I can explain.
My wrist just stopped working. On account of all the writing I do. Outside of this blog. For a living. No, not carpal tunnel. Megaloblastic anemia, it is called. Yes, I know. Given my -- how shall we put it -- 'healthy'-ness, you would never guess. What can I say? Size doesn't matter after all.
The point being that I was advised to type as little as possible. Ergo, my absence. You know how promptly I blog otherwise.
On the bright side, turns out, there is a medical explanation for my Dory-like memory. It's B-12, dear readers, curse of the grass-eaters. So, because of severe and prolonged 'brain food' shortage, my neurons have been deep fried, says Patel saab, my doctor. Therefore the dizzying and mindless haze that is my mind. I knew it!
On the not-so bright side, since I can't get this thing in anything non-meaty, I've been spending most of my time outside Janaiah's house, waiting for him to awake from his drunken stupor so he can inject me with the blood-coloured shots that I've been prescribed to take (daily and then weekly and then monthly) for the next year or so. Failing which I'll slip into a coma, wither and die. Again, on the plus side, so now I can wait for Ryan Gosling to come and read to me. Yayy, me!
Did I tell you guys about Bumble Bee? So, after our Side Bottom left us, after seven years of loyal service, I felt much like when Goofy died, and I thought I'd never want to get another car again. But after contributing 88.9 percent of my salary (for the past four years) plus 4 phones plus an iPhone to Autos Anonymous, I thought it was time.
In April, after many tears and recriminations, I finally bought Bumblebee. By bought, I mean half-mine and half-Citibank's. Like an arranged marriage on Shaadi.com, I have been smiling for the camera and telling everyone how it happened so suddenly and fortuitously and what a solid match it is. But in secret, I wistfully stare at a Beagle every time it passes me on the road. That said, I have to admit, it's gotten easier though, I think I'm even developing an affection for Bumblebee. Like Aishwarya Rai, maybe I will realise that Ajay Devgan is who I should settle with, not Salman Khan. Never Salman Khan.
But coming back to the point. Oh yeah, I drive now. By which I mean I can make a car move forward. If it's small. And during the day. When it's not raining. On a one-way road. Which can reverse on it's own. And comes with a parking sensor.
In completely unrelated news, I have started making friends with watchmen everywhere. I have no idea why though.
Depp reminds me of a younger me. Not as much because she's a lot like me as it is because of the boys she dates. This, even before she tells me about the love of her life -- Ice man. I tell her he's not good news but she thinks he's The One.
I want to tell her, that I know from experience, he's not The One. That she'll date several more versions of Iceman and discover that she has a penchant for angst-ridden, over-achieving, smart-assed, two-faced, commitment-phobic, insensitive, egoistic, uncommunicative, jerks. That, he is simply The Type.
But I don't say anything. If she is me, she'll find out soon enough.
Oh, oh, oh. Also, for the first time ever, I think I finally know what I want to do. In life, I mean. Or, at least for the next two years. For a person who can't think far enough to plan her dinner, that's saying something no?
Now, to The Birthday. I'm going to be in Bombay so I can be with Jughead. And Aghori. (Both of whom are currently maintaining a radio-silence that's driving me mad but I'm hoping they'll come to their senses soon.) And Samwise. And Poison Ivy (Who I can count on for epic conversations.)
The last time I was in Bombay, I was standing on the insanely-crowded marine drive on New Year's desperately trying not to cry. The last time I had a birthday, I was in Goa, stone-cold sober and tragic and heart-broken.
So, anything above this and I'll survive 25.