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vids
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Name: Vidya
Country: India
State: TN
Birthday: 11/2/1984
Gender: Female
Interests: GARFIELD --> the cutest cat in the world ....... ;
GUYS --> no comments :D ;
GUITAR-ISTS --> bryan adams and many more ;)
Expertise: - coming soon to a webpage near you -
Occupation: Student
Industry: Engineering
Message: message me
MSN: vids_r@hotmail.com
Member Since:
4/5/2004
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| I don't know how many people still visit this blog. But for those who do, I'm really sorry. Actually, this blog is a mirror blog. Well, it's my original blog, but then I shifted to Blogspot. I used to update this blog too with the beautiful technology we call copy-paste. However, due to various circumstances, I have fallen back on updating this blog. So, for the time being, all I can do is direct you to my other blog - http://vidiyeah.blogspot.com. I may resume this blog once again, but till then, all I can say is...
I'M SORRY!
See you at Blogspot!
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| 18th September, 2004
8:00 am - I'm sleeping.
9:00 am - The phone rings.
I hear my dad crying on the phone. He tells me that my uncle is no more.
18th September, 2005
3:00 am - I'm trying to complete my assignments, often distracted by fond nostalgic memories of my uncle.
4:00 am - The phone rings. I hear my aunt crying on the phone. She tells me that my dad is no more.
The irony of coincidence? Or the sadism of destiny? I don't know. All I know is that I'm in pain. A lot of pain. Just like when a wound that has not even begun to heal yet has been hurt again. And I'm not sure how much more this heart can take. Nothing makes sense. But then again, I'm left with nothing. | | |
| Hey you, Westerner! Don't call me East Indian. Just because you're in the western part of the world, you don't start prefixing every country with an "East", do you? You don't call the Chinese, East Chinese, or the British, East British, do you? So don't call me East Indian. You might probably call people from the eastern part of India, East Indian, but we don't insist on it. So don't call me East Indian. Not because I mind being mistaken for someone from the eastern part of India, but for the fact that there is no such country as East India. It's okay to call people from West Indies, West Indian, because West is part of the name of their country. However, I am from India; the country being India. It's been a long time since the East India Company left my country. So address me as an Indian. It's not my problem if you have to be politically correct. Call the Native Indians in your country as Canadian Indians or American Indians. My country has been in existence for a lot more years than yours. So we are the original Indians. And you better just accept that fact. I'm sure if you were Canadian, you'd have a problem if I only called you North American, wouldn't you? Or how about if you were American and I called you South Canadian? I have blood that boils too. So don't call me East Indian. Or I'll start calling you names that would be far worse than just being politically incorrect.
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| Okay. This is the weirdest feeling in the world. I’m staring at my blog and I don’t know what to write about. Now usually, I only write because some topic irks me or urges me to write about it. Today, I want to write for the sake of writing. I don’t have anything to write about. But I want to write. And I can’t. I’m pulling a complete blank. It’s like constipation. You know you’ve got to shit but it won’t come out. At least, in that case, there is the potential of something coming out eventually. See? This is what I meant. I’m talking shit, literally! I don’t know what to say. I’ve been scratching my head over this for the past one hour. I’m bleeding now and that’s due to my one-inch nails. It’s interesting that earlier, I always made sure they were cut. And then I came to this part of the world where people paid to stick on some artificial crap to pose as their nails! I found that rather preposterous. I’ve never really cared about being nice to the people here and so it seemed like the perfect opportunity to rub it in their faces. 
You won’t believe the number of times females have gawked at me. “Are those real?”, I’ve been asked about a zillion times. It even took me a while to get used to the fact that they were only enquiring about my nails but my reply of “Yes” accompanied with a huge grin on my face sufficed as an answer to either. Nails. Intellectually stimulating indeed. Not that my writing is ever intellectually stimulating. I don’t think it’s meant to be. It’s really frustrating. This feeling. When you want to do something and you can’t. It’s like when you shift to a new place and you decide that it’s going to be a new beginning; that you’ll go to the gym everyday henceforth. And then you find out that there isn’t a gym within a 2-hour distance from your place. Now if I really wanted to, I could write about anything. I’m sure I could write an interesting essay about my lampshade or an erotic poem on hot men. Ooh! An erotic poem… Me likey! | | |
| A guy, a girl, a gay
That's not the title of the latest sitcom. That's my current living situation. And let's just leave it at that.
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