Not That Boy

These days have been quiet, and, God knows, after the chaos of the weeks past, the silence is welcome. Golden, and welcome. I have been a very poor correspondent these past few days, be it via e-mail, on Facebook or even on the blog. The truth of the matter is that I am absolutely absorbed in writing a new short story. I type feverishly into the night, and erase major, major chunks out of it the next morning. I am working on two sections of it simultaneously which, in itself, is oddly rewarding. I think I have reached the point now where my characters have a life of their own, and it is they who are directing my fingers: arguing with me passionately about their motives, unhappy about the way they have been portrayed in a certain sequence....It's nothing short of magical when that happens! In fact, it is with a slight wince that I recount the temerity of the lines that Dame Judi Dench utters in 'Nine':

Directing a movie is a very overrated job, we all know it. You just have to say yes or no. What else do you do? Nothing. "Maestro, should this be red?" Yes. "Green?" No. "More extras?" Yes. "More lipstick?" No. Yes. No. Yes. No. That's directing.

Will I place the story on the blog? I do not know. I think it's too explicit. I am almost afraid that I am turning into a peddler of smut. A rational part of me is questioning whether this work in-progress should progress at all, but I am slightly drunk on the possibilities this story evokes. Maybe I have overestimated myself, maybe this concept needs to be handled by more experienced, more deliberate hands...

In truth, I need this story. I need the obsession it inspires in me, because, devoid of this, I shall pay idle visits to dolorous thoughts holed up in their decadently tragic apartments. These thoughts, though of my own making, are exactly the kind of 'people' I cannot stand to be around. They depress me. So yes, I have been rejected in love. Was it even love? Who's to say? The problem lies in the fact that I am not that boy. Would it help if I were thinner? Not as preoccupied with books, clothes, and myself? Would it help if I launched myself into a plethora of extreme sports? I beg you, constant reader, do not advise me to "be myself", I shan't be able to stand it if you did! At this point of time the only definition of "myself" that comes to mind is "Not that boy".

Recently, a dear friend in blogging found her airways constricting, and the walls closing in on her; I shall heed that as a warning, and concentrate on trying to breathe. If it is my obsession with this story that shall prevent me from falling into that languorous ravine of self-pity, then so be it. I am not that boy, because I go a little crazy. I am not that boy, because I live a kind of dream. I am not that boy, because sometimes reality, to me, is hazy. It scares me how much I wish I was that boy instead.

As ever,
GossipGuy.

Kinase

In our bodies, the pathways that breakdown and synthesize glucose respectively are so closely linked, it's almost like you let one run through, and then press the rewind button to let the other one happen. So like a neurotic Gemini is the remote control in all this: a bi-functional protein which, on the pressing of one 'button' can rewind and forward. I love that bi-functional bastard, I imagine the other enzymes are jealous of him because he can multi-task, and that too with such important work. I don't care what you say Acetyl-CoA Carboxylase, you're still working with fat!

My bi-functional friend is hardly above reproach, though. He has to answer to the likes of Insulin and Glucagon,
submit to the humiliation of kinases. Oh kinases! All they do is transfer phosphoryl groups, and in the process halt the activity of enzymes. What a dick job! Stupid, grunt enzymes with no personality controlling the steps of other, more sophisticated people. Why? Because a hormone said so! I have reason to believe that a kinase isn't particularly sure as to what it is doing. As far the kinase is concerned, it's just a phosphorylation! What harm can it do? Ah, but the pain of being rendered neutral, anergized, hapless because a phosphoryl group decided to keep vigil over you is only known to those who have to deal with that ever-watchful compound group of good sense who just wants you to know that it must be cruel to be kind...

Like my bi-functional compadre, I too have spent a fortnight in painful phosphorylation, thanks to blissfully benighted kinases who have no idea what their actions trigger in me.

Onmyownase (OOMase) + Whatthefuckase-1 (WTFase-1).

One of the domains of my rather variegated mindset is known as Onmyownase, named after the sublimely heart-breaking 'On my Own' from Les Miserables. If you haven't heard it, I strongly recommend you do; you may weep, I know I did. OOMase is coupled to WTFase-1, which basically deals with emotional WTF reactions (as opposed to the more panic-derived WTFase-2 or, quite frankly, the rather collegiate WTFase-3). I've been mooning over this weird love thing I mentioned before, still unclassified, still infuriating, still messy. Suddenly, I feel as if my analysis has worked out, and I have a a found a box for these feelings! Oh, this is OOMase at it's optimum! But then the object of my affectations saunters by, casually gives me a hug, and this stabs me deeply in the gut with a phosphoryl group, and OOMase is deactivated. WTFase-1 comes into play, and I find myself confused. OOMase is a whore: it catalyses a futile cycle of a false sense of security. It makes me think that I have my feelings figured out. But every time I come face to face with this person, every time we spend time together, I get phosphorylated into more and more confusion. The bewilderment and loneliness-products of WTFase both- accumulate, and I am more lost than I ever was. Just like in 'On my Own' when she says that after the love of her life leaves, she starts seeing the world as a wasteland, I do too. I don't feel lonely; I become loneliness, a phantasma trapped in the ugly brown curtains of my room. Funny what a phosphorylation can do to one. What were the kinases that triggered this? An embrace, a kind gesture, laughter...ICK!

Finalsweek Stressferase Complex. (FS Complex).

The Finalsweek Stressferase Complex consists of a series of enzymes, all functionally activated by another. There's ChrisKnightase (CKase) named after Chris Knight from 'Real Genius', and the only role in which I ever will appreciate Val Kilmer, Hyperventilase, Megabitchase and WTFase-2. The enzymes of these complex indulge in a rather elitist trick known as frustrate tunnelling, wherein increasing levels of frustration and stress are passed on from enzyme to enzyme until the end is reached. What regulates this? Kinases, of course! It was a finals week-derived kinase that shut off my negativity pertaining to the mega-immunology final. With 'Defying Gravity' from 'Wicked' clinging delicately from my lips, I went on to do just that: defy gravity. I wasn't all that confident about biochemistry (surprise, surprise!) though. Despite a happy ending, I did manage to shuttle my inadequacies through the FS-Complex.

It's odd how a potentially nice enzyme like ChrisKnightase is linked to the other tormented ones in this complex, because it was ChrisKnightase that opened my eyes to the symphonic beauty of the immune system and my feelings of Blys(!) related to the immunology final. Frankly, it was the object of my obsession who gave me a "You can do it!" type of kinase that phosphorylated my negativity, activated ChrisKnightase, and I was walking on the clouds. Happiness, like Lactate, can't sustain you forever: after my ChrisKnightase catalysed euphoria died. Or rather, my ChrisKnightase was phosphorylated by a kinase derived from a friend who was worrying about the biochemistry exam, that Hyperventilase was activated, and I was convinced that I was going to, how did I put it?, "Flunk like a bitch". Spouting negativity from every pore, I found myself under the spell of Megabitchase which had be biting the heads off of anyone who dared cross me. God, I was a syphilitic penis! It's depressing when your friends sort-of tip-toe around you because they don't want to fuel the inner harpy whom you've unleashed. What's even more degrading is when you welcome that sort of coddling. But thanks to WTFase-2 and Megabitchase, I was imagining the biochemistry final ending with a chandelier crashing to the ground, and a rabble of peasants storming the pharmacy building (Don't ask!).

It also wasn't helping that WTFase-1 was still trying to figure things out romantically. Two very fluxed up pathways, these! Yet I managed to get some studying done. You would think, constant reader, that my WTFase-2 would go crazy upon looking at the exam, but it was phosphorylated just in time! The kinase? The questions asked! Suddenly, what was activated is the enzyme equivalent of a summer rain: OthankGodase (OTGase). OthankGodase I wasn't going to "flunk like a bitch." OthankGodase a million times!

So, I survived finals week. I am braving my "romantic" condundra with a little help from my multimeric states of mind. I apologise for this heavily molecular biology themed post, but we all have our ways of metabolizing our feelings! And now you sort-of know what I do! My dear Charles Ryder is going through something similar , but I am just happy to have us back amongst us: he'd gone missing for a while, and I was a bit frightened! Charles, whether he knows it or not, provides me with a rather hedonistic brand of comfort. I really should mention Butters and Bebe as well: just seeing them makes me feel worlds better! Butters and I hung out today, and it was serene. No enzymes. No pathways. Just equilibrium. The salubrious kind, not the dead kind. Even T-Tweak, being his effervescent self, has been absolutely fantastic. In fact, he and I did have a very scrumptious, piquant conversation recently...ah, but that's a story for another time! Oh, and Hamlet! Hamlet and I swap tales, tantrums and troubles and tricks of the tongue, and once again, a more frothy kind of equilibrium prevails!

Today has been okay. My sleep-deprived brain hasn't the energy to phosphorylate and de-phosphorylate. But I managed to get my desk entropy all sorted out. Like Charles, I shall include a "before" picture:




I've been down this route before, but I am a scientist, and I need to classify. I need to compartmentalize my feelings, so that I can be at peace! Don't you dare accuse me of flogging a dead horse, because neither is it dead, and nor am I sure whether or not it IS a horse! So there! Once again, what do I do? Nothing much to do, I guess, but wait, watch and analyse. Oh kinases! Why do you do this? Why do you show up and start things that you know I cannot finish? Why do you stick a phosphate in it and make me go, "Sugar, we're goin' down!"? Oh look! A glycolysis joke!

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

Straitlaced, or The Ballad of My Butt

It snowed yesterday, and I, swathed in black cashmere sat at my window holding a steaming mug of hot chocolate, singing along to 'On my Own' from Les Miserables. It's a good song, an appropriate song minus the gender confusion. Ah, torment. Ah, unrequited, unlabelled love. I was looking at another weekend of melancholy obsessiveness, more sweeping of the floor, more laundry that could have waited another day. But Butters, Bebe, T-Tweak, Princess RbB (Rubber-band Ball- long story!) and Fate had slightly different plans...

When I was younger, I rather enjoyed dancing. This wasn't your polite shuffling around a little bit with a partner, it was a no-holds-barred, all-bets-off kind of deal: my feet would create a whirlpool on the floor, as people would step back to allow me and my pick for the evening (usually my gorgeous Hermia) dance our way to that peak from whereon the only thing one can look forward to is soaking one's feet in warm water, slightly scented with citrus. As radically revelrous this sounds, it was hardly instantaneous. It took me a while to get primed, certain factors (which I shan't mention here) needed to be figured in, then, and only then would it begin, and how!

As the years began to add to the rather mirthful set of digits my boisterousness held so dear, I daintily placed my flailing feet into the fairly tight dress-shoes of stillness, my vigourously pulsating torso was ensconced in a veritable chain mail of respectability, the jerking of my neck was arrested by the rather smart necktie of "what would people think?". Oh the connotations of adulthood: eighteen at last! Let's stop the party, take on more courses than others, and whinge unendingly about how hateful everything is...all the way to college! Ick. Like my man Richard II, I took to the part so well, I ended up becoming one of those barren creatures baying away at the moon for love, life and liberty. As a role, it offers an actor quite a challenge. As a lifestyle, now how do I put this? Oh, yeah! It sucks ass.

Last night, the girls, that is, the ever-inventive Bebe and the cool Princess RbB decided to take it upon themselves to give Butters and T-Tweak new hairstyles. The snob that I am, I had excused myself a while ago since I could not bring myself to watch the movie that was on. Now, I love T-Tweak to death, but his taste in films makes me want to purge. I imagine he feels the same way about my rhapsodizing over 'Revolutionary Road'...and I wonder why people don't like me sometimes!

So as I basked in the sparse and temporary feel of my room, reconsidering my self-exile, my whore-phone came alive with it's texting tone sounding rather ebullient: it was Bebe asking to me come on by and "see the boys' hair." The scene that unfolded before me, as the door opened, involved a rather pleased looking T-Tweak sitting on a chair with big, BIG 80's hair, as Princess RbB worked more mousse into his mane. Butters, who was hiding behind the door, took me by complete surprise. At first, his hair was trendily mussed-up, and he looked very chic, despite the slightly perplexed, crooked grin on his face...Bebe and Princess RbB lovingly teased those spikes to a staid 'Mad Men'-esque style which, coupled with a pair of Roberto Cavalli spectacles, made Butters look like a Gucci model. Clearly, I didn't want to be left behind, and the Princess, in all her creativity, gave me Liberty Spikes, or at least two, and I was Hellboy! We shot an ad-campaign then: very A&F inspired, with a few lifted shirts, and a few exposed necks...

The déjà vu I experienced was startlingly similar to my last trip down the rabbit hole, because events just happened to flow into one another. One moment we were upon a couch posing trashily, and in the next there was music playing, and Bebe and T-Tweak were dancing. That's when I felt it! O God, it was so potent! I felt that little rush that began in my feet, and slowly began to work its way up. Like a blue vine of electricity, the frisson began to wrap itself around my legs, my pelvis, my waist, my torso...initiating an unshackling of sorts. I used to do this! I used to burst into a song-and-dance routine at random before. O God, it seemed as if an aeon had passed since I had gotten filthy on the dance floor, with no regard for Reputation.

As I expressed my wish to join in the festivities, it was as if this whole array had arranged itself before me: Princess RbB was full of instructions, Bebe would have me train my back against a wall, Butters snaked his fist against my spine imitating exactly what needed to be done, T-Tweak was full of demonstrations...it was, in a word, breathtaking!

As I began to follow along, the air around me seemed to whisper this whiplash,

(Closer)

My back arched...

(Closer...)

My waist moved...

(Closer...)

My hips swung...

(Closer...)

My torso undulated...

(Closer...)

And then something broke, as cathartic as cathartic can be: MY BUTT POPPED.

(And I just can't pull myself away, under a spell I can't break, I just can't stop, I just can't stop...)

T-Tweak looked at me with a kind of parental pride, which shattered the moment he gave me a congratulatory high-five, and joined me in creating the Cyclone I was so hell-bent determined on single-hippedly starting!

I remember how once, when I was visiting Hamlet, I had had an extended conversation with a fellow over-achiever whom I shall christen The Archduchess. This vibrant, beautiful, and quick-witted creature belongs to a rather illustrious seat of learning, and when I asked her about stress and how she deals with it (clearly, The Archduchess is not as morose a being as I am), her response came to me in The Native Tongue: "Arrey yaar, dance pe chance maar le!" (Dude, give dance a chance!). I loved it! I never tried it, but I loved it. And now, under the funky auspices of T-Tweak, I gave dance the chance it so greatly deserves, and I feel sentient again. So what if my brain can work its way through the circuitous pathways of the immune system? I can pop my butt! And I don't have to choose one or the other. Yes, constant reader, there is a lesson here: whenever you find yourself receding into the bewilderness, shut the door to your room, and give dance a chance. Heck, my room is the most exclusive club this town has ever seen...

Times like these make me wonder if my abstruse codex of pretensions and elaborate formalities (which, I imagine, oftentimes, border on the farcical) is really a requirement. Butters has it down: that fine balance between the Proper and the Fun. I thirst for it, that feeling of being complete, adequate and completely adequate.

Ah but the philosophizing is getting on my nerves by just a tinge, so I shall stop. The POINT is that I like my butt again, now that it has popped forth from the stays of facade, and I have T-Tweak to thank for allowing me to rediscover the joy that that fantastic contour on my being can bring. He's one sexy Gemini, that guy is! And he has brought it to my attention, that I, with all my drama and affectations, am, inherently, one too!

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

Classify, Classify, Classify

Charlie Brown claimed (and with an infuriating self-righteousness) that nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love. You would think, constant reader, that this would affect me not at all, for I deplore peanut butter. It has the texture of an adhesive, and the alleged flavour is, quite frankly, overrated.

Ah, but I am not dealing with unrequited love, no. In all honesty, if The Peanut Butter Test is the only way I have to find out, then I care not to know! I don't need The Peanut Butter Test, I am perfectly able to make an accurate prognosis. What I am suffering from, and this happens to all scientists, is a classification problem. What I have found is an exotic species of emotion that I know not quite how to classify, which taxonomic box to place in. If only this were unrequited love! How I wish it were! Or unabated lust! Or just a case of The Admiration (easily cured with a Tincture of Idle Gossip)! If it were any of these, I'd dissect it, draw up a diagram, give it a binomial name, pickle it in formalin, place it in a jar, and show it off to pasty school-children, telling them exactly what to expect from late-middle-school to college. You can hardly expect me to hold up my dessicated worm of conscience and say some along the lines of, "Here children, we don't quite know what this is, but feel free to poke around..." Heaven forfend!

The truth is, between the excessive laundry, wardrobe rearrangements, aimless walks, and attacking the secret chocolate store, I don't quite know what I am doing. Or feeling. I am wringing my hands in frustration, the rubicund tint on my cappuccino-coloured flesh is testimony to the hours I have spent doing this, just this, as classical music played in the back-ground and the 'fleurs du mal' of my ever-questioning psyche bloomed under the mood-lighting and caffeinated soil, to release their lingering scent of scruples. What am I doing? Since when did I become the kid who takes to uncharted woods and bites into succulent-looking, unknown mushrooms, and just hopes for the best? This is foolishness! But I want to go on, run an assay, and finally classify this THING that is tumourating amongst my affectations: classify it and put it in a box that shall never be opened again. Why am I even thinking of someone whose affections shall never be mine? But I do not want their affections! No! I...don't know what I want. O God, O God...

What shall I do with this secret? Perhaps, I shall let it fester within. Sepsis? It could happen. I should have known better than to entangle myself with Plantagenets; it's not like they won the war. And I stand to lose so much more than my head. My reputation, for one.

I remain,
GossipGuy.

"So Goodbye, Sweet Appetite..."

I do believe it was a Tuesday when I found an album in a forgotten micro-SD card that recorded Hamlet's visit to my Eternal City. The pictures in that album etched a dreamy, dreamy smile on my face as I thought back to his sojourn.

French Sundays.

How effulgently my summer had bloomed at the Eternal City, even more so with Hamlet coming to visit. One of the most piquant flavours that my City offers up-and it's a seasonal one, mind-is when it becomes Wharton's New York, sometimes in very uncanny ways. Though in my mind I had planned meals and sorties and all sorts of epicurean delights for my exalted guest, I suddenly found that, my friends, The Aristocracy were absent! Charles Ryder was vacationing in the Land of Plenty, doing his philanthropic bit by visiting orphanages, courting movie stars by majestic waterfalls...it was all idyllic fun with a Lacoste tag! My dear Verlaine's schedule was a difficult thing to balance and the same went for Helena. Where one was dealing with a packed salon, the other could not tear herself from the demands of work. The lovely Hermia (who I haven't mentioned before) did not grace us that summer with her delightful person and even Sir Benedick, who had become a sort of fixture in my life, forsook the glitz of the city for more tropical shores. What was a Van der Luyden to do?! At my wit's end, I called in a favour from Mercutio. Mercutio and I go way back to a high school French class when I was a dumpy male version of Hermione Granger who could translate passages with a kind of alacrity that was unbecoming of a class so morbid, so uninterestedly taught! And that, constant reader, is how Mercutio and I became friends: over a dull passage about bored French children who go ghost hunting in a coal-mine!

As much as I enjoy Mercutio and his charming girlfriend, I hadn't met any others of his circle. In my Wharton-esque mood, I ended up christening them 'People who Wrote'. These Bohemians have rites that are vastly different from ours: there is little scheduling, the meals are quick and the entertainment is the kind that one secretly enjoys. I asked Mercutio if Hamlet and I could join him and his friends for this one afternoon, after which, I found the clear blue skies of my mind clouding over with apprehension: I had never socialised with People who Wrote before! What would I do? What would I say? O God, I did not want to come across as a snob! Having posed these questions to Mercutio, the reply I got was similar to what Mrs. Struthers said to Newland Archer in the novel that seems to mirror Hamlet's time in my City: "Come and be amused, and you will find a number of your friends." He was right. He was so right. A flurry of cards, impromptu musicales...such delightful people! I don't know how I score with them, but Hamlet was a hit! As he was wont to be! Hamlet being Hamlet charmed everyone from The People Who Wrote to discerning Verlaine. Oh, the aerial pleasures of a French Sunday!

Metropolitan Gloam.

Yes, I do believe it was a Tuesday when I was walking back from one of my professor's (the inimitable IgTinaFey) office, after having perpetrated ugly drama over a grade, so potent that Tennessee Williams would have been proud, when this strange, recondite dreamscape flashed upon the horizon of my muggy, sleep-deprived, caffeine spiked mind:

It was summer and the Eternal City had eased away the residual frost-bite from my skin with its warm fingers- it was a love different from the one I received at my Spitsbergen, where I was expected to help out, and be humble. The Eternal City is like an indulgent parent, or a besotted patron who lets one wax exactly as decadent as one pleases. It was summer and Hamlet was over, my luxuriant lassitude now had a purpose! I remember that afternoon when Hamlet and I went to The Biggest Mall in the World. We drank overpriced lattes served by stiff Armani-clad waiters, and paid court to some of the most magical shops in the world. Hyperbolic, much? Well, I am in love!

While these thoughts were a balm to my inflamed psyche, one incident sat at the core of it all. It played in my mind, in elegant black and white, as I walked back...to what?

In any case, Hamlet and I were at Gucci when an elegant coat in indigo caught my eye. It seemed to have been fashioned out of the metropolitan gloam of an after-work Friday evening. I wanted to possess it. I wanted to don it, and don the persona of the slightly harried, ashenly handsome executive who jet-sets between financial capitals and amuses himself with almost-romances at snooty airport bars. I asked the attendant for the price, and soon we were talking fashion.
"Are you a student?" he asked.
I responded in the affirmative, but before I could tell him that my fate was tied to a land far, far away he blurted out the following:
"You should consider working here. We could use people who are knowledgeable about fashion. It would be good experience for you."
For a minute, I stepped beyond the veil into an alternate reality. In this reality, I was a communications major in the Eternal City who was paying his way through college by working at Gucci. I had it all: a cherry-red second-hand car, a job I enjoyed, a job that REQUIRED me to wear Gucci and spout witticisms seasoned with nods to Frida Giannini, surreptitious 'forbidden love'-esque visits to the Tom Ford store, slowly rising in the ranks, an MBA, the metropolitan gloam...I wanted it all so badly.

In the then present, I felt worthless as I walked back from the ugly drama at my professor's and a panic attack at the library. As I looked up into the more cosmopolitan gloam of the Spitsbergen, I felt that familiar need gnawing at the valves of my heart. I wanted it so badly. But could I give up the pristine labs, the elaborate procedures? Could I trade in the vitriolic arrogance of a scientist for that of Gucci? Could I give up Hamlet, Punjaban, Santiago, Masakalli? If I had made that choice and stayed, I would have missed out on meeting Lord Kengleson, Butters, Wendy, Bebe, Tenorman and so many others...I could have stayed. But could I have forgiven myself for excluding these people from my life without really realising that I had done so? What they don't tell you about the metropolitan gloam is that it can often be a lonely place, but...

I seem to be going around in circles. Was I right in thinking that I know exactly how things like those began, and there can be no stopping such thoughts and the dreams of decadence that they inspire, and so they should be dashed before they take flight? I shall desist. I shall be good. Good, because no good can come of this.

As I write this, my wily iPod plays up Suzanne Vega's 'Caramel'. What could be more fitting, really, as I wrestle with treasonous thoughts about unrequited love....

It won't do
to dream of caramel,
to think of cinnamon
and long for you.


It won't do
to stir a deep desire,
to fan a hidden fire
that can never burn true.


I know your name,
I know your skin,
I know the way
these things begin;


But I don't know
how I would live with myself,
what I'd forgive of myself
if you don't go.


So goodbye,
sweet appetite,
no single bite
could satisfy...


I know your name,
I know your skin,
I know the way
these things begin;


But I don't know
what I would give of myself,
how I would live with myself
if you don't go.

I am a fool. Such a silly little fool.


Until the next time,
GossipGuy.

Splenic Vignettes

I have been a bit heavy on the drama this past week. It is what Charles Ryder, in his eloquence, dubbed "[my] Phooey!" I have explored the length and breadth of my Phooey, and seen how I can be Blanche, Septimus, Richard, Quentin, and so many others in a matter of seconds. I hate this. I hate me.

"I am a scientist!"

I would like to take a moment and make this clear: I am a scientist. Do not treat me as though I were an idiot. I mean, "Hooker, please!" So, there is this gentleman in one of my labs, and he rather enjoys snapping at me, and teaching me how to hold a pipette. I am sorry, I wasn't aware that to be taken seriously as a scientist, I had to speak in the infamous dialect of pointing at reagents and grunting, and dressing in sombre argyle sweaters paired with Dad jeans. Of course you do your lab work exquisitely! You're a grad student, it would be astounding if you didn't! So all I have to say to you, my noble lord, is go and play with someone your own size. By which I mean yourself. There may be a lot of my self-esteem to go around, but I am very discriminating as to who I allow to bite a chunk out of it.

"I shall do no such thing!"

Seriously, ladies, we are not in the other ND anymore: I have striven long and hard to exorcise those memories, and I beseech you not to resurrect them and have them dance around me in a farcically twisted re-enactment of 'Thriller'. By heaven, I had a year to learn your choreography: didn't happen then, and won't happen now. Next time, I suggest you try not to cut the line, and hope that I shall save your slothful asses. I didn't this time: if anything, I had to create ma-h-jor drama, and put myself first. I am not asserting that I am superior to you in anyway, all I am saying is: I am done.

"I am sorry."

I am in the process if ruining a perfectly good new friendship by being cold to a genuinely genial person. I am doing this because I do not want to scare him off. It's a frightening realisation for many when they see that the 'dark and twisted, scary and damaged' is all too real, and not a quirky idiosyncrasy of this guy who thinks in multiple languages. Hamlet stayed. Hamlet stayed when he found out. Hamlet stayed when I would have yelled, "Fuck this!" and ran in the opposite direction, only to meet me in as phatic a sense as possible. I miss Hamlet. We don't see each other as much as we used to. I won't even be doing Thanksgiving with him. The practicalities of both our worlds have caught us in a stranglehold so enticing in its agony. And as far as my new friend is concerned, I shan't be able to stand it if I scare him off! The reason? I shall only have myself to blame...

"No! There is much more to be written! NO!"

They had to physically wrest me away from my immunology exam; I broke my bracelet in the process. It was ugly: I was sleep-deprived, overdressed, and just plain nasty to everything that so much as took a breath in my direction. Publicface was a task that day. A Herculean one.




The truth, constant reader, is that I am tired. I am tired of subsisting on the crust of reassurance. Or rather, this currency of reassurance, that is worse than charity thrown in my direction. I shall end with a few lines from my beloved Baudelaire, partly because I these lines are beautiful in their decay, and also in an attempt to add credibility to this post that has teemed forth from my spleen.

"She weeps, mad girl, because her life began;
Because she lives. One thing she does deplore
So much that she kneels trembling in the dust-
That she must live tomorrow, evermore,
Tomorrow and tomorrow- as we must."
-The Mask, Charles Baudelaire.

Live

"Are we moving in the right direction? What is fate if faith's emerged a shame...?"

So crooned Bitter:Sweet from my PC as I slowly rubbed Burberry's 'The Beat' into the hollow of my neck....


Under regular circumstances, I'd take you down a long paragraph, relating my insecurities and apprehensions about the evening to follow, but I really don't want to do that. Not tonight. Not when I feel as vivified as I do. So let's cut to a scene that I really like:

Let your ears drink in Red Hot Chili Pepper's infectious (to the point of being insidious!) opening guitar from their 'Can't Stop':

"Can't stop addicted to the shin dig Cop top he says I'm gonna win big Choose not a life of imitation Distant cousin to the reservation..."

It is this to these strains that Butters, Bebe and I emerged from Bebe's car into the mauve, evening sky at our concert venue. You see, it was All Hallow's Eve, the Witching Hour was upon us, and Anberlin and Taking Back Sunday were in town. I am known to have a fertile imagination, but, at that moment, I could not imagine anything better than this. Even now, I cannot...

As usual, I was overdressed: skinny jeans, a white dress shirt (with the sleeves rolled way, way up!) coupled with an obscene red vest. Butters, as becomes him, had dressed sensibly: jeans, and a rather becoming dichromatic, long sleeved T-shirt which, he insisted, made him look about 12 years old! But, Bebe, clad in a sleeveless peasant top with a white shirt underneath, a spider ring on her finger (how festive!) was the one to be seen, and to be seen with! The People-watching that we indulged in, as we waited in line, was delightfully bitchy. But don't blame us please! What would you say to a rather corpulent French maid? Or a lasciviously dressed Raggedy Ann? She wouldn't be called raggedy, if she dressed like that! Or how about one flouting a thousand tenets of political correctness as she tried, by the means of glistening bronze make-up, to pass for Pocahantas? So yeah, we had really good material to work with!

I knew I wasn't going to regret this- a telling sign was that I didn't feel as violated as I usually do after being frisk-searched. Ah, but the night was yet young, violations would happen, and I would emerge with a big,
dopey smile upon my face, slightly worse for wear...but I am getting ahead of myself!

Once inside, we were welcomed by a comforting darkness. As the hour of performance began to approach, this darkness was gently cleaved open with beams of green, blue, purple, red and yellow, and a spacious stage was revealed. A spacious stage with musical instruments and judiciously positioned microphones. My knees began to knock together, as a steady stream of adrenaline began to seep into my blood-stream : O God! I was here! My first rock concert! I was with fond, convivial people, and I looked fantastic!
"It would be great if 'Motion City Soundtrack' were playing too," Butters said.
"Jizz. In. My Pants." I responded in elation.
He laughed, "Not when I am standing so close to you!"
"Very well, then: Mind = blown!" I amended. "You will admit, cerebrospinal fluid is better than semen!"

It was around this time that I met The Red Queen and Alice in Wonderland. As Alice walked past me, despite myself, I couldn't help but be drawn to her somewhat campy appeal.
"You look bewitching..." I said rather lingeringly, and hating myself for it.
"What? Bewitching?" she pronounced.
She and her friend The Red Queen caught each others' eye, then mine, and we laughed.
"Thanks," said she, after having decided that 'bewitching' fell in the 'compliment' category. Way above 'hot', or below it; depending on how your lists are arranged!
While the Red Queen did nothing for me, I couldn't stray far from Alice's sickly,sweet kitsch. Bebe smiled knowingly, as I exchanged smiles tinged with nasty, with Alice. It all fell apart when Alice decided to have an extended conversation with me.
First, she wanted to know if I was faking an accent: that chafed. But I put her doubts to rest, assuring her that my accent was indeed mine own, and we couldn't all be 'Appu', try as we might.
"Oh-ma-God, he isn't BS-ing me or whatever, right?" she phrased, looking pointedly at Butters and Bebe.
"Naw, he's legit." said Bebe, smiling brightly.
Second, ever-curious Alice wanted to know if I was dressed as Michael Jackson from 'Thriller'. Oh that was a deal-breaker right there. You. Do. Not. Fuck. With. My. Sartorial. Choices.
Ah yes...the bands were starting up, and, by then, I had lavished enough of my attention on Alice. It was time for the night to begin in earnest...

The opening bands were...interesting: the very first band, with a ninja/zombie theme and just as strange a sound, made me sad. These were grown men, for the love of heaven! Now, 'Fun' were a much-needed change of pace with their gospel-esque sound, and innuendo laden lyrics! Their rather androgynous lead-singer was dressed as the equally androgynous (or, as he phrased it, 'sexually ambiguous') Jaime Lee Curtis. I swayed slightly as he sang of "All the Pretty Girls on a Saturday Night", and, for a fleeting instant, went back to the Eternal City...
My hand, at this point, brushed against this girl's derriere. Not my fault, really, we were all so closely packed. Mortified, I apologised.
"It's okay, and I enjoyed it anyway!" she responded coquettishly. I couldn't help but gallantly bow in response!

Anberlin's descent on the stage finally breathed life into the pulsating seed of dormant ardour that was trembling in my soul. As the first guitar string was strummed, it created an orb of kinetic energy that buried itself into the stage, made its way into the ground, crept up my person through my feet, and hit me with a force of such enlivening dynamism that, it was as if, I could see colours now...My God....
It was then that the shoving began! People wanted to get ahead, but I had a great vantage point (thanks to Bebe's astute placement), and I wasn't going to give it up. Rhett Butler was neatly packed away for the evening, as I shoved right back.
"GET THE FUCK BACK!" roared a voice near-by, I looked up to see Butters regaining his famed equanimity. If I could have, somehow, freed my arms from the thousands (it seemed) that were packed so closely to me, I would've given him an ovation.

Oh Anberlin! How well they primed the crowd with their well-chosen play-list! And they were so immaculately dressed too! Arms flailing, sweat dripping down my back, an inflamed larynx...I was existing in the Astral Plane of Extreme Rockitude! (Yes, you may hate me for that.). The music...it was a live, pulsating charge that just enlivened everything it touched. I could spin you a metaphor about the crowd being a thick, enmeshed unit so like cardiac muscle, and the music being the electricity that spreads through this network of cells, and the entire muscle fibre throbs itself to life. But tonight is not a night for reprehensibly nerdy, "work-related" things! I felt a sob catch in my throat, as I,veritably, blossomed under the aegis of unadulterated adrenaline. I wish Anberlin had played longer...

The lead singer of Taking Back Sunday is a rather astute gentleman: he made the observation that a lot of superheroes had peopled the audience that evening. This was true indeed. But with your generic Superman, Batman, Spiderman et al, there were also unsung others. The two that we experienced were: Perspireman and Clobbergirl. Perspireman is a rather corpulent and, as his name suggests, his one superpower would be perspire. Profusely. Both Bebe and I were victims of his grubby claws, as he shoved and grabbed and jumped and, well, perspired all over our respective persons. Perspireman stood behind me during the Anberlin set, and decided that it would be okay by me (and it most certainly wasn't!) if he grabbed onto my shoulder as he jumped to make his enthusiasm known. By the time the Anberlin sweat...erm...set was over, I knew him as intimately as one knows a lover. It was traumatising, to say the least. Perspireman was rather magnanimous with bedside manner too: he stubbed my toe very badly as he moved on to his next victim (poor Bebe!).
"Sir!" I cried, with my affectations returning. "Do you mind?!"
He smiled dimly. Obviously, he isn't the kind who believes in calling back...
With Bebe, a repeat performance of The Wet Adventures of Perspireman ensued, much to the consternation of Butters who made his displeasure known with a few well-timed barbs: oh, this is why I keep these people around, they give me hope!

Clobbergirl was my own cross to bear. True to her name, Clobbergirl pushed and shoved and elbowed, just to get in front. No, I had no intention to yield. So I leaned in and whispered, "Madam, I am going to have to taze you..."
Poor Clobbergirl! Her powers vanished right there, as she urgently searched for the perpetrator of this rather 'When a Stranger Calls' type of prank. But I was busy rocking away to Taking Back Sunday....

They played 'Make Damn Sure', if you must know! I love that song, and at that time, my veins were rather tangled close! Taking Back Sunday's verve knocked me right out of my being, and it was good. It felt right to levitate slightly, despite being surrounded my multitudes. My ears are still ringing, and I can say for a fact that they shall for some time to come.

I am so grateful for Butters and Bebe: the catalysts of my branching out. I could not have asked for better friends.

I finally feel caught up with my youth, and all I can say, in conclusion is:

"Burning down bridges now (scatter the ashes) Godspeed to all you're after Is this a life left just to remember Tell them who you are who you really were (hey hey) Kill yourself slowly over time fashion statement suicide She's still asleep in a Chelsea hotel Bad turns to worse and the worst turns into hell Fall asleep Don't fall asleep Don't fall asleep (God save the eyes that dim tonight) They lied when they said the good died young They lied when they said the good died young Stay with me stay with me tonight.
-'Godspeed' by Anberlin.

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

The Intelligent Metrosexual's Guide to Friends and the General Crunkitude of Impromptu Evenings In.

A slow, expectant smile alighted upon Butters' usually composed features, as he revealed it to me. Oh, he took his time with it, but, as if out of the blue, it was staring at me right in the face.

"Go on.." he said.

"What? What?" I questioned in my usual befuddled manner.

"Go on...put your hand to it." he encouraged.

"What? NO!" I refused vehemently. "I wouldn't know the first thing to do with it!"

"Just, you know, slap it around a little bit..." he said huskily.

In the background, Wendy tittered brightly.
"Yeah," she chimed in. "Go on! It's all warm and sweaty..."

"What? You too pretty for this?" Scott Tenorman demanded of me. "Just slap it! Slap it good!"

I sighed deeply, and looked down in consternation, only to see that Butters was still holding it out.

Oh whatever would I do with a volleyball?! I was never sportive in school. I have always been The Kid with The Note!

Oh whatever could I do with a volleyball?! A lot, actually, as I soon discovered. Off came the cashmere and floated wide, the tie (skinny!) was thrown onto the side! I popped a button on my shirt, and got my game on.

Yes, I did just type that.

The volleyball flew across the room, and I propelled it forth. I slapped it, slapped it good. Laughter came thick and potent, but on the inside I was conflicted! My 'propah' self was losing it! This wasn't right! I didn't do this. Ever. My propah-self needed to chill, so I gave him the night off. I went down to my room, put on 'Sureshot' by Yellowcard and got ready. You see, in my world, there is a perfect outfit for everything, and I knew exactly what I wanted to do with this one right here. In about 5 minutes, I returned to Tenorman's room, clad in a punk-rock-esque T-shirt, a pair of baggy Adidas sweat-pant thingies, that I had bought in case an 'in-case-of-emergency-slip-on-baggy-sweat-pant-thingies' situation ever arose, and my trusty Skechers. Butters, Wendy and Tenorman were delighted, and I was too. You will not believe how difficult it is to manoeuvre oneself in skinny jeans! My propah self was not on-call anymore, instead I was Lane. Lane, of the disheveled hair. Lane, who exclaimed, "Dude!" everytime the ball came awfully close to hitting him, and he deftly deflected it with a well-timed SLAP! I rather like Lane, he's not a snob. Or a prude. Or overly self-conscious, 'overly' being the operative word...

What we went on to play was 'Room Pepper'- a variant of true volleyball adapted to the constraints of limited space. As the ball flew from one avenue to another, something in me just...broke. And I dove headfirst into the game, laughing (rather than effetely gasping) whenever the ball struck me, laughing at the persiflage, the jokes, the many, many times that Butters and Tenorman yelled out, "Cha'mone!" and sweetly chastised me for "being ignorant"! As the game (where I, allegedly, dominated) began to die down, the volume of the Southpark episodes that played in the background, rose up. (Yes, Tenorman with his 'slight' OCD liked it when people changed their Room Pepper positions in the interval between episodes-he's a man after my own heart!). The cries of 'Cha'mone' and 'Get the beat down now!' and the zany anecdotes that punctuated every burst led into a dance-off. Yes, a dance-off involving a darkened room, four twentysomethings, a joyous speaker-set that made its pleasure known with a fluorescent paroxysm of lights everytime the right beat was hit on the song that played, and Rihanna. Choreographed beautifully by Tenorman, we rocked our socks off to 'Disturbia'. (HEE-HEE!). I felt that twitch in my pelvis, the very same that signals an unfettering of my pretensions. Oh yes, it was all very dum-dum-de-dum-dum-dum-de-dum-dum...At one point in the proceedings Tenorman became Aladin and Butters Princess Jasmine, and they sang to us of 'A Whole New World'- I gave them a standing ovation, for sheer testicular gumption.

There is something from that night that shall stay with me for a long time, perhaps forever: as we got our groove thang on to Rihanna, I piped up, "I feel silly."
A shimmying Butters said: "It's okay to be silly around friends."
It is strange how touching something like that can be, despite the fact that I never was unpopular or lacking for friends at any stage in life. Except for that one time in the 8th grade...but we never speak of that. No! I am grateful: grateful for mellow, unpretentious Butters AND unhinged Butters who can do a mean falsetto that would make Disney purists see a whole new world, for obsessive, fiery Tenorman who, like his name, can look at you with a fierce intensity and urge you not to 'dare close your eyes', for effervescent Wendy who will chalk you up on the Awkward Board as someone whose exploits would make the marker run dry, and for charming Bebe (Butters' significant other) who will listen as you weep over your self-pity sundae at Cold Stone. I had had a terrible evening before this: I was missing the festive season back home, and my paycheque hadn't arrived. I was basically a Joad in Dior, Dior bought by swiping the Daddy Card! But that was before I took a step down the rabbit hole...

Without further ado, then:

The Intelligent Metrosexual's Guide to Friends and the General Crunkitude of Impromptu Evenings In.

1) It is perfectly okay to have friends. You can get very annoying to yourself, though you may be too polite to mention this. To yourself.

2) So you had a good time...good for you! Stop trying to be all Kate Chopin about it, and writing the blog equivalent of 'The Awakening'...oh wait! Never mind.

3) Your pretensions are obsessively assiduous. They are basically Ted Baker clad Oompa-Loompas who strive very, very hard to get you through the day. Give them a weekend off, once in a while. They may need to be pushed out of the door, but you (and they) will be better for it.

4) Stepping outside yourself is as salubrious as a brisk, early morning walk. You will find yourself being relatively sportive, laughing with your mouth gaping, (as opposed to low chuckles that show 'good breeding'), and not questioning the political correctness of a 'Cha'mone!'.

5) Peppering your verbiage with a 'dude' or two is perfectly acceptable, as long as you do it organically and not gasp and cover your mouth as your brain rattles off a strange amalgam of a 'Hail, Mary' and 'The Lord's Prayer'. Please don't do that. Don't be THAT guy.

6) You will not blush if someone asks you, uh, "Blow [them]" in a different language. Instead, give them the finger.

7) Stop apologising. Ho!

8) It is okay to be silly around friends.


Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

Perfume

It has been a fortnight clogged with work, deadlines, networking and so much more: but a very fragrant fortnight nonetheless. When I think back to all that has chanc'd this fortnight, no concrete images come to mind, but my olfactory receptors are overwhelmed: yes, it has been a rather fragrant fortnight...

Coffee.

That slightly charred, wholly comforting aroma that attacks my nostrils each morning, as a machine decrees that I simply must have a cuppa before I start the day...and I listen, because I am a good student, and a reasonable man who knows a salubrious habit when he sees one. Know that the scent of coffee in the air does not only signal my physically getting out of bed, but it almost always signals an awakening. I remember how with Charles Ryder, that familiar scent would have a hint of a dark chocolate to it: much like the dark places our conversations would sometimes take us, or how with Verlaine the scent would take on the nuances of dark red cherries softly crushed to let the juice run, and add a pungent sweetness to the whole affair, and I always enjoy it when the coffee soused air is charged with cinnamon whenever Punjaban, Masakalli and I get together and trash someone away to Kingdom Come! But I was a fool to think that I know the entire repetoire of my favourite beverage, for I met quite a few new flavours this fortnight: there were fumes of black cardamom in the air as I sang of betrayal: first of Hamlet's and then mine, the pinching awareness that only ginger can bring as Mary Wollstonecraft and I faced off each other in an elaborate comedy of manners, and finally the chicory that subtly infused itself around the battlefield in an attempt to vie against the toxicity of the days past. Thusly, here we are: clutching a fragile peace, as if it were the only thing that mattered.

Violet Leaf.

Last week, as I was rearranging a section of my wardrobe, I found a tiny bottle of Burberry Touch, and it was like being revisited by an old lover and, once I wore it on my skin, I realised that the spark was still there! The summery, slightly floral, but mostly spicy aroma of Burberry Touch, mingled with whatever it is that my skin offers it, makes the perfume even more intoxicating to me, mainly because it owns me so completely. That day, as I set out to do battle with the hours again, I wore my old favourite and it took me back to my days as a teenager in the Eternal City: it took me back to the drama, the fights, the quick, furtive crushes, the mini freak-outs, major episodes and a rollicking uncertainty of what the next day might bring. That night, I dreamt in art deco: it was black-and-white, with imposing, voluptuous structures and imposing, voluptuous women who cried black, tarry fury, and all of it bore the unmistakable signature of violet leaf, white pepper, and vetiver: the ingredients that make up the heady brew that still stubbornly clung to my skin even on the next day. The scent amalgamated itself into the maelstrom of memories that that gorgeous fever dream had stirred up, and out came a pantoum:

"As I begin to etch this quatrain,
I hum the oldest song of all,
A pretty young thing and her dashing swain,
Oh the drunken heroics of it all.

I hum the oldest song of all,
The garish dolor, infinitesimal pain,
Oh the drunken heroics of it all,
Of all that mattered, for life was plain.

The garish dolor, infinitesimal pain,
You who loved like an eternal fall
of all that mattered, for life was plain,
Such a cauchemar! But our own to call.

You who loved like an eternal fall,
Your eyes claret, your smirk vain,
Such a cauchemar! But our own to call.
I can think of things we can all feign.

Your eyes claret, your smirk vain,
A pretty young thing and her dashing swain,
I can think of things we can all feign,
As I begin to etch this quatrain."

Sodium Hypochlorite.

The antiseptic miasma of Sodium Hypochlorite is what haunted R.A. duty over the weekend. The very same Sodium Hypochlorite that is called out of bodily fluid clean-up kits when the need arises. You see where I am going with this? My co-RA Lawrence Selden and I slapped on pairs of latex gloves played at Forensics Lab when we found, well, puke smeared pillow and T-shirt unceremoniously dumped in a sink. They waited with a kind of expectancy that comes when has been filthy or odourous far too long, and knows that release is on its way. As the clear, clear streams of Sodium Hypochlorite made their way through the crusty crevices of decay, the soiled accoutrements knew that they were rescued. Carefully, I gathered up the nastiness and delicately placed it in an angrily diffident biohazard bag.

The antisepsis of Sodium Hypochlorite bears a harsh smell, but it is a smell of clean slates, a smell that tells you that it had to struggle to make its presence felt, that it had to get rid of all the others so as to make room for itself. I can only wish I had something like that when I lost it in immunology lab last week: when my house of cards came tumbling down and, crouched in a cubicle in a gent's bathroom, I choked back sobs and placated my brain as it yelled, "What the fuck am I doing here? I am not a scientist! I am an amateur! And I hate this pretentious accent!"
Oh if only hypochlorite happiness could seep in and make everything okay, if only just for a while.

Ash.

The acrid odour of a burning carcass viciously attacked my nose when I heard the following,
"Hey look guys! It's a fag fest!"

One of the R.A.'s in the hall has decided upon setting up a programme for the GLBTQIA community in the hall, and the response has been violent, to say the least. I get that these gentlemen are yet green, and have much of the world to see, but how can they, in their naivete, be so vicious? I am a straight ally, I have seen the struggle first hand, and I will always regret playing Edith Wharton when I knew exactly what was going on. Seeing this side of things, the side that does not entail inter-corridor high-fives and laughter, but the side that collectively forms the satanic hand that reached forth and blazed away good intentions, leaving only black smoke in its wake, was a disturbing,debilitating experience. My sensibilities are still careening in disbelief, trying so hard to shake out that smell of smoke from the curtains.




Oh constant reader, forgive me for how vague this post is! True to form, I am smiling with the knowledge of things that only I can know. And as much as I'd like to, I can't give you the details! The details would be damaging to all involved...

Until the next time,
GossipGuy.

Dirty Magazine

I must say, I am rather pleased with the status quo these days! On the surface everything seems bright and clean and scented with crisp early autumn sunshine and freshly baked goods, but it is in the deep down where things are a bit more, shall we say, interesting!

House of Ill-Repute.

In a desperate attempt to save my friendship with Hamlet, I found myself at the town's adult book-store. Right. I'm not going to remove that, typed as it was in naivete! In truth, he's frightfully busy with architecture, and I am up to my eyes in work both academic and otherwise, we barely see each other these days! Thusly, (thusly?) we decided to meet each other at this charmingly cavernous espresso bar downtown. I felt positively debauch: here I had stolen a few hours from my day to meet my friend, as if in secret, and my judgmental Physics homework would never know! I still giggle at the memory.

As far as the adult book-store is concerned, I found myself standing before a rather affable gentleman asking for directions to the venue where I was supposed to meet Hamlet. The gentleman was the proprietor of the shop: clad in black, smile on his face, he greeted me with a cheery, "What can I do you for?"
In a puerile moment, I did think on the lines of, 'Do me for? Are you for real?' But that moment passed, thankfully.
I phrased my inquiry rather oddly:
"You probably don't get this a lot..."
There was an imperceptible change to his friendly features: he suddenly had his work-face on, a work-face that said, 'Oh here's a new challenge: there isn't much I haven't heard of friend...'
I was almost tempted to pipe up, "Do you have 'Dirtpipe Milkshakes Vol. 12'?" just to see the extent to which I could faze him. But I was afraid that he might actually have what was just asked for in jest, then I'd have to buy it so as to avoid looking like a doofus, and however would I explain the presence of enema porn at the residence hall without appearing like someone with a bagful of issues?!
But I digress...
So I asked him for directions to the coffee place, and he more than obliged, he actually called the coffee place to get rather detailed instructions, cheekily telling them to expect a "well-dressed young guy" soon. I would have blushed if I wasn't doing so already. The whole place had that midwestern friendliness to its depravity: the magazines were less, "You know you want to..." and more, "It would be nice if you did!"
As I walked past one of the aisles, I received such a genial smile from a patron, you would think we were both
buying groceries at Target! A cheery wave and a "Do come again!" from the proprietor marked my exit and I emerged dazed onto the street, but with a fairly good idea of where I was going.

Hickey.

Hamlet has acquired a girlfriend. Yes, he really hit it off with Mary Wollstonecraft- a kindred spirit who was of great solace to me during 'My Year Abroad: Part Une' (Yeah, we don't talk about that.). I am happy for him, for them. It's charming to see them engage each other at an intellectual level so suited to one another: her fire is his smile, his intensity reflects itself in her winsome visage: it's all very sweet, to the point where I want to throw them some odd variant of the Engagement Breakfast, and invite all my friends to fawn at the couple. Ah, but as becomes a good friend, I have been keeping a healthy aesthetic distance: power may be in threes, menage a trois's may be fun, but no-one likes a third wheel!

One evening, after my meetings were done with, and I was adding the final flourishes to an immunology lab report, trying to gloss over a rather tragic murine demise, my whore of a phone vibrated in that delicious way it does when it has something undeniably juicy to tell me, and I found out that Hamlet had been spotted sporting a rather monstrous hickey! As becomes my title, I posted a rather bitchy-revealing-but-not-too-revealing status message on Facebook. Oh we enjoyed that immensely! In a conversation with Hamlet (one with a very post-mortem-esque air) I threw in a few barbs on the lines of, "I think a hickey is a great accessory, now, *I* never could wear one!" Ah, but he's an astute one, my friend is! He caught me right out: I do believe he called me a "horrible jelly-fish serving bitch". Good times! Good times!

Oh, but constant reader, the truth is deeper than all these shallow fables: I am alone. Barring a few instances of unspeakable nastiness, I have nothing to show for my (alleged) youth. But boldly do I lock my skeletons in their walk-in residence, and judge away to glory. Oh of course I am happy! I shop, I befriend, I laugh, and I judge. They like me, and I like myself for a while! My own version of Cunegonde's ditty would go:

"And yet of course these trinkets are endearing, HA-HA!
I know for a fact my Gucci is a star, HA-A-HA!
If not myself, I do love what I'm wearing, HA-HA!
If I'm not pure, at least my shirts are!"

Wanton.

A few nights ago, I found myself swaggering (and I swear this is true!) through the halls of our neighbouring all-woman's residence hall striking up conversations, and generally being a whore. The R.A.'s at that hall had put together a programme in which they allowed unaccompanied males to stroll through their halls just to see how many of their residents would be willing to call them out on the escort policy. I dressed the part: baggy shorts, overpowering perfume, a neck-piece of sophomoric cool, a V-necked T-shirt layered with a plaid shirt, hair rising up in quills: I looked like the stereotypical freshman. I seriously considered the exposed boxer bit, but I lost my nerve at the last minute. Some lines should never be crossed.
To my pleasant surprise, I was hit on. Constantly. I came very close to collecting a few phone numbers, but didn't because I was on a mission: a mission that entailed me playing the part of a wanton, unescorted boy(!) with loose morals. I have never felt so objectified before, and I liked it.

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

Mirth

So there I stood, a pile of brightly coloured envelopes in hand. All of these were in my mailbox. All of these were addressed to me.

"How very odd." I enunciated carefully as Hamlet looked on.

Hamlet had that look about him, that look that told him that he knew that I was standing en pointe on that line between Public Sanity and the neurotic/cathartic breakdown.

"Well!" I continued with a frightening sense of cheer in my voice. "Let's go back to my room! Yes! Let's do that."

Hamlet nodded: this was familiar, the strange propriety, the rambling...

My room seemed larger for some unfathomable reason. There was something magnanimous in the air. As I breathed it in, it burnt and was caught in my throat.

"Why..." I pronounced, my words gelatinous.
As Hamlet proceeded to calm me down, I begged him to leave. To leave, because I thought I was going to cry...O God! I couldn't possibly cry here! I never have! Not even when I moved away from the Eternal City! But that THING that was caught in my throat was debilitating me! I had to do it, I had to...cry.

Hamlet (bless him) is a gem, and so he left me to exorcise my insecurities.

I was alone. In my big room. The Thing in my throat squeezed tighter, and I gasped loudly. The rains came then, the dessicated fields of my eyes were a-flood, and it. felt. so. good. I was trembling tremulously, the kind of trembling that accompanies an object on the verge of explosion. I gripped the side of my desk, and I made out the colourful envelopes through the teary haze that obscured my vision. The pleasant shower amped itself up to a tempest, and by God, it was the most alive I have felt in a long, long, long time.

If you imagine things the way I do, then imagine this: a foreign kid of average build, weeping piteously as 'Never say Never' by The Fray plays in the background...It was very 'Grey's Anatomy'!

As beautifully tempestuous as that was, it was now time to compose myself: I washed my face, applied cooled Earl Grey tea-bags to my eyes, moisturised, refreshed my perfume, readjusted my scarf, made myself some coffee, grabbed a few Lindt bonbons and sat down to read my mail.

There is an infectious mirth about those cards: almost the entire RA staff wrote how much they valued me, how much they enjoyed having me amidst them. I laughed at their witticisms, in my mind I hugged every single one who had taken the time and the trouble to write to me. Such kindness, so much more than I deserve...

That very afternoon, my therapist, Dick Diver II, had asked me if I had ever been truly, truly happy. I said that I had come close, but every time a foreboding sense of 'oh-this-is-going-to-end-soon' spoilt it for me. But this was different: for once in my overly analytical, worryingly neurotic existence, I was truly, truly happy: it was an invincible happiness, and for that one moment, the world was mine.

One of my R.A. friends, also a part of the project, told me that my gracious Lord Kengleson had facilitated the whole thing. I struggled with myself: I wanted to go thank him, but I was afraid I'd break down again. Who needs that kind of drama? I went up to his door three times in an hour, and each time I came back trembling, on the verge of fresh tears. Finally, I did make it up there and gave him the warmest, tightest hug I could muster. He kept saying that it was no big deal, he kept reducing the fact that he had gone around campus to the different buildings to collect the mail to a mere trifle, but he shall always have my everlasting gratitude. You see, it gets very cold here in this Spitsbergen, and Lord Kengleson has given me my own private sun...

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

Contradiction Triangle

I am just so fucking pissed at this point! Oh! OH!

Friday was the day of Three Contradictions. Sounds like one of those horrible 'let's-have-99c-sundaes-on-Sunday' things, does it not? I hate the fact that I get to sit, as pretty as you please, in the midst of the triangle that the Three Contradictions so fluidly form around me. Let's make our visit, shall we?

1) "You really need to work harder. Or not so hard. Or maybe, just channel the hard-work in the right direction: the direction of the stuff that is actually going to be on the test."

This is what my Biochemistry test told me this morning. It's hateful to stay up till ungodly hours going over such a frighteningly large amount of material, and then just...blank out the next morning. Of course, it came to me. The furtive 'going over' from the night before did manage to seep in through the crevices of this brain. But that moment of absolute silence between the arrival of the test on my desk and the seeping in, left me chilled. By the time the slow seeping had hastened to a steady flow, the test was done with, and I was in Physics, trying to speak Newton. In three dimensions.

This semester is officially my semester of exotic, foreign languages.

First, there's Biochemistry: my spoken Amino Acid is stilted, and has a learned quality to it. My written Amino Acid is conscientious and full of scratched out functional groups. Hell, there should be a course named 'Translating Amino Acid- The Language of Protein Architecture'. Oh I just made such a vilely geeky joke there, that I just want to douse myself with cheap beer so as to mask the self-righteous stink of Eau De Pseudo-Nerd.

Second, there's Immunology with its abbreviations: TNF, PRR, PECAM, C3b-Bb-Bb, C2aC4b: Gaaah! These make sense to me individually, but when they are all thrown at me with the vigour that only IgTinaFey (my professor) has, I feel like a destitute non-sportive, ex-fatty trying to catch a whole swarm of angry, abbreviated volleyballs. I'm pressed against a wall, and they crash right at me. Bruised, but smiling: Ah, it hurts so good...

As far as Physics is concerned, I have never spoken Newton. Never will. That's that. So there! Ah-ha! And other platitudes of over-enthusiastic affirmation, that I shall use to mask my disappointment into myself.

I am turning into a Freshman: I am disorganised, and my diet includes a lot of soda and cereal. I had this down to a science last year: bustling and harried? Yes. Messy and disorganised? Not so. O God, O God! I can only wish that things look up...

2) "You really need to stop being so hard on yourself."

My therapist, Dick Diver II, is a charming lady. She's supportive, she listens, and, so far, has no intention to start mind-fucking me. I find that I am happiest when in therapy, because when not in therapy, I dream dreams that have me in a French maid costume, bent over Sigmund Freud's left knee, talking about my issues as he spanks me with a feather duster. After a talk with Hamlet, it turns out that Freud now says, "Why are you having this dream?" within the dream. It's all very artsy with "No-you-won't-get-it" yearnings. And let's face it, constant reader, non-pretentious neuroses are hardly neuroses at all! You don't go to therapy for those, you seek hugs or food or something.

At any rate, Dick Diver II, told me what Dick Diver I told me too: "Stop being so hard on yourself." You see how this is a contradiction? If you don't, I suggest you read #1 again. Hard on myself? Oh! OH! I should be fucking horsewhipped!

3) "Of course, you can get into Georgetown!"

Dr. Transposon, my academic advisor, is an all-round great guy. He's a brick, he's the cat's meow, the bee's knees, and I really think that the dated slang is getting a little demeaning. But you get it right? Given the day I had had, the last thing I wanted to talk about was grad school, because my chances of getting into one of those recondite places seemed very, very unlikely. As Dr. Transposon and I talked of grad school, a few fancy names (much like the one above) were thrown around, and I disdainfully went "Yeah right!" and even "As if!" I don't know if I actually used the latter. It's very unlike me. But hey, I was conflicted, so it could have happened. Even though I hope to God it didn't! But Dr. Transposon rejoined with a very pragmatic, "Why not?" And that's all it took, really, for the sun to emerge defiantly onto the livid mindscape of my contradictory day.

"I don't know" is something that I say a lot these days.

I don't know if I will ever fluently speak those avant garde Sciencey tongues.
I don't know if I will ever be truly, truly happy with me.
I don't know if I will get into Georgetown.
All I know is what the little boy in 'I Am David' knew and held so dear: I am me. That is all.

Until the next time,
GossipGuy.

Cinéplex

So it has been 2 weeks, I think, since I posted last. It seems as if more time would have elapsed. Or rather, more time should have elapsed. It's not fair! The dawning of each day is like start of a movie. Yes, that is how it has been, of late: a fine amalgam of some rather fine films.

American Graffiti.

"Oh, no, not me. The night is young and I'm not hittin' the rack till I get a little action."

What started as a frisson built itself up into a wild, vivifying rush of ebullience, and fired up the blood in my veins as it skipped nimbly between one synapse and another. The result? A whoop, a gale of inexplicable laughter...it was an ungodly hour and I was in a convertible with the ever-agreeable Rosalind and the convivial Gabriel Oak: co-R.A.'s and dear, dear friends. The wind weaved its way delicately through my hair leaving them tousled, disheveled, but trendily so. Every cell in my body pulsated to the electro-pop ministrations emanating from the car's music system. Almost organically did I join the two in shouting out lyrics to the night:

And if I notice you I know it's you. Choose you don't wanna lose you're on my radar (on my radar) on my radar (on my radar)

It was all us- one with the night, teetering on the edge of ecstasy, madness...Oh to be there again! Laughter, such laughter, as the Taco Bell attendant looked at me uncomprehendingly as I asked her for a vegetarian gordita. Oh! Oh! The banter was crisp, the persiflage was pungent, and oh...the laughter! Never mind the revelations that would come to pass as time strolled right along, never mind the mis-communication, the heart-break...Right then, there was no night but that one. None at all.

Mean Girls."You're wearing sweatpants. That's against the rules! You can't sit with us."

The Residence Dining Centre, these days, is oddly reminiscent of my idea of Valhalla, and the primary reason for that would be The R.A. Table: a long table, by the picture windows, with high stools and R.A. Royalty. Each day, I'd sashay into the Dining Centre, orange juice in hand, stopping at practically every table to exchange frothy, phatic nothings, until I'd finally weave my way to The R.A. Table. And there, amongst the other Anointed Ones, there would be laughter, stories, clever one-liners and-oh! A wonderful, wonderful time! Don't look at me like that! Being a voluptuary is hard work, I'll have you know!

But, in all seriousness, this particular episode left me a little shaken: am I really this shallow a person? Imagine my surprise when, one afternoon, I get back to my room, having barely survived the First Installment of Wrathful Wednesday, log into my Facebook and notice that Hamlet has posted the following:

"Hamlet wishes that he had an army of R.A. friends the way some other people do."
Seeing as I have an admiration for all things bitchy, even if they are directed towards me, I couldn't help but chuckle a little bit. Oh, it was priceless! It was so acerbically bitchy, I had to hand it to him! Despite my rather exultant first reaction, I found that this little barb prickled me all day long as I went about facing the Second Installment of Wrathful Wednesday.

Now, imagine my surprise as I go back on to Facebook and find that Hamlet has vented his spleen to Helena! Oh! It killed me! There was such anguish there! Had I really forsaken the one guy who had given me the most tender bromance ever for the glitz of The R.A. Table?! Oh no no no! This had to be remedied at once! I called him over and a reconciliation was had. It was a quiet affair, there were hugs and borderline tearing-up. Oh what a cauchemar life would be without my friends....

The Others

There are things your mother doesn't want to hear. She only believes in what she was taught. But don't worry. Sooner or later... she'll see them. And everything will be different.

I was on my rounds a few days a go and I couldn't help but wonder this: why am I not carrying a lantern? Why am I not wearing a permanently paranoid expression and clothes that belong to the '40's? No, really! As an R.A., all I do is hear things. I hear whoops and yells, the clink of glass and an aluminium baritone, I hear giggles, I hear the whooshing of wheels in hallways...But when I emerge, I find...nothing. Oh, I've caught the odd miscreant, but really, otherwise, I only hear my residents and they only hear me. Maybe the noises are like a seance that carry out to confirm my presence. Oh no you don't! I'm not dead! This is my house! Of course it was foolish to think that they'd take to me instantly. Yet, the disappointment I have in myself doesn't seem to ebb...

Yet, constant reader, things are looking up. I have started aligning names to faces and phatic conversation is, well, a start at least. My fellow R.A.'s, fellow phantoms, if you will, have been very encouraging as well. Perhaps it is all in my mind. Because I see them now, without wondering if they really see me, and yes, things are different. In the best way possible.

Brief Encounter.

It's awfully easy to lie when you know that you're trusted implicitly. So very easy, and so very degrading.

I...can't talk about this. I thought writing about it might be easier, but it's not. Every time I even think about it I get that horrible lingering pregnant feeling in my nose, the kind that signals a sneeze or sobs. O God, O God! Such a foolish harlequin, variegate with regret and an undefinable somethingelse.


Until the next time,
GossipGuy.

Niceties.

There was a time when I simply could not talk to men who were better looking than I was at the time. Let's just say that I was conceitedly humble or humbly conceited, whatever floats your boat! This has changed, now that I inject a healthy vial of Snobbery right into my blood-stream every morning. Snobbery, Caffeine, a dab of Davidoff's Adventure and I am invincible! There were those who told me I wasn't doing right by myself, because, if pop-psychology, hermeneutics and semiotics are to be believed, then I am, on the inside, a big, fuzzy dog looking for love and acceptance, a big, fuzzy dog who is also a comma splicer, seriously. At any rate, these well-wishers of mine requested me, rather sweetly I might add, to be nicer, to be more approachable and thus win friends. But, honestly, tell me, who, with an accent that is indelibly tinged with the taint of British public school affectations is, ever nice? What is this 'nice' anyway? Mrs. Manson-Mingott hated the word 'nice', she would rather go for 'affable', or even 'fuzzy'! At least these adjectives tell you what to expect! I am never nice, thank you. Never completely nice, anyway. As for the comma splicing, I picked that up in my adoptive Spitsbergen.

Move Along.

Once training ended and I graduated to being an R.A. in earnest, I found myself waiting for move-in day with breath that was bated. And when the occasion finally arrived, I went out there in my assigned polo, with a dress shirt and slim tie underneath, Snobbery, Caffeine and 'Adventure' in check and I began to help incoming freshmen check-in. At first, it was good. Drunk with power (and possibly hopped up on, well, caffeine), I issued fluid instructions, perorating every spiel with a crisp 'Move along'- my fellow R.A.'s smiled indulgently while the incoming residents just looked shell-shocked. Half-way through the process, my energy began to flag. Horribly. The rooms were filling up: I had residents now! Oh. My. God. I was on the cusp of hyperventilation when my rational self (thank you, Betty!) led my other self back to my room where I could have a moment to myself and stay the incoming crisis.

I adjusted my tie, refreshed my perfume, straightened my name-tag and went at it again. But it just wasn't quite there: the 'move along' felt soggy and I just wanted to curl up in bed and die. Or at least sleep for a while! I tried to remember faces, names and align the two, but, after a while, all of them blurred into one tall, lanky, Aeropostale wearing boy with a look of absolute beffudlement on his face. I tried to banter with some and that was, as they would gleefully decree, a FAIL. An epic one, even. Maybe they didn't get my jokes, or my accent, or the fact that what I was saying was actually a joke and that no-one was really going to be put in a strait-jacket. In retrospect, I think, the 'Sweeney Todd' references were also a product of bad judgment. Yes, gentlemen, these ARE indeed your files and not the worst pies in London.

I also tried socialising. Oh yes! But that blew up in my face as well. You see, I should have waited for mummy and daddy to have left, because, when they're around only mummy and daddy do the talking, their wards just look on like people who went out to the park for a stroll, witnessed a particularly elaborate brouhaha and are sure to tell all their friends about it. Despite my chagrin, I found the whole mise-en-scene to be rather endearing: falsely chirpy mummy and daddy, trying so hard to alleviate the grief that is going to come crashing down upon them on the ride back home, gawky looking residents who I just wanted to hug, reassure and feed cake to (thanks, S!)...why, I was there! I was right where they all are now, but it seems to have been a long, long, long, long, long time ago...

"Move along!"

"Move along!"

"Move along!"

And so it continued. The metal of my name tag coalesced with the fabric of my staff polo and became a load as onerous as a breast-plate. It seemed like a perfect day for banana-fish. Dear heaven! I was drained. I felt so inadequate. I did not deserve this garb, this role: my R.A. apprehensions came rushing back in a wave: Titus, Mrs. Danvers....all of them! Back in my room, 'The Hours' sat smugly in a Netflix envelope and seemed to mock me cruelly. Oh it was a perfect day for banana-fish, alright! Wearily, I turned my computer on and Pandora started up:

'When all you got to keep is strong,
Move along, move along like I know you do.
And even when your hope is gone,
Move along, move along
Just to make it through.'

How I love to hate that obnoxious band! But they sure as hell brought me back from a precipice that I am sure to teeter at many, many times as the year goes on by. What is the answer, after all? Does it lie in the fuzziness of the niceties we've all been to asked to inculcate and cultivate? Or do you just make your own personal blend work? But what if they hate me? Ah but I shan't think of that now. I'll go crazy if I do. I'll think of that tomorrow. Now, I shall go dancing. There is release to be had on the dance-floor.

Until the next time,
GossipGuy!

The Intelligent Metrosexual's Guide to the Great Outdoors

I know it has been a long time since I have written, but a lot of crazy shit has been going down! I can't believe I just typed that! I could erase it but, it seems bizzarely commemorative...ANYWAY, this week I found myself receding into the wilderness. A camping trip was planned as a part of R.A. training and I ended up learning a lot about myself. Yes, I feel very Zen right now! The following is an attempt at self-satirization. I had fun writing it and laughing at myself, with myself! I hope you do too!

The Intelligent Metrosexual is no outdoorsman. This makes sense, since only a particularly foolish metrosexual would put himself at the mercy of the outdoors without knowing what to expect. The Intelligent Metrosexual does his research before hand, maybe takes a few notes as well. A few notes that are memorised and burnt before anyone else can find them. Why? Because Alphas do not take notes, and, while no-one really expects you to turn in a brauvura performance to the extent that you may find yourself made an honourary Alpha (dream on!), you will be expected to pass for someone who might, on the eighth day of any random week, develop that potential.

The following is a list of rookie mistakes that are easily avoided. If you are an Intelligent Metrosexual, of course!

1) Packing, if I may say so plainly, is going to be a bitch. For starters, you are to carry ugly clothes. As inconceivable as that may sound, it is entirely possible. Any mulling over that you do about which of your clothes you think pass for ugly must be done in private. You may find, at some point, that you have reached an impasse i.e. you may find only a single set of clothes that is 'ugly enough' for the trip, and if you are valiant enough to take only that one set with you, you will find that, at the end of your trip, you will loathe that one particular set more than you ever thought possible. Even after washing those clothes thoroughly, will you detect find a faint whiff of perspiration everytime you approach said set of clothes.

2) You will not perspire; you will sweat. Alphas sweat. They do not perspire.

3) Do not even attempt to plan an 'outdoors look' for yourself. Who do you think you are? Ralph Lauren? Oh and, if I may just add, (rather ruggedly so!) I pity the fool who goes through a Ralph Lauren Polo catalogue to get ideas: this is not a production of 'Brideshead Revisited'. It may prove to be just as traumatic at times, but seriously, THIS IS NOT A PRODUCTION OF 'BRIDESHEAD REVISITED'.

4) It is a good idea to pack sparingly. You know, like the Alphas: just bare essentials. But just like you're not supposed to over-do the aforementioned, over-doing this bit is also abysmally stupid. If you go over-board on economy, you will find yourself without a tooth-brush, showering essentials and most of your bedding. Never mind the fact that you want to douse yourself in Purell as a result of what you think is something that will help stretch your limits and challenge your resourcefulness-such negligence is a sign that you're trying too hard to ingratiate yourself with the Alphas and that, good sir, is just silly! You are not Grizzly Adams.

5) Oh and do not carry hand sanitizer with you. Ever. Especially if you obsessively sanitize your hands. Let's face it, it IS the outdoors, and no amount of hand-santizer is going to make you feel good about yourself.

6) Avoid sleeping aids at all costs. You will get loopy and word-vomit will result. Do you really want to talk about your feelings when you have other things to worry about? Like bugs? At any rate, why would you want to talk about your feelings anyway? Do you really have any? Hmmm, I thought not.

7) The buzz-word is PMA (Positive Mental Attitude), not PMS.

8) Self-satirising your situation is very, very therapeutic. Deadpan wittily and everyone will think you're a riot and you will not want to bust out the shortbread.

9) Do things you wouldn't normally do: yes, I speak of physical activity. The Alphas will be more than happy to help you out. Minimise the drama, please. Keep a stiff upper-lip throughout. Remember, YOU ARE FINE. Anyone who tells you any different, even if it is yourself, is a whiny little bitch. You will be better for the experience if you finally allow your testicles to descend.

10) Seriously, stop whinging about how hard this is for you. We get it. You've never done this before. So do it now! Remember Bernice from Fitzgerald's 'Bernice Bobs her Hair'? Erm, never mind that example, it is probably not the best one... The point, however, is that you are not special. Yes, say that to yourself a few times. You are not special: the grime sticks on you just the same as it sticks on others, the mosquitoes relish your war just as greedily as they relish that of others. Sure, you may be unsightly at the end of it all, but think of the possibilities! Somewhere there is probably a picture of you, getting prettier by the minute!

11) Do not high-five anyone. Seriously. You'll give the whole game away.

12) The Alphas are probably in better shape than you ever will be. Saying that you have been 'working out a bit', or 'really should start working out' is a piss-poor defence mechanism. Everyone knows that you do not, have not and will not work out. They are just too polite to say so.

This above all: to thine ownself be true...

Actually...never mind!



Until the next time,
GossipGuy!