An Exercise in Writer’s Block

Recently, I’ve been meaning to write many many things, but every time I try, things don’t come out right. I’ve been trying to stay patient, thinking ‘somethings going to happen, it’s bound to!’ (also said the man with erectile dysfunction. SNAP), but nothing did happen. All I ended up with was a chunk of meaningless Paulo Coelhoesque dribble.

So finally, I decided to just fuck it and write about what I’m doing. Can’t really hurt can it? And the fact that I’m perpetually doing something also supplies sufficient material. So here goes, the unedited continuous nonsense centering around my current activities:

The plane hurtled through the air, but on account of its almost excruciating tininess, it was more like a little capsule hurtling through the long intestine that is the stratosphere. It was one of the smaller planes, without all that ‘jet engine’ metrosexual poofy nonsense that’s all the rage these days. Instead, it had little black exposed rotors that suspiciously kept the plane in the air.

Anirban Chakraborty sat on the window seat at the rear of the plane looking through the window and half expecting the wings to flap.

It was a plain plane at best, without any class distinction as such-everybody got the same kind of seat. They still however wrote ‘economy’ on your ticket so you would know your place in the aero kingdom.

Anirban yawned and stretched as they cut through the sky elegantly, appearing to be motionless against blue pastel background, but actually moving because planes usually have to go somewhere. I’m guessing.

‘This is a no smoking flight’ said the hurried, heavily accented voice of an air hostess over the communication system.

They all are, thought Anirban. They all are. He played with the ashtray that was in his seat from days when that announcement did not have to be made. A happier time.

‘..Smoking in the toilets is also forbidden’

Well they’re part of the fucking flight aren’t they? Thought Anirban. He returned his attention to the corpus of the ashtray. Yes. He gingerly pulled it out of the the seat- it opened slowly. There was no ash inside. Just emptiness. Half expecting a burnished interior but finding-

‘Smoke detectors are installed in the bathroom-’

FUCKING REALLY? WE GET IT said Anirban. Perhaps out loud. Judging by the looks of the passengers around and the man sitting next to him slowly edging away, it was probably out loud. Or maybe he’d just grimaced. Or maybe they had traced the source of erstwhile occurring flatulence. It could have been anything.

An air hostess stopped in the aisle by the row he was sitting in.

‘What would you like sir?’ she asked in a softly lilting voice. She smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes that no prosaic language can express. Well truthfully, he wasn’t sure, but she was wearing what is best described as an upside down blue tin on her head. Such things can only bring sadness.

‘Sir?’ she asked again and she continued to smile. She was well proportioned; quite buxom. A fine ribs-to-funbags ratio. She looked at Anirban, her smile fixed. He felt a rush of feeling toward her. Most of that feeling was concentrated in a particular region, but at the same time he felt a hint of disgust. A hint of disgust that had no place being, yet was.

And suddenly- there was silence. He pondered his ambivalence, mulling it over in his mind, oblivious to the silence, the hum of the engine, the vibration of the plane-

‘Sir can you stop typing?’ she said finally to Anirban, who turned and flashed her a charming smile while continuing to type with one hand. A feat he could accomplish, because he was fucking awesome.

‘Yes m’lady’ he replied handsomely. This is also possible to do.

She tittered at being addressed in such a fashion. She was, after all a waitress in the sky and he, a liberal serving of man candy.

‘What would that be?’ she asked Anirban, who hadn’t replied yet because it takes much longer to type with one hand.

‘A whiskey’ breathed Anirban, dangerously.

‘Sir, we do not serve alcohol on domestic flights’ she said. Her mouth was probably wry, but this fact lay unverified on account of the aforementioned ribs-to-funbag ratio, coupled with the fact that Anirban had only two eyes.

‘Ah’ said Anirban, leaning back in his seat, stroking his chin with his free hand.

‘This is a domestic flight?’ he asked.

‘Yes sir’

‘I see’ said Anirban. This complicated matters slightly.

‘And where does this flight go?’

‘New Delhi, sir’ said air hostess funbags.

‘Dash it all!’ exclaimed Anirban for no particular reason, striking the tray of the person to his left, as his tray was occupied by his laptop, and no one hits the Macbook.

‘FUCK!’ screamed the man next to Anirban, whose groin had been splashed with hot coffee caused by table-banging. (The boring kind of table banging. It is also useful to note that there is no interesting kind EDIT: OMG yes there is.)

The air hostess was quick to begin to mop the spill. And leant over the man, undoing her scarf-

‘Sir, could you stop doing that?’ she said to Anirban, who was now loudly humming 70s porno music, while winking at her.
People are ungrateful, thought Anirban and resumed typing with both hands.

The flight landed in Delhi and Kanan sat in the airport terminal, having a few hours to kill before his next flight to Bangalore.

Now Anirban sat at the airport, with an hour more to kill. He proceeded to the smoking lounge, doing his best to look business-like. He struck up a conversation with a middle aged man, who was looking into Anirban’s laptop screen and was OVERWEIGHT and beginning to lose his hair and possibly the function of his genitals

“Hello” said the man, smiling benignly.

“Top o’ the mornin’! ” replied Anirban cheerfully.

“Uh..”

“Yes.”

“I’m [not paying attention and even if I was, I’d have forgotten by now] ” said the man. “Saurabh, actually” said the man, who Anirban had forgotten was still looking into his laptop screen the motherfu-

“I’m a business man” replied Anirban stiffly, brushing off the shoulders of his Spongebob T-shirt.

“Of course you are” said fucking douchebag who was wouldn’t stop looking into Anirban’s screen.

“Lets cut to the chase shall we? Who are you?” said Anirban, in an business-like fashion.

“I just told you I’m [still not paying attention]

“So you are” said Anirban. “Listen, what do you want? I’m kind of in the middle of something right now”

“Uh. You started a conversation with me, and then pretended like I started it. I can’t help but notice that that fact is not reflected in whatever you’re writing” said the pretentious douchebag who continued to eyeball fuck Anirban’s screen because of his general ineptitude and lack of understanding of PERSONAL SPACE.

“I try to be as accurate as possible” snapped Anirban.

“Can I ask you why exactly you’re doing what you’re doing?” asked the man, who we may now note had stopped looking into Anirban’s laptop screen. Bitch.

“I have writers block” said Anirban woefully. “This is a desperate attempt to overcome it”

“Ah. So you’re a writer!” said the man.

“Very much sir. Very much” said Anirban, moving a little closer to the man.

“So you write, books, screenplays, articles, what?” said the man.

“I..er. I have a blog.” said Anirban.

“Oh” said the man. “thats..uhm..”

“I’m a student!” cut in Anirban, quickly.

“So you’re studying writing then? Or just some general English litt. course?”

“Umm. Kinda. Well, in the sense that it’s less writing and more engineering”

“So you’re an engineer” said the man, with a trace of disappointment in his voice.

“Engineering student” replied Anirban, feeling continuously worse as this conversation proceeded.

“Don’t feel bad about it” said the man, who it appears had begun to look into Anirban’s laptop screen again, the nosy little bitc-

“I’ve stopped looking” said the man quickly, causing Anirban to stop gritting his teeth ferociously.

“Think about it bro” said the man, who for some reason felt that he had reached bro status. “Writers get writers block, musicians the same, creative fields are dominated by words to express a lack of creativity, but really they’re just general slumps. And slumps happen in every field. Even engineering” he said, with unnecessary drama.

“Achieve to be the highest you can be, and persevere through the slumps, that’s just life. Be all you can be, reach the highest possible platform, the zenith, rise up to the sun-”

“SUN BLOCK!” said Anirban. “Sorry. Necessary joke, but too easy. Carry on”

“I’m going to leave” said the man.

But Anirban beat him to it. He may have failed to push the man down the stairs. At that might also have been a completely different man. He may also have spent the next hour hiding in a coffee shop till they called for his flight’s boarding. Prove it.

As he boarded his next flight, he realized that weird nosy laptop screen staring man had an extremely valid point. Maybe writer’s block was like sun block. It shielded the skin from writing and prevented rashes and tanning.

That’s what life is really about.

Leave comments or I will hunt you down and make you. I have google analytics and I’m not afraid to use it.

How To Woo A Writer

Know the easiest way to woo a writer? For beginners, don’t set your sights on being their muse. A writer’s work tends to be a reflection of things they understand, but their minds are constantly preoccupied by thoughts they cannot grasp and concepts they cannot comprehend. A writer is curious and eternally intrigued; what they already fathom will never fascinate them.

In essence, never be a known entity to a writer. Instead, be the enigma that evades them. Be the emotion that toys with their inhibitions, but one they would still give a part of their sanity to decipher. Be an incomplete poem, be a half-written story; be the crumpled piece of paper tossed frustratingly into a bin because they couldn’t find the words to describe what lies within.

Know the easiest way to woo a writer? Be the paradox they couldn’t put into words.

Hi! (Again)

When I look at the last post from this blog, it almost depresses me. It been more than a year that I’ve managed to hoodwink my own self and everyone around me (who still care about my writing) not updating the blog in the pretext of being busy with one thing or the other. Truth be told, it was just laziness. If they had an award for lazing around, I’d be the undisputed champ.

True, I had my exams and had to study a little to not fail, but it wasn’t like my leisurely activities were cut short in any ways. No. I was still spending generous hours on Facebook and YouTube, doing absolutely nothing of use but only when it came to updating my blog did conscience strike like thunder, telling me that I shouldn’t be wasting valuable time updating my blog that is read by, like, 20 people. So I went on to play Counter Strike instead. The blog kept on dropping down on my priority list and was eventually forgotten to be existent until a good friend of mine read the previous posts here and literally forced me to update this. So here we are.

I think I’ll post more regularly now. Lets see how long that lasts!

 

There Is Something Odd About Odd Numbers

Honestly, I did not know what time it was. It wasn’t one of those moments when you can’t tell five in the evening from seven. It was one of those when you wake up abruptly only to see that it’s still dark outside, but you can’t decide whether you’ve slept too much, or not enough. Only, I hadn’t been asleep; just been suspended in a hazy daze.

‘Sir, I know these are tough times for you, but we need you to cooperate.’

‘Hmm?’ I looked up, bemused.

‘Sir, I know these are…’

‘Oh yes. Right. What do you guys want from me?’

‘Sir, it’s policy. We need to know what happened?’

‘I just came back from work. I don’t know what she did, and why she did it.’

‘Sir, these cases aren’t common. Was she depressed?’

‘Not to my knowledge, no.’

‘Was she on any medicines?’

‘Yes. Valproate.’

‘Was she sick?’

‘I wouldn’t call her sick.’

‘What would you call her, then?’

‘Many things.’

‘Sir, the sooner I know everything, the sooner we can let you go. I suggest you cooperate. Like I said, I’m sorry, but it is imperative that we know everything. Protocol.’

And then, seeing that I had no other option, I told the police officer everything I knew, or correctly, everything I understood.

Breakfast was always two pieces of brown bread with the same number of boiled eggs, and a single cup of coffee split into two. No knives; two forks, one on each side and two teaspoons of sugar for the coffee.

Over the course of four weeks, my entire room had changed. I was always told that life changes once you’re married, but this wasn’t the kind of change I had ever anticipated. But then, I tried my best to respect, and reconcile with the fact that her ‘ideal’ home could, and probably did, differ from mine. Despite all my efforts to be understanding and accommodating, the discomfiture caused by the fact that I came home to a different place every day left me, well, for a better term, discomfited.

She had disposed off with the solitary sofa, and replaced it with two chairs, one for each side of the bed and two little tables to give them company. She had a keen eye for details, which she exhibited with the efficiency with which she replaced the five ceiling spotlights with two tube lights in the time I went to office and came back.

I thought I knew what I was taking upon myself when I married her, but her idiosyncrasies, ranging from the larger, obvious changes, to the barely conspicuous ones, left me astounded.

‘Why do you keep changing everything? What was wrong with the sofa?’

‘There is something odd about odd numbers.’ She would say.

I agree that her behavior was mostly cryptic, but there was something about her, that made her the only mystery in my life that I preferred unsolved.

She also hated stepping outside the house. There was something about the world that rendered her incapacitated, and ironically, there was something about her that made the world nervous as well.

She ensured that the curtains were always drawn, and windows were always shut. I started using the back door to come into the house whenever I managed to get free early to avoid arguments. It wasn’t a home to me anymore. It didn’t feel like one. It was just a house.

Usually, however, I came home around half-past seven. She used to make me two chapattis and a one vegetable dish, served in two different utensils. Her behavior was not something I even pretended to understand, but I respected her enough to cooperate.

She had found her solace in even numbers, like I’d found mine in her.

Every night, we watched television. She always watched two shows together, flitting between the channels every few minutes, like a restless hummingbird. She shook like one too, shaking her right leg so fast that the entire bed vibrated under her. At the end of this entire exercise, I had no clue as to what was happening in either of the shows, but I had no ideas for a better evening. She resisted change. In retrospect, her routine seemed almost attractive to me. Comforting.

She was oblivious to my existence sometimes, but I was in love. I had convinced myself that deep inside, she cared as much about me as I did about her.

When we finally went to bed around eleven, she would tell me that she loved me exactly thirty seven times. Then, she would hesitate, and say it once again, just to even things out. A while later, she would remember that he hadn’t changed into her nightdress and would spend another hour fidgeting in the bathroom. It left me strangely desolate in the beginning, but soon I got used to it. ‘Routine is good’, I told myself. ‘Routine is stability. She is stability.’

She used to change into her pink nightdress, but once back, she would decide that green would have been a better option. Finally having brushed her teeth twice, she would come back to the bed, where she would lie, her eyes vacant, completely oblivious to my presence. That allowed me to shamelessly stare at her face. Only, I’d decided not to. Her nonchalance was more agonizing than it was fascinating.
Sometimes, she’d kissed me. Once. Then twice. She wouldn’t stop. Or maybe, she couldn’t. It wasn’t me who was driving her. It was her inability to control her own actions.

Our nights were extremely volatile, a hint of desperation coloring the way she clutched at me, and then the sheets, before she pushed me off and stared at the ceiling, just as vacantly as before.

I would usually get about two hours of sleep before the effect of her afternoon pills wore off.
She had been asked to take a tablet a day- 50 milligrams of valproate, but she couldn’t do it.

‘That’s all? One pill? That’s a bid odd.’

I used to chuckle at her failure to acknowledge the humor in her statement. She was a genius sometimes, and she had all the problems other geniuses had. She was completely oblivious to the fact. And maybe, she was simply confounded by herself, because she did exceptionally well at what she couldn’t help doing.

We had to specially order pills worth 25 milligrams each so that she could have two of them.

‘This is much better. A single pill wouldn’t have made me feel right. The more, the merrier.’ She used to laugh.

A soft, mellow laugh. It became my existence, that laugh. I gave up more and more of myself just to hear it again. I drowned in her. Then, the pills would have their effect, and in a few moments that were defined by both revulsion and distress, she would fall unconscious, with her lips still hung up on her smile.

At four, she would decide to shake things up again.

‘The bed is dirty. The maid didn’t change the sheets.’ She would complain.

‘It’s okay, love. We’ll wash them in the morning.’

She wouldn’t protest, but she would pace around the room, anxiously. Then, in an attempt to feel better, she would toy with the tube light switches.
It disturbed me for a couple of weeks, but I knew better than to get up in the middle of the night and argue. Thirty-eight cycles later, she would come back to bed.

‘You don’t want to wash your feet?’ I would ask.

‘It’s 4:07. Maybe later.’

At four thirty, she used to get up again and walk to the window to count the stars. It was beguiling to see her at work.

‘One, two, three, four…five twenty-six, five twenty seven…ah drat.’

And sometimes, when the clouds would hide some of the stars, she would wait, hoping to see an even number through the windows. She was different, but then, she was just finding her solace, like all of us.

This used to happen every single night. The first two weeks had been a lot of surprises, but by the end of the fourth week, I had grown accustomed to her activities. I was in love with someone disturbed. I did not know the cause of the disturbance, and I could not help her. I could just be patient. And so I was.

Sometimes, I would go to work in June, and come back in August. She used to flip through the calendar as if it were her favorite book. Time wasn’t her best friend. She often complained about clocks too.

‘I don’t like all the numbers in that circle.’ She would say. I had replaced all of them with their digital variants but she had a problem with them as well. In the end, she decided to stop all of them at 8:48 PM.

Four weeks isn’t long, I know, but I was in love, and I had grown accustomed to her. She had embraced my life like a tattered blanket covers a child on a cold winter night. I still felt cold, but she was all I had. Her idiosyncrasies had become a part of my life, and any deviance from this new found version of sanity would annoy us both.

I was working on a little PowerPoint presentation that was due at office the very day, when I heard a splat in the kitchen.

Akansha had dropped an egg, and on seeing me, she ran straight to the bedroom.
When she came back fifteen minutes later, I was done with boiling an egg and making coffee for myself.

‘Go and get another egg. I’ll make you breakfast’

‘It’s okay, honey. I’m okay with just one egg’

‘No. You always have two eggs. Go rush. I can’t go out.’

‘I’ll have something on my way. I’m late for a meeting anyway’

‘GO GET ME ANOTHER EGG!’ Her demands knew no end.

‘Stop screaming at me, Akansha.’

‘Stop being intolerable, then.’

‘I’m not being intolerable. You’re the one being intolerable. ’

She started crying again, and I as I rushed in to comfort her, which had by then become almost a reflex to me, she pushed me aside.
Haplessly, I fell down and hit my elbow on the breakfast table.

She didn’t even grace me a look as I curled up into myself in pain. I didn’t know what stung more- my elbow, or her complete nonchalance.
I knew I couldn’t retaliate. She resonated between strength and weakness, and I couldn’t tell one from the other.

My phone had fallen out of my hand during the fall.
The lock screen read 8:05

‘Shit. I’m late. I have to go, Akansha. I’m sorry. I’ll get an egg when I come home’

I came back from work at five past eight but I had to wait outside because Akansha had locked the door. My knocking was futile, and so were my cries of apology. Finally, I used my spare key to open the door. I always kept a key, just in case.

The house was a mess. The curtains were pulled down, and my bookshelves were no longer shelves.

I had come home to a disaster before, but this unprecedented.
The kitchen clock read 8:48. Like always.

The door was locked from the inside, so there couldn’t have been a break in. My next natural instinct was to search for Akansha to ensure her well-being. A few frantic minutes later, I found her in the bathroom tub, covered to her neck in water, murky with her own blood.

‘And then?’ The officer stared at my face?

I took her out of the water, I mean, the blood, and I rushed her to this hospital. She was breathing, by the intensity was decreasing with every breath she took. I had covered her wrists in large swabs of cotton, and that had significantly reduced the bleeding, but she had lost a lot of blood already.

Upon reaching, the doctor had informed me that he would need blood. Since I wasn’t a match, we had to put her on a list.

‘What about her family? And yours?’

‘Her parents are dead. My parents are diabetic.’

‘Well, in that case, we’d need to wait for her to be approved by the committee, but till then, we have to carry out some procedures that I need your consent for.’

‘I don’t care. Just get her back to me. Please’

I signed, hapless. Helpless.

I couldn’t help but cry outside the ICU, checking every few seconds for that red emergency bulb to go off. I was ridden with penitence, but I did not want to feel morose because I blamed myself. I was afraid that I’d already lost her, and I had bid her farewell, but more so, I was afraid of being alone. She was a tattered blanket, but she was my tattered blanket, and I needed her.

As I stood there, I made a mental picture of the Intensive Care. I knew that I’d have to remember this place for a long time. It was one of those moments when a child has to part with his broken toy, only that he doesn’t want to believe it’s broken.

The next thirteen minutes seemed like an eternity, and I hadn’t had plenty of those.

The doctor came out, and broke the news to me. It wasn’t the one I had hoped for, but it was the one I had predicted.

‘I’m sorry, Mr. Banerjee, but there was just too much blood loss. The wounds are fresh, not even an hour old. The problem is that she slit both her wrists. Most patients just slit one. That drained her blood at twice the pace. I’m sorry, really. We tried our best.’

‘Yes’

‘Was she depressed or on any medicines? We need to know before we conduct the post-mortem. Also, we need to inform the police.’

‘She just liked even numbers’ I told him.

He had a confounded look on his face.

‘I don’t know what you mean, but I have a surgery and I need to go prep for it. The nurse will prepare the body and assist you further. I’m sorry for your loss. I assure you we tried our best.’

And just like that, he was gone.

And with that, came a realization. I had been cooperative all this while, thinking that she needed my support, while it had been me who needed her all this while.

A few seconds later, I was in the deserted corridor of the deserted hospital alone. Sadly, I had to get used to this kind of ‘independence’.

The nurse came in ten minutes later and explained the entire scheme of things to me, but it was all a hazy blur. I just kept nodding until she said something that left my spine chilled.

‘What did you just say?’ I said, as I felt the blood drain away from my face, and as numbness took over.

‘Time of death, sir – 8:48 PM’.

Half Girlfriend : Another Cheap Shot At Love?

So, the connoisseur of Indian love stories with the oh-so-tasteful dramatisation is back at work again, this time taking the avatar of a so-called ‘Half Girlfriend’. As perplexed as this title leaves me, it has undoubtedly latched onto the imagination of a major chunk of the youth, looking for a quick fix of cheap literature. Who cares for quality literature when there is a proud bearer of a legacy unmatched in Chetan Bhagat A.K.A the Yash Chopra of our Indian literature, painting mustard fields for our wayward romantic daydreams and raunchy fantasies to play out with much abandon?

chetan bhagat half girlfriend

Half is the new full? What does the title of his 7th novel even signify? Can we actually address someone as half girlfriend? As Chetan Bhagat has always been a serious trendsetter, there is an extremely high probability that this new jargon would catch up too, as soon as the book hits the shelves in October, if not sooner. He has been an iconic figure in his proclivity to propagate a sea change in India’s reading culture, but that has been at a cost. When ‘Five point someone’ and ‘One night at the call Centre’ had been published, I clearly remember how popular it became among my classmates and contemporaries courtesy the explicitly choreographed sexual exploits. It was the first time that a subject of such taboo had been made available for the masses and the scavengers that we are, we took the bait. Hook, line and sinker. People took to reading like the fish takes to the water and the bird to the sky. And mind it, for the ‘non-literary’ people, reading soon comprised of Chetan Bhagat, a little more of Chetan Bhagat, and some more of Chetan Bhagat.

No sooner was the announcement made public (Times of India being the good Samaritan, it did not escape us what you did there), the social network was thrown in a frenzy, perhaps synonymous with the icons similar to KRK or Honey Singh’s stature, each taking to their wittiest best garb, some of which can be found here.

He is one of those authors who write a story so paltry, as common as a common cold and yet never fail to churn them as a bestseller. The secret perhaps lie in the common teenagers’ woes so lasciviously woven that Indian adolescents can connect with so effortlessly. This management graduate had found the precise nerve to hit on for the young, almost pubescent India back in 2004 with his first book “Five point Someone”. It is often a no-brainer as to what the story would be about. A girl. A boy. A chance encounter. Awkward moments. Soon turns to Lots of love (LOL). Truckloads of obstacles (often includes a second guy or some parental figure). All obstacles miraculously taken care of. And voila, they lived happily ever after!

It is a quick fix like M-seal and while all those who are reading his work often condemn the standards, they themselves are unable to resist from indulging in a little double standard and good old guilty pleasure every once in a while.

While we indulge ourselves, there is this bespectacled guy spinning moolah oh-so-green with book and film royalties feeding on our need to be optimistic. And if that wasn’t conspicuous enough, he decides to show solidarity for our fellow beings who have been friend-zoned so conveniently (the colloquial term as it is) by titling his next as the ‘Half Girlfriend’. I can’t fathom here who it reflects more poorly on. Him, and his increasingly manipulative efforts while taking cheap pot-shots at young love – something he trivialises or chooses to desensitise in this time of over-sexualisation, particularly with respect to India, Or we, the readers who encourage him and his rather warped imagination to spin more of such mind-numbingly repetitive stories.

He has come a long way from his IIM days, but his writing, at best, is ordinary. And ordinary is in! As a writer, he works on a well built PR-machinery, as could be seen from his marketing strategies, and capitalises on the latest fad of books being adapted to films. He would have chosen better had he taken up script writing professionally, because more often than not, it almost seems that he writes while keeping the plot of a film in mind.

We have to admit though that despite much criticism and ridicule, here is one guy who has stood the test of time and as much as we would love to be polarised on his writing skills and the ancillaries he surely knows, ignoring him would be a hard task, a fact that he regularly banks on.

How To Write a Rap Song : A Gift For Bad Mothas

To all of the bad Mothas out there, please accept this incredible gift that keeps on giving: the key ingredients to write an amazing rap song. When you rake in millions for your ghetto fabulous track, I ask that you please send me 35% of your earnings.

Steps to write a rap song :

1. Establish yourself: You must, and I repeat MUST, yell out your area code between 4-6 times throughout your song. If you don’t, people won’t know where you’re from.

Helpful hint: If you hail from a small suburb, use the big city’s area code instead. Street cred is everything.

Jay-Z throws up his “Hova” sign, as does the large man in the background. Contrary to popular belief, Jay-Z is not a Geometry teacher with an affinity for the triangle.

Jay-Z throws up his “Hova” sign, as does the large man in the background. Contrary to popular belief, Jay-Z is not a Geometry teacher with an affinity for the triangle.

2. Brand yourself: Once you’ve recorded one song, thereby establishing yourself, begin referring to yourself by nickname only. “Ursher, baby!” “It’s Weezie!” “HOVA!” Additionally, it’s important to have a gesture or sign to accompany the name.

3. Announce yourself: Insert a distinct mating call as part of your lyrics. If you really want to compete in today’s rap game, you’ve got to stand out. The easiest way to do this is to yell out something incoherent. I have no idea what Pitbull is yelling in every one of his songs, but it sounds a lot like “dolly”. For some reason, I don’t think that’s what he’s saying, but he has a lot of money, so let’s go with it.

4. Rhyme party with Bacardi: It doesn’t matter what you’re talking about, just throw these two words together and you’ve got yourself a platinum album.

5. Opposites attract: Depending on the level of your bad ass-ness, you’ll want to collaborate with someone who is a stark contrast to you. If you’re a Will Smith kind of rapper (i.e.: you will drop eff-bombs in your movies, but not on your albums), you’re gonna wanna go ahead and grab Lil’ Wayne. If he’s still alive. Is he alive? Anyway, if you’re more Eminem-esque, (i.e.: every other word out of your mouth is one that would make your grandmother cry), try hooking up with someone like Carrie Underwood. The lyrics will sound something like this:

Carrie: Reach for the moon/ Even if you miss, you’ll land among a pick-up truck I bashed in with a baseball bat.

Eminem: I’ll set dat bitch on fire/ You’ll find her in my mother f*ckin trunk/ I’ll do it ‘cuz I love ma daughters.

The duo is so crazy that it will work; white kids everywhere will love it.

6. Brag: Buy a push-button car, expensive clothes, or black diamonds and rap about them. A lot. And then remind all of the other poor, struggling rappers that they’re nothing until they’ve got gold in their mouth and chains on their neck. This may incite a string of thefts, but it’s in the name of music rap.

7. Get poetic: Figurative language goes a long way. 50 Cent gets it: “I love you like a fat kid loves cake.” What’s up now, Emerson? Rapper Drake prefers the metaphorical route: “the game needs change and I’m the cashier.” Can you get with this, Whitman?

8. Come up from nothing: If you’re middle-class, attended school on a regular basis, and/or volunteered in the neighborhood watch, you are not eligible for come-uppance.

9. Hate someone or something: The police, the president, me–just focus your intense hatred on something and throw it into every song.

10. Fake it: If you can’t come up with a title, a track, a hook–whatever, just steal it. In the music community, this is called “sampling.” In the creative community, this is called a “cop-out.” Either way, it pays trillions.

Happy rapping, bitchez.

When Alphabets Invaded Mathematics

I never understood why we had to alphabets to solve maths. Isn't what numbers are for anyway?

I never understood why we needed alphabets to solve maths. And damn those Greeks and their Alphas and Betas!

People love mathematics, and people hate it. But sad enough, we have the number of haters a gazillion times more the number of lovers. As a kid, I was always a mathematics person. I mean, I loved mathematics- everything about it. The joy of adding two numbers, the thrill of solving those problem sums which otherwise freaked out my bunch of useless classmates- the very feeling of it was reason enough for me to fall in love with mathematics.

But God is a comedian, my friend! And just when everything looked absolutely in place – me and math holding hands, walking by the shores of an unnamed river- He just decided to bring in some tragedy. Some Dark Grave Tragedy! 

The doors of my life opened and confidently walked in algebra, waltzing with him a battalion of terrorizing alphabets, ready to shell my brain with uncanny theories and unpronounceable formulas which I was supposed to memorize for the rest of my life. And as if the alphabets were not enough, paraded in the Greek letters to envisage me parting ways with my childhood love.

And that, my friend, is a sad love story. And it’s true for most of us, isn’t it? We love adding and subtracting and multiplying and dividing and just when we think that we’ve tamed the People’s Choice Most Hated Subject Of The Millennium, God gives us a reason to hate it too ( and also a justification as to why it stands as the most hated ).

10 Blog Posts Every Blogger Has To Write

I have been reading WordPress blogs for months now, and I have noticed that certain types of blog posts are more common than others. So I thought I’d aggregate these most common blog posts into just one short post for your enjoyment. Alternatively, you can use this post as your blogging guide which will save your valuable time by providing you with the pre-written template blog posts that you can simply copy and paste into your blog.

 I was planning to write a separate post about 10 most common blog photos, but this woman is in 9 out of 10 of them.

I was planning to write a separate post about 10 most common blog photos, but this woman is in 9 out of 10 of them.

1) Hello, World!  This blog will be a platform for my thoughts about me, myself, my thoughts about myself, and occasionally about _____, _____, what I think about this, and Megan Fox. I will write as often as I can, since I usually think daily about different things, I think. See, I’ve just thought again! I better start posting stuff right now!

2) The Day Of Outrage:  I don’t normally get outraged about things, but ______ was outrageous! Did you see how outrageous that was! You didn’t? This is so outrageous that you haven’t seen it yet! You gotta check out just how outrageous this was! See! Told you! Wasn’t it outrageous? Please share your outrage in the comments section, because I’ll be outraged if you don’t!

3) The Away Message:  I apologize, my dear readers, for leaving you without your daily fix of information about me, and temporarily abandoning my blog for almost three hours. I am really sorry that you had to put your life on hold because you did not know what’s going on with my life. But I was busy with things. It’s not like I don’t have a life, you know? Haha. Honestly, I promise to write three times a day from now on. It’s not like I really have a life, you know? Haha.

4) Search Terms Of Endearment:  I have to share the good news with you! I am on Google now! Yes, you can enter something in Google and it will find my blog! Isn’t it cool? And apparently, people enter completely random things and still find my blog! Check out this hilarious search term: ______. Isn’t it hilarious? And what about this: _________? Even more hilarious, right? And this: ___________. What’s up with that?? Hilarious. But you know, seriously, even though all these result are hilarious and all, but the search for “most totally amazing blog ever” doesn’t lead to my blog for some reason. I’m gonna have to call Google because I think there is a problem with their search.

5) The Freshly Pressed Hangover (posted the morning after). Thank you everyone for such thoughtful comments! I have never seen so many thoughtful comments saying “Congrats on being Freshly Pressed” ever! It is so great to be Freshly Pressed! It’s like a total vindication of my life’s work! My blog got so many page views that my computer totally crashed! Well, I was actually jumping for joy, and my foot tripped over the wire and my computer actually crashed! But now that I am a famous blogger, I have bought a bigger and better computer to write bigger and better posts!

6) The Guest Post: This amazing post is brought to you by the amazing blogger named ______ . He/she won’t be writing about me today, which is sad, but I get a day off from my blog, which is good. Please check out his/her work, he/she’s almost as amazing as me. But please read all my amazing posts first! You don’t actually have to read them if you don’t have time, but please click on them at least! Then come back tomorrow and read them! Or just “like’” them.

7) Gems From The Junk Filter:  Check this out! I just found out that WordPress is blocking some of the comments on my blog! These people have been leaving the nicest comments like “this is an excellently wrote post”, or “I have learning so much from this site”, or “your qualification is for among the best blogs of the internet”. Why does WordPress block these comments??? Who are they, grammar Nazis or something???

8) The Traffic Report:  Check out this picture. This is my page views stats. This looks just like Manhattan skyline, doesn’t it? I removed the numbers so you don’t get jealous. At least I hoped you would get jealous but I wasn’t really sure you would, so I deleted the numbers just in case. And then here is the next month, and it now looks more like New Jersey skyline. And look, here is this month, and it looks just like Nebraska. At least I think it looks like Nebraska, because I flew over it once and from up there Nebraska looked completely flat and sad, just like my recent traffic. Where is my traffic? Why isn’t anyone reading my blog??? I hate Nebraska!!!

9) My Amazing Cat:  My cat is totally amazing. It is so warm and fuzzy and smart. I wish my cat could write a post for my blog. I just know this post would have been so warm and fuzzy and smart that it’s gonna get Freshly Pressed instantly and I would get traffic again. I need traffic! Where is my traffic! Damn you cat! Write the post now!!! And make it warm and fuzzy and smart, damn it!!!

10) The Trends I Am Seeing:  I have been reading blogs for months now, and I have noticed that some types of blog posts are more common than others, so I thought I would aggregate them for your enjoyment and make fun of all of them at once. And when you’re out of ideas for your next blog post, this might just be your save!

Ah! Now I’m completely out of ideas!

Your Blog Sucks!

You’ve been blogging daily, brainstorming over varied topics, excited every time an email alert comes in, only to be disappointed that its your mother telling you how much she likes your blog and how happy she is that you’re blogging instead of playing video games.

Every time you log into your account, optimistic at being flooded with Likes and Followers, a monotonous blue dialogue box greets you, smiling at having to offer nothing. “Why isn’t it working?”, you think. “I’ve been posting daily for a week now, but why am I going unnoticed?”. You advertise your blog on Facebook but no one really cares to click your link. You are bored of this unfruitful ritual of writing when voila! The Indie Guy appears! 

So now lets go through your problem again. Why is Your blog not working?

The secret to any successful blog lies in its Titles. Come on let’s face it, when people search your blog on the WordPress Reader, the only thing that becomes the deciding factor as to how well the article’s written are the post titles. Do a great post with a platonic title and no one bothers to look up. Write rubbish with a twisted title and be surprised at being featured on Freshly Pressed!  Make sure the titles are crisp, short and intriguing enough to generate interest among the readers to click your link.

Next comes content. You could argue that you’re already writing regularly but believe me, that’s not going to be enough. Creating content is one thing, and writing quality content is quite another. Make sure not to compromise with the quality of your post. And establish that you proofread the article at least once before publishing. No one wants to read an article full of typos and misplaced punctuation. If you want your readers to come back to your blog again, this is a point of vital importance.

Use WordPress widgets to let people subscribe to you. It helps in a way that they are notified every time you update something on your blog. Ask your friends to review your blog for you.

Are you copying content from some other blog without giving out backlinks? Well, stop doing that. Either Re-Blog the post with suitable backlinks or brainstorm something original. Anyway, how hard is it to come up with something on your own?

Do you have a media player on your blog that plays your all-time favorites? Do you post videos on your blog? Get rid of ’em. These are unwanted distractions that are shoo-ing your audience away. Seriously dude, there is a YouTube if you don’t know. No one is coming to your blog to watch a video!

How often are you blogging? Anything less than thrice a week and you can set fire to your hopes of being the Next Internet Sensation. People won’t come back to you if you blog sporadically. Either be serious about it or make peace with the fact that blogging isn’t your cup of tea. 

But again, can it be that your blog is seriously boring? Are you posting content of value or are you just rambling? Blogging is not easy and it is definitely not for everybody. And if it’s not working for you, maybe its just not your calling. Quoting Einstein, “If you judge a fish by it’s ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid!”