Parts

Written words which mess with my head

Elegant fingers on the fretboard

Uncalculated gestures

Possessive consciousness

Perfect harmonies

Exhilarated laughter

Inebriated clarity

Familiar scents

Easy smiles

I love in parts and fragments,

it's comfortable.

and frustrating.

Into the moonlight he staggers 

In drunken haze                        

A dagger through his breast

            To her.

                                 

                                                She sits by the window
                                                Dreaming of tomorrow
                                                Happy chandeliers in her ears

                                                         He promised.

Amidst autumn leaves

He kissed her feverishly

Caressing worries away

     Wait for me.           

                                                                                        His hand found hers

                                                                                        In the crowd           

                                                                                        Shy stolen glances     

                                                                                                 Love...                                                                                     

                                             

       Rustle of skirts

       He turned to see her

       pretty hair swinging

           He smiled

                                                                             An enigmatic smile

                                                                             Through searing eyes

                                                                             Passionate soundless music

                                                                                 She blushed...

                   

Them hormones...

Cupid’s stuck that pointy thing of his, laced with dollops of love, lust and stupidity, in your rear end, yet again. Hell that’s what you attended college for. You float around like an albatross on a summer cloud, with the name of your current love stuck in your head like the omnipresent winter phlegm. That’s where reason deserts you, while you in turn desert classes.

The corridors swarm with more hopefuls like you, hoping to catch a glance of their prospective love interest. Animal Planet says that most animals groom themselves to stand out when they go mate hunting. Male peacocks ruffle up their pretty plumes; felines lick themselves to swanky shininess. The brightest and the shiniest one gets the prize!.Colleges are no different from any African forests. Females dress themselves in bright yellow and oranges, and splash on dollops of perfume, smelling sickly sweet and flick and swish their newly straightened hair, to catch the correct light, which will dazzle the opposite sex to fatal attraction or blindness, whatever comes first.

Males, the hypothetically superior sex, are not far behind. Oh no. They come with pointy shoes; they come with full wallets, even if it means they have to go without their usual liver massacring dose of cigarettes for a whole month, just so that they can take their lady friends to the places which overcharge for fancy lighting. They come with purpose and overconfidence bordering of irritating cockiness, throwing age old pick up lines like there’s no tomorrow.

All in all, its another a normal day at college, which is nothing less than a battle. The fittest shall survive, while the weak ones are forced to retreat into the confines of the classes.

Oh Lurve!

"I think I'm falling in love with him" she said, in the midst of bopping around to some chick song.

"Eh?" I said. 'Eh?' I thought.

That made me think. A lot.

What is this love all about?

So I wrote a trashy song,

and played it all night long.

How do they know if it's love or plain ol' infatuation?

Why put yourselves in such a sticky situation?

It's all sad poetry and depression,

or just a way to get some action.

I know I can't rhyme for nuts,

cold cuts, huts and walnuts.

Sue me if you dare

And see if I care.

I know people who fall in love twice a week

Their future does look a little bleak.

They thrive on it like centipedes in my drain

Oh lord! Will they ever use their brains!

They mope and dope during fights and break-ups,

but wouldn't have it any other way.

Just some minor hiccups,

with unfailing confidence they say.

It's like food and water to them

Like that omnipresent winter phlegm

Rippling muscles and pretty pouts

What is all that hype about?.

I know people, who love multiple others,

One wonders if they need blinkers.

Desperation?. I think not.

All they need is to smoke some pot.

Without love their hearts are barren,

I'm sure it has its perks.

Here's when I quote Woody Allen,

and say whatever works.

Of the heaving bosoms and enigmatic sheikhs...

                                       

...

I've been dying to write this one, but hadn't written it yet in the fear of losing the pathetically small number of readers that I have. But you know what? Screw it.

My tryst with these books originally started by me ridiculing every aspect of them. I still do. However, curiosity won over too much sappiness induced nausea, and I read a couple of them. Next thing I knew was that the curiosity had turned into a grudging liking. Now, I won't claim to be a romantic, because I'm really not. I'm actually quite a bumbling baboon when it comes to the matters of heart. But that doesn't mean that I do not indulge in an occasional fantasy about running away to Florence and meeting a great guy who will wax endless poetry on my bushy hair and equally bushy eyebrows. But that's another story for another random post.

Harlequin, silhouette, they all have the same basic idea. The heroine, aged 18-20, is somewhat clever, almost always an orphan, which lends sympathy (and frees the woman from family obligations), thin (lithe, petite, athletic, you pick), never has bad hair days, even in extreme humidity, and is possessed with the ability to look stunning in any situation. The hero is significantly older, aged 30-40, enigmatic, 'with cool, soul searing eyes' (for some reason, the hero's eyes are always described in degrees of temperature, cool, warm, cold, you get the idea.), 'strong, rough hands' (to grope effectively? to snap the female's neck if she gets too clingy? break rocks?), he is often the heroine's employer. The couple marry or, if already husband and wife, settle their differences and make a better start.

Also, they have the cheesiest lines ever invented. For example,

"Oh Mitch! Devour me!" Maggi (2 minutes noodles) to Mitch

"I will...only if you promise to devour me first" Mitch to Maggi (noodles? no?)

teehee!

You see my point. They seem like characters from the third world countries, who haven't had a good square meal in days.

But, even with the most horrifying pick lines, hilarious titles (Forcefully married, Ruthlessly bedded...it really exists, no shit) and soporific, predictable plots, they still manage to hook you. You know what's going to happen in the end, but you still can't put them down. You know why?.

It's those happy endings.

Everybody loves happy endings because they seldom occur in real life. Real life's ugly, escapism, good. We read mills n boons and co. not for the story, but for that last page when the hero draws the heroine into his arms and tells her that they're going to be ok. We all want someone to tell us that it's going to be ok, to have our problems solved, to basically have that happy ending.

So yeah, I still read them occasionally, smuggling them inside some critically acclaimed bestseller. You know you do too.