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Sunday 2 September 2018

There is no point to this post

Really, there isn't. I just realized I am out of writing practice, my sentences are not flowing naturally, like they had a tendency to do, a few months back, when I was working on the worst thing in the world. (There was a project post that, which shattered my mental stability and continues to lead me to question my faith in everything and everyone, but imagine, this is still something I hate more). Basically, I had taken on the mantle of telling overpaid development sector professionals, having tax-free incomes in a global donor agency that women are people too, and deserve to be targeted, when designing development oriented projects. And how else to tell them, except through a 300 page, well-referenced document crawling with laboriously placed hyperlinks (placed by yours truly, over the course of the most traumatic 36 hours of my life), that is guaranteed to be read by no one. Not that I think anyone should read that garbage, even though it is, well-written garbage, where the words went shooting out.

Anyway, the point of this post is to write, write without censorship, and write without editing, and write without a plan or an agenda, to get back into the groove of just writing. Mainly because I need to remind myself that Plan A was to write, and that it is still possible to activate Plan A, while trying to salvage the Plan B I'm currently stuck in. No writing about the frustrations of Plan B though. Plan B is currently open on the same laptop, on a window that is definitely not incognito.

A lot of people I know have frustration and regrets. About not having enough fun in college, of having too much fun in college, of never learning an extra-curricular in school, or not taking enough initiative in class. I have all of those regrets, and more. My biggest regret is my ruined teen years - which I lived through like a hermit. I wasn't a docile kid by any stretch of imagination, who bottled up her unhappiness and lived under the thumb of tyrannical parents. Instead, I was an over-mature prude, who had a more severe moral outlook towards life, than people thrice her age. Hell I was such a prude, I never so much had a hormone addled crush.

Ok no, that's a lie, I did. For as long as I remember, I was sweet on the class topper. He wasn't a friend, just my occasional desk-partner who I got along reasonably well with, always a head shorter than me (we stopped interacting completely in high school - so I don't know whether that persisted), and always a few marks ahead. When we were little, all of my classmates had a crush on him - I swear all, even the boys. I think I remember people fighting to have him on their cricket team during long break. And sure, you might say, that maybe he was really good at cricket, and I'm not stereotyping - nerds could have athletic abilities too. Except, I'm talking about book-cricket, which, along with long break, maybe terms you don't understand. I don't have the patience to explain the intricacies of the game (long break was a 30 minute break to eat 'lunch' at 10:30 am, as opposed to short break, which was at 9, to eat a snack), but take my word for it, it requires neither smarts  nor athletic ability. Hence the only possible explanation is that the little boys of II-A (and then III-A and IV-A and V-A) had the hots for their longstanding class topper.

The point is that as we grew up, people moved away from the good, wholesome class toppers, and started crushing on boys who were far more stupid, and who would grow up to be far more conventionally attractive. I, on the other hand, continued my devout admiration-from-a-distance, till we graduated (I recently added him on Linked-in, which is apparently how I keep in touch with people now).

I liked no one in college. All five years, not one boy.

And since then I have had a grand total of two crushes (three if you count a passing fancy for a good-looking colleague that was a mostly pleasant distraction), both of which were again on the nice wholesome class topper types, and both of which have crashed and burned. I look at the first of these with some degree of fondness though - it would have never worked anyway. The second of these, is one of the only two men I have ever described as a cunt. And judged myself for pining over. And pined, I have.

Hence my regret of not living it up in my teen years - if I had exhausted my teen years with immature, ill-advised crushes, this nonsense would not have carried over to my almost-thirties. An age, where everyone else seems to be ready to get married and settle down while I agonise over Plan As and Bs and long for a completely terrible man, being near whom, basically necessitates that I surrender my mental stability and faith in everything and everyone.

Yes I know this is a waste of time, you reading this. See the heading - it's practically a disclaimer. 

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