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‘ Which Game of thrones character are you?’

‘Which Disney Princess are you?’

‘ 10 reasons why Kendall Jenner is better than Kylie Jenner? ‘

Every single morning Facebook greets me with cringe worthy Pulitzer  deserving articles like the ones above. How many people have the time and energy to actually read this kind of crappy literature?The answer is ,almost everybody .Yes, let us be honest here. There are few things in this world that everybody does but no one accepts.Like farting.If reports from highly verified sources are to be believed, the number of people who confess to first degree murder outnumber those who have confessed to farting. (Yeah I like making s**t up like this, apologies)

Anyway,getting back on track I was doing some mental math as to how many precious , potentially productive hours I waste on reading such noteworthy works of literature every single day. The figures got me gobsmacked. Any normal human would have sworn to  social media abstinence after getting knocked out due to the abysmal Facebook induced brain drain . But that’s not me, that’s not who I am…. I want revenge, I seek revenge and I will avenge.

Hell yeah! This made me realize that I am indebted to this society in a way. The society that created Facebook and made me waste thousands of man hours and grey cells into reading such eruditical masterpieces which when put into good use could have won my gradeophilic South Indian family an IITian  daughter, or so they would assume. But let us not dig graves , I thought. How am I going to repay this society that denied me a shot at IIT and possibly a Nobel prize. That’s when I decided I am going to write an article on “Why shoes are better than boyfriends?”

Reason 1:  Very high values of ROI

Unlike men. Countless dates to hip clubs,  bars and restaurants and being the alpha woman I am , always insist on splitting cards with my dates. Then one day, reality slaps me like a bitch making me realize that I have been dating a schmuck all the while. Wherein on the other hand,  the super sexy double platform heels that I bought from Aldo remains loyal to me even after two years of ups and downs , both in my life and on Indian roads.

Reason 2: You get to choose the length

Err…I meant the heel height.

Reason 3: If you see a better one, you can always own it

Actually I would contradict on this point. You can always have a better option…just ensure you secure your phone with a good password.

Reason 4: It hurts to bring the best out of you

Unlike men . You go on depression, weight loss and an ugly face. Sigh……

Reason 5: You get to dump it any time, (of course) with absolutely no hangups

Unlike men. Majority of who will go on a slandering mode creating a picture that would make people look at you and scream, ‘Hey that’s the monster on Insidious chapter 3’.

With this I would like to congratulate everybody who has reached reading till here. The article ends now and I would like to announce that you have successfully wasted two  minutes of your life by reading absolute crap. Join the club. This post is a tribute to all those people who write pointless blogs for reasons unfathomable to mankind.

By the way, I took the Disney princess test and found I’m princess Belle! Awwwww……





Extreme Vetting

I always assumed that money and power can buy everything….Okay , if not everything , at least a great pair of shoes! Since a teenager,I used to imagine the day I would step into a Chanel store and shop like Blair Waldorf. Sadly at 26,I’m still watching Gossip Girl and hoping for that day to come. The closest I could get to the Upper east side is by watching Gossip Girl on Netflix. Besides all this ranting,to my great dismay, there are several people who, despite wielding an awfully insane amount of money and power, turn out to be complete schmucks when it comes to the f-word.( F being fashion). All they have to do is hire a good stylist and pay them well. Is that a lot of work? On that note, I decided that I’m gonna vet people who possess “great power and poor style”. These are the people who have perpetrated first degree sartorial crimes and no amount of good behavior can justify a parole to these “walking fashion halls of shame!!”

Angela Merkel:

The German chancellor has been on a self imposed sartorial exile, probably since the beginning of time. I once read somewhere that Merkel buys her own clothes. Sorry yo, your attempts at fashion are as catastrophic as your Greek bailout policy. She can always be spotted wearing trousers that are extra long and suits that are extra tight which further accentuate her nowhere-close-to-perfect  body. No matter how hard I try to exempt from body-shaming,  at one point I’m still human who can afford to err. I wish Merkel gets some divine intervention to dissolve her off her fashion crimes.

P.S: The low cut plunging disaster she wore to the Oslo Convention deserves a special mention here. Slow claps….


However, I decided to give Angela a quick makeover.


I feel shift dresses are a boon to older women with ‘realistic’ bodies. (Because not everybody is Sophia Vergara in this big fair world). A shift dress with the right fit and length can do wonders to elevate your look. Combine it with a pair of comfortable heels and a good tote and you are good to go! Is this too hard?

Click to shop: Shift dress / Nude pumps / Tote

Kim Jong-un:

He has the looks that will make you L a little extra OL but policies that Kill.He looks like the egg that never hatched. To me , he looks very palatable though. Now talking about fashion choices, our second exhibit can always be spotted wearing something  that looks like the result of a one night stand between an ugly suit and an uglier tunic.Can’t get meaner than that, can’t help either.  I mean, just take a look…


What’s with the ugly length though? Oops I forgot about it’s tunic ancestry…

The Deflated Basketball:

Probably,  the most eligible contenders of all times for the top spot ….Before building a wall across the Mexican border, he should probably build a smaller one across his mouth to stop talking s***t. (Why did I even say this??). I’m not here to judge his presidential abilities (Did I just say ‘Abilities’?…Okay let us not get there) but considering the awful amount of money in his possession ,don’t you think he owes this world (to say the least) some good fashion? But anyway, I would give him a fair play award for consistent bad performance across all departments, from bilateral ties to extra long red ties.However this red tie is more functional than you and I could ever think. Here we go…

Benefits of wearing an extra long tie:

a) To gag that giant O shaped orifice in his face. Also called mouth.

b)To grab pussycats considering he is a germaphobe

c)To RED FLAG himself early November


If you suggest any other benefits of the iconic red tie (Secured with scotch tape), then please write in the comments section below.

Until then,


(Sorry, I’m watching Gossip Girl)




Copy Kat


Everyday I make it a point to learn two words in English. I try to use those two words in all possible conversations even if it makes me seem like a lunatic.

A major part of my teenage dreams consisted of Katy Perry, but hey don’t judge me yet , although I do not have a very impressive rating on the Kinsey scale.Yesterday,as I was pondering about what to write in my next post , I came across a makeup tutorial on YouTube which showed how to recreate Katy Perry’s look for Cover girl. It was then that I decided I’m going to do a pastiche of Katy. Now what is a pastiche? According to Merriam -Webster, a pastiche is…

“An artistic work in a style that imitates that of another work, artist, or period”.


I realized that what I am going to do is not a pastiche after all, after it involves my face. However….pastiche, pastiche,pastiche….I’ll never forget this word now.

Firstly, what does Katy have that I do not have? I hurriedly make a list.

Katy Kat Her Kitty Kat
Multi million dollar budget Let’s not even get there, considering my current jobless state
Katy Perry’s face My face, enough said!
Probably a Genesis pana vision camera, and state of the art editing software My dilapidated i-phone 4 that I have been using since the beginning of time. Editing credits: Boomerang by Instagram

Great. God is not so unfair after all….

You have your brush, you have your colors, you paint your paradise and in you go’-Nikos Kazantzakis 

I have my colors and I have my brushes and here I go to paint my face. So finally after two hours of intense labor, I emerged from my room after creating my masterpiece. I realised after looking at the mirror that the pastiche somewhere turned out to be a parody. I suggest that  Boomerang come with a slo mo feature. Because as you can see, Katy sways in like a stunning seductress wherein I, on the other hand look like I have been electrocuted.


Sadly , my attempts at being a pastiche may have failed miserably but my attempts at being a monet have not. Now who is a monet? According to the Urban Dictionary, a monet is a….

“Really nice girl with a funny personality, always crazy and super chill. She has amazing eyes and perfect eyebrows, and is sweet.  As pretty as a painting. She’ll be a great girlfriend, is loyal, and extremely creative”.

What do you think? That’s me right? Err….I’m not so sure about the pretty as a painting part though.That being said monet,monet,monet……

If you want to know how I achieved this look anyway, click on the links below. BTW, nobody has sponsored me yet, I’m hoping they will…after reading this post!

Lips: Inglot matte lipstick

Face:NYX stay matte but not flat foundation in Nutmeg

Eyes:Long lasting 12 hour eyeliner

Blush: Lancome blush in Subtle Indien




My prize winning article

So, I decided to put up my prize winning article here in my blog. The topic was the day that made me realize the importance of road safety…Below are inspired by true life events. However, treat them as a work of fiction for your own safety:-p

It all happened too quick for me to even realize and construe. All I heard was a loud, deafening crash followed by screams for help and wailing cries of distress and pain. Then suddenly a slew of blurry images appeared before my eyes…they were arranged in a carousel like fashion and moved in front of my eyes. Each of these images, became clearer as they came nearer and nearer to my eyes.. And after seeing one of those brutally gruesome images, I realized that  I had mowed down an entire family, right there…in the middle of the road. There were people running across from all directions screaming and cursing at me, but I was too drunk to even comprehend what had happened. I knew there was no escape…they say that sometimes your life comes to a halt and it takes just one second to completely turn it around.. That was pretty much how I felt that night…

Before I move forward, let me give you a little background…

Being the only daughter of two super conventional parents, I was always pretty reckless (Only outside of home, obviously). My parents were…umm… for the lack of a better word…super stuck up (I am sorry, euphemisms are not really my thing!) Yes, I know I sound mean but the truth remains the same. I was raised to believe that to touch alcohol is a sin. I was always asked to behave , talk and dress a certain way because I am a girl belonging to a very respected family. If I ever made a mistake, the instant reaction of my parents would be to cover it up rather than help me out of the situation, because they did not want the family name to be ruined. All this led me to do exactly the opposite of what I was told (discreetly , of course). At age 21, my biggest dream was to go Bangalore and party at Skyye Bar. Because someone had told me that it was a place too hip and was situated on the sixteenth floor of UB city, from where you could spot Vijay Mallya’s helipad. These things will obviously fantasize the hell out of a 21 year old wannabe rebel-in-the-making hailing from a city where hanging out at Café coffee day was considered the coolest. But unfortunately enough, I had strict curfews while staying in my hometown, so the probability of getting myself to a bar in Bangalore was near to none. Hence, I decided to make the best of what I had. During my last semester, I got into drinking. I used to lie to my parents that I was held up because of project work and drink all day with my friends. And, since I was the only one with a car, I used to drop off all my friends unmindful of how drunk I was.

I still remember that day. It was one of my friend’s  birthday and we had all decided to get some drinks and go for a drive. I, as usual, lied to my parents about going to college . But in reality, we were at least a hundred kms away from my college, having lost our way and hearts to the stunningly scenic roads en route the Ooty hills. Naturally, we were so enthralled with the place and to combine that with alcohol, we lost track of time. I did not realize until I saw my mum’s phone call. I started freaking out and checked the time. It was already 7 pm- one hour past my curfew. It was a miracle that my parents had called me an hour past my curfew time. I quickly got my friends to pack everything and revved up my engine and hurtled right towards the city.

Meanwhile my parents were frantically calling me. I couldn’t ignore their calls for that would only make matters worse. So I decided to pick the call. From the minute I picked up, I could only hear my mom screaming accompanied by my dad screaming behind her. They were not even willing to listen to me. I promised them that I would reach home in half an hour. There was no way in hell I was going to make home in time. My mum called me exactly 29 minutes  since her last call. This time she yelled with twenty times the intensity.” You told me you were 5 kms away when I last spoke. There is no way you could be taking so much time! Do not lie to us…”and it continued.  I was too hammered to talk sense. So you know what the precocious-drunk-me did? When you are a South Indian and your parents are mad at you, just throw some random, unrelated facts of science or math to show their money’s worth. It is just to reassure them of a good ROI and also to prove that you have not fully failed them. MOMMMM! Stop hyperventilating…Will you? I screamed.. Don’t do this math to me. Do you know the Heisenberg uncertainty principle? It says you cannot determine a particle’s velocity and position accurately at the same time, even theoretically. Did you listen to that Ma? Even theoretically …You know in reality, factors like traffic, alcohol(I wanted to say but…) ,deranged drivers (Like me) are the reason for the delay. So will you please calm down and let me drive (Meanwhile I was already on a road rage)If set A was my dad being super mad and Set B was my mom being super mad, the probability of me getting screwed was P(AᴒB)=1, nothing less. I was getting super paranoid about going home that I did not even realize how crazy I was driving. There was a family of three in a scooter  too close than I had anticipated. I almost knocked them down and the shock made the guy lose his balance. However he regained composure and started hysterically yelling and following me. I looked through my rear view and to my utter shock there were around ten people yelling at me to stop my car. I pressed my accelerator as much as I could…however one guy managed to get ahead of me and blocked my way by scooting right in front of my car. They all started yelling and cursing me and thankfully I had the sense to not open my mouth as I was drunk and that could have gotten me into a bigger mess. I  faked an apology and got into my car cursing those “poor losers”. Finally I reached home two hours later. And as for my parents’ reaction…Lets not even get there. That night still gives me PTSD.

Fast forward to ten years and suddenly one night , I dream about that same family being mowed down by me. They say that dreams are an extension of your subconscious. I don’t know why or what made me dream about something that happened years ago and which, honestly speaking did not have much of an impact on me until that night.  Probably it stayed in my subconscious all this while. Probably God decided to pardon me a little that night. And after all these years, He decided to take it all on me…at once. Although it is the most horrifically vivid dream I have ever encountered , I thanked all my lucky stars that nothing of that sort actually happened. It is a wonder that I am not dead or in prison today, considering the number of times I have put myself and others’ lives in danger. However, I am happy that I have come a long way from what I used to be…And I am happier that this realization occurred naturally without the need for something horrific to have happened.

As an end note, I am sure that many young adults must have gone through or are still going through the same issues as I did. Not everybody might get as lucky as I got to be. An advise to all the parents and future parents- Forced abstinence is never the solution. Be a friend more than a parent to your children. Tell them it’s okay to drink and have fun provided they know where to draw the line. Teach them to call you or a cab whenever they drink. Make them believe that their parents should be the first ones they should reach out to in case they get into any mess. Children make mistakes, your job as parents is not to stop them from making mistakes… rather it is to make them learn from their mistakes. And finally , teach them that ITS NEVER COOL TO DRINK AND DRIVE.


Vi ni Vi di Vi ci

Hey dad! Welcome to your tape.I would forever be indebted to you because I inherited your love for reading. And thankfully enough I inherited only that and nothing else. And sorry dad, your tape ends here. (True Clay Jenson fans would understand this!)

Ever since I was a kid, I have always loved the smell of new books and whenever I got my hands on one I ensured not subjecting my  gluteus maximus to any kind of voluntary or involuntary action  until I “finished off” with my new found love. The ramifications of which can be witnessed till today if you happen to see my rear. On that note, I lost my virginity to paperbacks many many years back. That has been my only drama free and hassle free relationship ever. And that’s why it probably continues to this day despite several years of domestic violence like staying in my dirty cupboards, getting food and water and what not spilled over and being thrown at during times of my mood swings.

My love for reading opened my world, made me travel to exotic places, learn about people and cultures (all the while staying in my couch)  and finally made me the person I am today – smart and funny. Please bear with me as modesty is not one of my best virtues. In my last post here, I wrote about how a Greek getaway might seem like a distant dream. But it so happens that it might not be that distant after all… I’ll tell you why

Last week I happened to meet a Greek guy who was in India on a three week tour. Don’t ask me how I met him because “When you want something,  the whole world conspires in helping you to achieve it” and that’s exactly what happened. I have always been nd still is an ardent reader of Greek mythology. So naturally when I met him, I started  about Adonis and Aphrodite, of Zeus and his endless wives, of Alexander the great and Porus…Okay, I got you, stop snoring already. What I wanted to say is, I had impressed him so much that he wanted me to act as his amateur Delhi tour guide.

Pitstop  1: Hauz khas village on a Saturday night

I could easily spot him from half a kilometer away because he was the only one who was visibly underdressed. In Delhi,  it is a crime to step out of your house in flipflops. The weather maybe a scorching 45 degrees but you still need to get your hair and makeup in place. And no one really knows why. Because it’s filthy everywhere and walking on pothole filled roads in stilletoes is more challenging than a tight rope walk. Anyway getting back on track, I took my friend to Social, an overhyped shit hole of a place filled with overdressed people ,unjustifiably expensive alcohol and bad music. So, the whole night was spent in screaming each others’ lungs out in order to sustain a decent conversation. Adding  to the misery was his heavily accented English and for most of the time I felt sad because he repeated everything he said on loop and I still wouldn’t get it . Sometimes, I would be so tired that I would just give up and  nod my head accompanied by the panacea for undeciphered conversations- “yeah right”.

However,  it did not end there…. because when all else fails, there is Bollywood. So finally we decided to get up and join the vast multitude of humanity shedding their butter chicken induced calories to Chitiyan kalaya ve.

Nevertheless it was fun too….A lot of fun actually, that an overzealous photographer wouldn’t stop clicking pictures of us maybe because he felt a white guy doing decent bhangra was one of the rarest of the rare phenomena that had to be preserved in the annals of “Social’s history”. Since no  amount of shooing seemed to deter the guy from clicking pictures, I finally went up to him and confronted. He responded by saying “Please madam give one lip kiss to Sir na, I will quickly click a picture” Indians and voyeurism are brothers from the same mother I tell you….

Pitstop 2: Saket Select City mall on a Sunday afternoon

So my friend wanted to have some authentic Indian food and suggested we go somewhere for lunch.  I initially thought of Chandni chowk but then gave up on the idea because that would make him believe Hollywood’s version of India. Finally I settled on a mall because they cater to all cuisines in case my friend has a sudden change of mind. So somehow we sailed our way through the massive sea of humanity and managed to find a seat. I felt so accomplished. We sat there with a huge pile of karim’s briyani, sheekh kebab and butter chicken. Somehow this guy seemed to know all these dishes. I was pleasantly surprised and asked him how. He said that he has done his masters from the UK and has been to a lot of Indian restaurants. He also added that he loves butter chicken. I may or may not believe in a zombie apocalypse but I truly believe in a Punjabi apocalypse. These guys are taking over the world like nobody else.

So the day ended with us gorging on food like famished refugees. And when we parted for the day, my friend hugged me goodbye. I noticed a policeman suddenly walking towards our direction and quickly pushed him away. I told him PDA is banned in India. He seemed so shocked and exclaimed , “But this is the land of kamasutra!”. To this I added that we are also a country of 1.2 billion people who collectively consider sex a taboo. Because we were all born out of photosynthesis.

Pitstop 3: My home in Gurgaon

On his last day of the stay , he had asked me to host him at my place and I happily agreed…Because-Athithi Devo Bhava right? (Guest is God). Naah, I aint a saint here…why would I deny hosting a hot foreigner and miss a chance to..err…give him a taste of our culture (*wink *wink). Just kidding! Stop freaking out my readers…who talks like that right? But yeah I do, please live with that. Duh!

So, I made a delectable lunch and some mango smoothie and he seemed to love it. Then I showed him Kabhi Khushi kabhi Gham with subtitles and we laughed so hard that I so wished Karan Johar was there at that moment. I’m pretty sure he would have shot that brainless head of his and saved the world from abominable film-making for the rest of our lives. Anyway, Karan apart, we had a lot of fun through the day…Ahhh Vini Vidi Vici for a reason…Lol! Finally my friend departed and when he did…he whispered….Baby, come to Greece soon, I will host you the entire time you’re there. I was like…Maamma Mia!!!!



Fashion, travel and lifestyle

If you hoped for fancy pictures of my Greek getaway in dreamy dresses and lustful sangrias, congratulations! you just got played! I neither have the money, resources,a photographer boyfriend or a dumb brain to pout and pose on my vacations (or even go on vacations for that matter) . So I prefer to do what I do best ,which is, humor.

This post is about my everyday tryst with fashion as I embattle the dirty, dilapidated roads of Delhi to  reach the Metro for more dirt and dilapidation plus sweat as a premium and finally attempt to reach office in true Carrie Bradshaw style, minus New York and the glamour. And all the couture and Blahnicks . And the droolworthy bags. That’s  basically everything, damn:(:( I have Carrie’s hair though,  wild and unmaneagable, just the way both of us don’t want it to be….

Anyway getting back on track, since I recently relocated to New delhi I’m temporarily hoarding at my best friend’s place. Considering I’m cheap,  I ensure I make friends at all possible places so I can freeload as much as I want to. However this friend of mine stays in South Delhi. So whenever anyone asks me where I’m put up,  I tell them I stay with my friend in South Delhi and they all pry at me with envy. South Delhi is considered to be a very posh, ‘far from being in India’ kinda locality.  But as fate may have it,  the south Delhi I was hoarding at was far from being fancy. In fact it was far from anything that you may name – civilization, cleanliness, roads, water….just anything. It was a locality that would seem like Danny Boyle’s dream-half naked children taking a shit in the middle of the road accompanied with dogs and cows as poop-mates,   roads smeared with red pan that closely resemble the Jallianwala bhag massacre site, people who look like they have saved millions of rupees by never having to spend on toiletries, men ogling at the slightest trace of skin, so on and so forth. Amidst all this,  when people roll their eyes and do the ‘so you stay in south Delhi ‘at me,  I take it like its no big deal. Of course the real deal is far from what they think it is…Poor losers Buhahaha!

As all of you know,  I work for fashion and so I have this gargantuan challenge of always having to look like a million bucks. At least I could’ve been a designer, the bunch who are perpetually dressed as refugees and get the leeway of being the ‘creative’ lot and can live life as per their whims and fancies. But I ,on the other hand work as a freaking  buyer and I have to constantly attend trade shows and  business meetings with vendors. So I have no way but to look goddamn put together.

But I’m poor and I stay in so called ‘South Delhi’. God may not have given me the money but certainly gave me the brains to fake like I have loads of ’em. Everyday I spend at least an hour on my hair and makeup to look bomb AF.  Fyi, I have expensive products (courtesy: EMI on Amazon…oh what would the world be without you Amazon?) But I obviously cannot step out looking like that in our ‘South Del’ for I’ll be bombed. So I use like 5 scarves of different colors to wrap every part of my body and top it with a dirty old cardigan to sign off in style.  I carry my heels in a separate bag and wear dirty chappals. Basically I step out of the house looking like Deepika padukone on the inside and Ranveer Singh on the outside.

As I enter the Metro Station everyday ,  I notice people looking at me with a variety of expressions. Funny, clueless, disgust, fear and even paranoia. Of course they have a reason..Delhi has the reputation of getting bombed every now and then, as if there is no enough mess already. But I don’t really care, as I’m not gonna meet these people again even if it means boarding the Metro at the same station everyday. India is a home to 1.2 billion people and the probability of meeting the same person twice at random is an improbable event except when your life is a Bollywood movie starring Shah Rukh Khan. I step into or rather pushed into the train and within a few seconds begin to gasp for breath. Being vertically challenged, my face levels with most people’s armpits and never have I felt so unfortunate in my life for being born a minion. After twenty minutes of battle between my nose and  sweaty armpits, I get down at my station to reach my workplace.  I quickly take an auto in the same mummified look and prod the already enraged autidriver (don’t ask me why enraged?  Everybody in Gurgaon is perpetually enraged. Just accept it and live with it)  to drive faster. Finally as I near my office, I hurriedly remove my Ranveer Singh outfits and slip on my heels. One day it so happened that the driver was so engaged in raging his way through the traffic that he completely ignored my shenanigans at the back of the auto. When I got down to pay the money,  he asked ‘Why are you paying me?’ and ‘Where is the girl who I dropped here?’. It took a whole twenty minutes to explain that I’m the ‘girl’ ,with my near to pathetic Hindi skills!

With this,  I wrap up my fashion and travel post.  For all the b*****s who post fancy pictures in Seychelles and Maldives and mess up my stomach by aggravating my acidity, this is for you! On your face…

Malice in tinderland Part-II

Before I begin, this post is for you AK….He is one among the small group of people that WordPress lovingly calls ‘My followers’. This post is a part-II of the very first post I wrote here

For all my non-Indian followers, a small footnote: Tamilians are an ethnic majority in the southern part of India, and the main reason why Trump hates immigrants. (Because, when you are a Tamilian all you get to do is sit in the Bay area and write endless codes to save the Googles and Microsofts  of the world) With this bit of info, read on….

After he sent that text, I got very curious. Then I asked him how do you know that I’m Tamil? And he told me that he was kinda one himself as his dad was from Coimbatore, and he can easily recognise Tamil faces. I was actually offended at this revelation because even  I’m one among the 1.2 billion Indians who speak nationalism but wouldn’t take pride in buying anything that’s Indian. I love my language,  I love my people (or rather love to fake it that way) but hate it when someone says I look like one. With that began our endless chatting. We discussed our interests and  passion (Read: Just a whole bunch of lies to seem really cool). After an hour , out of the blue, he asked me ‘Do you smoke?’  I got enticed and typed YES! He was like, ‘Oh in caps and all huh?’ I told him I smoke just two everyday and try to keep it that way because  nicotine addiction is crazy ( especially for girls, with crazier jobs) and I don’t want to become a living chimney. He replied saying , ‘Ewww so you thought I meant cigarettes? ‘,I replied ‘yes’ in my usual affirmative, know-it-all self. It was then that he clarified that he meant pot. Ohh,now I get the California connection,I thought.

The next thirty minutes were spent in him educating me on weed edibles, the kind you would find in Amsterdam. This guy somehow managed to smuggle them into India. He asked me out and we fixed our date the very next day. He told me that he would bring the edibles along  and I was ‘only’ super excited, nothing more….(In the meanwhile I ditched the poor IIMian who I led on so much, and didn’t feel even an iota of guilt about that. Yes, I am what guys fondly refer to as ‘BITCH’ in all caps)

The next day I woke up to get ready for office. We fixed our date after office at 7 pm. I did not think much on deciding what to wear because I was more interested in the edibles than the guy.Also I got this vibe that we are gonna end up as good friends and nothing beyond. And also, I didn’t wanna look like I was trying too much. Nothing is hotter than looking effortlessly hot, I thought. I just paired my super distressed skinnies with a white tank and spent only an hour on my hair and makeup . I strapped on the highest  heels that I ever owned. And then, after all these efforts,  I did look effortless. I reached office and resumed my usual business of putting on earphones, switching on some music and straddling off to oblivion far from my obnoxious colleagues. The day passed and then ‘The clock struck seven , I ran down….Hickory D**kory  Dock’.

He was waiting downstairs and  we greeted each other with a customary handshake.Then we got in the car and began our Odyssey with Bangalore’s traffic. Yeah, if there was a contest between Odysseus and Bangaloreans as to who would reach their homes first, the former would win hands down. Any  Bangalorean would vouch for this.The traffic was turning out to be nightmarish as I’m a good talker but a very poor conversation starter. Yeah, I can’t handle uncomfortable silences. But the Vincent Vega beside me couldn’t get any better. He did not roll me ‘one of those’ but definitely fed me one of those. ‘Time for the edibles lady’, he screamed and showed it to me . I freaked out. It was a tiny white pill and looked nothing close to pot. I popped one and it tasted like what could’ve if Mentos slept with pot and decided to sleep with it forever. After that, a sudden feeling of panic struck me…’this is not some date rape shit right?’ I asked him. He did not say anything, instead he gave me a creepy smile…..a very creepy smile…a very very creepy smile……

P.S: Don’t worry, I survived that night…maybe just enough to share my story!

Fenty is Stronger

Over the years,  we have witnessed multiple instances of collaborations between musicians and fashion brands. Ideally fashion brands enter into such associations when they are trying to revamp or give some diversification to their brand, amongst many other reasons. The companies  choose influencers who would strongly resonate with the kind of personality they have envisioned for their brand. More often than not, these associations turn out to be a one-time affair and subsequently vanish into the darkest holes of history. This can be attributed to multiple reasons, the most popular one being, lack of any visible significance in the outcome of the collaboration. Such reviews occur due to poor relevancy between the two collaborators, lacking in thought and good judgement ultimately culminating in the rhetoric ,’What on earth is this celebrity doing with the brand?’. In today’s post I will be writing about two such fashion collabs which have caused much stir in the fashion industry in recent times.

People always prefer to start on a positive note. I beg to differ. The reason being , you can appreciate light only after experiencing the dark. You need a yardstick to compare how good is too good.

If being a successful rapper and a husband to a fame lusting social media queen are reasons enough for someone to become a fashion designer, then sorry folks, we are nearing the age of Fashion apocalypse. Expediting this apocalypse is the fact that Kanye’s show caused a lot newbie designers to reschedule their slots in NYFW to ensure maximum press coverage for his line. Hedonism personified, it may seem but it garnered front row audience in the ranks of Anna Wintour,  the high priestess of the fashion industry of our times. Coming to the designs, (should we even call them designs?) they seemed like creations  that would be perceived as an excuse in the name of fashion ,clearly lacking innovation , creativity or anything close to aesthetics. The show was a parade of miserable human beings which made us seem like we stepped into Trump’s worst nightmare- starving refugees. However, the line proved to be a commercial success with the Yeezy boots selling out in seconds after they went live. This also explains the brand’s collaboration with Kanye for the fourth time despite rantings from almost all major fashion powerhouses. Sadly in a deeply commercialised world , we have to believe in the vox  populi-opinions or beliefs of the majority. This can only be termed as a gross humiliation to fashion , further foddering the belief that fame and money can achieve anything. Nothing more, nothing less….poster_med0000000A.jpg

On the other hand, our bad gal RiRi once again went on to prove that she is the undisputed queen of swagger and badassery with her FentyXPuma line. I was particularly thrilled at her latest collection displayed in the  AW17 Paris fashion week . The line was themed ‘School kids gone rogue’ and ‘What would you wear to detention?’. Wow, how cool right? That’s so Rihanna! The collection mainly consisted of cropped hoodies (cropped enough to get you a detention), flannel skirts, full length puffer jackets, teddy bear backpacks and Rihanna’s favourite thigh high lace up boots. The collection screamed ‘Rihanna’ in its loudest tone. It was the perfect amalgamation of high school innocence coupled with wildness.The show was set in a bibliotheque which was in perfect sync with the line. This show would definitely  go down in history as one of the best collaborations that perfectly reverberated with the influencer’s personality without compromising on the brand’s ideology. To sum up, this collaboration is proof that we need more Rihannas and less Kanyes  in the world of fashion!

Some of my favorites from the show….

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Oral Diarrhea

“Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned”


Said someone with a wise mouth. I have seen insanely insane amount of girls trying to cope up with bad breakups, cheating boyfriends, men who can’t man up and so on…. I have seen them running out of words to express their wrath. I have had friends who call me up and ask me to rape their exes with words to make them feel better. I have caused so much of carnage in the ‘EX’osphere that I thought I would extend a helping hand to people who seek my skills. This post is for all you girls out their on the look out for asshole stakes to rip your boyfriends off. Basically , I cant afford anymore of 3 am calls with rape requests…(Below are a few common instances of “after breakup” conversations)

Without much ado, here we go…


Me: Dude, cant you man up? Do you even have a D?

So called ‘man’: What do you think your friend was sucking on for the past four years??

Me: Toffees, I guess


Ex: Baby I miss you

Me: I’m happy that I missed you…

Ex: That’s so mean

Me: That’s so me..


Ex: I miss cuddling you…Is there anyway we could fix this?

Me: There is a hole in the wall right across the street. You can fix it there…


Ex: Baby I’m sorry I messed it all up…Is there anyway we could straighten this up?

Me: Are you able to get it straight up in the first place??…Because you couldn’t the last time I saw


Ex: I didn’t really mean to cheat on you…It just happened

Me: Are you sure gonorrhea ain’t communicable? Cos I don’t wanna get it through phone by talking to you

Hmm…so I guess I have pretty much covered a few of the stereotypical conversations that would happen after a breakup. Now you now what to say. Damn the nice girls…It feels great to be  a bitch…Trust me, it is…it is…

If you need anymore advice slash axe your ex dialogs, do like my post and follow me. TA-TA!!

Singled Out

Hey, I actually have a major confession to make. But please don’t judge me on that okay? With that promise let me tell you I have never been on a Valentine’s day date. Yes, never have I ever . No one except me would get a shot at the shots for this question. I guess it’s a curse , given that I have dated a gazillion men. However, on every V-day, I either had a major fight with my boyfriend/ was held up with some maniacal work/ was dating someone who lived in an oblivion where Valentine’s days ceased to exist. ( No kidding  but  if you have been following my blog for a while from now, you will be aware of the fact that I’m a douche-magnet, when it comes to choosing boyfriends) That being said, I’m not a quitter. I swore to myself that this year I cannot just Netflix and chill. I need to do something more exciting….

After a lot of deliberation, I finally decided to do something that  no girl on planet Earth would ever dare to do. Yes, drumroll please……ta-da-ta-da-da……For the first time in the history of Valentine’s days…I decided to take myself on a date. First things first, the most important rule of Masturdating is that you need to look hawt AF. That’s when you’ll get to be the other woman. And being the other woman while the guy drools and his girl groans can be one of the most exhilarating experiences ever. After hours and hours of mining my wardrobe ores, I finally managed to find something super sexy. I tried it on and to my dismay, I could see the biriyani I had for lunch sneering at me from my gut. So much guts…huh! Now I need to find my spandex. I looked at my wardrobe that looked nothing short of a bombing site at Alleppo. I momentarily gave up my idea of going out. But Im not a quitter. I love my job , I love my job….I told myself.

An hour passed,  and I had successfully suffocated my ‘pouting after a biriyani’ gut with layers of Spandex and waist trainers. I had also contoured my face so much so that people could actually practice rock climbing. After two hours of intense labour , I looked at the mirror to find that I looked nothing like myself. I felt so happy.

I took my mummified self to an ultra-hip club in Bangalore. I had already registered my name and my hoax date’s name on the guest list. I reached the venue and cooked up some c**k and bull story to the bouncer about how my date’s friend met with an accident and he will take at least an hour to reach. He seemed to believe in my pushed up cleavage more than my story. Somehow, he believed in something.And let me in.

The club was filled with “Pouticus selfieaddictum”, a degenerated variant of Homosapiens characterized by excessive use of filters and self obsession. Girls in all shapes and sizes were going haywire, scrambling for places with the best lighting to pout and click selfies with their significantly insignificant others. I chose a nice corner  to witness all this tamasha and also to check out potentially vulnerable guy targets. As I was observing , my guydar intercepted some  intruder activity. At the rightmost corner was a guy, hot looking and visibly bored after never ending selfie sessions with his dumb looking girlfriend. I could see that he was checking me out but wasn’t so sure. I needed closure.I got up , tucked my stomach in and started walking in his direction to facilitate him with a good view. I looked from the corner of my eye and figured that he was no longer being sly. He was full on checking me out and my heart leapt. I checked out back at him and started playing along. Then he gave me a smile,  a very sly but sexy one…all the while doing his due diligence of posing for selfies. Then suddenly his girlfriend spoke, ‘Baby get me a vodka na, with cranberry juice…’ He seemed irritated with the sudden interception and got up. He looked at me from the bar counter and gestured me to check my phone. I didn’t quite understand. Was he asking for my number? Anyway I decided to wait. He came back with the vodka and again gestured me to check my phone. What am I supposed to do? Show him my number in sign language? Suddenly I heard a loud scream. …Ewwww….his girlfriend started throwing up in the middle of the club. Disgusting. I don’t understand why some girls have to drink in spite of knowing they can’t handle alcohol. I got so disgusted that I walked away. After two hours and twenty sly-gazings, I felt accomplished and decided to go home.

I came back home and my phone started buzzing. I just realized I had switched off my data all the while. Notifications from Tinder it said. Somebody had liked me. The first picture said swipe right to see my face.  I swiped right. F***k, that hunk I first saw in the club.

Another day, another douche, I thought. And swiped right. My phone buzzed, ” Hey sexy!”