Off to a better place, are we?

So I've been lucky to have a few amazing friends in my life. Some of whom have loved me far more than I could, in return. This one's about one such a soul - one that I forced into being my friend. And he turned out to be a bloody good one, that darned adorable thing. 

He turned out to be the kind of friend that you can talk to for hours without worrying if he's still listening - because you simply know he is. The kind of friend that you..or perhaps just me; that I'd declared was goofy and hyper enough to be my little brother. The kind that makes sure he shows you how happy he is to see you, even if it's only been five minutes since he last saw you. The kind that won't judge you when you eat chocolate at 3am or when you fall asleep sprawled across the floor. The kind that will make you giggle like a teenage girl irrespective of the shit the world throws at you all day. Importantly, the kind that will let you have the last piece of cake, the last slice of pizza and even the last lick of an ice cream and not hate you for it. Ok, not that I gave him a choice there.

The kind of retard who'd run into your arms despite having fractured legs, who'd stupidly and hopelessly try licking you in your face even after being sedated. The kind that would go to no end to churn out unbelievable amounts of energy just to show you how much he loved you, every waking minute of his life. You'd think it would be impossible for him to get anything wrong, but the bugger couldn't fight off some of 'em rotten viruses, I've been told.

RIP, love.

Now since I can't talk to him anymore, I'm going to disregard all kinds of logic and safely assume that he was smart enough to look this page up before making a permanent exit from here. 

For the crazy amounts of love and joy you induced into my life..and to our family's, here's a very mediocre, sappy and barely justifying message - We'll miss you more than you know it, you stupid dog.

On the Rocky Road to ..Hosur

Been forever, eh? It's almost if that budding li'l writer in me ordered a self-abortion. (No, you will not tell me I never really could write). But every once a while - twice a year, in my case - one comes across situations that make one want to vent. Vent so bad that one decides to write on her long forgotten blog. Wait, don't scurry away just yet. My traditional rant will follow right after a mild banter about the life of a 5ft-er in an MBA institution.

This entire post would be a miserable sink-hole, if I loathed my college. Yes, I am hinting that I like this college. (You didn't see this one coming, did you?) I actually have had a wonderful time in my four months here. That, despite feeling like I was being run over by a truck - in painful slow motion - every single day. But that's just the way post graduation rolls, they say. To cover the last four months in a single post is quite the task. Since day one, I've felt like I've been dropped onto an ice-rink with roller skates on. I'm still figuring out how the system works but dare I say, I don't despise the process.

There's several things I need to work on. For one, desensitization hasn't really happened. I still am praying, from the purest part of every living cell of my body, that somebody somewhere is working on a commode for public bathrooms that can be used without having to make any kind of physical contact with the device. Not that this place is unclean, but my bathroom-OCD still requires me to carry my army-kit of Dettol, et al and sanitize the damned place every single time. Another issue that needs a miracle-solution is my sinusoidal mood. Every other day, I wake up feeling like I fell from the sun and half expect 'Bad to The Bone' to play in the background as I enter class. But then, I wake up a couple of hours later feeling like Felipe Massa does after being ordered by Ferrari to sacrifice his ice cream for Alonso.

Oh, about the sleeping. Courtesy my randomly generated 'name', I've never really had a nickname. But if I do land one here, it will definitely be on the lines of 'sleepyhead'. The lecturers, the friends, 'em parents, the janitors and even me - I'm convinced I have a sleep disorder. I sleep through most of the day..and ..most of the night. I've managed to sleep through blood donation drives, exams, functions, speeches and conversations too. I'm not saying I'm proud of it but given how I can't seem to control my need to sleep at random times, a part of me is extremely curious to find out for how long I'll keep my first job. And the numerous that will follow. But I've got a backup plan in place - I've begun brushing up on Geography, I could teach. Yes yes, you can send your kids to me for tuition, once they've passed my 'How much of a bother is this brat?' test.

Plentiful assignments and the itch to conduct a case study on my sleep pattern aside, there's the regular song-dance-act functions that happen and I can confidently state that I've never enjoyed functions like these so much before. This one time, my friends and I were to sing a German-Christmas carol along with a few exchange students from Italy. That we did alright, but what we also did was recreate the song - Hitler style. And since I've gladly let the world laugh at me ever since I set foot on the internet, here it is: 

The actual song: http://youtu.be/6guVKTsmmBs

..and a part of what we made of it: http://soundcloud.com/merinduh/voice-0014

(This is also my official request for Hitler-meme enthusiasts to get in touch with me.)

Oh, have I mentioned I sound like a guy now? Laryngitis, I've been told. Four months into sounding like a horse, I've given each of my friends a solid reason to remind me that being born a female was a mistake. As if this wasn't enough, my hair - which has always had a mind of its own - has had a falling out with my scalp and doesn't wish to stay on it anymore. I have a strong feeling the water here in E-City has a huge role to play in this scuffle, but there's little I can do that won't go against my laws of laziness. In order to make up for these losses, the women-folk here insisted I watched chick-flicks. The results have been so intense, I'm going to scar my blog by admitting publicly that I liked them.

Which brings me to people. Everything that's wonderful about this place stems from folks here - and this comes from me, someone who's been allergic to people for most of her life. There are the roommates who're destined to become chefs specializing in dishes made from Cerelac, there's the pseudo roommates and the Brit-accented twin, the neighbour in class who already knows me better than I do myself, the obnoxious chap who reminds me of QuizCorp with every word that comes out of his mouth, the Dudes who drop references to everything 42 in Eco papers - assuring me that we as a team can bring down the world economy even before the EU can and there's my ball of sunshine who will dance with me - while smelling like a tube of mosquito repellent - in dimly lit corridors, to Bohemian Rhapsody and Beiber's Baby at 4am, instead of studying for an exam that would eventually mutilate us 5 hours later. There's the poet, there's the nerd : there's the unbelievably brilliant class, extremely talented, uber fun people outside of it and a set of amazing lecturers - I am NOT making this up and no, there is no gun being held to my head. Sometimes, even I get lucky.

Right, that's as nice and thankful as I can get in one blog post - now, I simply need to vent.
The Indian GP. For the last few weeks, I've been steaming so bad over this race, that I might as well change my name to resemble that of some Icelandic volcano. Talk to me about the Indian GP. Go on, I dare you.

Do you know that feeling when your best friend grabs the last slice of pizza while you'd been eyeing it for the last 7 odd minutes? Or that feeling when you just discovered that the girl you had been heavily crushing on declared she was a Manchester United fan, while you'd waited months for the opportune moment to walk up to her and tell her "you'll never walk alone"? Do you know that feeling when your heart sinks so low down an abyss that (if you failed your biology) you'd almost worry about having to excrete it?  THAT is how I feel when you ask me why I'm not going to the race. No, actually, that is how I feel when you mock me about how you're going to the race while I'm stuck in a town that's a skip, a hop and a jump away from Hosur.

As someone who's been excited about this sport and hence, the race track in her own country ever since the inception of the plan, it's immensely annoying when a 'newbie' F1 fan goes gaga about getting to see Narain Karthikeyan. You might want to know how to expand 'F1' and name a driver or two, before you walk up to me and get hormonal about India finally having a racetrack. Every sportsperson, every tech person, every movie star, every twitter-pun-master - heck, every nobody now talks of the Indian GP, despite not really giving a shit about it. And of course, they simply have to mention those passes they will be using to get into the track and cringe while 'em powerful F1 engines roar past them.

Initially, I thought the wannabe-aunties were #1 on my hit-list. You know, the kind that asked me "Why can't you go to the race? You call yourself an F1 fan?", with that repulsively disapproving look that could perhaps convince even me that I am no fan of the sport. But then our government decided it couldn't bear to not feature on any hate-list, so it's been out there feeding egos of the Lord knows how many people who obtain ridiculous pleasure in proudly chanting "F1 is not a sport". I sometimes wish I could give them all a break. Like a neat break bang in the middle of their backbone.

So in conclusion, flaunt your F1 ticket in my face only if you're prepared to deal with the consequences. Just so you know, I've been reading up on Voodoo and gathering material too.

Ever since my 'win a lottery' plan fell flat on its face, it hurts to see any sort of update about the race. The MBA schedule combined with MBA-driven-poverty have ensured I won't see the face of my childhood hero in Noida this month. Like Himesh Reshmiya would perhaps put it, no race no race - only mba only mba.

I'd decided to block every source of Formula 1 information and hide under a shell until the race was over, but then I chanced upon this. The video has Vettel taking us around the Buddh track and what can I say? For whatever reason, it was overwhelming. Have a look -
   

                                     

I love it how it sounds and how it looks. Like Vettel says, I can't wait for race weekend. I'm all set to lose my voice in the hostel mess(where the TV is) and be the sport's ambassador to E-City.

Dealing with relatives-101, please?

I've roamed this planet for almost 22 years now. Much learning has happened in the process. But if there's one thing I have absolutely no expertise over, it would have to involve dealing with members of human-kind who I happen to be related to. I admit in public today, I have issues with a majority(not all, of course) of my relatives and would love for a course that can teach me how to peacefully coexist with them.

Please note: according to Merin's dictionary,

Set(relatives) = Set(people you are required to meet oh-so-often because your ancestors and their ancestors got naughty) minus Set(cousins who are full of awesome)

I can list several reasons and examples why my relatives and I are like the Venus Flytrap and a tiny insect, but I'll keep this rant very short. One, they talk too much. I know, I know - I'm not exactly the quiet type ; my life's not just any open book, it's like that history text book that was thrust into your face ever so often. But you'll have to agree with me when I say relatives go overboard while talking about their daughter's friend's neighbour who got divorced because the husband couldn't cook well. And our subtle, yet repetitive signals of disinterest fall on consciously ignorant eyes! 

It's worse when they are under the extremely unfortunate misconception that they know it all. We've all been through the "Ohh, you've gotten shorter! And..you've gotten wider" phases. Ok, I have. But I figured this mocking would come to an end once you were labelled an adult. Nope, I couldn't have been more wrong. Sample this. I met an aunt, not very long back, who asked me what I had decided for my future. I shrugged telling her I wasn't too sure. WHAM! That was the biggest scowl I ever saw. And then she went on, in endearing Coorgi, "You could not get a job? Your parents said your college was great?"

Me: "Well, I did aunty. This company called JP Morgan."

Her: "Oh."   "Is it good?"

Me: "Uh yes, aunty. It's a very good company, in fact."

Her: (draws a deep breath and..) "Don't worry, it's ok. Initially everyone starts off with a small job only. Small company and all doesn't matter, just try and get into some popular company in a few years."

As I stared back, half in annoyance and half in shock, she added,

"Only then you will find a good match no. Otherwise who will marry you?"

Immense.rage.  

Speaking of marriage, have you noticed how utterly shameful it is to not have kids exactly 9 months after marriage? I have a cousin who's been happily married for three years now. At every function she attends, there are these old/bored men and women who walk up to her and cradle an invisible baby in their hands and then ask, very animatedly, "Where?". She, being the excellent person that she is, manages to smile and wittily change the course of conversation. But having recently attended a string of functions with her and watching this activity happen repeatedly, I know I won't make it past one function without wanting to chokeslam somebody. Hence, (in an act to combat boredom and) to prepare for the inevitable future, I'm preparing a small list which I will present to my relatives, when they make babies out of polluted air in my presence.

Yes, here's - Why I will not have or take my own time to have a kid:

1. Genes. As whacked-out as I might be, I realise it would be horribly cruel to pass on this height to another human being.

2. I am pretty confident I will lay down absolutely no rules to the kid. If this catapults into the kid wanting to spend the rest of his/her life smoking weed, I wouldn't want to face my parents' wrath in my after-life. 

3. Passing on the same set of relatives? The kid might want to sue me for emotional damage.

4. Very simply, I have faced enough facepalms in my life already. I'm not creating more avenues or opportunities to mess up.  

5. If at all the kid came into existence, he or she would have to attend every fancy-dress/dance competition dressed like Bowie. Preferably,   

( Now Bowie's awesomeness probably reverses my entire argument, but let's remember that the kid might not be very amused. )

That should do, yeah? If this isn't enough to have my relatives label me weird and keep their windmill of gossip away ; if this isn't enough to keep my relatives from meddling with my choices for all eternity, I don't know what is. If this isn't enough, I'm going to look for and pay for classes. 

God knows I need them. 

Coorgi Rage!

Citing the epic sites Tambrahm Rage and Kannada Rage as inspiration, I present to you - Coorgi  (obviously) Rage.

Marriages = tests of patience.
  

Psst. In case this didn't go down well with you, let me tell you I am a very proud Coorgi. There is no offence meant. :)