Where I cater to the common denominator... meaning YOU.

Hurricane Sandy has taken Gizmodo and most of the Gawker network down. Bereft of my daily post lunch ritual of scrolling through Lifehacker (if ever there was a life that needed hacking it is mine) and Giz, I decided to pay a little attention to my own small neglected corner of the web.

I often imagine what would happen if prospective employers read my blog before the interview. Would it garner a favorable response (you’re on your way to the top of this insane asylum, my son), or would my racism and perversion turn them off? ‘Let’s just try it once and see how you like it’, I’ll plead. 'I’ve got a lot of love to give this organization; I've done it before and people have enjoyed it. let me just squeeze the tip in…'

What were we talking about?

Well, it’s not really a problem, as no one reads my blog anyway. I've therefore decided to make this blog a lot more adult oriented, and eliminate that veneer of social acceptability that I've hitherto tried to incorporate in my posts to cater to a discerning audience. The lack of an audience, discerning or otherwise has made this now redundant. Family, friends and other prudes, please avert your eyes; I shall now sell my soul for the seamy popularity that sex brings to any publication and cater to the prurient interests of the base masses.

…lonely crickets chirp…

Hm, the problem with above bravado is that the intent is clear, but the method is lacking. How DOES one emulate the sexy formula that sells copies of Playboy, X Men comics or every single popular British daily newspaper?  ‘It’s Obvious’, you might yell, dear reader. ‘Just increase the boobage ratio of your blog and people will come flocking, just like they do to that guy who built a better mouse trap. Pocket mice or real mice, the principle is the same; the cheese is the boob.’

Well, dear reader, we all know about cheeseboob, but how do I smear it on my blog? I keep trying to cull pictures from the interwebs, but get… distracted… every time.  I was then inspired by the Kate Middleton photographs, and slotted in my telephoto lens, attached my tripod, and started peering into the neighbouring apartments from behind my curtains. The problem is, the quality of the average Ghaziabad high rise dwelling lady falls more into the ‘BURN IT WITH FIRE’ rather than the ‘So hot I assploded all over my tripod’ category.

Assploding is going to be a regular theme in this blog now.

So you see, it’s not that easy catering to the common denominator. Just like in real life, where rather than causing girls to fall over in a frenzy and start spontaneously humping the sidewalk, wearing skinny jeans just forces me to walk with my leas at 60 degree angles to each other and end the day in hospital, trying to get sexy up in this blog may just have a counter-intuitive effect.

And also forces me to write long convoluted sentences.

So, I’m just gonna throw my door open to suggestions and volunteers. Especially volunteers. If you’re a girl and want to support this blog, just email me those tittay pics. Or ass. Armpit? Chin? Whatever; just send them to mdtl@outlook.com. Once I’m done with them (and it may take a while so be patient), you’ll get prime position on my sidebar. And the satisfaction of having done a good deed. And the knowledge that I’m gonna have to drink a LOT of Gatorade to replenish my fluids. 

Remember, the more pictures you send, the more likely I’ll perish of dehydration. It’ll be a win-win, for at least I’ll die happy.

The Path

This is based on a true story.

Sweat poured down my brow, and into my eyes blinding me. I was in a trench, my breath inside my faceplate loud in my ears. It was a bright and sunny day, but the light struggled through the thick foliage, and all that reached us was a dim ambient glow with only a few rays breaking through and dappling the ground.

The undergrowth was wet and a light mist snaked around my ankles. Twisted roots churned in the mud, like pythons frozen in the act of copulating. The stillness of the forest was disorienting; it was hard to believe there were others like me silently creeping through it.

"Clear the path!” they told me. Even if it cost me my life, I had to clear the path!

Drawing a deep breath, I risked a quick peek out of the trench, but quickly ducked back down as a volley of shots sprayed mud a few inches from my face. This was ridiculous; I had to move forward - they were depending on me.

But we were pinned down by enemy fire. They were swarming everywhere and four snipers had entrenched themselves in front of us. I looked at my mates on my right in the underbrush. A nod, and we were in agreement; we started inching our self forward, wriggling through the mud and the foliage.

It was nerve-wracking business. And the guy on the right couldn't take it. He broke. With a sudden yell, he bolted from his shelter, and within a few steps, was gunned down, his body jerking as several bullets tore into him. But his sacrifice was not in vain. We had placed the enemy positions, and in a sudden surge we cleared all five of them out.

Elated, I bounded forward; when like a deadly jack in the box an enemy trooper shot out from around a curve in the trench, and fired a spray of bullets at me. I flattened myself against the wall of the trench and watched as shots whizzed past. I fired a few shots around the corner to distract the trooper up ahead, and then scrambled a few feet back to safety.

My visor was misted up and I could smell my own fear. So this was what war was like. I felt utterly drained, as though I had been running for miles. Only adrenaline was keeping me going now. I looked at my mate sniping from the bushes to my right. He shrugged helplessly; the enemy was too well hidden in the trench and he couldn't draw a bead on him.

I crawled forward a few paces only to fall flat as a volley of shots whizzed around my head. I had to clear the path; we were running out of time. I knew what I had to do.

My breath was echoing in my ears and the cold stone of fear was heavy in my stomach. I crouched silent for a second and then I was off; running down the trench firing a hail of bullets. He waited till I was almost on top of him. I rounded the corner and almost thought the trench was empty, when he stood up and shot me down point blank. But, as I fell backward into the mud, I saw the cruel smile on his face change to shock as red bloomed on the front of his jacket. He had given away his position to the sniper on the right.

I had done it; the path was clear.

Epilogue - We lay for a minute in the mud, till we heard the whistle. I grabbed the enemy trooper by the hand and hoisted him up. The paintball game was over. My team had captured the flag.

More than what is.

Arthur C Clarke passed away today. He saw more than what is.

Emu Therapy

Humans are complex beings.. or so they say. I say, everyone is just fucked in the head. It's only the degree which varies. In fact, trust me, the degree to which peoples brains are dysfunctional rarely varies too. I mean why does anyone need meth, once life does a number on your brain ?

I guess everyone has moments when they wanna slit their wrists, sit in a dark corner and rock backward and forward, keening. These are called Emu moments, and don't worry; everyone gets them. My advise to you, is that when you get an Emu moment and want to slit your wrists, don't worry. Just remember, cutting across your wrist is NOT at all effective. For the best results you have to cut DOWN the wrist along the forearm. More hints here.

Remember this is not for teenage angst ridden Avril Lavigne listening emo-bois. This won't give you a cool scar. This. Will. Kill. You.

It's funny though; most of the music I like are Songs to Slit your Wrist by. Check out a few here. Maybe thats why I am the way I am, and maybe thats why this blog is called Mine Darke and Twisted Life. And mabe this is the most truth you've ever read here.

Besides slitting your wrist, there are other options open, of course. You could join the foreign legion and get fisted by a hundred other crazy fuckers. When bending down in the shower to get the soap has you scared silly, there's not much brain space left to contemplate the complex emotional tangle that drove you emu in the first place.

Or you just move to Australia for some Emu-therapy. Coz' when the world is looking bleak and you feel that you just can't go on, there's nothing better than the love of a large flightless Aussie bird.

And I know this, because I'm Mr. Brightside.

Home

I just had a dream about my little dog; my Julie. I was at the seaside with my friends, our house was right near. I guess the place was supposed to represent my grandparents house in Trivandrum, and though it looked nothing like that house, there was a feel about it.

My mother called me up from the beach while we were playing in the waves. We had to climb lots of stairs set in a cliff to reach our house, which had now absudly become a very queer flat. She told me Julie died. She was in a carboard box, lined with cloth, grey on grey. I said she couldn't be dead as she looked almost ready to wake up, and I kept seeing signs of subtle life in her like little breaths.

We buried her on the seaside.

As the sun set, under the sand we buried her where the sea would lap over her grave at high tide. I could still see her black button eyes almost hidden under the fringe of grey hair. My other dog Misha stayed under a chair the rest of the day. That evening as I sat alone in the house, reading, I heard a whine from my mothers room. I opened the door only to see Katie, Julies mother, who died more than four years ago. As I hugged her, overjoyed to see her again, she told me that Julie was still alive. I don't know how she conveyed that message, but she did. She leapt from my lap, and I and Misha turned and ran after her. As we ran down the stairs along the cliffs to the sea, everything seemed to go in slow motion, and Daughtry's 'Home' started playing in my head.

As I reached the grave, I saw every second wave was washing over it, and I feared that I was too late. I fell to my knees in the surf, and scrabbled at the sand frantically. I found the box, but when I opened it I saw sand had seeped in and filled the box.

But I saw movement, and soon Julie was coughing and shaking herself alive. I was so happy.

It was a dream.

Julie passed away yeserday at my home in Coimbatore, while I was a million miles away in a different country and I'll never get another chance to pet her; for her to greet me when I return home.

But, I still remember as she played that night in the surf under the moon, this song was playing

The miles are getting longer, it seems,

The closer I get to you.

I've always been man's best friend for you.

And your love, remains true.

And I don't know why.

You always seem to give me another try.

I'm going home,

Back to the place where I belong,

And where your love has always been enough for me.

I'm not running from.

No, I think you got me all wrong.

I don't regret this life I chose for me.

But these places and these faces are getting old

So I'm going home.

Well I'm going home.

And I will see you, Julie, Katie and all my dogs, when I finally go home.