Atleast i’m drunk right now.

Compensation!

I present the second installment of “My favorite Comments” : A collection of some the best stuff i could find on the archive.

And I’ve created a special page for my crazy ass sister, Niki’s Comments.

From Jan 2005 to Dec 2005.

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do NOT get fat.

people are so dumb sometimes. people being her not you.

Sorry I haven’t been around as much. I can sleep a little better now and have been a little busier. I did have a dream that I watched a horse give birth though…and that was interesting…

how do you delete an identity?

How to Win Friends and Influence People. YOU FREAK. There are spelling mistakes on the cover. It says “bestselling aouthor”. And on the first page, it spells dale carnegie as dale carngie. I’ll kill you. and i suppose… thank you.

nothing really how about u mr big college guy…tehe

is squid something like prawns?

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The Commenters, in no particular order.

Tia Mukherjee, PrincessPia,Minerva,BrandiMC,damnyoustopsign666,girl_in_the_dirty_shirt.

]]> http://makeshiftconscience.wordpress.com/2011/06/09/twenty-part-two/feed/ 0 22.572646 88.363895 22.572646 88.363895 Humbug http://makeshiftconscience.wordpress.com/2011/06/07/twenty-part-1/ http://makeshiftconscience.wordpress.com/2011/06/07/twenty-part-1/#comments Tue, 07 Jun 2011 06:44:45 +0000 Humbug http://makeshiftconscience.wordpress.com/?p=91 ]]> So, as part of a routine exercise on the Guilty Narrative, i went back in time and started reading everything i have ever written.

The following is the first installment of “My favorite Comments” : A collection of some the best stuff i could find on the archive.

From June 2004 to Jan 2005.

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“Your mouth blooms like a cut, sweet and full of sin. I prick myself on your thorns, and I bleed within”

“heya. confession accepted. you’ve been pardoned… but then, do all confessions deserve pardons?? some of them deserve more!!! or less. whatever. what am i saying? am i even saying anything??? ciao!”

totally leavin you yet another comment..because im gangstuh like that…and i wana try to break 20 so if u could..hit me back..thanx a bunch..

Becka

<3 becka

Looking at guys and girls pierced all over, dressed in semi-gothic outfits with freaky haircuts, they wondered what had brought humanity to a position like this where destruction was displayed like an act of beauty.

Are you stupid and evil? If you are ignorant of natures harmonic time cube creation, then you were taught to be stupid and evil. Human Form God Is Impossible. Adult God is a Scam upon Children.

*insert lovely comment here*

The events you speak of aren’t random combustions.  They’re simply results of your chosen path.

Anyone can hate, hating eloquently is a different thing.

u have girls contradicting each other on ur xanga. my. what next??

this is to thank the self-centred egoistical bastard
thankye

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The Commenters, in no particular order.

Delia McQuay, Tia Mukherjee, Becka, Myself, Paloma, Sara(Zeitgeist_Sally),Malvika,Anonymous,PrincessPia,RKhessel,numbncomfortable.

This sucks, everything sucks lately. Life, work, the weather – i feel like shit again and i can’t do shit about it.

I want a do-over.

My pen is mocking me, lately everything has been mocking me.

I feel like a drink. Its before noon you fucking imbecile!

Grow a pair, grow a life, grow anything – just fucking grow.

AAARGH! Bite me.

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 In December of 1998, I went on a School sponsored excursion to Orissa with several distinguished members of my 6^th grade class. The train journey that marked the start of a truly momentous vacation began from the small town of New Jalpaiguri in West Bengal and ended in Bhubaneshwar, Orissa.

During the journey, my eyes crossed an unfamiliar face of a girl sitting beside a classmate of mine. They were sitting painfully close to each other as if joined at the hips; I eventually discovered that she was in fact related to the classmate by sisterhood.

I spent the next few days trying to get her to like me by allocating all portions of my tiny, otherwise unused 6^th grade brain, to doing all things possible in romance. Young love as it was, stole my sleep, ate my food, made me week and desperate for her attention. I went to lengths trying to occupy every spotlight created by her glance and reserved a spot for her in every photograph I clicked as a tourist.

I won, she noticed me and we fell into love. On the very last day, her goodbye came in the shape of a parting kiss to my cheeks, a feeling that refused to leave my face for several weeks.

The following year, I graduated to the 7^th grade and she was admitted into the 6^th. Cupid had held her at gunpoint for several months after the excursion forcing her towards me, she had to give in.

We celebrated a glorious year and decided to take the next December excursion to Nepal.

The bus made its overnight journey to Kathmandu through a hilly meandering roadway frequently visited by cold winds. We spent most of the night talking about the past, present and the future. At some point that night, while everyone else is the bus was fast asleep, she asked me if I really loved her. She prefaced this question with the assurance of her love for me.

At this point, I took a long contemplative walk across the aisle between the two rows of seats in the bus and came back with the answer, which to her dismay turned out to be “No.”

A few months later, I graduated to the 8^th grade and she took the 7^th by trading places with cupid. The gun had switched hands and almost every eligible candidate in school began to dote upon her uncontrollably. To my knowledge, she was also circuitously responsible for several disputes between couples who considered themselves, to that point, matches made in heaven. As she gained more and more craze, I got more and more crazy. She had blossomed to become a full size apple pie and I wanted a piece. It was more than just obvious that she was not going to fall for it again, I had hurt her more deeply than anything else I’d hurt before and this particular wound was not going away anytime soon.

I spent the next several years – right until the point I left school after completing my 12^th – trying to make up for the loss but it never happened. She was through with me for life, she was.

This particular ‘guilty narrative’ is unlike any other. Real beauty, as the question suggests did appear at least once in this entire story if not more.

On that bus, all those years ago as I took that stroll between the rows, I made an agreement with my imaginary friend and lover, who although unreal [but very much real] that I would not betray her by committing myself to loving anybody else. I chose to deny the love of the very first real person for the very first unreal person in my life.

‘Real beauty’ [as I see it] is knowing that twelve years later, while everything has changed and everybody, including her, has moved on – I’ve still managed to keep my end of the agreement.

“Mein deewana mere muh na lago..”  - goes the Bohemia song. I lost a few screws down the road but whose to say that still doesn’t put me at a position-whole lot smarter- than all of ya. Whose to be the judge of that but tomorrow?

You’ll know.

“Take him back,” the fuck i will? Betrayal has to count for something. As for forgiveness, well, adding insult to injury is not my idea of forgiveness.

I loved you. Still.

Hurt. now press repeat.

On Another note;

Please, step aside as I advocate a position that would result in the extinction of the human race.  Well, why stop there? All life on the planet.

Personally, I find self-preservation to be vastly overrated.  Survival is perhaps the ultimate victory. Although “ultimate” isn’t really an appropriate word choice. Popular opinion is that it’s very good to be alive. Almost as good as being rich or successful.

I never held popular opinion in very high regard.

Anyway,  ”One more such victory and I am lost,” wasn’t it? *laughs* I seem to be veering toward pretentious. Huh. That hasn’t happened in awhile. I blame the topic, for the record. The point I’m having limited success in making is that I fail to see any benefit in preserving oneself simply for the sake of preserving oneself (Unless it’s after death. Then a case can be made for certain aesthetic principles). I find no joy in simply existing. Which is not to say I don’t like being alive. It’s just that if given a choice, I’d prefer to be dead and in a coffin rather than alive in one with only the thought that hey, at least I’m not dead, as comfort.

I don’t understand how anyone can sacrifice any part of himself just to stay alive. If you’re going to sacrifice yourself, might as well sacrifice all of yourself.

And forgiveness? *sighs* Exquisite timing.

Let’s just say it’s more important than self-preservation and leave it at that, shall we?

I don’t sentimentalize objects. At least i don’t in private. i don’t wear the sacred thread (if i did, it would be for the family’s sake). There are no souvenirs of childhood–worn wicket-keeping gloves, yellowed drawings, high school scrapbooks–stashed in the back of my closet. I’ll discard photographs without a second thought.

Is it possible to like a ship in a bottle?