Happy Women’s Day! (?)

It was 9 in the morning and I was deep in sleep when a barrage of messages popped up on my phone, one after the other, all of them wishing me a happy Women’s Day. And, all I could think was “Oh, joy.”

Now, don’t get me wrong, being a woman is not bad. But I honestly don’t think there is anything in my life worth celebrating. And I wanted to text back to those people who woke me up this morning with their pointless messages, “What is so great about being a woman that you want me to be happy about it?”

Which brings me to the question – Am I happy being a woman in India?

The answer, of course, is no. It is a huge understatement to say that equality has not been achieved in my country. This is true because of various reasons, not the least of which is the fact that gender roles in India are steeped so deeply in cultural and religious views. When it comes to women, India has always had more rigid parameters than the Western countries. I mean, the obviously evil practices of sati and child marriage weren’t abolished until after the British decided to colonize India. Western influence has been good for us in a way.

So, women are considered equals in the Western countries, right? From a very young age, my generation of Indian youngsters have been raised to believe that the men and women of Western countries are shameless, wild people, running around fucking anything that comes in their way. Granted, they do have a very laid back attitude to sex. But in our eyes, they are promiscuous, perpetually horny people with no modesty or family values. Whereas in India, we pride ourselves on our modesty. Virginity is considered sanctimonious and holy especially when it comes to girls. But in western countries, women are not judged based on whether or not they’re virgins. They are not expected to give up their careers when they get married. So, they have achieved equality, right? I don’t think so. Sometimes I find it hard to believe the amount of hatred shown by these “Western” men towards women on the Internet. Some of their opinions make them sound like they came right from cave men times.

But let’s go back to talking about equality in India. In India, women are still expected to cook and clean and wash clothes even though we get the same education as men, the same wages as men and work at the office for the same hours everyday as men.

When I was fourteen, we had guests over at our house one day. When it was time for lunch to be served, my mother called me up and asked me to set the table. I had been watching something on the computer with my brother. I remember whining about why my brother got to keep watching the movie, but I had to do chores. My mother always asked me to do these household chores like folding clothes, serving food to people and washing dishes. It always bugged me when she didn’t ask my brother to do anything. These may seem like harmless examples, but they matter. Equality begins at home. It begins with what we teach our sons and daughters.

Women were once full-time housewives. It made sense for them to take care of all household chores. But now, most of us have jobs, but still we are expected to slave away at home. I know for a fact that many of my lady co-workers wake up several hours before their husbands do, just so they could serve coffee and breakfast to him in the morning. When will men stop feeling so entitled?

And speaking of entitled men, I have never seen my father do one household chore in my entire life. Lunch  or dinner? Someone has to serve him food. Even if it is just reheating food in the microwave, he has someone else do it for him. And after the meal, he doesn’t even pick up his dirty dishes from the table, let alone wash them. Someone else has to do it for him. But the worst part is that my mother cleans up after my father with no complaints. It doesn’t occur to her that it is not normal to act this way. My father drops his dirty clothes on the floor and my mother picks them up and washes them. He litters the floor with trash and my mother cleans it up. My mother is like a servant in our house. Is this what I’m supposed to celebrate on Women’s Day?

Forget about the countless rape cases happening across India. What about treating women with respect and dignity at home? Stop looking at women as second-class citizens and the rapes and sexual assaults will definitely take a downturn.

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In the Mood

The weather is amazing today in Hyderabad. Usually, the days are dry and the nights are sweaty and humid here. But today, I was blessed with “inspiration weather”. It’s my favorite kind of weather. If you go out into the open, a pleasant chill will surround you, raising goosebumps on your arms, but it is not so cold that you need to bundle up in wool. The air is slightly weighed down with dampness, hinting at the possibility of rain. I absolutely adore this weather. To me, it seems to be full of hope and anticipation.

Whenever I get to experience this inspiration weather, I write. Because it is the best time for me to write. Inspiration weather fills me with, well, inspiration. It makes me believe in myself. My head brims with ideas. Energy floods my veins until I can’t stand still. Until I sit in front of a computer and empty my thoughts into it.

But today, I decided not to write.

I’ve never been the most disciplined of writers. I can’t start writing whenever I want to. Getting into the writing mood is a veritable struggle for me. I need silence, the right mental state and of course, the always elusive motivation. I write only when I absolutely have to. I write only when I can’t stand not to write.

But I’ve decided to put a stop to my old writing habits. Hereafter, I won’t write when inspiration weather strikes. I will write everyday at a specific time. No matter how “not in the mood” I am, I am going to write. I came close to giving up writing for good, but I can’t. It is too important to me. I will keep writing.

Warm Love, Bitter Truth and Cold Desolation

So I went home after a long time. I bid Hyderabad a happy goodbye and boarded the bus to my hometown. I had so many plans, so many things I wanted to do. “Dulhaniya Dilwale Le Jayenge” was playing on the TV. I love that movie. It maybe old school, but something about the movie brings out the romantic in me. The bus stopped at a highway restaurant at about 9 pm for dinner. I was eating roti and paneer butter masala with my dad, who was accompanying me on this trip (my mom has this crazy idea that someone might do something to me if I travel alone) at the restaurant when my dad got a call. It was bad news. My forty six year old uncle had just died of renal failure.

In my twenty two years, I haven’t had to deal with a loved one’s death at any point. Granted, I wasn’t very close to my uncle. We had exchanged a few words at family gatherings and that is it. But I was very close to my aunt and she had just lost her husband. Also, the fact that someone whom I had seen just a few months back is now dead made me feel lost and unsure about my own life. It wasn’t a full-blown existential crisis, but it was close.

The day I arrived at my home, we packed our bags and left for Tirunelveli. The mood at my aunt’s house was depressing. Me, being the selfish bitch that I am, couldn’t handle all the crying. I wanted to leave and then, come back when everything was better. But I stayed. I had to. I consoled my aunt as best as I could. After a day with the mourning family, we came back home.

My uncle had just died, but I was determined to make the most of my visit. I dragged my mom to restaurants and malls and street shops. Thankfully, my dad had some work to attend to, so he had left town for a couple of days. If he had been with us, he would have brought our spirits down to rock bottom.

I spent a lot of money and didn’t feel guilty spending it. I had delicious home cooked meals. I spent hours talking to my mom. It was wonderful. My mom who had been miserable living alone with my dad seemed to like having me around. Then, my dad came back.

My dad has this power to make everyone around him wish they were somewhere else. I had been so happy to come home, but when I started to spend time with him, I wanted nothing more than to take the next bus back to Hyderabad. I am not quite sure if I completely hate my dad, but I hate at least 99.9% of him. He is loud, obnoxious and rude. He picks fights with everyone. He is controlling. He is paranoid. He treats his family like shit. He is a top-class asshole.

A few days later, I left for Hyderabad. I felt sad and guilty about leaving my mom with my dad again (for some reason, he doesn’t treat her so badly when I am around). But I couldn’t stay in that house any longer. It was depressing.

It had been a weird trip filled with death and heartache and love. On the way back to Hyderabad, I kept thinking about what I took away from this whole experience. But the truth is – nothing. I still feel like the same person. I haven’t been enlightened. I have one less person in my life and I still can’t stop thinking about how much I hate my dad. I still can’t stop trying to isolate myself from others. I am a lost cause.

Girl With Daddy Issues

I came across a quiz today about the relationship between a girl and her father. This got me thinking about my relationship with my father.

I’ve already said this a million times in my previous posts, but I’ll say it again – I don’t trust people easily, especially men, and the reason for this is my father. I used to be pretty close to him until I was ten, eleven years old. As I became more mature, my relationship with my father also began to morph.

My father has never been a particularly affectionate person. Even when I was close to him, I was scared of him. He is like a ticking timebomb – no one can predict when he might explode. Yeah, he is short-tempered, but he is also unreasonable and paranoid, which is a very bad combination. He is also dominant, loud and obnoxious. He also used to hit me and my brother when he was angry. On top of that, he has what you might call a male sense of entitlement and pride that all Indian men seem to have. This sense of entitlement makes him treat my mother like a servant – as if her sole purpose in life is to cook for and clean after her husband and kids. He trusts no one but himself, not even his wife and kids. He is also, I’m starting to think, slightly delusional as he thinks God sends him messages, instructing him how to lead his life. He has delusions of grandeur because of which he believes that he is better/more special than everyone else.

Growing up, I didn’t get from him the kind of love and affection you’re supposed to get from a father. Therefore, I’m much more closer to my mother, which is something my father resents.

My father prides himself on his command over the English language. When I told him I wanted to be a writer, he told me I was not good enough. When I showed him what I had written, he told me I was still not good enough and asked me to give up on my dream. On another occasion, he told me that I was nothing special, that I was never going to be a writer and that I should do something more useful with my life. My mother is the exact opposite. To borrow a quote from “Juno”, no matter what, she still thinks the sun shines out my ass.

Slowly over the years, I have started to hate my father. I know for a fact my mother hates him. And my brother also doesn’t seem to like him very much, I think (Like me, my brother also doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, so I can’t be sure). So, yeah, no one likes my father, not even his own family. I just hope one day he can see how much he has lost because of his actions, but knowing him, that’s unlikely.

So, coming back to the quiz, here‘s a link to it. It has only ten questions, so it won’t take up too much of your time. Anyway, according to the quiz, my role in my relationship with my father is that of a “disappointed daughter”. How true. This is what the quiz has to say about me:

Your father might as well be a stranger you met in the street. It’s a chilly relationship between the pair of you, and you are quite aware of this. You are distanced from each other and there is no strong tie. You probably need to grieve for the father you can’t have and get on with finding the real you. You were, at least, given a certain amount of independence when you were growing up, and you have been able to get on with life despite the father-shaped gap. Yet this has also made you slightly distant with other people, especially men, who you always fear will disappoint you. You feel persistent regret at the fact that you have missed the chance to get to know your father. You started off with a negative image of him (perhaps encouraged by what your mother has said) but ended up blaming yourself, coming to the conclusion that you weren’t worth his love. You think to yourself: if my own father’s not even interested in me, what do I expect other men to see in me? Inside there is a little girl who doesn’t understand where it all went wrong. Your father has failed to do his job and he doesn’t know how to show his feelings towards you. Try and talk to him. Better late than never — it’s still possible to form a bond. If you have already tried to contact him and have had no response try to build your self-esteem and remind yourself that not all men are like him. Plenty of them would relish the chance to get to know you… and love you too.

Here‘s another interesting article I read about daddy issues. I can relate to many of the points highlighted in the article like “only dating older men” (I feel attracted towards older men), “confused expectations” (I send men mixed signals – the article nailed this point), “extremely mistrustful” (needs no elaboration), “sexual aggression” (I can be a little promiscuous i.e. I am a slutty virgin) and “Constantly questioning him about his feelings for you” (I kinda obsess about what guys think of me).

So, yeah. I am planning to read more about how to overcome my daddy issues. Let’s see how that goes.

How Can I Be Vulnerable?

For some time now, I have been thinking of myself as a failure as a writer. It was unconscious at first. I would tell my family and friends about wanting to be a writer even as a thread of guilt wound itself around my neck, choking the words inside of me. But nowadays, I don’t talk to anyone about my dreams because I have all but given up on them. I try not to let it bother me, but deep inside, I know I am a failure.

There are days when I chalk this up to my inability, nay, unwillingness to expose myself to others. I am THE most closed off person I know in this world. Hell will freeze over before I let anyone into my heart. The sun will rise in the west before I start trusting someone enough to share my thoughts with them. My friend “Daenerys” (That is not her real name obviously, but that is the first ‘D’ name that came to my mind) is the exact opposite. She wears her heart on her sleeve. I have gotten so used to hiding my true emotions from others that it comes naturally to me. When people ask my opinion on something very close to my heart, my first instinct is to lie. It is a natural defense mechanism. If people don’t know the truth about me, their words and barbs won’t hurt me. The flipside is that the truth and lies have gotten so entangled I can hardly distinguish them anymore. My mind is a convoluted tangle of thoughts.

This character trait of mine, I believe, is not something an artist should have. For example, take Fiona Apple. I don’t know if you have heard of her, but she is one of my favorite singer-songwriters of all time. She is an amazing artist whose songs are raw and full of emotion and passion. She has been in the music industry since 1997 or 1998 and it is a testament to her astounding talent that every single record of hers has been critically lauded. When I listen to her songs, I feel like she has taken what is going through my mind and illustrated it in a way more beautiful than anything my mind could ever create. Take her song “Every Single Night” for instance where she sings of how her mind works ‘every single night’.

Every single night
I endure the flight
Of little wings of white-flamed
Butterflies in my brain
These ideas of mine
Percolate the mind
Trickle down the spine
Swarm the belly, swelling to a blaze
That’s when the pain comes in
Like a second skeleton
Trying to fit beneath the skin
I can’t fit the feelings in
Every single night’s alight with my brain

I am at my creative best only at night when the world is quiet and peaceful. And the above lines perfectly illustrate how I feel when I am creating something – whether it be a chapter in my never-to-be-published book or a pencil portrait of someone. The emotions which the art brings up inside me threatens to fill me and burst out of me in a wave and when I am done creating, I feel spent as if I physically exerted myself.

I hope one day I will allow myself to feel things like Fiona Apple does. But this begs the question – are those who have suffered deeply the only ones capable of feeling so deeply? Fiona Apple was raped when she was a teenager and she also suffered from anorexia. Having been brought up in an upper middle class family with overprotective parents, I can’t say I have ever suffered deeply. Does this mean it’s simply impossible for me to feel things so acutely?

Maybe Science Fiction Ain’t So Bad

In all my years of reading books and watching movies and TV shows, there is one genre that I have avoided like the plague. And that is Science Fiction. Sue me, but I just don’t find spaceships and laser beams that interesting. Which is why I haven’t watched ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’ yet in spite of my cousin brother insisting that it is a confusing albeit wonderful masterpiece. I can count on one hand the number of Sci/Fi movies I have watched – ‘Inception’ which I watched only because Leonardo DiCaprio was in it, ‘Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind’ which I watched only because it was classified as a romance movie and ‘Chronicle’ which I watched by accident while I was channel-surfing. Okay, maybe there are more, but these are the only ones that I can come up with off the top of my head. Anyway, my point is that Sci/Fi is a big No-No in my dictionary.

At least it used to be.

See, I just started watching this TV series called ‘Firefly’. Maybe you have heard of it, but in case you haven’t, it is a science fiction show created by Joss Whedon of ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’ fame. Here‘s the Wikipedia link for the show, if you’re interested in knowing more about it. I’m here to talk about why I like, nay, love this show.

Simply, ‘Firefly’ is about the lives and adventures of the crew of the Firefly-class spaceship Serenity as they zoom through space engaging in illegal activities like smuggling. Honestly, when I first heard what the series was about, I wasn’t that interested. So I didn’t watch it until a few days back when God-knows-what made me watch it. And, let me tell you, I have been hooked since then. I don’t know what I’m going to do after I’m through with the fourteen episodes and the movie. I just know I am going to have a bad case of post-Firefly hangover.

A few awesome things about ‘Firefly’:

1) There are a lot of sarcastic quips in the show thanks to, well, most of the characters. And sarcasm, mon ami, is always my preferred type of humour.

2) Even though Serenity’s crew smuggle and kill, the show is ultimately about the triumph of good over evil. The crew have their own sense of honor.

3) Captain Mal and his crew live in a multi-cultural future, a fusion of Western and Chinese cultures. Hence, the characters speak English as well as Chinese in the show.

4) All characters are equally awesome. Although every character has its flaws, they all feel real. And they are all necessary to the plot. Except maybe Inara. She feels a bit like a last minute add-on.

Okay, that’s all I can come up with right now. Note to self: You’re bad at making lists.

Anyhoo, there you go, folks. This is how I’ve come to the realization that maybe science fiction ain’t so bad. So, now go and make yourself watch ‘Firefly’. It will be the best decision you ever made. Or at least one of the top five.

Passion

I have known passion. Passion that claws you from the inside, dragging its sharp nails through your innards, shredding your soul into bits and pieces; passion that makes your blood boil and makes you feel giddy with excitement all at the same time; passion which seeps through every living cell in your body, the only thing driving you forward in life.

I knew this kind of passion when I was fifteen, sixteen years old. I would long to come home form school just so I could read more books. I felt most alive when I was writing, building characters and stories in my head.

Now… Well, now, my passion has mellowed out. My life is no longer a simple equation like “dreams + free time = realization of dreams”. The variables have increased. My life equation now is more like “dreams + unavailable free time + working my ass off at the office + exhaustion + washing + cleaning + cooking + worrying about my future + listening to my parents worry about my future + maintaining good relationships with my school, college and work friends = realization of my dreams after a decade (maybe)”.

The sad truth is that even though I’m not chasing my dream (of becoming a writer) right now, even though I’m, as I mentioned before, working my ass off at the office, I don’t hate working in an IT company. It’s really not so bad. The people I work with are amazing and I actually have fun at work. Which scares me. I am afraid that I would soon become too complacent about my lot in life and not even attempt to attain something more. I have been feeling more and more guilty about this for the past few days.

And guilt, my friend, can be a powerful motivator. Guilt made me boot up my laptop and start a fresh draft of a story that has been building in my mind for some time. Guilt made me pick up my pencils and start sketching again. I wouldn’t say my creative juices are a-flowing like the River Nile, but they are definitely starting to trickle.

After the one hour writing sesh and another one hour of sketching, I felt spent like I had just had the most amazing sex of my life (I’m only guessing that’s what the most amazing sex of my life would feel like because, psst, I’m a v-v-virgin). I feel good. I feel light and happy.

P.S.: When I was writing this post, “Adam’s Song” by Blink-182 started playing in my head. Especially the following verses:

I never conquered, rarely came
16 just held such better days
Days when I still felt alive
We couldn’t wait to get outside
The world was wide, too late to try
The tour was over we’d survived
I couldn’t wait till I got home
To pass the time in my room alone

My Weakness

I love food. Food in any form. Soups, breads, biryani, pulao, curries, stir-fries, pastas, pizzas, burgers, fries, cakes, cookies and any kind of desserts, parathas, rotis, papads, milkshakes, icecreams, tea, coffee, milk, even WATER. Yes, I admit it. I am a foodie through and through. In fact, I believe everyone in my family is a foodie – my obese father who constantly criticizes my mother’s cooking, my timid mother who spends the time spent not cooking, watching culinary shows on TV and my brother who would rather have a slight paunch than control his food habits. Growing up in a family like this, is it any wonder that I have a relationship with the food I eat?

When I am miserable, I cry into a bowl of creamy macaroni and cheese flavored with just a hint of garlic and topped with herbs and chili flakes. When I am ecstatic, I celebrate by baking my world famous (okay, famous within my family) double chocolate brownies. Yes, I am that girl from Mean Girls – the girl who eats her feelings. On most days, I look fairly normal – not fat, not skinny. But there are days when my feelings run amok. On those days, my hands constantly reach for the fattiest food items that I can find and stuff into my mouth.

Last week, during all seven days, my feelings were running amok due to some personal stuff (which I will share on my blog later, if I feel like it). And now I’ve gained a few kilos which, trust me, look like a few dozen kilos on my small frame. So, starting today, I am going on a diet indefinitely until I feel like I’m skinny enough. Or until I get fed up with eating low fat food, which is more likely to happen.

When I diet, I don’t suddenly start avoiding the fattening foods like yogurt, chocolate, potato crisps, cheese, milk bread etc. I would if I could, but I can’t. Instead, I switch from normal fattening foods to less fattening foods – low-fat yogurt, sugarless chocolate, baked potato crisps, you get my drift.

So, I went on a little shopping trip to the local supermarket today to buy some dieting prerequisites – whole wheat crackers, baked chips and diet nutrition bars to snack on during hunger pangs, sugar-free natural fruit juice, fruits, whole wheat bread, low-fat yogurt, nuts, green tea etc. When I was cruising the canned foods aisle, next to a jar of canned apricots, I saw a familiar yellow-capped jar with pale brown contents. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help it. My hand reached for that jar of creamy peanut butter as if of its own volition. I told myself “You’re on a diet. Put it down right away.” But my traitorous hand wouldn’t let go of the jar. I stood in the middle of the aisle staring at the jar of peanut butter in my hand as if all the mysteries of the world were written on that sunny yellow label on the jar. My rich-food-starved mouth was already watering, anticipating the taste of that creamy, divine flavor on my tongue. After a couple more minutes of staring at the jar (which caused one of the salesgirls to look at me weirdly), I arrived at a compromise. I wouldn’t buy the big 450g jar. I would go for the smaller 330 g jar. Although I felt good about myself for not going for the bigger jar, I knew I would finish it off within two weeks and I would come back for more.

Yes, I might love all kinds of food, but my real weakness was the harmless sounding peanut butter. My self-control vanishes when peanut butter is around. It is like I am Jack Twist and PB is Ennis Del Mar, and I wish I knew how to quit it.

Getting Reacquainted

Before yesterday, I hadn’t read a romance novel in three years. That’s a big deal because I used to be crazy about romance books, especially when I was a teenager. I used to read everything from PG-13 YA books to R-rated bodice rippers. I even gave the erotic stuff a try, but decided that they were not for me. Like porn movies, these books had a sex scene in almost every page and the plot was ridiculous and exaggerated. But still, they fell under romance and so I read them.

But slowly something was happening. Romance books were losing their lustre in my mind. Maybe it was because nothing much was happening in the romance department in my own life. Maybe it was because I realized how stupid most romantic books were. I started to hate romance books. I hated their formulaic plots and their cliched tropes and their misogynistic portrayal of women. Mostly I hated that reading romance books didn’t make my pulse race anymore. I hated that they didn’t make me hug a pillow and sigh dreamily anymore.

So, I gave up romance books and moved to other genres – fantasy, sci-fi, thriller, horror etc. Basically everything under the sun except romance. Sometimes a pleasant memory of me enjoying a romance book would pass my mind and feeling nostalgic, I would carefully pick out a romance book that had earned great reviews and start reading. But ultimately, they all let me down. I decided I was too ruined for romance.

Then, I came across a list of feminist romance novels on the internet. The term itself seemed like an oxymoron. How can a romance novel be feminist? It was like saying that a porn movie was a piece of cinematic art. But piqued, I downloaded a few of the books from the list onto my Kindle and started to read.

The first book I read was a novella called “Ember” by Bettie Sharpe. I have to say the book totally pulled the rug from beneath me. It was unexpected and absolutely enjoyable. I finished it in three hours and started with the next book from the list – “The Governess Affair” by Courtney Milan. At first glance, “The Governess Affair” seemed like a normal Victorian romance novel about uptight lords and ladies. But it is so much more than that. I haven’t finished it yet, but I can tell you this: I have thoroughly enjoyed the book so far.

Now, I’m not saying I’ve completely crossed over to the dark side… er, the I-Love-Romance side. I have both of my feet firmly planted on each side. Maybe the reason I hated romance books was because I was reading the wrong ones. Maybe the right ones needed a little effort on my part to be found.

On a totally unrelated note, Gerard Way’s debut solo album “Hesitant Alien” totally rocks and if you haven’t listened to it yet, you should get out from under that rock and listen to it. It’s a really fun record, I promise!

Roommates

Unlike a lot of people, I enjoy being alone. I love when I can spend time by myself. It’s like when I’m alone, I can finally drop all the masks and just be myself. It’s so peaceful. Even when I was  a teenager living at home, I didn’t spend hours texting or talking on the phone with my friends like other girls my age. I preferred reading a book or watching a movie on my own. My mother always thought this was weird for a girl of sixteen. She was always telling me to go and hang out with my friends. I knew I was different, but I figured once I grew up, I would start liking people’s company better. Well, I haven’t.

I’m now twenty two and I am still the same as far as I can tell. In fact, I suspect I’ve become worse. When I was sixteen, I would never be rude and ask someone to leave me alone so I can have some peace. Now, I would have no qualms doing that.

Which brings me to the matter of roommates. See, I would love to rent a room just for myself, but my infinitesimal salary doesn’t allow me such luxuries. I have no choice but to go for a shared room. But the thing is I am incredibly unlucky when it comes to roommates. I always get the bad ones.

My very first roommate was in college. To put it plainly, she was a passive-aggressive bitch. She hated it when I touched her things. And when I say touched, I mean touched. I didn’t use any of her stuff. If I moved one of her books from the table to the bed, she would give me the evil eye. If I was working on a project late at night, she would piss and moan about how she couldn’t sleep with the lights on and I would be forced to work outside the room just to be away from her constant whining. If she found hair on the floor, she always assumed it was mine and sulked. During exams, she would read ALOUD like a fucking kid and would get mad if I told her to keep it down. And when she was mad at me, she wouldn’t tell me if she was angry or what she was angry about. She would bang doors. She would intentionally take long baths so that I would be late to class. She would lock me out of the room and not pick up my calls. Man, how I hated her. I still do. Oh, and she also smelled gross. God, she was the worst roommate I have had till date. I’m glad my two years with her are over.

My next roommate was sweet enough I guess. She was not all that bad. But for the one year that I roomed with her, I didn’t get a good night’s sleep. Because she was always on the phone with her long-distance boyfriend at night, fighting and crying. Her snivelling sounds would reach my ears even when I was blasting rock music in my headphones.

My next roommate was okay. I have no complaints about her except maybe… No, strike that, I have no complaints about her. She was sweet, friendly and kept to herself. She took kinda long showers (I’m talking forty five to sixty minute showers), but it was a small price to pay. I liked her.

Then, there is my current roommate. I wouldn’t describe her as a bitch, but there is something definitely a bit off with her. She is still in college and at first, she seemed pretty nice. She seemed a bit nervous about rooming with me. Maybe I was her first roomie. Or maybe she thought since I was older than her, I wouldn’t like her. I dunno. Anyway, at first things seemed okay. But then the crazy started. She ate my food without asking me. She wore my shoes without asking me and now they’re all stretched out. See, I don’t mind my roomies borrowing stuff from me, but they have to ask first. Borrowing is a privilege, not a right. She rifles through my stuff when I’m not in the room. I paid for her dinner once and she didn’t return the money. She borrowed money from me once and when she paid me back, I didn’t count it. That was a mistake because the amount was lesser than what she owed me. She lies. She is manipulative. She nicks small stuff from me like clips. And on top of that, she doesn’t SHUT UP. She is constantly talking my ears off. In short, she seems annoying, unstable and untrustworthy. I want to move out really bad.

After working my ass off at my office, I just want to come back to my room and unwind. But I have to put up with this brat’s bullshit instead. Fuck me.