Twiretard........

If you are reading this that you might one of the 6 million people who doesn't have a twitter or Facebook account or you also could be one of the 100 million people who have a twitter and Facebook account(plus an updated MySpace page) and you may also belong to a group of people called "Virgins", although I find that racially abusive.

If by chance you don't know what twitter is, you've probably been living under a rock for a long time or watching re-runs of 'Drona's DVD.
But for the purposes of this discussion, I'm going to assume you know what Twitter is, have an account on said service and think using words like Anthropomorphology in a sentence is about the coolest thing since Oscar Wilde.

I've been on twitter for sometime now and I see it as an extension of my traumatic period that doesn't include telling a room full people PJs with the door locked(although, I must admit, some of them are PJs in their own right).

And by way of having been there, I've realized a few things. You may agree with some of these. You may want to blow me for the others. You may hate the spacepod that brought me safely to this planet for the remaining. Please remember that I hold veto rights to whichever option you may choose.

Now, the people on Twitter. I find it safe to summarily categorize them into the following on the basis of their most predominant characteristic.

1. The Pricey Morons

You know these people by their inflated followers count and heavily photoshopped DPs( If you don't know what a DP is, STOP READING). While most people wonder why someone who's discussing his morning transit and the colour of his poo, has a bajillion amount of followers, you'll take it a step further.
You will @ to everything they say. But they won't reply. You will retweet the bejeezus out of them. But they won't follow. You'll offer to show up to clean their garage. They'll tell you the city takes good care of the bridge under which they live.

2. The Emo Creatures

I feel it is my utmost duty to remind these people of the following:
1. She/He didn't care.
2. You're so confused about who you are because you're gay.
3. I know there's a hole in your soul somewhere, but there are other orifices that need your attention too.
4. Most people have access to the Self help material you're plagiarizing off. And the remainder have access to HD porn.

3. The Wise Asses

The people who dare ask you the eternal question… "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to be consistently funny, harbor self-critical tendencies AND low self esteem all at once?" And in case your answer is "No", you're quite naturally expected to go back to tweeting about the song you're listening to. Because people really do give a fuck. No really. Have one. Yes, here's a good fuck.
You will be reviled if you fail to consider Favstar an alternate God/deity. You will be pricked with chopsticks if you're in the news for whatever reason. And may God have mercy on you should you ever become a trending topic.

4. The Bulbs

You know these virile gentlemen as the guys who ask for your pics. You company for coffee. And wonder out aloud how "Your so beautyful" (sic). ALSO THE HUMAN PSYCHE CONDITION HAS FORETOLD THE COMING OF THE… (crap) Writer's blok has happened.

5. The Mutual Admiration Society

You mostly see these exalted members of #TeamFucktard and #TeamJackass on tweets detailing 34 people on a Friday. Fun Fun Fun Fun it is. And unless you're a. b. or d. above, you have to wonder how you're going to send across your firstborn so you can get into one of them tweets. No. I don't get your 18 consecutive Tamil/Bong/Punjabi/Mumbaiya/Australian/Uninhabited-Pacific-Atoll references or your frolicking with your friends on a mountaintop with koala bears and unicorn poop.

So that's it. And this had better get me some followers. You think I'm doing this for the science? Really?
There really are more people out there, I guess, but I sleep well not having met them yet.

Cut the Crap.......

A friend of mine broke up with her boyfriend she'd been with 8 years. I don't mind telling that's a significant multiple of time I have spent with anyone (while suppressing genocidal tendencies). And, not that the guy was any good. The first time I met him, he mad fun of her. And then he cheated on her. And he was going bald. And he used filthy language......phew.......
Still, when I talked to her last, she was in tears. She’d been that way for the last month.
Of course, its not surprising............ 8 years.....I never had 8 good days in all my 8 relationships.......... (At this point, kindly insert your condescension about my maturity in relationships into an orifice of your choice).

When I started this, it was going to be about exes. Those people you can invoke in every single prayer; be it to the God you like best (available at leading pantheons everywhere); or the forces of death and destruction that populate the blog of a 13 year old these days.

However in my research (FB quizzes), I'd thought I will have a little more meaning If I made it about a person that everybody hates and still wants to be with. Of course you want to read more about Heidi Klum, I’d like to make this about the person who moves on. Or perhaps, moving on. The sense and maybe the blasphemy of it.

Moving on, just from the relationships, but all those other things to. Those things that made you cry and wish that you hadn’t thrown out that last gift from your ex. All those small little things and all those big little things that I add up.

So, between you and me, I know that it must hurt.
I know it must feel like you’ve walked barefoot on gravel for miles on end; leaving behind footprints deep and bloody enough that one knows you must’ve been walking on your toes the entire distance.
I know that sometimes all that remains feasible is to just tell yourself to stop feeling anything at all.
Finally, I know that what hurts more is the question of what “could’ve been”. The question of finding destinations down paths not taken, of paths that now lay broken. (I’ve read your blog. You know what I mean.)

But I also know that underneath all the stifled laughter and the self applied “Cynic” tags, there’s still the idealist of 8, maybe 10 years ago. Someone who just didn’t know any better, and ironically enough, was better off for it.
Someone who was made happy by looking at kids who smiled, who danced when he didn’t know how to, who looked forward to finishing the box of chocolates so that he could buy another one.
In fact, if this someone was anything like me, I’m fairly certain all he wanted was to walk into a garden of Cherry Blossoms and watch shadows get longer.

As it stands, your pain is your own. It always has been. But it doesn’t have to be. Not for much longer.
Reach out if you can. There are always people willing to listen. Sometimes, there’re even people willing to help. If statistics are anything to go by, someone has effed’ up just like you in the past. And that nobody should let Sreesanth bowl.
Make bad jokes. It keeps you on the right side of sane. Plus, it gives the people around you the benefit of the Temporary Insanity plea at their murder trial.
Give someone a hug. I'm sure you know lots of intensely huggable people. The fact that some of them carry pepper spray really shouldn’t stop you.
Most importantly, remind yourself of the people you want to be happy for. And of those who’d rather share cheesecake than see you happy. (I find the latter helped a lot more. But I’ve led something of a sheltered existence)

Whatever you do, just keep in mind that you stand as a warrior. And as this warrior you fight demons. Demons that will not relent. Demons that will bleed a river before they yield an inch.

The warrior thinks of the times of peace. He wishes he didn’t have to fight. He is tempted by the prospect of going back to glowing mornings when the dew has not yet left. Of closing his eyes in the middle of battle to think of Cherry Blossoms shedding in a shower of pink and white. In an autumn of browns and yellows, punctuated by greens.

Yet he knows he must kill, but knows not the weight of the sword he must lift. And as it happens, the sword is heavy. It’s easier to drop than to lift. And the fight is easier to run away from than to actually stay and fight.

It seems that even when the solution is by far, the easiest thing about the whole problem, it’s the sticking to it that remains the most difficult. But then again, it also is the most important thing in the world. The warrior did plant the Cherry blossoms himself.

So lift up the sword and try it on for size. They tell me it was made for you. And they’re usually right, even when they aren’t.

The past is right there in your head. Come back to it when you feel like it (or knock yourself hard enough on your head that you don’t have to). When you do, I recommend you stand at a window and give long meaningful glances to the world outside with a glass of Sprite in your hand. But in the meantime, look at the present.
It wants you to look at it too. And give it a compliment or two. It’s a little insecure like that. But take my word for it, it makes for a great date.