Mandakini

Of course, this might sound like a post on the 80s. It is not, though my formative years were shaded with the voluptuous heroine, famed for her beautiful white face, with pink smudges all over. She was supposed to be the image of distinct prettiness, and kaka thought she was the prettiest girl in the world.

No wonder I did not like her much.

So I was coming back from work the other day and suddenly found my driver on his knees beside my car. Curious, I went in to see exactly why was he prostrate, and realized that this little, tiny black critter was under the damn car. The lights made it impossible for me to understand the species of my intended, but I brought it down to a cat or a puppy.

However, long moments of coaxing followed, followed by cajoling, and ultimately insults and poking. To no avail. The "dear, sweet thing" as my driver claimed, refused to exit.

Frustrated to no end, I exclaimed: "Dhur Nyaka Mondakini, Bero!!" ("Just get out, you pretentious Mondakini!" Yes, I know. Translation does not work here, does it??)

Wonder of wonder, miracle, miracle.

She came out.

So after that, I generally found her at my doorstep, which is quite a distance from her litter. She's the runt of the group, detested by her mum. So of course, I sometimes feed her.

Okay, I feed her quite often...

And I realized she likes my shoes. I am now the owner of three pairs of torn strappy slippers, thanks to a mouthful of busy teeth which loves nipping at me, going underfoot, and generally following me like the proverbial lamb of Mary (Which, if Mary was wise, she should have used to make a mean profit at the slaughterhouse). She also has become the light of my students' lives, who love having her with them, and brings her biscuits. Once the runt, she's become quite an expert manipulator. Even my personal mum falls for her. Dyammit.

Which is a problem. Of course, she is after my life. I am gracefully bearing it.

A song with no name for lack of imagination

janish janish janish. I love you.

just toldyou because I feel so confused and tired and I dont know maybe if my life wasn't going down the drains like it is now

I would not be sniffing and crying in front of the comp right now trying to picture your face in my mind's eye, and just feeling helpless. s****ms****m isn't it just a drearypainful thing to be helpless, knowing there's no one just no one who's out there to save you?

and yes, rescue syndrome is on.

but I can't help stop the visions of paradise. why why whyandwhy am i feeling like this i dont know. just tell me that i am not alone i am not alone feeling lonely and pained because the man i love is showing me pictures of another woman in throes of an orgasm.

I cant i canticant take this. dont ask me where the pain is going.

I dont know but i will probably go mad if i haven't already. tell me just tell me that i am not alone. i cant get no happiness re. no happiness. keno jani na keno jani na.


In the years to come, this shall be a memory too.

As a Friend said...

I walk like I am on a hunt. Its intimidating to unsuspecting males/females.

This is the same woman who once told me she considers her body to be a burden sometimes. With its millions of problem.

I looked in the mirror today and found those extra curves in my butt and around my waist and on my arms. I realized that I don't mind them.

When I was growing up, my body was one of the most mysterious things I knew. Far from unraveling and exploring it, I shied away from the mirror, covered myself in clothes far too large for my body, and put on glasses. I greased my hair with coconut oil, and refused to feel pretty. Too miserable in my own gloom, I used to think I was unlovable and that was the way it was going to be. Thanks to the upper body that refused to subside. Or the lower body that never seemed to get "right".

I grew up under the shadow of my mother. Literally.

The family unanimously agreed on her prettiness. She was the very beautiful woman. I used to think so too. My mother was, and probably always shall remain, the most beautiful woman I know.

But I never found her to be the most incredibly attractive woman. Strangely enough, the definition of a firm cheekbone attracted me far more than the delicate turn of an eyebrow, and the strength in a staunch pair of shoulders made me feel more happy than a submissive pair of downcast eyes. I grew up to stare at my self in the mirror, squaring my shoulders, lifting my chin, and walking on straight, without an apology for being who I was. All beginning at age 15 when I realized I needed to be proud, and not ashamed of what I was and who I was.

And thus began the walk. I still walk, shoulders squared, straight, without apology. I know that my body has thousands of problems in it, fitness and otherwise, but I somehow realize that they are all mine.

And I am quite proud of it.

Mixing logic

Ever thought what does it take to mix with the rest of the world?

This post should have been named mucous. What with all the hacking cough and slimy nostrils, The Panu is sick with it all. However, The Sister still rises. Over and over again through the night, and comes to plague her hapless Older One with seemingly endless question that end with Hentai.

Beastly Tales...

She is in the mists somewhere. In this darkness which she calls her home, her mind and her body mingles together in the cold rain that falls through the night. The moon is hidden there... in the darkness nothing is visible, so the sound of the rain falling hits the ear with a dull dripping prolonged note that has been stretched too long, trilling and tripping on its way.

She stares at this darkness that permeates parts of her. But parts of her refuse to be in the dark. They spread out, run out, the colours of the night barely hide the mad glints of her eyes, white as snow, still and terribly still as they focus on the prey that lurks in the darkness.

Slowly she moves through the mists, the darkness often cuts through to reveal the pale gleam of a ring, or the flash of feral teeth.

Slowly, and slowly she closes on her prey. She nears and nears and nears.

And then she pauses.

For there the Julychildren sat, staring at the laptop first, then suddenly looking up and an impish grin spread as they quietly closed the lid of the computer and ordered a glass of Appletini.

And hence ended the morbid tale that never was.