"What does not fit, does not go."

Okay, seriously Universe. Something is up with whatever the hell it is that you are using for your time keeping purposes. Because I promise you, I literally just came to Falmouth / Penryn. (Why the fuck are they two different towns anyway?)

It is only recently that I have succeeded in vaguely memorising the First Great Western bus timetables of all the important bus stops and have finally understood why the word "Bledy Maid" has nothing to do with periods. So, you can't possibly have the balls or the heart to tell me that it's time to leave for London already?

What am I going to do in London? (apart from living in an apartment, that is probably the size of a five star hotel's bath tub in Vegas and getting my ego Tai Chi-d to the ground at numerous agencies - in the hope of finding a placement- in the hope of that placement translating into a job.) 

London doesn't have mad hair raping wind or strategic sadist weather of the same intensity as Falmouth. You have to give the Falmouth weather Gods some kind of credit for having more mood swings than all the women of the world on PMS combined (Oh God, this is the second time I've mentioned the menstrual cycle. Great! Just great!). They generally decide to be sunny on each and every day before an important deadline and then shower their blessings exactly when you hand in and have plans to go out. 

Falmouth has also kept us all grounded and taught us spoilt young people the art of appreciating options by way of the spectacle called club I. There is no time wasted on a night out in obscurities regarding where you need to go to find drunk vulnerable people of the opposite sex. London is just going to ruin all this simple living high thinking attitude.

Damn. I am going to miss this place.

And just so you know, those pigeons got nothing on Seagulls.

(Meanwhile, amongst all the packing frenzy and emotional scarring resulting from having to discard one fourth of my wardrobe, Ana has been a great partner and support. When asked, how she was not panicking about this whole moving out situation and carrying all that luggage, she responded with a straight face, "What does not fit, does not go." 

And when told, "Shit! I just realised we are never eating in the Stannary again?", she said in a very non sarcastic fashion "Don't worry, we can come back, just so you can eat in the Stannary again.")

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go to the Gylly beach to feed those seagulls with me pasty and stop my room from looking like Mount Fujiyama erupting clothes, after which I will have to check out for good, and two dirty scruffy boys will take over my room, so I am told.

Shitty blogpost. Shittier mood. Whatever.

Divya 

To do list for Monday

- Upgrade your look from shit to mediocre before going to uni.

- Stop smelling like your favourite British cuss word.

- Don't die on Sunday. (Hence, prevent making headlines like "Advertising student dies due to overwork and dirty room". That shit is not half as entertaining as "man chops off his penis in the middle of Penryn Street.") 

- Don't spill any coffee/other liquids/edibles on your final folio on monday morning. If you think you might, then just die on Sunday. You deserve it.

-Apologise to all the players for "Pitches be tripping," for saying they are at the bottom of the league table. As it turns out, they are not. (Okay, don't apologise, just acknowledge.)

- Don't say "yaay" or start hi-fiving people immediately after handing in. Wait for the right time.

-Eat more cake than your metabolism can possibly handle.

- Please get some fucking sleep, so you don't look like a zombified version of yourself and can upgrade your look from mediocre to upper mediocre before going out to celebrate at night. (No, this is still not the right time to hi-five people.)

- Surround yourself with any kind of alcohol. Don't put too much thought into what gin/vodka/wine/whiskey you want. You know you don't give a shit. Just go for something with a pretty bottle. Then surround yourself with drunk inebriated people with complete disregard for appropriateness, before eventually dancing your ass off.

- Remember, you are in heels and need to get home in one piece. So, drink just enough to still be able to act like a fucking lady if you have to (even if you are feeling like Amanda Bynes on the inside.)

PS: There is no right time for hi-fiving people. I lied. JUST DONT DO IT. 

Divya

x

THE CUNT

To all the boys who thought that this was going to be some kind of a brave revealing post about the mystery of the lady flower, I offer my sincere apologies. THIS is not remotely related to THAT. It just happens to be one of those maniacal weeks before a super stressful deadline when the swear words are just flowing like water from an ice sculpture would; if an imbecile placed it outdoors in the middle of peak Indian summer. 

Since "cunt" is the one swear word I've picked up on, as a part of my linguistic cultural exchanges with my very British friends, I thought it was okay to take the liberty of using it as a title. I have to say it has sort of grown on me. I also know that it was completely possible to make my point without using that ice sculpture reference, but I just really felt like using the word imbecile.

So yes, its cool if you want to stop reading now. 

For those of you who are still here, I am really just writing for selfish therapeutic reasons tonight. I don't have anything important to say. I can't believe that I don't even have an amusing, reputation sabotaging, embarrassing anecdote to write about . For a person who is really clumsy, always in heels, generally high on life and not in her native country, I don't understand how that can happen. 

Oh yes, its because you actually, physically need to let yourself out of the house to let any of that stuff happen to you. And by letting yourself out of the house, I don't mean going to 35 old hill crescent's kitchen table. That by the way is where Anna lives,(Not the kitchen table, but the address); and where she cooks me Georgian buckwheat and feeds me ugly, but tasty health bars. 

However, what I do have is a dumb list of weird things that we have had to google in the last 7 days, that may cast serious doubts on the presence of cerebrum in my brain. But, I am hoping this is normal for being an advertising creative. I have actually just realised that calling myself an advertising creative makes about as much sense as calling myself rich and posh. Make this deadline, get a bloody job and then maybe you can use the two words together. And when I say two words I mean, "advertising creative".  

Anyhow, I've decided to embrace the insanity. So, here goes-

1. Sexy apple

2. Titsy orange

3. Sketch of vomit

4. Fat snow-white

5. She clown

6. Dentist villain

7. The large woman who lived in a forest

8. London apartments
9.What would Jesus do?

Needless to say, London apartments came up with the most soul shocking results of them all. So shocking that I may just prefer to live under a a self made rubble of eraser shaves I happen to be covered in right now, than housecunt, sorry, house hunt in London. But we will see how it goes.

x

Divya 

(Writing with greasy hair, wearing sketch pen as warpaint and still on Anna's kitchen table.) 

I AM POSH, RICH AND LYING

It has been a few months since I started my life as an international student in England. Life has been good. Just eventful enough for me to not to die from the lack of vitamin D or from the overdose of alcohol.  

I like the place and even a few people. Lets just say that so far I can't think of any major scarring experiences, except for maybe one, when a 10 year old kid on the street yelled "nice ass honey" at me. But as a girl who is used to walking on the streets of New Delhi, it didn't take me very long to get over it. 

AND THEN THIS HAPPENED -

So, I was supposed to be doing this presentation about a coke ad in my class today morning. I thought it was going alright until I unconsciously said the weirdest thing that could possibly ever come out of a mouth.

Long story short-

What I thought I was going to say: "I could not recognise this mall . So, I thought I'd ask a few rich posh friends who visit malls a lot if they had seen these machines in any shopping malls in Delhi and they said No. So, I guess, they have been installed in underdeveloped areas not frequented by such rich posh people."

What I actually said:  "I asked a few friends of mine if they had seen these machines anywhere in Delhi and they said No. I have actually never seen this mall myself. So, I guess, they installed them in places not frequented by the rich and the posh."

WHAAAATT? 

(Now, think Freudian slip raised to the power of infinity, causing the kind of irreparable damage that happens to some kind of an experimental hybrid electrical car, when it collides with a Hummer. Please go back to your seat right now and practice facepalm for an hour because this presentation is so over. It's unsalvageable.)

What everyone now thinks I am:  Regina George + Blair Waldorf + Kim Kardashian. Basically, a total elitist bitch. I have to mention that I am already a part of this hypothetical cheerleading squad for a football team called "Pitches be tripping". This cheerleading squad consists of three people. One of them is a boy. And despite that they are at the bottom of the league table.

What I really am: A struggling student failing to find a half decent roof to live under in London that doesn't render her bankrupt or force her to auction her entire wardrobe on ebay. This struggling student, apart from trying to advertise for British brands she has probably never heard of, also happens to be plotting a fake visa wedding to actually be able to work here after spending thousands of pounds to get education in a country , to which her people have swarmed in such a copious fashion that the biblical locust has been put to shame. So, basically nobody really wants you here (except for maybe this one friend of yours who keeps getting nightmares about you suddenly leaving England and getting adopted by evil parents who wont let you drink coffee). 

What I do now: Go to cost cutters in neon yellow spongebob pyjamas, buy any bottle of wine that has words with slanting lines on top of its e's and a's because that's how I buy my wines. I don't know how is it that I cant distinguish between the ones that are meant for the posh rich people and the ones that are for the commoners. They all taste like grape vomit anyway. But I am sure I couldn't have picked a non posh one, because thats just what I do. So, I now go home and drown my sorrows in my very posh wine, while simultaneously having a posh dance party, for one, on my posh bedroom desk because I cant really afford to go out.

You should also know that the above post has been written in a very posh British accent and hence must be read accordingly, only because "I" exude class and poshness. 

What everyone is still thinking of me after reading this : I can't believe she went to cost cutters to buy her wine and not Waitrose. Probably lying.

Hybrid electrical car/ Divya.