My dad was using Phoebe that day, so I lost my mood to blog. But now, it's baaaaa-aaaack!
I turned 23 about 21 hours ago. 21. Wow, that seems to have been ages away, yet it feels like it happened just like...few months ago. Haha. Tho our 21st birthday party of sorts wasn't the fun-est, we did have a blast, right twinnie? Before the whole thing about the then-fiance screaming at me COS OF UNCOOKED CHICKEN and your mom being upset about it and all. Actually, I think we had the most fun when it was just you, I, Ilyas and Nelvin at the chalet and you and I were in the room upstairs, taking swigs of vodka and giggling down at their barbecueing asses.
Ah, memories, memories.
Just a couple of days and I'll be seeing you, twinnie!!! I wanna laugh like an ass with you. =)
Ragani's leaving Finland today. JOYJOYJOYJOYJOYJOY!!
My best friends are coming back! And even if it's only for a month, I'm super duper, wonderfully, honestly, really really really happy about it. :-D
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
from Sashikumar
reply-to Sashikumar
to dhanyamol@gmail.com
cc dhanya1989@gmail.com,
dhanyanair@gmail.com,
dhanya19@gmail.com,
dhanya2001@yahoo.com,
dhanya27@gmail.com,
dhanya21@gmail.com,
dhanya07@yahoo.com,
dhanyamol@yahoo.com
date Tue, Jun 30, 2009 at 6:27 AM
subject Hai Dhanya
mailed-by rediffmail.com
signed-by rediffmail.com
> >Sashi wrote >Hi, Dhanya, I'm rely sorry 2 Snt ths. bcoz, My Dear Dhanye, I lost evrything 4 you yaar, I Mastrbate 'Self Orgsm' 4 you yaar, Rely I Can't Avd Or stop it. Please, Thr s only one way 2 solve my !. , I'm so rry 4 this yaar.>If U feel good or not, please send your that'. Ok >Yeh,please yaar.
--Sent from MobileRediff--
HAHAHAHAHA! I wonder what the 'that' is. Somebody must have been terribly bored, or horribly horny. Or both cos they often co-exist. Not speaking from experience tho. Errr yeah.
I was baking chicken pie couple of weeks back, and got tipsy on red wine. I felt the need to talk nonsense and it was 3 in the morning which is not the time to call anyone up to talk abt pie, so I decided to assault Phoebe with my wine-breath and dough-fingers. I just love being high!
I'm on to my third glass of wine and I have to admit, I do feel the effects of it. Can be quite disappointing to learn how low your alcohol tolerance is, especially when your good girl friend learns it first when you puke on her pretty green heels in the loo. She'll blame you for it for the next few weeks and all you can do is compliment her looks incessantly cos you can't afford to buy yourself new shoes, let alone her.
Sucks to be broke. It's an arresting state of affairs. You're just... arrested; gotta stay in one place (home). Go out, and you're screwed in the sense that there's nothing you can do except wander around aimlessly hoping home isn't far away cos you can't afford the bus fare since the station's got your pants where you left your wallet. When you're arrested, do the police steal your pants? What if the pants are of sentimental value? Like that piece of clothing in The Sisterhood of Travelling Pants? Do you get extra cash for the time you do in jail if your pants are as famous as that over-celebrated pair?
Glass number four. Ek glassi do glassi theen glassi CHAA!!
I hope my pie-thing turns out okay. Pie-thing cos it's not exactly pie. You got to be at least a teensy bit curious. Thus, I shall elaborate. So. I made this creamy cheesy chicken thing for filling. And dough for pastry (or whatever uncooked pie pastry is called). I was about to roll the dough out to place on the pie dish when some rusty light bulb that shines bloody brightly when I'm high went 'ding', illuminating my entire being by presenting the idea of mashing the dough into the filling, rolling it into a ball, and baking it at 160 degrees Celcius for 40 min. I, ofcos, had no idea if it'll turn out anywhere near decent, so I did one ball which resembled a semi-soggy piece of... well... mush. Also, in case that turned out shitty, I figured I gotta do a mini-pie to make myself feel better about my almost-okay culinary skills, and so I flattened a piece of dough, dumped some filling onto it, and covered it with a thinner piece of (painstakingly) flattened dough. Dough sucks when it sticks to flesh. It really, really does.
Super digression. Opposites attract yes, but in my case, MY ASS. I had to leave him. He loved me. I did too. But love and security wasn't enough. For me.
I'd done the same even if I were ugly. Maybe, if I were ugly, he wouldn't have dated me in the first place. Mmm. Point to consider lazily when the sun's way above me, threatening to turn my skin browner than it's supposed to be. Fair Indian to darker Indian. Or dark Indian. Or the nicer compliment, Black Beauty. But it takes a lot of time under the sun to be black. I don't know exactly how much, and I've noone to turn to for advice on that particular puzzler. And that's fine. Cos it doesn't matter.
The sorta-pies are done.
I've just tried those piping hot items with the stupidity and arguably, courage that the high/drunk and dumb-assed will possess an abundance of. The pie-thing has turned out quite...alright, to say the most. I think it has to be baked longer at a lower temperature. The mini-pie tastes as splendid as my humbleness would allow me to disclose. Maybe a bit on the too-salty side, but nothing a glass of wine cannot temporarily fix.
Oh. Glass number five. Wait. No. Six.
Love is a tricky thing. Tricky tricky tricky.
Can someone tell me when cupid means business? What the fuck is he doing making people who aren't meant to be together fall in love? I'm not sure I like this business of... breaking hearts.
Never had my heart broken. Does karma exist?
Damn.
I married J when I was still looking for the love of my life. DO YOU KNOW HOW SICK THAT IS?
I was an unscrupulous, shit-faced, irresponsible asshole to have thought that I was making the right decision based on the fact that he loved me dearly. I loved him too. Well I still do, in a very distant, less active way. But like I said, it wasn't enough. I wasn't happy with my choice cos I really needed to know, to find out, if I could be truly, liberated-ly happy. I was only 21, and very eager to grow up.
The rest of the dough and filling need to be done. Should I roll it out onto a pie-dish which would be the more traditional and perhaps sensible choice, or make more pie-things or mini-pies?
Decisions, decisions, decisions.
You know that odd feeling where you feel like you might just burst if you don't release something really really soon and you're gonna embarrass yourself immensely even if you're your only audience?
I need to pee.
P.S: In case you don't rmbr, Phoebe's my netbook.
reply-to Sashikumar
to dhanyamol@gmail.com
cc dhanya1989@gmail.com,
dhanyanair@gmail.com,
dhanya19@gmail.com,
dhanya2001@yahoo.com,
dhanya27@gmail.com,
dhanya21@gmail.com,
dhanya07@yahoo.com,
dhanyamol@yahoo.com
date Tue, Jun 30, 2009 at 6:27 AM
subject Hai Dhanya
mailed-by rediffmail.com
signed-by rediffmail.com
> >Sashi wrote >Hi, Dhanya, I'm rely sorry 2 Snt ths. bcoz, My Dear Dhanye, I lost evrything 4 you yaar, I Mastrbate 'Self Orgsm' 4 you yaar, Rely I Can't Avd Or stop it. Please, Thr s only one way 2 solve my !. , I'm so rry 4 this yaar.>If U feel good or not, please send your that'. Ok >Yeh,please yaar.
--Sent from MobileRediff--
HAHAHAHAHA! I wonder what the 'that' is. Somebody must have been terribly bored, or horribly horny. Or both cos they often co-exist. Not speaking from experience tho. Errr yeah.
I was baking chicken pie couple of weeks back, and got tipsy on red wine. I felt the need to talk nonsense and it was 3 in the morning which is not the time to call anyone up to talk abt pie, so I decided to assault Phoebe with my wine-breath and dough-fingers. I just love being high!
I'm on to my third glass of wine and I have to admit, I do feel the effects of it. Can be quite disappointing to learn how low your alcohol tolerance is, especially when your good girl friend learns it first when you puke on her pretty green heels in the loo. She'll blame you for it for the next few weeks and all you can do is compliment her looks incessantly cos you can't afford to buy yourself new shoes, let alone her.
Sucks to be broke. It's an arresting state of affairs. You're just... arrested; gotta stay in one place (home). Go out, and you're screwed in the sense that there's nothing you can do except wander around aimlessly hoping home isn't far away cos you can't afford the bus fare since the station's got your pants where you left your wallet. When you're arrested, do the police steal your pants? What if the pants are of sentimental value? Like that piece of clothing in The Sisterhood of Travelling Pants? Do you get extra cash for the time you do in jail if your pants are as famous as that over-celebrated pair?
Glass number four. Ek glassi do glassi theen glassi CHAA!!
I hope my pie-thing turns out okay. Pie-thing cos it's not exactly pie. You got to be at least a teensy bit curious. Thus, I shall elaborate. So. I made this creamy cheesy chicken thing for filling. And dough for pastry (or whatever uncooked pie pastry is called). I was about to roll the dough out to place on the pie dish when some rusty light bulb that shines bloody brightly when I'm high went 'ding', illuminating my entire being by presenting the idea of mashing the dough into the filling, rolling it into a ball, and baking it at 160 degrees Celcius for 40 min. I, ofcos, had no idea if it'll turn out anywhere near decent, so I did one ball which resembled a semi-soggy piece of... well... mush. Also, in case that turned out shitty, I figured I gotta do a mini-pie to make myself feel better about my almost-okay culinary skills, and so I flattened a piece of dough, dumped some filling onto it, and covered it with a thinner piece of (painstakingly) flattened dough. Dough sucks when it sticks to flesh. It really, really does.
Super digression. Opposites attract yes, but in my case, MY ASS. I had to leave him. He loved me. I did too. But love and security wasn't enough. For me.
I'd done the same even if I were ugly. Maybe, if I were ugly, he wouldn't have dated me in the first place. Mmm. Point to consider lazily when the sun's way above me, threatening to turn my skin browner than it's supposed to be. Fair Indian to darker Indian. Or dark Indian. Or the nicer compliment, Black Beauty. But it takes a lot of time under the sun to be black. I don't know exactly how much, and I've noone to turn to for advice on that particular puzzler. And that's fine. Cos it doesn't matter.
The sorta-pies are done.
I've just tried those piping hot items with the stupidity and arguably, courage that the high/drunk and dumb-assed will possess an abundance of. The pie-thing has turned out quite...alright, to say the most. I think it has to be baked longer at a lower temperature. The mini-pie tastes as splendid as my humbleness would allow me to disclose. Maybe a bit on the too-salty side, but nothing a glass of wine cannot temporarily fix.
Oh. Glass number five. Wait. No. Six.
Love is a tricky thing. Tricky tricky tricky.
Can someone tell me when cupid means business? What the fuck is he doing making people who aren't meant to be together fall in love? I'm not sure I like this business of... breaking hearts.
Never had my heart broken. Does karma exist?
Damn.
I married J when I was still looking for the love of my life. DO YOU KNOW HOW SICK THAT IS?
I was an unscrupulous, shit-faced, irresponsible asshole to have thought that I was making the right decision based on the fact that he loved me dearly. I loved him too. Well I still do, in a very distant, less active way. But like I said, it wasn't enough. I wasn't happy with my choice cos I really needed to know, to find out, if I could be truly, liberated-ly happy. I was only 21, and very eager to grow up.
The rest of the dough and filling need to be done. Should I roll it out onto a pie-dish which would be the more traditional and perhaps sensible choice, or make more pie-things or mini-pies?
Decisions, decisions, decisions.
You know that odd feeling where you feel like you might just burst if you don't release something really really soon and you're gonna embarrass yourself immensely even if you're your only audience?
I need to pee.
P.S: In case you don't rmbr, Phoebe's my netbook.
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