Callie On A Roll

Callie On A Roll

Callie was nineteen years old, and lived with her stepmother Joan, who had two daughters. Her father had passed away when she was only nine, a year after he’d married Joan. Things took a turn for the worse, and Callie ended up being the one that did all the chores, essentially becoming the maid of the house.

Callie was also a scholarship student, that was how she got into the same college as her step-sisters. Although she was way more intelligent than the other two, they never hesitated to poke fun at her. She took it in her stride and never complained, continuing to excel in school. Callie was well-loved by her teachers who were always impressed by her demeanor and how hardworking she was.

This continued for a while, with her balancing school and household chores.

But Callie, like every little girl out there, had grown up with a dream. She had a passion for music, and she could sing like an angel. She and her dad would often jam together before he died but with him gone, Joan forbade any sort of singing or music in the house.

“It reminds me too much of Karl,” Joan would say.

Which meant Callie could never sing or play the guitar with Joan or her daughters around. Callie had a guitar, passed down from her late father, the only thing she had left that reminded her of him. Everything else had been taken away from her and she held on to his Gibson like it were priceless. And it was. She would often play Summer of 69, by Bryan Adams, when her step-mother and step-sisters weren’t around. Callie had become really good at it. This hiding and practicing. Eventually she taught herself to play more songs and she would sometimes sing in the backyard when she thought she was alone.

One day on her way back from college, Callie noticed a billboard announcing an audition for a reality TV show. It was called The Right Chord, and it promised a fat check to the winner, along with an exclusive contract with one of the biggest record companies in the country. She was intrigued. She wanted to participate. Callie wanted to go to the audition and win and get out of her miserable life. The audition was on the very next day, a Saturday.

Joan got wind of the situation.

And as evil as she was, she set chores for Callie to complete, right on the day of the audition. After all, the girl wasn’t her own flesh and blood, anyway. Callie couldn’t say a word because saying anything would mean giving away the whole thing, and she didn’t want Joan to know. So she cleaned windows, tears running down her face, while Joan went to the grocery store, with a stern warning that she better get the house clean before lunch.

Five minutes after the she left, the doorbell rang.

Callie went to answer and saw Mrs. H, her apparently snobbish neighbor, who seemed to be in a rush, on the porch. Everyone said Mrs. H was a stuck up old lady who liked to keep to herself and waste her millions on her dogs.

She handed Callie a package.

“What are you waiting for, girl? Get that guitar, we’re going to that audition, so you better hurry. Dear God I hope that dress fits and those shoes fit. We can deal with your ma later!”

Callie was dumbstruck.

“T-thank you, Mrs. H!”

Callie gave the woman a hug and said thank you again and ran upstairs to change. Mrs. H owned a rather fast sports car, and the pair actually made it in time. Callie had a successful audition, and went on to do great things. She was a modern day Cinderella. The goal she had was not a prince, but freedom.

This goes to show that fairy godmothers do exist.

How Netizens Normalize Backlash

How Netizens Normalize Backlash

*TRIGGER ALERT*

The first time that I’d ever been told I was taking up too much space, I was a thirteen-year-old obese teenager. The obesity, I now understand, had been mostly self-induced. But did I deserve to be body-shamed for it? No.

Did the body-shaming stop? Also, no. It came from everywhere: relatives, friends, my then stick-thin geography teacher. Notice the emphasis on the “then”, because now, over a decade later, he is diabetic and chain-smoking to school while trying to hide those newly acquired chins. No hate, Mr. S, you do you. If you are happy, I hope nothing takes away from that.

But did I do something about the body-shaming? I did. I took it constructively and changed my awful diet. I am assuming Falguni Peacock would be proud and aglow with joy somewhere.

What’s the deal with Ms. Peacock, you ask? Well, take a look at this particular article here.

I have to be honest, I am sligtly conflicted here. This could potentially get me into trouble, but I am happy Ms. Peacock did not blatantly tell her brides to go on and lose weight, she only said they could if they wanted to. I have been there, and I know that being told to lose weight on the face is one of the curellest things you could tell someone. But then again people get triggered by so little these days, and the Internet ends up making everything a big deal. All the time. Also, I have said this before, people tend to harbor herd mentality that would probably make the Roman Mob, were it alive today, cringe like crazy. Just a few weeks back, designer Sabyasachi came under fire for talking about Tagore’s famous anthology, Monihara, where Monimala, one of the important characters, is obsessed with her own vanity and jewels. Sabyasachi posted something along the lines of, “A woman who is overdressed is empty on the inside,’ on his social media, and ended up facing a major backlash.

He had to issue a written apology on Instagram.

And just a couple days back, he released photos of what he calls Charbagh, his winter 2019 bridal collection on Instagram. The collection seems to be super inclusive, featuring models with varying body types, and he redeemed himself in the eyes of the public. But the Internet by then already had a new candidate to hate – Ms. Peacock. I can only draw one single solitary conclusion from this, that no matter what you do, or say, or post or talk about, or endorse and love – there will always be a bunch of netizens with serious mob mentality issues, many of them exhibiting borderline feminazi behavior, that will always find fresh targets to lash out at.

So what do you do about it?

You do you. If you’ve got nothing nice to say, say nothing. If you cannot comment constructively, don’t do it. Don’t endorse pile-on hatred. Or fall prey to herd mentality. Just be happy, healthy and slay. In your very own lane.

Happy weekend, my people. Don’t be a troll.

The Cycle.

The Cycle.

She gets severe bouts of dysmenorrhea on the fourteenth of almost every month of the year. Sometimes her moon, as she almost lovingly calls her period, gets a little late; sometimes it arrives early. She doesn’t mind, because she lives by herself in a shoebox apartment in some obscure part of the city. For now. And her boyfriend is busy working hard because he said he wanted to give her a good life. So she doesn’t mind.

After all, how would you even mind, when you’re not in your senses anymore?

It started some time back in the summer. She’d gone to sleep, clutching at her tummy, groggy from an intentional overdose of Mefenamic Acid. The last thing she remembered, as she blacked out, was the fact that she was contemplating getting a hysterectomy done.

She didn’t remember anything afterwards.

Present day:

A shadowy figure follows him as he exits work. He’s distracted by a text from his new girlfriend and he’s typing away feverishly. He doesn’t see it coming. He feels a sharp pain, and then the world goes black.

The shadowy figure removes its hood and stuffs the body into a body bag. She picks up the bag with superhuman strength and swings it over her left shoulder. It’s the last day of her July moon, and there’s an immense rush going through her body. She must act quickly. She no longer feels her dysmenorrhea, she’s conquered it. She’s also really good at being an anesthesiologist. Knocking people out is right up her alley. She picks up his phone next and turns it off. It’s a good thing the whole thing’s just happened in a blind spot where no CCTV cameras could sense it.

She takes him to her car, with him still in a body bag, and proceeds to stuff him into the trunk. When she’s home, she retrieves the bag, takes him to her room, removes his belongings and proceeds to pour acid all over his unconscious body. She fishes through the bag, finds a pack of cigarettes and a woman’s undies. Not only was he cheating on her, he was also cheating on the other woman. With some other woman.

She lights up a cigarette and smirks as his body corrodes on the floor.

The next morning, she wakes up to a very strong odor in her apartment.

Might have fallen asleep funny last night, she tells asleep, as she rubs her left shoulder. In the middle of the floor, there’s an almost completely corroded human form, and she has no idea how it’s gotten there.

Horrified and disgusted, she makes her way to the kitchen table. There’s a wallet lying on the counter top. With shaking fingers she looks through it, and with a shock realizes it’s the guy she met over the summer she last experienced dysmenorrhea. The same guy that had promised her a good life. Her boyfriend of four months.

I cannot believe you killed him Moon, she says, and it’s the last thing she says before she takes a knife to her own wrists, killing herself and her alter ego in the process. Dissociative personality disorder sometimes just wins in the end.

After all, isn’t it better to die with the one you love, than rot in a jail cell, all by yourself?

“Meat.”

“Meat.”

It says “wifey” right there on my Instagram bio. That never stopped a bunch of guys from sliding into my DMs because they wanted to tap that. Do these people NOT have parents? Do basic manners not exist in 2019?

Apparently not.

I ran an Instagram social experiment and paid to boost one of my posts. This is the photo I “boosted”.

As you can tell, there’s no skin show. Just my hands, my face and my phone. My phone isn’t showing any skin, either. I’m not someone that ever wears clothing that shows a ton of cleavage or arms. I’m not someone that even has a bikini body to begin with, so I don’t wear bikinis. And despite being so covered up, stuff like this didn’t hesitate to show up.

India has this rampant rape culture and my photo is PROOF in the pudding, that it’s not about what you’re wearing. You could be in a potato sack and your hair could be a greasy mess, and you would still get objectified and propositioned to, even flashed. There have been no naked photos in my DMs – yet – and I consider myself very lucky.

What does all of this mean?

That there’s something seriously wrong with India. If you happen to be a woman, you will be – invariably – treated as meat. There will be human versions of rabid wolves fighting to sink their teeth into your skin. To claim and to maim. To destroy, pilfer and damage beyond repair.

I hate to think of what would happen if I posted a photo of mine from my workout sessions.

And it’s terrifying to me that WOMEN, and sometimes men, have to live in constant fear of the possibly of getting attacked if they don’t go into hiding. The whole social experiment proves that it’s not about how you’re posing on your Insta, it’s not about how you talk, it’s got nothing to do with your personality – you’re basically just someone’s meat. And that’s the bitter truth.

This is what scares me to death.

When Did The “BODY POSITIVITY” Movement Get Hijacked?

When Did The “BODY POSITIVITY” Movement Get Hijacked?

I’ve been seeing a lot of “body positivity” posts that are promoting plain simple obesity to be honest.

It is one hundred percent okay to love yourself but it’s kinda wrong, you know, to stuff yourself and never get any exercise. I know people that follow unhealthy lifestyles, and fall prey to diseases like hypertension and diabetes type two. They justify their behavior and call themselves curvy and they’re leading you to believe that morbid obesity is the new normal.

When I think of body positivity, the first thought that comes to mind is accepting yourself, all of your imperfections. Albinism. Crooked teeth. Heterochromia. Freckles. Birth marks. Unibrows. Everything you were born with. Body positivity doesn’t mean making yourself unhealthy by neglecting yourself and taking a drum to the streets, announcing that being morbidly obese is the new normal. There’s a lot of obese people all over – sporting beer bellies, with BMIs that are over thirty, and having to battle things like atherosclerosis, because they INSIST on eating pizza every day rather than choose something healthy. They’d rather go drinking every weekend, than actually hit the gym to stay in shape. And they body-shame people that run Instagram fitness accounts. And they have hijacked the body positivity movement and they are now insisting that being unhealthy is super cool because that’s what being curvy looks like. I beg to differ. Here’s what curvy looks like:

And she’s far from being fat or unhealthy.

As opposed to this:

Your heart is only programmed to pump so much, don’t make it overwork and don’t kill yourself. How hard is that? It’s so important to cut back on alcohol and sugar, both of which do zilch for your body. I feel so strongly about this only because I used to be overweight and I was super unhealthy. But now that I’ve changed my eating habits and made a lot of lifestyle changes, I actually feel and look good. And it makes me happy.

What’s your take on this? Do you think the body positive movement has somehow been hijacked by the over-promotion of obesity?

Friday Binge: Movie Recommendations! *contains spoliers*

Friday Binge: Movie Recommendations! *contains spoliers*

It’s Friday, and it’s probably raining where you are – or it’s really really HOT, and you’re tired from a long week at work. And if you’re like me, you’ve also got zero inclination to leave the house. Which is why, you’re probably going to binge watch a lot of stuff and binge eat and then chill.

Here are five movies you might like:

• The Queen’s Corgi.

This one has to be my absolute favorite. An animated movie, about a Corgi called Rex, that belongs to the Queen of England, animated versions of Melania and Donald Trump AND cute little puppies? Yes, please. Also, Rexie gets caught up in the underground world of dog-fights. If you’ve watched Fight Club and loved it, you’ll love this cute movie.

• Murder Mystery.

Aniston and Sandler (sporting a mustache) are a husband and wife duo that get involved in a very Agatha Christie kind of plot. Hilarious, fast paced and witty, and not to mention that Aniston made me question my sexuality while she was driving the Ferrari, this is a must watch in my book.

• Cecil.

The story of a nine year old with a lisp will have you rolling on the floor laughing in certain places. The movie has a lot going on: from selling names at Horsey Orsey and a twisted principal and Michael Jordan, and the most adorable protagonist, ever.

• Shazam!

A fourteen year old that turns into an adult with a bajillion superpowers may not seem like much of a movie plot, but Zachary Levi is hella charismatic and has some of the best lines on screen. If you haven’t already watched, what are you waiting for? Also, you get cameo performances by Ross Butler (Reggie Mantle from Riverdale) and Adam Brody!

• After.

A coming of age teen drama, with “young Voldemort” Hero Fiennes Tiffin as the male lead is something you need to watch if you’re into romantic movies. His eyebrows do a lot of talking and the British accent is delectable. After also stars inspirational YouTuber Inanna as bad girl Molly, and she nails her character down to a T.

Have you seen any new stuff lately? Leave me a comment. Have a wonderful weekend, you guys!

10 Thoughts I Had While Working Out Earlier

10 Thoughts I Had While Working Out Earlier

• Ooh, when in doubt, post a listicle. I hate having to post when I’m not feeling creative at all, but I’m also doing the #365DayChallenge and I absolutely cannot break streak.

• I worked out for thirty whole minutes, why don’t I look like Chloe Ting yet? This Tingy isn’t working for me.

• Did it not occur to anybody else that the body positivity movement has been hijacked by people with unhealthy habits and who happen to be so obese that they think that’s the new normal? Or is it just me that thinks being morbidly is not okay and it shouldn’t be enabled?

• I need new gym shorts. I need new gym tights. I need thirty billion new sports bras in Pantone universe’s color of the year.

• Ooh, I’m going to eat some grilled cheese on Sunday. Why can’t Sunday come soon?

• I’m totally going bald because of excessive scalp sweat. That’s TMI, but we’re gonna roll with it.

• Zachary Levi is super cute. I cannot stop thinking about the fact that ADAM BRODY And OMG, Ross Butler from Riverdale had cameo roles in Shazam! Who else is obsessed with the movie?

• Speaking of movies, I wonder how many people have adopted Corgis after watching The Queen’s Corgi. I so want one.

• How often are you supposed to change your yoga mat?

• It’s been forever and I still don’t have the “11” shaped abs. I’m gonna go home and eat a whole tub of ice cream and regret for the rest of the night.

Stray Bird

Stray Bird

I was never one to fit in,

I was always meant to stand out

And never in a good way.

People do things for clout

And I don’t even know what I want

I don’t know what I seek

I have no ambition

I’m often powerless, often weak.

My parents told me I was a fluke

That I was a mistake

They taught me so much

But funnily, it didn’t take.

I try to fly with the other guys

And that never happens right

I fall back and I die on the inside

Every time I fall from a height

I don’t have a purpose

No goal that I want to achieve

So far I’ve been a lonely parasite

Only taking, with nothing to give

I don’t know when my life ends

But I hope it does soon

It’s lonely to be a stray

Nursing at your own meaningless wounds.

How to: Stay Civil with The Ex

How to: Stay Civil with The Ex

Most of us tend to have a lot of bitterness towards people that we no longer have a relationship with, the reasons often being:

• cheating issues

• trust issues

• money issues

• no closure

• all of the above.

There are friends of mine that have such bad memories with their exes, it’s hard to not be hostile. But then again, in a world that’s so twisted, rotten and divided, the least you could do is stay civil with the people you once loved. Here’s how:

• Forgiveness.

I’m not saying you need to go and become best friends with them: all I’m saying is you could be neutral and nice and not harbor murderous intentions towards them. No matter how difficult it is, the first step here would be to figure out a way to forgive them, if they’ve wronged you. Forgive yourself, if you’ve wronged them, and try not to repeat your mistakes. Life’s fair if you just let it be. Not to sound like a preachy moron, but it’s true.

• Closure.

Most past relationships often sour because there’s rarely ever any sort of closure. If you’ve decided to part ways, talk about it and do so. If you can’t talk about it immediately, give yourself and your ex space to heal, and then give each other closure. That’s how you end chapters. Clean. Messy endings are hella unsavory.

• Don’t badmouth them in front of your next.

This is where many of us make mistakes. Your new partner doesn’t need to hear you saying mean crap about your ex. Not only do they lose respect, you end up being bitter than ever.

• No rebounds.

This is the worst idea ever. You get into a relationship with someone new even when you don’t love them, and you’re constantly thinking of your ex and stalking them, and at some point there’s going to be this huge ugliness inside of you that won’t go away.

• Be friendly.

If you run into your ex, try to think of the positives. Be friendly if they say hey, but at the same time don’t let them back into your life unless you want to get back together.

Do you have a civil relationship with your ex? Or is it way more bitter than bitter coffee?

Pie.

Pie.

They met by accident.

He was taken, she wasn’t.

He had a tattoo of his pregnant girlfriend’s name. He was at the bar one Saturday night after a long day at work and the bartender was cute.

Numbers were exchanged.

The bartender was a rich heiress who liked to go incognito and pick up guys on Friday nights. The longer the commitment, the better. She had a fetish for men that had been claimed by other women. She loved to chew them up and spit them out. She loved to build them up, and then tear them down. She had a theory: you needed to know their story before you got into their pants.

Sexual freedom was something she was obsessed with.

She’d set sights on him the minute he walked up to the bar and downed his first tequila.

He loosened up after a couple drinks and said he needed to get away from his girlfriend of seven months. She said she wanted him. All seven inches of him. He was taken aback. He’d never met anyone who had such accurate assessment of the human anatomical calculations, before. She said she was a pro at it and they left the club, together, his drunken arm around her waist.

She took him home.

He was aroused and wanted to do it. She said she was hungry and needed to get some dinner. He suddenly remembered he was famished too, and asked her what was for dinner.

The last thing he remembered was a butcher’s knife and her saying, “You”, before he passed out.

Two hours later, she added some garnish to the human meat pie and drove down to the suburban home he shared with his girlfriend. She left a box on the porch with a note that read:

“I did you a favor: your loyal ass deserves better. He was a cheater.”