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!!


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




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!”


Many of my non-fashion industry friends conveniently assume that just because I work for fashion , they can get their wedding lehenga made free of cost. So first of all , to all the freeloaders out there…working for fashion industry does not mean doing embroidery on your lehenga.Neither does it mean giving free makeover tips to change your dorky personal style. You should understand that just because a miniscule fraction amongst our IT infested population works for fashion, doesn’t make them the Holy Grail of Fashion. I’Ll tell you why. For this you first need to understand the types of people you would meet at a fashion office.

(Statutory warning:Below are snippets from my personal observation of people while working with the fashion industry. Sorry ex-colleagues, if you happen to find uncanny similarities to the below characters,  please consider this post a work of pure fiction)

The Dumb belle from South Del:  The GK chick whose mumma is a designer (Read: trophy wife in disguise) and pappa is some stinking rich businessman. She is the girl who incessantly complaints about being a ‘moti’ and tries to deceive her size 8 body into size 2 clothes. If only talking gibberish burnt calories! She is also the girl who brags about her boyfraand getting her a Chanel on her birthday. Just wanna scream, ‘Hey that’s so faatch’

The Gym Femme: The workout addict who never dares to say the ‘You-know-what’ wOrd fearing an extra ‘You-know-what’ by the mere utterance of ‘You-know-what’. Open her dabba during lunch and you can probably rechristen her as the ‘Bear Grylls of the plant kingdom’

The Haunty: The haunting 40s something aunty with the seven year ‘hitch’. She might even forget to bring her laptop but never her menopausal hormones

The Missfit: The two most intriguing questions in life to me are: How did Trump become president? Does anyone have an answer-no. How did some people land in a fashion job? Do I have an answer-no. These are the people who wear ‘Pama’ the Indian cousin of ‘Puma’ , a rare species of black panther that jumps to the right in T-shirts sold in Indian hawker markets. I have one logic as to how these people got hired. Perhaps, they won a lottery which gave them employment as a lucky prize

The Gayshionista: Probably the only type in this whole list that actually deserves a place in the office. Dressed to the nines, these guys are always impeccable. However, you always feel so judged in front of them. If you think girls working for fashion are always dolled up, please note it’s not for their boyfriends to praise them or for their other colleagues to envy them. It is only for their gay colleagues to stop judging them.But guys you should also understand that it’s so daunting to get an A+ from your Gayshion report card everyday.

Okay, with this I’ll wrap up my post for today (cos I got lazy). Hope you will think twice before asking fashion advice from your so called fashionista friends. That being said, I guess I have earned enough bad karma for slandering my colleagues and ex-colleagues. I’m definitely going to hell .





Malice in Tinderland -Part 1

After dating (Read:’Duh’ting) a douchebag for four years,I got dumped and swore to celibacy for almost two years. I was so used to seeing all my friends canoodling with their partners (sometimes other’s partners too) all the time, but weirdly these scenes would never affect me.Instead I had the time of my life seeing eerie shadows of couples lurking near washrooms and making out on Saturday night parties. Gargantuan efforts to hook me up with random Toms, D**ks and Harries went amiss. Finally the time came when everybody concluded that the estrogen in my system was no longer working. I was mildly convinced at this statement and decided to test myself with Jamie Dornan’s CK campaign …and thank God, I was still doable. As all my past relationships have truly and earnestly earned the distinction of being complete catastrophes, this time around, I did not want to waste time in a serious relationship. So i went ‘Knock knock’ at the ‘Google of the despo world’-Tinder. On the first day, I went bonkers swiping dorks to the right and hunks to the left. Then with time, I became adept at swiping and started swiping at all places humanly possible- In the office boardroom, in the middle of my meetings, in the washrooms and so on.Finally, after a week , I was texting seven different guys all at the same time. Woah! I felt like a teenager all over again. I cursed  my douchebag-ex because of who I missed out on all this fun for all these years. I really got along well with this one guy from IIM. He was cute, funny and intelligent. Of course, I am a sapiosexual too – the benchmark criteria for being on tinder. If you have been tindering around for a while , you would have stumped across : 27, male, sapiosexual /25,male, I dont even know who a sapiosexual is but I’m still a sapiosexual / 19, ‘man-in-the-making’ kid, saposexual (trust me, sap-o-sexual…L-O-L)…So after going through all these ‘gruelling and harrowing to the mind and eye’ profiles, I came across this IIM-Aian , a true to his words ‘sapiosexual’. We had a good time texting and having long intellectual (sorry, the South Indian in me simply  refuses to die) conversations. He asked me out after three days of relentless ‘coming out in the middle of a bath to check for his messages’-texting and chatting, and I was super thrilled. So we had planned to meet at a high-end drink and dine place at Indiranagar (This story is based out of Bangalore , just FYI) on Friday. Meanwhile, it was Wednesday already and I was spending an uneventful (Read: as usual) day at office and opened Tinder. Some kid had ‘Superliked’ me. The first picture was rather hazy and poorly lit and all that I could make out was ‘a kid who badly wanted to hook up without getting caught’. I swiped to the second picture…OMG, not a kid after all. Great abs, great body and a hunk-in-the-making. I swiped to the third picture…OMG, amazing bike too. My ‘Guy’dar  sensed excitement and I began reading the description: Loves nose rings (Now I understand the superliking), would take you out for dinner even if you don’t have one. P.S: My bike is not in India . (Phew) . I have never dated guys below my age and this guy was four years younger to me. So, I decided to step in and test waters as a pedophile.I swiped right hurriedly and took off for a customary ‘ We do nothing but drink chai in a meeting’ meeting with my boss. In the middle of my chai, my phone shuddered. I slyly opened Tinder. It said: ‘Hi di'(Di is a sexist tamil equivalent of ‘yaar’ , just so you know)…F***k , how did he know I was Tamil?? Little did I know that ‘Hi’ was gonna change my life forever….