“Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson. “

Hypocritical in the dark,

tangent in the light.

Here’s to you Mrs. Robinson,

loves to play dress up

with the society boys,

Are you sure Mrs. Robinson?

Your windows aren’t stained

and the curtains don’t close

Oh look! here come the high society gals,

with stones in tow

Run, Mrs. Robinson

Leave your scotch on the shelf

and your pretty little lover boy

who’s going to strangle you to death.



In no way was the author’s intention to infringe. Neither is this a serial killer’s rant. Well………

No it’s not, I promise. This is merely a parody.  Kindly comprehend it as such.



It’s ‘v-o-n-n-e-g-u’ not ‘vonnegut’.

I’ve just started Slapstick. Well, it’s different. A bit abrupt, yes. A whole other world of different.


The title, you ask? Yes. That was something said by a someone that was incredibly amusing to me. I mean I’m not really a stickler for all these things and people make mistakes especially when said language is not one’s mother tongue. ‘Mother tongue’, what a curious little expression.  I wonder, who even devised such expressions? It sounds normal to us because of continuous usage but to someone who is not familiar with the language it must sound so bizarre.

What I especially like whilst searching for word meanings on Google Search is that the little graph at the end showing usage over time. What an interesting piece of unsolicited information!

Hi ho.


Back to Vonnegut it is.



You refuse to look at me because I’m ugly. You discard me because I’m an abomination. You purposefully look away from the dark corner that I’ve been assigned. You have the luxury of choice.

If you happen to glance at me by some horrible mistake, you quickly look away and shiver as if to remove the imprint of my image from your mind, as if trying to push that memory of me away from you, into oblivion.

I know that you are aware of my existence but I’m just an unfortunate thing, always at the back of your mind never brought to the forefront: An incident you’re trying forget, a regrettable memory, a lapse of judgement.

The scars I received at your behest speak a story, a story of trust, weakness and lies. The weakness was mine; the rest was your manipulation, a favour I hope to return someday.  And till then my dearest friend, I suffer silently. I grow stronger with each scar that I receive from your look of utter revulsion. I’m waiting for the day my body stops serving as a canvas, the day upon which I am so mutilated that I cannot recognize myself.

It’s the day that I lose myself and it will be the day you gain an enemy.


Well, what can I say? I saw The Dark Knight again and this came out.

Existence on a loop

The room is blank, the walls unadorned with the usual knick knacks that one typically finds in a girl’s room. The only furniture in the room is a wooden chair and a steel bed. This room has a clear glass window. Besides the window, a girl sits longingly gazing outside. She sighs despairingly. It’s quite early and the street outside is empty.  The street consists of a road confined by two cobblestone footpaths. This melancholic monotony acts as a gentle lullaby and her hopeful big blue eyes slowly close.

The bright sunlight and the merry voices awake her. She looks outside with wonder as she has for the past two years. She sees people and things; and things and people.  Everything is infused with colourful warmth. She sees a pair of lovers on the street unabashed with their display of affection and with eyes for no one but each other. She blushes. She sees a man sitting on the bench, merrily scribbling away in his little black notebook.  She sees a beautiful woman with unkempt hair roaming on the street until finally a car takes her away.  She sees a man dressed in formals and a shiny watch presumably going off to work.  She sees a dog playing with his owner who throws him a stick. The man with the little black book looks up and he sees her. He sees her seeing him. He sees her seeing the street. He winks. She blushes, again. He resumes observing his surroundings and merrily scribbles away.  The beautiful woman is dropped off on the street by the same car.

Quickly, dawn turns into dusk and she sleeps soundly, exhausted from the day’s events.

A year passes and another day comes. Her eyes have become smaller and her hair longer.  She still sits beside the window on a wooden chair. She sees the erstwhile lovers, now married, quarrelling.  Although they walk holding hands, they don’t face each other.  The husband wistfully looks at the once beautiful woman who is roaming on the street. The wife looks at everything but her husband. The once beautiful woman roaming the streets holds a lit cigarette in her fingers. The once beautiful woman is wearing a flimsy dress and is waiting for a car to take her away.

Fix me

We live in a hole and spend most of our life trying to climb out of it. To rise above it, to be able to see the ground above, blossoming with promises of a better tomorrow and a forgotten past. We trudge ahead, among the dirt and mud to get to the ocean.


Some, however prefer to live in that hole. Making it larger, expanding it, day by day and that takes dedication too. They don’t see the light much, maybe they don’t want to.  There’s nothing wrong with them. Nothing at all.


Lights will guide you home. 

Maybe not the end of the road after all.

The End Of The Road

I’m struggling through an If-Then scenario currently. If I fail, then I…..

Two years without even a semblance of a suicidal thought balanced on a precarious ‘If’. Unbalanced more like.


And why shouldn’t I? I see no choice but a choice. I hear no evil but only the truth and that is the evilest.

Yes, it is my error and no, I absolutely refuse to carry the burden.

After all, existence is an arbitrary notion.


“On me dit que le destin se moque bien de nous
Qu’il ne nous donne rien et qu’il nous promet tout
Paraît que le bonheur est à portée de main
Alors on tend la main et on se retrouve fou”
Carla Bruni – Quelquun m’a dit

Down The Literal Drain

Is it sheer desperation when you start replying to your friend’s “What’s up’s” with “the fan? /the ceiling?/ god?” (for the pious ones).

Is that the end of the road for your weary sense of humor? Or does it still have a few miles, a few tricks up his sleeve?

It does say a lot about me when I personify my (barely there) sense of humor as a male. I tried to evaluate him.

Me: So, Mr. Sense Of Humor, what’s up?

Mr. S.O.H.: The ever churning blades of a fan, soon they will disappear.

Me: Yes, I can see that. You sound a bit morose, are you?

Mr. S.O.H.: Oh, no. I’m just dark. Been left out in the sun too long, you see.

Me: Ah, yes. So, Sense, erm, May I call you Sense?

Mr. S.O.H: Oh, go ahead. I’m here to please, aren’t I?

Me: Why so literal, Sense?

Mr. S.O.H: Do you have a better plan?

Me: I see. Mr. Humor, Why don’t cannibals eat clowns?

Mr. S.O.H.: Because it’s illegal.

Me: Oh. They taste funny.

Mr. S.O.H: What tastes funny?

Me: The clowns.

Mr. S.O.H: What clowns?

Me: From the joke.

Mr. S.O.H: What joke?

Here lies my Sense of Humor, rest  in peace.


Well, this is what I’ve been feeling for the last couple of days. Not sad, not morose and not depressed just devoid of my sense of humor.  I hope that it comes back to haunt me.

Dear Departed Soul

Nobody bothers anymore. Use and throw and then use again. Continuous cycle for infinity and beyond.

Friendship is just a word. Irony spews from F to P and hatred fills the potholes. Ignorance is unavoidable and narcissism is its soul. Selflessness demands an audience but is denied and ridiculed. “There is no place for you here”, they say.

Love gained but love lost. Indifference rules like a booze addled king.

So dear departed soul of mine, it is good that you left. Cruelty would not have been your forte. My Ego will replace you, a much better queen. She is blind to the sunshine, the rain, the stars and all other wondrous things in life. She thirsts for a pond, a lake, a mirror; only a reflection will appease her.

Background Noise

She tries to fly with the flock but a sword hangs above her,

of misgivings, distrust and compulsion

darkness she brings into the fray, they say

and abandon her, they do

onward she goes, a path unknown

in lesser worlds and amongst glorified seasons

contentious, capricious and notorious, she conquers,

So if you cannot be with them, be against them, little birdie.


Whenever we do something , we always have different possible scenarios at the back of our head so that even if we fail, it won’t come as a huge shock when it actually happens. Sometimes, we see success too, a vision of what we could be. These illusions are always at the back of our head, taunting us.