Eight things about Me me me me me me me

Because Pricky asked. And because, I’m feeling so unsure of what to do with me in this very undecidedly stretched moment that this actually seems like a good idea [I’m that into me].

So let’s talk about me. [Yay for you]

1.) I sort of sometimes like me a lot. At moments like these I am invariably overcome with a great tide of goodwill and gratitude for this most fortuitous [which is obviously word-of-the-week in these parts] and everlasting bond that me & I share. And the thought often crosses my mind that, oh my God if I wasn’t me I’d totally crush on me [if I were a bwoy] or be my bestest friend ever. I’ll confess that I even steal a few admiring glances at me in the bathroom. I can’t believe then that me and I are the same person!

2.) I sort of sometimes really dislike me. At moments like these I am wont to think, damn, if I wasn’t me, I’d totally kick my arse. At such times I cannot help but the rue the misfortune of having to spend the rest of my life with me. I also can’t understand then how me and I are the same person.

3.) I dislike shopping. Especially for clothes. And super-especially for me. I get tired. And when I’m tired, I’m not pleasant, because I snap. And I get crotchety. And I snarl. And I frighten away the people standing in queue for the changing room. Sometimes I just drop to the shop floor and throw my limbs about in a gigantic tantrum. The last shop I went to put up a poster. With my picture on it. I am now a local celebrity. I also don’t have many [new] clothes.

4.) I like shopping for shoes. But because I’m so picky, I get totally pissed off halfway through. Rephrase: But because I’m so pissy, I get totally piqued halfway through. [nice inverted something, na?] I don’t have many shoes either.

5.) I’m phenomenally, superlatively impoverished in the motivation department. I cannot be bothered to do ANYTHING. [this list is an act of extreme courage, inspired of course by a deep and abiding sense of self-admiration]

6.) Apparently I talk in my sleep. A lot. However, despite being my spokesperson, I really am in no position to verify this, so I’ll suggest you take it with a pincho’. As I do.

7.) I don’t particularly like the number 8 [but it really isn’t as bad as 4, so I can tolerate it] and I really really like the number 7 [almost as much as Iove 9, though not quite nearly as much] so I’m cutting this list down from 8, to 7.

And now darlings, if you’re smart you’ll never ask me to give you more dirt on me; because though I’m nice and all, really, we’ve had enough about me around here, na?

This post is Pink

So slot me, I love pink. Unless of course it’s biotic, festering, oozy and [growing] on a living thing.

So blinded am I by it, that all colours in its vicinity, even remotely blushing, are pink, as far as I can tell.

A year and a half ago:
X [incredulously]: that’s red H.
H [adamantly, singular eyebrow climbing high]: No, it’s pink, X, can’t you see, pink – reddish pinkish pink?
X [scowling]: No I can’t see pink. You see I don’t wear pink, I don’t buy pink. Not this shade of pink. I’m buying red. This is a red shirt. NOT a pink shirt.
H [shrugging]: Ok X, it’s reddish pinkish pink. [smiling at the shop assistant] could you pack it please?

There was a time in my babyhood when I had a pink collection that resided in a large polythene bag. One of those shiny throw-away plastic bags that visiting aunties and uncles bring from abroad stuffed with all sorts of exotic gifts, which all Indians like to collect [Well all Indians in my family. So, I’m not slotting, I’m just telling.] Anyhow, it was much larger than me and it was pink. A toxic hot flushing, gushing pink, that had BIG PINK stamped across it in glittering disco letters. Into this bag went all manner of pink things. A used toothbrush, a crayon, dried up felt pens, a couple of coloured pencils, a grotesque shiny plastic egg, erasers, clips, bits of satin ribbon, dried up nail polish, plastic bottles. Any bit of discarded junk I could lay my hands on, as long as it was – yes, go on, say it – *PINK*. On days that I was particularly excited [and I was, in the Sibling’s words, “an easily excitable child”] I would drag it around everywhere – from the bedroom to the dining room, to the drawing room to greet guests and perhaps, if I liked their smiles, allow them a peek into my yum-scrum-piggy’s-bum poppinsy pink collection.

So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that the only ice cream I ever ate till I was 14 was strawberry ice cream. And even today when I look at strawberry anything, it makes my heart do a tiny little skip and a hop and a twirly-go-round.

Predictably, my first nail polish too, was pink. A nice blushy rosy pink. I polished it off [how’s that for a smashing, skull numbing pun, eh? Not bad] it in less than a week. I spilt it, I sniffed it, I painted with it, I even carried it to school. There were blotches of rosy blushy pink all over my room, and for that one week the heavenly smell of pink was acetone.

Then there was this pink pig I once drew, that was the shining masterpiece of my babyhood. [okay, it’s reddish pink if you insist].

And of course my biggest fashion fantasy, since I was three, was this pair of pink corduroy bell bottoms. In fact I’d be matching them with blazing pink lip gloss and fussy shiny pink polyester shirts even as I type this if it hadn’t been for this one deeply scarring incident.

One day when I was 14, my father, with the kind of sighing, eyes-shut-because-it-must-be-done democracy all parents must exercise against their better judgement sometimes, because it is a good thing, said “all right H, this time it’s your turn to choose the colour of your room.” The sibling and I shared a room in those days. The sibling was an Elton John hating, 100%-in-Mathematics scoring genius, with a million boys kissing the ground she stepped on. A no-nonsense, arse-busting blue and grey lobbyist, with the ability to make those million boys wilt with a single sharp word. And I wrote diaries. I hadn’t a chance, I knew it, nevertheless, I replied valiantly under her sharply watchful eyes. “Errr, well umm, errr. Pink”.

The audacity. The shame. The terror.

For the next few years, I didn’t get to hear the end of it, long after that miserable pale pasty shade of nearly-white-pink [it had been mixed and remixed by a very nervous painter, under the Sibling’s severely uncompromising gaze] had gone six inches under various hues of grey, white and greyish whites.

For the longest time [till post-feminism became the concept, and the Sibling got a Master’s degree in it] I went completely underground with my pink fetish.

To cut the long of it much shorter, or as we say in these parts, to tie the pink ribbon on it, things have come a long way since. The Sibling now wears what in her words is “the perfect colour of nail polish”, a comely shade of pink. Happily, I too have revisited my passion for pink, albeit in a more controlled sort of way. I’m never going to own that pair of corduroys, but I’ve made sure my man wore an alluring shade of pinkish reddish pink.

So now tell me, you do understand what this means to me, right?

Yum scrum piggy’s bum.

That’s what it means.

Especially, since it’s from this very gifted, charming, passionate, prolific, engaging writer. A complete rockstar of a girl blogger who writes with the ease of a dolphin chugging beer between back flips, on topics so diverse, that it makes my head go tickety-boo with all the gay giddiness. [It must be the 7107 islands. I am almost certain.]

I simply cannot choose one single post that I like more than any others, because I really really like reading her, whether she’s talking about life in the Philippines, or about her family or about this really quirky, gory, gharsley comic strip she likes. But here’s one that’ll give you an insight to her vintage wit.

And here are the four rocking girl bloggers I’d like to pass this on to.

Barnsley girl: Another completely wicked Filipino blogger. She could put Margaret Thatcher to shame with her posts that are replete with scathing undercurrents of an utterly delicious wit that she delivers [this is where she score over Maggie] in the most sultry, can’t-be-bothered-to-be-stiff diva-ish tone.

Delhi divas: These girls can pick anything and turn it into an exhilarating journey of wondrous [self and otherwise] discovery. I mean, I’ve got to hand to someone who can make even the most embarrassing acne sprouting moments of an adolescence that is best forgotten seem like the most treasured memories of a lifetime.

Prude: A very fine discovery, her posts are gentle, thoughtful, and reflective in that soothing unburdened kind of way. Her writing, with its easy, non-sentimental, deft observations holds up a clear mirror to the honest and wonderful mind that she has.

AussiesNan: Post rocking girl blogger badge, I can only describe NanNan as a super-girl in a big pink cape flying with buckets of smiles and hugs to throw around, with her tightly ringed curls dancing gaily about her head like a fuzzy red halo, as she laughs and saves the day for many little girls and boys.

And now, to leave you with a fairytale ending. This rocking girl blogger badge happens to coincide, on this most fortuitous weekend, with the discovery of the perfect brick-red-pink nail polish for my toes that [so far] have invariably looked ghastly in EVERY shade of [almost] EVERY colour.

Yay for pinkish reddish pink.

The art of arseholery; or driving on Delhi roads

It isn’t yet part of the dictionary.

They haven’t yet started teaching a course on it.

All this of course, because the press in the west hasn’t recognised it and Harvard hasn’t published a paper on it.

But I am hoping that my modest little blog will do much to spread the word. We are, after all, the capital of India, which happens to be the second most populous country in the world, the seventh largest geographical-political state and the largest democracy in the world… so yes, do please look it up on Wikipedia and discover anew what a wonderfully variegated [and populous] world you inhabit.

But coming back to the point of this post, arseholery by definition is something that requires full participation – from head to arse. It is that fine single thread of concentration that strings your entire being from bottom to brain, requiring, if the early sages are to be believed, the wholehearted participation in an action with every blood vessel and neuron. So be warned, this is not going to be an easy ride. Driving on Delhi roads is no small feat. Certainly not something that you can pull off with your hands in your pocket and your eyes shut – which is actually how most of us here do it. [So begin to pay your respect already]

A few guidelines that I have found useful:

1.) There are no lanes. Demarcations and such are clever devices employed by the government to distract you.
2.) Red means go. Green and yellow are just part of a cryptic and pointless design aesthetic.
3.) A horn is a beacon. The further your signals go into the cosmos, the greater your chances of being noticed.
4.) The less contact you have with the steering wheel, the greater your manoeuvrability.
5.) Pedestrians are also part of the government’s clever scheme to distract. Pay no attention, especially not to little children who look beguiling vulnerable.
6.) Always, always enunciate clearly while swearing. People lose respect easily.
7.) If you’re going to insist on driving in a pair of breasts [which means you do not have that thing between your legs, which, as ALL of us in Delhi know, is the seat of logic, geography, road etiquette and physics] then at least have the good sense to stay off the road as much as you can.
8.) Finally, if anyone shows you a rule-book, inform the police. Anyone carrying such a document must be treated with the deepest suspicion.

If you’re looking for more about life on the Delhi Highway, this is a good place to go.

Meanwhile stay safe, and don’t venture out alone. There could be a Delhi driver on the loose, because wherever you are, always know, that there’s an Indian lurking in the shadows*.


* 1 among every 6 people in the world is an Indian.
[The veracity of this fact is subject to Shout laws, which state that if you have a problem with any fact stated in these parts, you may approach the court of Shout for a spanking. The bench is obliged to honour every request.]

Memories of a once sanguine whore

Apparently, I was once a courtesan. One of those dancing sirens who only service clients of royal descent. Powerful creatures, they are. Powerful and beautiful.

Of course, my life, presently, bears not the remotest resemblance to that distant time, save for one thing – I still like dancing in that roll-your-‘r’s-and-say-dirrrrrrrrteh way.

So apparently I was once a courtesan with many lovers. And one of them was a Nawab. He came aplundering from the Far East. He had this way about him. Wild, sexual, reckless, intense. He frightened me, and he drove me insane with lust and longing and something else. Something that I was afraid of. Something that could perhaps, maybe, sometimes have been love.

But I was a courtesan, wasn’t I? Courtesans don’t fall in love. They make love. Like wild ruthless temptresses, they plunge into their lovers’ fantasies, and drag them out by the follicles, stomping over delicately constructed, tediously drawn out relationships that are of no consequence in that place you get to, at the far end of pleasure.

Each night, noon and morning, starting late, starting early, not pausing a moment, he and I, we sported with one another, building and destroying moments of delight, diving in, diving out of skin and time. All the while falling deeper and deeper into a murky little truth.

I was. Falling in love.

I didn’t want to. I didn’t care to. It was wrong. It’s always wrong, I told myself. You’ll be finished. Done. Destroyed.

The life of a courtesan is built on tangible things. Not on stray thoughts and feelings and things that cannot be touched and kneaded and beckoned and pleasured and bought and turned and made and destroyed. Everything is destructible. Delectable. Tentative.

Such things are learnt at a tender age. Apparently. Even a courtesan’s life begins somewhere, doesn’t it? A somewhere that is predated by innocence and a dream of everlastingness. I too must’ve learnt the art of pleasure. And not unhappily I am sure. I cannot remember now. Or perhaps I haven’t the imagination to retell a long forgotten sequence of events.

So I must’ve learnt. To soften my touch and strengthen my heart. To yield honey from my orifices and seal my soul. And I must’ve been pretty darned good at it. Because I became a courtesan, didn’t I? Apparently.

Many lovers fell. I’m certain. Arrogance, like the heady odour of sex on silken sheets, doesn’t leave the soul very easily. So I can imagine this. That they milled around me, seeking more than what their touch could reach.

I'm certain I didn’t relent. I allowed them what they could pay for. But no more. I had no use for their fickly hearts. I didn’t loathe them. Not really. It’s always a pleasure to be appreciated for a job well done.

Then one day, he rode into the city. No. No ‘rode’ is completely inappropriate. He was brought to the city, in a chariot of velvet and gold, reclining and bored. Preceded and succeeded by a bevy of foot soldiers, courtiers, servants and sex slaves. That is how he arrived. I am certain.

I wasn’t impressed when they told me about him. Curious. Yes. About his money. Yes. He, I could imagine, was like any other Nawab. A gambling pleasure seeker.

I was right. And I couldn’t have been more wrong.

See, the thing or two that I had garnered about royalty is that they’re mostly like overripe fruit. Lush, squishy, pampered, and drenched to the centre with self-importance and alcohol. Or like foie gras. Fatty and spoilt. Tenderised to a point of disintegration – all for a moment’s pleasure.

Apparently.

But this man, the Nawab, my Nawab, he wasn’t like that. At all. He gambled, but differently. His recklessness was of another kind. The pleasure he sought was beyond grasp. That’s why, now in retrospect I understand, he was bored. Terribly. And it couldn’t have been more staid and expected – our first meeting.

He had heard that mine was the most sought pleasure spot in the city. I had heard he was the richest pleasure seeker in town. Messengers flew back and forth till one moonlit night, wrapped in shimmering sheets of silk, separated from the night by starry sequin clan muslin curtains, drenched in wine from far off Madrid, we met, like two jaded bodies ready for a long moment of joyless pleasure.

But something strange happened that night.

He made love to me. Not I to him. He sought to pleasure me. Not I him. And despite his large Nawably frame, he unravelled me with the dexterity of a nimble gymnast.

It bewildered me that there could be such an uncommonly tender, fascinatingly skilled, spirited yet spiritless lover. For the first time I felt swept away in a tide of pleasure that overtook my head. For the first time, I truly felt an other-worldly creative burst in the art of love making, that had erstwhile been largely mechanical and well plotted, like an over-practised, dispassionately performed piece of classical music.

[I also can’t help but ‘notice’ the archness of my analogies. I must’ve obviously fancied myself more than just an artisan of caresses. Not entirely, I’m almost certain, to the agreement of those subjected to these other dubious talents.]

And yet, for the first time, anyone, someone – he, refused to let me dip my fingers into his heart. Lovers, normally, are easy. Once you have them by the 'nads, you can pretty much strum twenty one hundred ghazals on their fickle heart strings and they will sing like bulbuls. Of course there are cynics too. While some have, as Gabo once said, a million chambers in their hearts to truly fall in love with each woman they have adored, there are others whose hearts are completely vacant, disused garages that house a few lonely lizards.

But this one, my Nawab, he was different. His heart seemed untouched by the excesses of his body. When he gambled, it did not matter whether he won or lost. Wealth would leave and enter his vaults like tempestuous winds on the South Seas, yet his eyes remained glazed over with indifference. When he lavished his body on orgies of the most delirious kind, his pleasure was superficial and his flesh unflinching. Because, as I came to read him more closely, I could see at all such times, his eyes remained unperturbed.

Grey green pools of a serenity that was impenetrable, they reflected, with uncommon ease, the depth of his thought and the consonance of his heart with his soul. And, they reflected a deep unrequited longing.

A longing that impregnated my being, and grew within my belly, making me nauseous each day with a deep uncertainty of the order of the universe as I had known it. Every morning, as my mind became convulsed with confusion and this new sensation of something growing within my heart, I felt increasingly unsure of myself.

Why did my life, as I had lived it so far, feel so meaningless?

Why was I willing to give up everything that I held of value, and for what?

What was this unnameable thing that was ailing my soul?

Why did I crave to be with my Nawab every moment?



Had I been aware with some semblance of objectivity of my state of mind, I would have perhaps not failed to notice the clichéd quality of the questions that besieged my brain. But little did I suspect that I was in the grasp of a scoff worthy, common place affliction.

Regardless of whether we touched or spoke, the desire to be in his presence within a glance of that grey green oasis became the most important goal of my existence. Each time I looked into his eyes, something stirred and kicked in my centre.

As for him, I noticed. I couldn’t help it, but I saw that as his gaze upon me became tenderer, his touch became more distant. The deeper I fell into his eyes, the further away he went.

Then one day, in a particularly turbulent throe of my daily delirium, I spoke my heart to him.

“Nawab, I do not know if you have noticed, but there is something that ails my heart.”

He continued sucking at his hookah, not saying anything. Just a steady rumble of water and fire in the belly of the smoking pot. Coming from my Nawab, this was a sound that I had begun to love; it filled the silent corners of my empty house and somehow brought back memories of the steady hum of a bustling household that lay buried in a nebulously distant childhood.

Petulantly, I continued, mildly chagrined by his refusal to respond.

“I find that I am unable to anchor my thoughts in a single pursuit, and yet my heart seems to know only one thing.”

I fiddled with the tasselled end of my braid nervously. I had worn a brilliant red tassel that I had been gifted by one of the girls. In the days since I had met my Nawab, it had become impossible for me to touch any of the expensive gifts that my artistry had earned me. Suddenly everything seemed tainted with the presence of others and in my present condition, the crowding ghosts of such meaningless memories that these objects carried became more and more distressing to my fragile constitution.

“It has become difficult for me to continue with the daily exercise of living as I have known it so far. I cannot bear to think of another’s touch, and I feel I must give up my present way of life to be at peace.”

His silence now gnawed at me, yet I continued.

“I believe I have come to love you Nawab, and my heart will have no rest until I know how you feel”.

Shortly after my uneven speech, without a word of farewell, he left. The next morning I sent a messenger to his house.

He returned with news that I expected.

“Bibijaan, the Nawab has left with his entourage. No one knows where they have gone. The mansion looks as if it has lain empty for a year and a day.”

I dismissed him in a fit of rage.

I tore down the muslin curtains and burnt the sheets of silk. I stopped eating and sleeping and I refused all those who came to my doorstep, till soon even the last servant was dismissed and not a soul was seen outside my shut door.

Consumed with a raging fever, I swore that I would have my peace. Even if I had to stumble through the ages, I would find him and make him love me.

“Wander as far as you will my beloved, for each time that we meet I will lavish my love upon you, so that one day, when you are weary and brimful with walking away, you will return.”

I never saw my Nawab again in the few remaining days I had.

***

As I lay in my deathbed, in the silent company of my fevered thoughts, one moment returned with such frequency that by the time I abandoned my breath, it was the only thing that I could perceive.

The last time my Nawab laid his hands upon me, minutes before he walked away, he cupped my face in his palms, holding it just inches from his and he gazed deeply into my troubled eyes. In that moment, for the first and last time I was swallowed whole by a grey green deluge that had abandoned its grasp of serenity.

His eyes. They shone with something that though I recognised, I could not place. It hadn’t struck me then that they reflected that same deep ache that had undone me.

Stress point and suchlike gravitas

Some ties are just meant to break. Some people are just meant to get hurt. And for the longest time, it isn’t clear who’s been hurt. More.

Some people believe they are lucky that they aren’t told off. They have ostensible choices. Stay if you will. Leave if you will. But the flux of circumstances is so turbulent that remaining in that time and space becomes impossible. To remain in it would be akin to allowing yourself to drown or get swallowed whole by a python, bit by bit. Or a boa constrictor. Even a big vacuum suction pipe, the kind they have in vacuum cleaners – only much larger. [Such likenesses – of being sucked in that is, as you can tell dear reader, abound in nature.]

So you must pick up your scattered brain, your trampled heart, gather up the miniscule shreds of your dignity and make ungainly haste on doddering knees towards the exit sign. There is of course no plan yet of how you are going to stitch things back together. There is no plan of where you are going to cast this patchwork self. Just a hypnotic exit sign that throbs a primordial pulse through your broken bits. Leave. Leave. Leave. Now.

When annealed glass is shoved mouth-end into a long colon-like furnace and treated to temperatures of about 680°C over the length of the furnace’s intestine, and then evicted into a strong blast of cool air, it suddenly develops stress points.

A stress point is a point which if lightly tapped, will make an entire sheet of glass shatter into a million pieces.

Ironically, after it has developed stress points, it is far more difficult to shatter such a sheet of glass, unless of course you know the exact location of the stress point – which is invariably somewhere at the centre, roundabout in those parts where the heart is. Or should be.

Tempered glass, it’s called. 4-6 times stronger than normal annealed glass. Safer, because if and when it breaks, the pieces are so small and blunt that they cannot cause much damage.

But, where was I going with this story?

Remind me, I’m not sure anymore.

Bergamot & Brain Pâté

Update: Thank you all for your lovely wishes. Much at variance with my regular pissy demeanour, I am rather excited and beaming as I type this. My sweet, generous and hugely talented friend Ben has just given me the loveliest, most charming blog birthday gift! Thank you so so so much dear boy. This figures up there with the BEST gifts I've ever recieved in my whole life! [I think I might just adopt you instead of Eminem.]

***
Today at Shout.

Do join us. We’re celebrating one year since we came together to rant. In sickness and in health, through good times and bad times.

R-B-o-H and L-B-o-H request the pleasure of your company on this happy occasion. We’d like to thank you personally for providing us with some of the most delicious repasts at your blogs. They’ve kept us sated and active with less time to tear each other apart. We might even have grown to love each other, thanks to your encouraging presence [but we shan’t be making any hasty statements about this, yet].

We’d love to regale you with a charming speech, but for once, neither of us has anything to say, which is a good thing, because at least we aren’t disagreeing.

So for each one of you, here’s a hug, a cup of Earl Grey [spiked with whatever you like] and a gift.

Prat – a purple rose
NG – a crystal marble
Winding Faith – a silver paint brush
Lizza – a pinch of magic moon dust
HB – a lime green speedo thangy-thong [check with Barnsley Girl] & a book for D
Barnsley Girl – a pair of wings
Migs – a silver tipped ink pen & a pot of dreamy blue black ink
Pricky – a toy Bentley
Ben – shiny red pants for Hafrank, and a diary
AC – a very public blog
Nan – a ride across the horizon
Prom bwoy – a large black cloak
Julia – an enchanted telescope
First City – gold pins to go around
LJLC – a bag of Columbian coffee
Robert – a Harley Davidson [toy]
Kathryn – magic boots
Prude – a sequin studded frock
Non-sensei – a chocolate Easter egg
Zap – a universal hitch-hiking license

And for two of my most loved silent readers who don’t blog [you know who you are – of course you do, duh! What I’m saying is you know I know you know I know it’s you]

A flying carpet so you can travel anywhere anytime, and follow your dreams and your heart.
A wishing ring, so you can be home, whenever you [or I – as is always the case] wish.

Oh and, darlings, brain pâté to be served fresh, of course, as the guests start trickling in.

Gurgle.

Dump

He knows he’s being a loser. But it’s like trying to control your bowels in the middle of a fulfilling dump.

Did he just say dump? Man, this is just so farkin’ Freudian. Annoying pissy bastard little Freudian phrase.

Just when he’s feeling deeply. Brownly. Lump like.

It’s a Saturday night. Last Saturday they were at Turquoise Cottage. Arguing. But they were together. Right now he’s not in TC. He’s not with her. He’s drunk, but not happily. And, he’s watching a cheesy soppy shitty daft wouldn’t-watch-it-even-if-the-last-action-hero-was-long-extinct, romantic film on HBO.

Jennifer Love Hewitt has just died on arse-whose-name-he-doesn’t-know. Arse-man was her husband and he was an A-class bastard to her when she was alive. Now arse-man is in regret mode. No. actually he’s feeling seriously screwed. He’s bargaining with angels to get her back so he can show her how much he truly deeply madly loved her. Loves her.

Hollywood. Ha.

If only.

But isn’t that precisely why rude-arrogant-presumptuous-hollywood-arse gets to haggle with angels while he sits here like a potato on a bloody couch feeling deeply for arse-man; sobbing, farting, drinking like a bastard and blowing kilos of snot into reams of toilet paper.

He’s just lost his girl too. Rephrase. She dumped him. Like trash. And there’re no angels fluttering conveniently around his snot-swollen head, feeling his pain.

But whaiiiii?

He loves her. He loves her very much. So so very very much. Just like A-class bastard here, who loves Jennifer Love Hewitt. His heart feels like it will burst. He’d die in a second right now if somehow it could prove to her how much he cares. If she’d just give it one more chance.

Why’d she do this to him?

Well ok, so they’d been fighting a lot. Okay so he agrees he hadn’t been paying much attention to her. Ok fine, yes yes, he accepts that he’d been obnoxious, a lot, lately. But, but he loves her, na? Doesn’t that count?

Nobody understands. Nobody.

Oddly enough this B-grade film seems to have been made with extraordinary sensitivity. And that song he heard on the radio while driving home. It just somehow spoke to him. Of him. His pain. Enrique Iglesias’ pain. ”D’you know what it feels like, loving someone…” In his head he repeats the chorus between sips of whiskey, nodding to the beat “D’you know, d’you know, d’you know…” He’s never going to deride Enrique ever again. At least not privately – in that inner sanctum where he really doesn’t think or believe half the things he claims to.

Like right now he doesn’t believe that miracles aren’t possible. Fervently, deeply, passionately, he doesn’t believe that it can’t be.

Minus minus = +. Plus. Positive.

Miracles. Are. Possible.

Man. This cheap ass whiskey is really going to cork up his bowels tomorrow.