A Friend Named Octy

I am the victim of a squishy Octopus called depression. I am a Grinch in love with the damn Octopus.

Octy and I make a fine pair. We've actually been together since I was barely five. When it first befriended me I had cut my finger tips with a blade just to get my ma's attention. The wounds healed, ma didn't get to know about my act and Octy came to stay.

With its soft comforting squishy tentacles it lulled me into a state of gentle sadness. I gave it space to stay in my heart. A loner was born with only one friend who truly understood what emptiness was all about -Octy my depression pal.

Over time as I aged so did Octy and it lost one of its tentacles called self pity. Without that tentacle Octy became an invalid I remembered once in a while.

Octy became a childhood friend I tolerated by polite restrain. With a family and the world demanding my attention I had little time to spare and Octy slithered back into a silent corner of my heart.

Until one fine day certain circumstances made me go knocking on Octy's residence demanding attention. I needed the numbing comfort that only Octy's embrace could provide me. Old friends always forgave each other.

Octy acted as if I had never ignored him. He took me in and everything became sort of hazy.

It continues to be sort of hazy. You see, this holiday season Octy has come to stay by my side. We watch the world go by with a strange sort of painful sadness.

Proble is even Octy is not happy.

Who cares

I have big boobs. There is no denying the fact and there is also no denying that I like to wear clothes that accentuate my cleavage. Censureship doesn't come from the male folks but its the women who glare at my audacity to wear plunging necklines. 

They look, look away and look back again. Its as if I have either grown a third boob or they can't believe that I am wearing what I am wearing. Whats the big deal? It isn't as if I have a wardrobe malfunction and show my nipples or wear transparent clothes that show the fleshy mountains with cherries on top. I simply show bits and pieces of myself that I am proud of.

Thankfully I live in a free country where the look but no touch mantra works. And they look- they look as if there is no looking back and have words on their tongues dying to be expressed. But then again who cares. 

Did I say no Youtube videos?!

Crazy Monkey

My Newborn Blog

Here is the thing- I am not looking for readership. If you happen to stumble upon my site and read the shit I spew and still like it , well, then its your happy times funeral. It will be an addiction not of mammoth proportions but a silent sneaky what the hell is Blow writing this time around kind of an itch.

Foul language will be used, some hot erotic stories will be put and a whole lot of blow me posts will find their way here. So if you happen to be below eighteen ( you know all that legal shit), or are one of those born again religious sorts it would be good that you'd move on and pay me no heed.

There will be no advertisments on this blogspot- Google and co pay shitty pennies and I can do well without them. There will no YouTube videos, no Twitter connection ( oh yeah- Wired thinks Twitter and Face book are the rage- they suck ass) and no politically correct I must toe the fucking line speech.

So if you do happen to read my  blog and still wanna stick around then it will be at your peril. 

As of now I am alone here and its feels beautiful.

Eternal Pre-Madonnas

I have no patience for women who use tears and sweet words to get their way. With men it works every time. Seems men suffer from short term memory loss. Be it with their mothers, sisters , girl friends or wives. Well, simply put for every woman that cries there is a sucker of a man falling for her story.

Sweet words, simpering – I don’t know how to deal with it – desperation brings out the hero in them. The desire to wear the shiny mantle and ride into the sunset to save the distressed female sings in their blood. Its a cave man desire to be there for the underdog of a woman.

The woman who is forever simpering and cryin' – Wolf! come save me deserves polite indifference for there always is an agenda behind her cry for help. Be it for sex, attention or simply to assuage her guilt.

I know a few. The drama unfolds over weeks. Begins with taking to bed with phantom sickness, moaning and groaning, making phone calls, begging , tears – oh yeah you get the picture- its free Broadway tragedy played right with the heart breaking whimpers that even Madam Butterfly could never have enacted.

But here is the interesting point- while men fall for such theatrics women can see through the sham quite easily. Women know their gender. They know how their ‘sisters’ like to project helplessness and such women are hated with great passion.

And like I said before what works best is not being upfront and telling the Barbara Cartland babes to fuck off but to smile and remain polite in one’s refusal. It is after all a mind game and one shouldn’t lose one’s temper nor be upfront.

Imagine telling a premadonna  she is a hoax. To be called out as nothing more than a manipulative bitch would not end the act but worsen it. It would be an eternal Encore. These women are emotional vampires, the 24/7 distressed hussies who have the iron will to bend everyone to their will.

I for one refuse to play to their tunes. I was an ass once and refuse to be made another anytime soon.