Little have I mentioned about my education.
Even though it is part of the title itself.
I'm procrastinating.
I do not want to know about corneal ulcers. Which is a sure question!!! on my Ophthalmology finals.
I'd rather go for a walk, and have a cone ice. Cone ice, not cuppise, mind you.
Unfortunately, the world is filled with people who 'mummy' me (like one isn't enough).
So now I have to pretend I'm studying . Only I keep getting caught. Sleeping, not making love to my Ophthal text.
This is on the account of me doing combined-studies. Bad idea, by the way, folks. Now you have the additional guilt of letting one more person down.
Here's to you, Dr. Basak. Roast in hell, for having written this horrible book, when you could have just had a lucrative clinical practice, like other normal doctors.
Whatever. I'm Out-y.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Friday, January 11, 2008
Issh-tyle Uncheck.
Once upon a time, there were a group of girls who used to love doing things 16-year-old girls love doing; make-up, chocolate and rating boys.
These girls were over-critical of every single person who walked around.
'Ew, he's a 2.' 'A 2? Minus 2, more like!' 'Those pants. Those sad, sad pants meant to be thrown out in 1995. ' 'Okay, fake Gucci, fake Gucci, 5 o' clock position.'
Comments like these were part of their regular conversation.
And one day, these girls graduated from aforementioned Snob School and went on to universities to become engineers, architects, engineers, engineers, quacks and engineers. And the quack would be me. (Poli Daaktar).
On the first day of Quack School (fine, Medical College), I cried. Called my friends on conference call, and cried that I went to a Lower socio-economic Society college whilst they went to Anna, MCC and the like. My friends wondered aloud that LS people couldn't afford the daylight-robbery, over-exorbitant fee. And that I should give it another try. If only because the whopping capitation fee was non-refundable.
The crying was set off by the first person I saw in the classroom. This squint-eyed girl who had a white plastic flower on her hair, the kind you buy in Ranganathan street for two bucks (fine, five bucks). She sat in front of me, beads of sweat dotting her upper lip and forehead, taking notes diligently and she was blissfully unaware of her Body Odour.
I mentally switched off my olfactory receptors and turned to the Guys section. And immediately regretted it.
Guy 1: belonged in the '70s. White Jeetendra pants, pink-and-green shirt and a mullet hair cut.
Guy 2: I call him Ramarajan now. Self-explanatory. Chessboard shirt, with red and yellow squares instead of white and black squares. Karuppu MGR, I decided.
Guy 3: wore those kari-kadai bai (muslim butcher) blue-handkerchief as a bandana.
Guy 4, couldn't bear to see for another second. Ghastly memories.
Not that I claim that Vogue is my fashion bible or that I haven't had my fair share of bad hair days. I've been known to wear green eyeshadow to the operation theatre. And gaudy scarves, maroon lipstick, pink glitter in my hair...
Atleast I don't go around pretending I'm the height of cool. These people genuinely think they're hot/kool dukes (I'm guessing that means cool dudes.)
But I've gotten used to it now (if I can tolerate the meals plate in the dilaptated canteen, ANYTHING is possible).
I don't have to worry about my unwaxed arms. Or my flyaway hair. Or ugly salwars bought in the tenth standard. Or the calories in the bun-butter-jam (that's what you get in the rural area
where my crappy college is situated.)
Nothing matters much. I've let go of so many notions, pet peeves, idiosyncracies.
Just like I'm letting go of this post.
These girls were over-critical of every single person who walked around.
'Ew, he's a 2.' 'A 2? Minus 2, more like!' 'Those pants. Those sad, sad pants meant to be thrown out in 1995. ' 'Okay, fake Gucci, fake Gucci, 5 o' clock position.'
Comments like these were part of their regular conversation.
And one day, these girls graduated from aforementioned Snob School and went on to universities to become engineers, architects, engineers, engineers, quacks and engineers. And the quack would be me. (Poli Daaktar).
On the first day of Quack School (fine, Medical College), I cried. Called my friends on conference call, and cried that I went to a Lower socio-economic Society college whilst they went to Anna, MCC and the like. My friends wondered aloud that LS people couldn't afford the daylight-robbery, over-exorbitant fee. And that I should give it another try. If only because the whopping capitation fee was non-refundable.
The crying was set off by the first person I saw in the classroom. This squint-eyed girl who had a white plastic flower on her hair, the kind you buy in Ranganathan street for two bucks (fine, five bucks). She sat in front of me, beads of sweat dotting her upper lip and forehead, taking notes diligently and she was blissfully unaware of her Body Odour.
I mentally switched off my olfactory receptors and turned to the Guys section. And immediately regretted it.
Guy 1: belonged in the '70s. White Jeetendra pants, pink-and-green shirt and a mullet hair cut.
Guy 2: I call him Ramarajan now. Self-explanatory. Chessboard shirt, with red and yellow squares instead of white and black squares. Karuppu MGR, I decided.
Guy 3: wore those kari-kadai bai (muslim butcher) blue-handkerchief as a bandana.
Guy 4, couldn't bear to see for another second. Ghastly memories.
Not that I claim that Vogue is my fashion bible or that I haven't had my fair share of bad hair days. I've been known to wear green eyeshadow to the operation theatre. And gaudy scarves, maroon lipstick, pink glitter in my hair...
Atleast I don't go around pretending I'm the height of cool. These people genuinely think they're hot/kool dukes (I'm guessing that means cool dudes.)
But I've gotten used to it now (if I can tolerate the meals plate in the dilaptated canteen, ANYTHING is possible).
I don't have to worry about my unwaxed arms. Or my flyaway hair. Or ugly salwars bought in the tenth standard. Or the calories in the bun-butter-jam (that's what you get in the rural area
where my crappy college is situated.)
Nothing matters much. I've let go of so many notions, pet peeves, idiosyncracies.
Just like I'm letting go of this post.
Friday, January 4, 2008
And this too, shall pass...
He's just not that into you.
That's a book title. One of the million self-help books that help you heal and get over him.
The ridiculousness that Men are has spawned a multi-million dollar industry (in the form of books, Kleenex and cupcakes.)
I'm going to tell you a boy meets girl story.
Boy meets Girl. Falls head-over-heels in Lust. Pursues Girl relentlessly. Manipulates, brainwashes and bribes the Girl into accepting his 'love.' Girl really does start liking boy, in that way only women can. Boy gets bored, or decides that this is not what he wants for now (for ever, actually). And then, Boy dumps, and wakes up the next day, and performs his daily ablutions not knowing that Girl is crying her heart out. A pattern that would continue for at the least, six months.
This I've seen happening many, many times with my own two myopic eyes, I swear.
These humgously talented, Beauty Paegent-type looks girls. Being miserable and mourning for very-ordinary Average Joes.
It irritates me to no small degree. It's like King Midas crying for a lost penny. I'm supposed to say something comforting? "I'm so sorry he dumped you; now you have to settle for some gorgeous person who is in love with you instead of this immature, insecure idiot?"
Get over it. Really.
He dumped you. He dumped you for being loyal, kind and intelligent. I'm telling you, he's finally realized that he could never match up to you. And he does not want to be Shrek to your Fiona.
And believe it or not, THIS TOO SHALL PASS.
Cry as much as you want. Cry, sob, spread snot on your sympathetic friend's shirt. Then, wipe your tears. Dance to Puddle of Mudd 'She Hates Me.' (substituting She with He, obviously). Eat your favourite comfort food (mine happens to be baked potato).
Dress up. Flirt outrageously. Paint the town red.
But beware. He's still not going to want you back. But there will be a time when you wouldn't want him to want you.
Worked for me.
What you're really scared of, is that you might get over him. You don't want to get over him, because of that addictive feeling, a feeling that you name Love.
Listen to your mothers. It is the work of the Devil. (Shaytaan, Iblees, says mine.)
And there's another book you might want to add to your iBook list.
Be Honest, You're Not That Into Him Either.
That's a book title. One of the million self-help books that help you heal and get over him.
The ridiculousness that Men are has spawned a multi-million dollar industry (in the form of books, Kleenex and cupcakes.)
I'm going to tell you a boy meets girl story.
Boy meets Girl. Falls head-over-heels in Lust. Pursues Girl relentlessly. Manipulates, brainwashes and bribes the Girl into accepting his 'love.' Girl really does start liking boy, in that way only women can. Boy gets bored, or decides that this is not what he wants for now (for ever, actually). And then, Boy dumps, and wakes up the next day, and performs his daily ablutions not knowing that Girl is crying her heart out. A pattern that would continue for at the least, six months.
This I've seen happening many, many times with my own two myopic eyes, I swear.
These humgously talented, Beauty Paegent-type looks girls. Being miserable and mourning for very-ordinary Average Joes.
It irritates me to no small degree. It's like King Midas crying for a lost penny. I'm supposed to say something comforting? "I'm so sorry he dumped you; now you have to settle for some gorgeous person who is in love with you instead of this immature, insecure idiot?"
Get over it. Really.
He dumped you. He dumped you for being loyal, kind and intelligent. I'm telling you, he's finally realized that he could never match up to you. And he does not want to be Shrek to your Fiona.
And believe it or not, THIS TOO SHALL PASS.
Cry as much as you want. Cry, sob, spread snot on your sympathetic friend's shirt. Then, wipe your tears. Dance to Puddle of Mudd 'She Hates Me.' (substituting She with He, obviously). Eat your favourite comfort food (mine happens to be baked potato).
Dress up. Flirt outrageously. Paint the town red.
But beware. He's still not going to want you back. But there will be a time when you wouldn't want him to want you.
Worked for me.
What you're really scared of, is that you might get over him. You don't want to get over him, because of that addictive feeling, a feeling that you name Love.
Listen to your mothers. It is the work of the Devil. (Shaytaan, Iblees, says mine.)
And there's another book you might want to add to your iBook list.
Be Honest, You're Not That Into Him Either.
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