Screw Pollyanna and pass me my wine

I have always been really fascinated and intrigued by people who have the ability to only look at the bright side of life. They are weird and nice and most days I love to hang out with them. They are always so virtuous about tackling every problem head on and saying stuff like, "Things can only get better from here, darling.", that sometimes you almost end up buying it.

I happened to run into two of them, when I went to check out the whole buzz about the Notting hill carnival. At the carnival, there were these two women outside a church, trying to get people to embrace Christianity. I had no idea why they stopped me, but then I realized that a sober Indian girl in the middle of gothic atheists and intoxicated punch-drunk hooligans was probably their best bet. 

Now, I am not big on religion and spirituality. I might say a little prayer once in a while, but most days when I am in trouble I don't believe in reaching out to the supreme power. I just reach for my alcohol reserves. Works instantaneously every single time (at least temporarily).

I was not buying into anything that they were saying, because personally I don't think religion has ever done anything good for humanity. Maybe its because, in my country religious flip flopping is only used by a bunch of vile politicians to confuse the living daylights out of a mob's moral compass; but since I felt really bad about the way some people just walked off, ignoring them, I talked to them anyway. 

They asked me, if there was one thing I could ask for right now, what would it be? And in no time I blurted out, "Just a Job". Being the 21st century Pollyanna's , they were all like, "Oh yeah, of course you'll find one. I am going to say a prayer for you just now." So, when one of them asked for my digits, I didn't have the heart to say no. But I wasn't prepared for what was next.

They called me at 11:30 PM to preach, when I had literally drugged-drank myself to sleep because I was having the worst week ever. Thanks to a book crit at Wieden and Kennedy coupled with the general depression of living in a city like London, thousands of kilometers away from home.

Right then. So much positivity at 11:30 in the night, when most of us are still surprised that we have made it through the day without slashing our wrists, or somebody's else's? Did you just eat an entire bakery's monthly supply of white chocolate custard jelly cronuts and then wash it down with a litre of your favourite sweetened carbonated soft drink? Are you delusional? Do you hear voices in your head? Are you on MDMA? 

I understand where you are coming from, because some days I can be all about the, "lets solve all of our major life's problems by smiling in a cute dysfunctional manner or by putting toothpaste on our zits"; but for fucks sake, I am not trying to get out of a speeding ticket here. 

This is real life. This is that moment when you suddenly realise that that after 16 years of mind numbing education sustained by mooching off your parents bank accounts; you and that sandwich guy at subway are essentially the same person. 

This is the moment when it hits you that education is just in fact a puffed up white lie your parents told you, (yeah yeah, just the kind you want to be paid for, in advertising). You may now call it the Easter bunny or 'thefairydidit' , for all they care. And no, it cannot get you a job, unless of course your big American dream was to be an immigrant cab driver all your life or if scrubbing the dishes clean did wonders for your perishing self esteem. 

And you come lunging at me with this false optimism about life, wanting me to believe that all this positivity of yours is going to help me turn it around. Realistically speaking, Iraq had more chances of winning the war against America than I have of turning into a goddess magnet who can attract everything she wants, simply with the power of her beautiful mind, which in all honestly I seem to have lost already.

Also, what the fuck is up with that damn overused overrated Paulo Coelho quote. “When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.” Balls. If life worked like that, it would never rain in London, you'd never run out of Nutella at midnight, your hair would always be perfectly blow dried in curls that look neither too stiff, nor too soft and all you'd need to do to get laid would be to walk into your nearest McDonalds and go, "One cunnilingus please". 

So, unless your positivity can buy me a job in advertising or oil fields in Saudi Arabia, please keep it out of my face. Because sometimes a woman just needs her five minutes of cynical misanthropy. Why won't you just let her have it dammit!

Divya/ whatever is the opposite of Pollyanna

THE CUNT- Part 2

Just in case you were disappointed by The cunt- part 1, because it was not cunty enough. Let the watching begin.

A pharmaceutical company somewhere in Bombay: "That's right Ladies. Screw Kegel exercises and vaginoplasties, because it is now possible to re-tighten your saggy debauched vaginas with this over the counter cream called 18-again (Yaay, you bad madonnas!).

All you need to do is rub this gold dust, down there, in sweet, gentle circular motions and Voila, all your sins shall be forgiven, you shall be revirginised, you shall become Immortal! Amaranthine!

Now go home and suck on a big dick.

First thoughts: Sorry what? Cum, Come again?

Second thoughts: This ad is obviously a great demonstration of Indian culture or as some Delhi women may call it " just another day in the city". Lets get a woman in a saree and make her jive to Latin music, because that happens to be the epitome of promiscuity in India; in case you had not guessed it already from the reaction of the father in law whose eyeballs may shoot of his sockets any second. Yes! Just like his projectile tea vomit. (Relax grandpa, this is not Marilyn Monroe singing Happy birthday Mr President.)

On a more serious note though, someone really needs to warn the lady that she is being shot on a mobile phone by her brother in law while she is too busy pulling those Kamasutra moves on her husband. He may use it for pocket billiards later when he is bored. But that's okay. A family that shares together stays together.

Other thoughts: What happens if his penis enlargement cream rubs against my vaginal tightening cream? Oh-oh.

And what happens if I am also using this (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BoKcYIhGzAE) vaginal whitening cream along with the vaginal tightening cream . Is that safe? Will I get STD? Will I get pregnant? Will I still be a virgin? Will boys want to marry me? Can I sit on a seesaw?

Thoughtless.

Divya.

Nope, I'm not gonna hire you. Yep, I know you know better.

Bad news for those thinking that advertising industry has something to do with art and/or common good: advertising IS all fun & games. One might occasionally get a chance to work on a charity(and that is, frankly, quite boring), but mostly, it's just dancing cereal boxes and famous landmarks made out of chocolate/toilet paper/insert a product.

Advertising is the world of childish adults with a bloated sense of entitlement playing god, thinking that someone actually cares about the choice of font or size of a pack shot. You know what would happen if one day all the advertising magically disappeared? Nothing. Nobody would give a rat's ass. Actually, one might argue that the world would be a much better place without adverts. Needless to say how watching TV would become a bazillion times more enjoyable.

People outside the advertising world might not think about all this, but if you work in the industry and after reading this you feel offended and want to punch me in the face, then well, congratulations my friend, you're in denial.

I, myself, happen to be an adult with a bloated sense of entitlement, wanting to work in advertising. But, unfortunately for me, I also happen to have a vagina, which is a huge disadvantage unless you want to be 85% of all the shoppers in the world. Obviously, there is a chunky portion of mostly WASP males, buying Ferraris and yachts and boob job gift cards, but guess who shops for loo rolls and Richmond sausages for them? Correct. Their mums and wives and sisters, mostly(but not necessarily) with vaginas. So, wouldn't it be brutally logical to assume that someone somewhere in the world would actually consider including women in the decision making process that later results in horrible adverts made for FMCGs? Nope. Turns out, WASP males are only good at everything else, but sharing their toys. Because, you know, responsibilities of an ad man are too tough for a fragile female body. Men and only men are allowed to patronizingly assume what's gonna sell most tampons and low fat yogurt. It's a boys only playground. Period(ha). 

And yeah, we all know that 'someone' who is a woman and works in advertising, but exception proves the rule. Even they, we were told, "tend to choose to leave at around 25". Choice. Nice to have it, huh? Good to know you're enjoying it bitch, it's been almost a fucking century since we've given it to you. 

P.S. Fun Fact: did you know what ad men lovingly like to call an old style ad of their own creation, with two women in it? 

Two cunts in the kitchen.

Yep.

You have a nice day too.


Ana

You marriage? No. You boyfriend? No. OLA!

Note to self: You need to update this blog, you lazy piece of shit. This is a chronicle of your life, your legacy to your grandchildren, a reminder of your wild erratic escapades as a daft youngling. 

And god forbid, if you ever developed amnesia in your old age, then this may be a good time to tell yourself that it is highly likely that your better half would neither look nor behave like Ryan fucking Gosling from the notebook

Therefore, it might be a good idea to have this blog in order to remind yourself of how you were and what you did in the summer of 69 or whatever. 

Now stop talking to yourself and start writing.

As a wanderlusty, vacation junkie type of person, I have always believed in the power of travel. 

When I say travel, I don't just mean, the "quit your stable job, stir your dead soul, smoke some weed, look at some poor people in a third world country and re-evaluate all of your life choices stoned, while you make fire in the middle of an African Rainforest " kind of travel; because that's only one kind of travel.

But just travel in general. You know, the kind that involves a little change of air, change of people, scenery or lifestyle, doesn't have to be significantly heavy duty. 

Apart from highly increasing your chances of sleeping with exotic men and women of different nationalities and making you proficient enough to be able to enunciate profanities in a wide variety of languages (which is all very awesome and fascinating), travelling does other amazing things to you and you need to do it at least once, alone. 

I think that at some conscious or subconscious level, we are all either looking for something or trying to run away from something. Travelling doesn't necessarily help you find it or escape it. But, I feel it gives you a lot of time to think, to compartmentalise everything that is going on in your head in little brain boxes, and just breathe. A little bit like that feeling you get when you have just cleaned your dirty room, organised your disheveled wardrobe, vacuumed the carpets, dusted everything off; after having tried to avoid doing so for over a month. And suddenly you can see all your stuff placed clearly in front of your eyes and you are thinking, "Voila! its so much easier to find things now".

Or sometimes you just find a used dirty condom from a deeply regretted one night stand, and go, What the hell. But, we won't go there.

Speaking of travel, I recently had a chance to visit Mexico. Thanks to my many hundred cousins who believe cross cultural weddings are incomplete unless they happen in both the countries; and some of whom I had the pleasure of meeting for the very first time. But that's just normal for India.

I have always been one of those cynical assholes who look down upon doing any touristy things like visiting the madame tussauds, watching a light show on Eiffel tower etc., because I generally despise the presence of tour guides, people selling ugly little monument replicas, and long queues. But thanks to the parents, I was dragged along on this Mayan ruin adventure to a place called "chichen itza". I am glad I went, because I came back an enlightened woman.

                                                                        This place

So, this was a large city built by the Mayan civilization. This pyramid was a temple in the city. It has four sides and contains 365 steps depicting the solar year and 53 panels (for each week in the solar year).  Incredibly, twice a year on the spring and autumn equinoxes, a shadow falls on the pyramid in the shape of a serpent. As the sun sets, this shadowy snake descends the steps to eventually join a stone serpent head at the base of the great staircase up the pyramid’s side.

But, this is the goosebumpy bit (The kind of stuff that turns Ana on and makes me not want to eat my dinner for a week) - 

The Mayan Indians were cannibals. When they used to conquer a civilisation or take a prisoner, they'd rip a man's heart out of his chest. However, because he wasn't completely dead then, his brain would still be working. So, he could comprehend everything that was being done to him. The royal family would eat this very heart. They would then chop his head off, kick it down the pyramid and play soccer with his skull. (Okay fine, FOOTBALL). The walls of their football fields are also adorned with drawings of human sacrifices of the players who lost matches. 

When I saw this, I momentarily found myself thinking- It would be so much fun if modern football worked like that? But then I felt like a terrible human being and moved on. 

So, I guess what I am trying to say is, book those Ryanair tickets, pack that bag, go get lost in a crowd somewhere and thank me later.

x

Divya

Are we ethnic minorities, or are we, like, dancer?

Okay, I'm a foreigner. As foreign as I could get, actually. I'm pretty sure that any Narnia national would have had much less explaining to do about their whereabouts than I've had to over the course of the nine months of my stay in the UK. But the question is, am I an ethnic minority? (Spoiler alert:YES)

Google doesn't have an answer. But let me put this straight: I'm from Georgia, a country of three million people believing that when God(which definitely exists) was handing out the pieces of land for different people, Georgians were late due to a regular everyday drinking session with page long toasts, but they somehow managed to talk God(he does!) into giving them a small piece of Eden on earth he was keeping for himself. Georgia - a country fucked over so many times, in so many ways by so many conquerors, ugh, don't even get me started(Wikipedia has it, if you insist).

To be brutally honest, most of us Georgians are still quite surprised we've made it this far, but hey, since we kind of have,  might as well keep doing whatever we've always been doing and what we're good at - being complete and utter nutters, that is.

Don't get me wrong, Georgia is the land of many wonders, delicious foods and magnificent wines and magical landscapes. Our writers and poets and composers have kicked numerous asses throughout  history. We have our own fucking language, for fuck's sake, which comes with its own alphabet & stuff. That's why Georgia is packed with young backpackers and wide-eyed tourists in search of themselves, BUT when it comes to politics, or say, general social issues, we become a bunch of yelling, swearing cavemen, running around in circles like a bunch of unsupervised kids left with a bucket of poo. And there's usually no one around to clean us up.

We're not even sure what the fuck is it that we want. Striving to be a part of the EU? Sure. But nope, there are gay people in Europe, and all of them want to have sexytime with Georgian guys. It's literally the only thing all the European gay guys and Satan want.

There was this little attempt to celebrate equality a while ago. A bunch of young people in rainbow tees were supposed to say that yeah guys, we're all equal in a tiny Georgian park. But you know what happened? Georgian Christians happened. A mob of priests with their congregations chased those 10 people around, armed with chairs and sticks, threatening to kill them.

Is USA our friend and adviser? Kind of. But not really. There is an oak tree in our Grandpa's back garden older than America. So they shouldn't get a say.

Is Russia bad because like, 5 years ago they occupied a huge ass piece of our land and bombed the shit out of us? Nope. They're bros, we have so much in common (like, them drinking our mineral water when painfully hungover, or saying Gamardjoba(hello in Georgian) to celebrate our brotherhood when drinking Georgian wine from a horn and standing on a chair)!

Yeah, I've lived that for over two decades. It never stops, and while 90% of the mentally able population chooses to remain in status quo and take pride in their impotent superiority over a fancy cup of berry tea, there's only so much fun you can have while watching the kids with a bucket of poo. After a while it becomes sadly gross and there's no staying out of it. Especially if all you want to really do is make blunt, silly adverts and read science fiction.

So yeah, that's kind of a long version of me saying I'm an ethnic minority, even if I don't look like one.

Ana

"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