Bummertime Sadness

It’s that time of my life when I’m unable to do anything except watch from a distance as my life crumbles down to nothing. Fuck everything. Fuck everyone. I’ve reduced Twitter usage and will possibly leave it entirely within one/two years. This isn’t supposed to be a gloomy post, I’m not supposed to be a gloomy host, but shit happens, and here we are, at a mental crossroads.

Tough decisions lie ahead (took this line from a horoscope paragraph) and the thought of growing up scares me too much. I mean I’m already grown up (not that anyone cares) but not in the sense that my family wants me to be. They think I’m far too mature and want me to become a bit more light-hearted towards the simulation that is life. I’m afraid the time to do that has passed ages ago. Having finished everything that was thrown at me, I am now at a loss for action. Life has seemingly exhausted itself of all kinds of challenges that it normally gives to a person of my age group (early- to mid-twenties) and again, I’m pretty bummed out.

There is no contest at this particular stage. I’ve thought about the concept in following paragraph since I became woke some years ago, and it still pains me to even think about the occurrence, or rather, the lack of occurrence.

All I want in my life is an arch nemesis. Being partially schizophrenic helped in fooling myself, for a sweet but short period of time, that there was a living entity that I could openly compete with and live the thrilling life I always wanted. But as I cured myself of the disease, I was left alone, wondering whether I actually have an enemy…

Very few people will realize how important it is for someone as disturbed, and disturbing, as me to have a credible goal, i.e. in this case, a counterpart. A white to my black (not talking about dick colors here), a right to my wrong. As I write this, I cannot help but wonder if there’s a worthy opponent out there feeling the same way I am. Suddenly I can relate to fictional characters who went into depressed states when their fictional rival was absent. I now know what melancholy means.

This might seem like a daft post to you. It’s not. I really crave for a worthy adversary at this point. Even better if it’s a female. I would absolutely love a hoe foe.

My face is bulletproof, bitch

Summertime Madness

[this is one of many (2) writing prompts I received from fellow Twitter users, and I have taken full permission from the concerned individuals (haha not really)]

The brick colored brick building sat right where it was supposed to sit, unmoving, surprisingly stable, heating up under the angry Kolkata sun. They called it school, and every (pre)teen hated it. At any given point of time between 8 am and 5 pm, there were hordes of irritable students fidgeting their way through the stupid syllabus.

One of these kids was Aaradhya [last name not available]. He [male] was particularly annoyed that day, having had to jerk off in the school washrooms, thrice, with no material. Absolutely furious, one might say. He sat there on the termite-ridden desk, listening to the math tutor and wondering about the stock market and thinking about Schrodinger’s pussy. It was all good, as far as he was concerned.

The classroom door was pushed open abruptly at that moment, and a young, reedy-looking professor walked in. The math tutor half-shrieked, half-gasped, looking petrified. “Oh! Mr. Banerjee! Almost gave me a heart attack there!” Mr. Banerjee, cool as he was, snorted and whirled to face the class. His hand shot up, index finger pointing at Aaradhya. “I need this boy”, he said. The complete batch of bored students was suddenly glaring at Aaradhya, clearly not bored anymore.

Adjusting his glasses, Aaradhya stood up. “Me, sir?” “Yes. Follow me.” With that, the professor strode away.

Aaradhya, pouncing on this seemingly weird opportunity to leave class, hurried ahead, awkwardly nodded at the math tutor, and skidded out into the hallway. Mr. Banerjee was twenty paces ahead, so he picked up his pace and followed him.

Now Mr. Banerjee was a new guy, in his 30s and pretty much the poster boy for a smart economics professor; all the teachers were supposed to secretly hate him for being at a high level of the school food chain at such a young age. 

“In here, quick”, he said, opening up a door. And even as Aaradhya stepped over the threshold, a word popped into his head and his face changed. Oh, shit.

Mr. Banerjee saw that too, and grinned. “I’m no pedophile, kid.” Aaradhya was shocked but also relieved. “No, I don’t like kids but I have a certain…affinity for older women.” Aaradhya crinkled his nose, thinking, What an absolute madarchod. “Ah, I’m just kidding. I just prefer South Indian women.”

The room they had entered was a pretty basic classroom, completely empty except for the chewing-gum-riddled furniture and stale farts. Mr. Banerjee rushed to a side door and pushed on it. The door swung on its hinges and poof! seemed to melt away into nothingness. What the…

“Come on, kid”, Mr. Banerjee beckoned to him. “We need to be quick.”

“But…but there’s nothing behind the door! And I’m not sure that door is supposed to be there…”

“For heaven’s sake! Trust me, we need to go right now!”

So Aaradhya ran into the door, feeling like an autistic Harry Potter (basically the same thing). As soon as he made contact with the shimmering darkness, he felt an unseen force pull him into the void and he was thrown into a… conference room. One moment he was touching the door, the next he was sitting in the chair left of the empty chairman position in a red-themed, posh-looking conference room. It was cool​ here; a welcome relief from the heat. But where exactly was “here”?

Looking around, he realized he was alone. “Mr. Banerjee?” he called out meekly. No answer.

The next minute, there was a blurred, swift flurry of motions and then the conference room was full of 30-year-olds to 60-year-olds gazing solemnly at him. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe his arch-nemesis had put some drug in the morning upma. He wasn’t even sure he was real at this point. He noticed Mr. Banerjee sitting diagonally opposite to him, smiling.

The chair at the head of the table was occupied by a burly, confident man. He stared at Aaradhya as if judging him for his sins, while the latter thought about how if Simba the lion had a human counterpart this huge man would be him. The man looked away at the gathering and spoke. “The committee is now complete.” 

Aaradhya was baffled. “Wha-”

“All will be explained, kid. I hope you’ve noticed that you’re the youngest member here, the second youngest one is-” the man nodded at a 20-something guy wearing a dark hoodie, sitting at the far end, watching everything quietly, “-him. This here is the most clandestine committee of all time. You, Aaradhya, are now part of The Guild.”

“I’m not sure I’m supposed to be here. And I’m probably not the perfect guy…”

“Oh, we’ve seen you at work. You’re in the perfect position to be one of us. You understand how exactly money, and the world, for that matter, works, and that is a good enough criteria for us. And though you have a lot to learn,” The man cleared his throat conspirationally to hush down the murmuring that had grown around the table, much to Aaradhya’s indignation, “you shall be just fine. We were all chosen at your age, brought in by a mentor. There have been exceptions, however”, another glance at the far end, “but yeah, it’s all good.”

“And what are we…um…The Guild, supposed to do, exactly?”

The smart Simba man laughed, as if it was a very naive question, and the answer was but obvious. “Why, save the world!”

Aaradhya squinted from behind his glasses, and then many things happened at once. Mr. Banerjee tapped his wristwatch, the Simba guy nodded, another flurry of motion and all the people disappeared. Aaradhya was left alone, watching the empty chairs around him, feeling lonelier than ever, his mind a harsh kaleidoscope of what not…


What the hell do you think you’re doing, Aaradhya!?!” And all of a sudden Aaradhya was aware of a stinging heat on his neck and he was back in class, drooling off to sleep, and the math tutor was screaming at him…

“Uh.. I need to talk to Mr. Banerjee?”

“What?”, scoffed the tutor. “He called in sick today.”

“Oh.” So it was all just a figment of his imagination, like that time he had envisioned Mother Teresa in a sheer cloth…

Disappointed, Aaradhya left school early after telling his teachers he was feeling sick, and cycled back home. His parents were at work. He entered the hall, went straight to the kitchen, and gulped down half a liter of cold water.

He returned to the hall, only to find Mr. Banerjee, looking fit as hell, sitting in the couch, grinning up at him. Aaradhya staggered at the rush of images in his brain.

“You! The door…the room…the people…”

“Yep. All real. Sit down. I have something for you.”

“Sure, I think I’d better sit down. What is it?”

Mr. Banerjee’s face turned serious. “Are you up for it?”

Aaradhya thought about his bland life and the numerous times he’d wondered about snorting cocaine off the school principal’s tits. He shuddered.

“Oh, I am. I definitely am. So what do you have for me?”

Mr. Banerjee leaned forward with an expression less suited to a professor than to a superspy, and cracked another toothy smile. “An assignment.”


[Note: everything here is fictional apart from the main character and the thinly veiled existential scorn. Thanks for reading.]

Crippling Loneliness And Other Overused Phrases

No one’s cripplingly lonely bois. A truly lonely person exists, however, in all of us. Imagine being trapped inside a huge black hole with no one for company and silence the only background score OST™ as entertainment for your drained brain. And now imagine it all morphing into an unimaginable, unreal, untoward horror which is your ex’s asshole [an asshole’s asshole, yep] and your miniaturized body is trapped on the tip of anal hair, just waiting out the intervals between dankkk farts. That’s loneliness. I’d have gone for a loner-in-the-desert story but that’s too mainstream. And I’m too much of an iconoclast. I am also lonely; I have like, 3 friends in real life. Everyone else is just someone that I know well. Burp.

In other headlines, I have reduced my usage of Twitter (shocker) and have started experimenting with the various other forms of social media. I did a stint on tumblr back in the day, then I moved to Facebook top comments, then to YouTube, then to Twitter. Bloody marvellous journey, eh mate. In five years I will have deleted my Twitter account wholly. RIP bad jokes. Spending all this time online has made me realize something though: you can never, never  have enough of it.

Also, my friend had visited the Ariana Grande concert. Messaged me in the middle of it saying “we’re having a blast”, the wanker. Blocked him immediately. At this point I don’t need trivial updates from close acquaintances. Haven’t heard from him since.


Post Title

So yeah, I’ve been busy with making excuses about how I’m busy while attempting to be not busy all the while. Exhausting shit. Macron won the election. Good man, although I’m not sure whether he’s the right choice for president. No one’s reading this and no one cares but I’m still writing it. Because freedom of speech and imperfect analogies.

I have exams soon [who really doesn’t?] and I’ll possibly ace them, but I don’t want to. I’ve written about this in the past and I’m further upholding my belief that all curriculum-based educational systems are, with a rare exception(s), flawed at their core. They do not allow for the margin of error that is creativity to push in the boundaries of their strict policies, their unshakable faith in rule-based learning. And what a filthy type of learning that is. I’d rather spend time on the net and learn new things and get certified for those activities than be subjected to an array of rather monotonous subjects [oh shit wordplay] and get the same exact result.

But hey, who cares. Not me. Definitely not me, since I have all marks under control; a past experiment has proved that it is far simpler, than the layman would imagine it to be, to keep your marks in control, to be able to let loose and reign in as needed. All you need to do that is a capable enough cortex and above-average understanding. Which is also great.

I’ve been rereading some classics that I perused as a child, and now I can feel the effect of the dense prose creeping into my writing. Life’s [I also gave up on my hero-centered novel and picked up on a past draft] good. I develop more and more dank memes every now and then, laugh at and delete them because no one should be exposed to such vicious, sadistic humor. May the froth be with your friend who drank poison. When I watched 13 reasons why, I never flinched. Feel free to share this horseshit and be the harbinger of my lynching.

For the time being, leave me 🅱

41°C and steamy as fuck

​Sorry if you clicked expecting a hot South Indian belly button fetish video. Been a very long time since I logged on here; surely to the relief of the visitors whose numbers never go beyond the single digit.

Update post using continuous verbs only. Still spouting shit/genius content on twitter, writing very less, gaming a lot, studying somewhat better, upping the ladiesman game [haha get it?], sleeping lesser, working out more, reading pretty much anything I can get my hands on, making very cringeworthy memes, etcetera and so on.

The heat, my friend, is ON. Here at [redacted], the sun – little bastid – seems to have taken an impromptu oath to help people lose fat by way of sweat, and people are slowly losing faith in the concept of sub 20°C temperature.

Even now, as I type this, a moth is hovering here, fooled into thinking there’s a flame nearby lol

Relationship update: another girl has a crush on me but is in for a huge disappoinment since, as I’ve made clear before, I have zero interest in the very concept of immature and impulsive love. This thinking could very well backfire, but I’m up for it because hashtagrebel.

Superb stand-up comedy specials available on Netflix at the moment (time to bring out the extrs email IDs). Good shit.

What now? ’bout to tap some pussy yeahh (the neighbor’s tabby)

Guess Who’s Back

Lol obviously it’s me since I’m the sole owner/proprietor/editor/creditor/blah/blah of this site. After spending a good, harrowing week of pseudo-study mainly designed to check a student’s ability to learn shit and not actually comprehend it, I’m back. As I’ve very lucidly said in a previous post, I very strongly believe that the system is fucked. In other news, I wrote a music video script for because my friends want to shoot a video about a girl making a boy falling in love (talk about cliches am I wrong lol). The song is Ed Sheeran’s Shape Of You, I think. So there’s that. Make a geometry joke? Sure why not. Pythagoras would’ve loved the song, I hate it. Recently finished a superb book by Ray Bradbury: Fahrenheit 451. A shockingly close-to-the-truth reality in a dystopian future, the story is a must read. Others can peruse Savita bhabhi’s adventures as always.

If WikiLeaks’ latest reveals are to be believed, the CIA and/or the NSA have had full surveillance over a tangible amount of e-communication all over the world. Guess who saw you touching yourself while watching Powerpuff Girls lolol.

Keep calm and carrion. Peace. War.

Joke #1: Guess What [long]

Disclaimer: keep your cringe to yourself

In an unnamed county, new LGBT laws are passed for law enforcement enlistment. In the same county, a new drug cartel is formed. A large number of people are recruited for both organizations, and work begins. The new police teams start slow sweeps of the region, and the cartels start swift drug ins-and-outs. Some weeks later, the drug shipments start getting caught, and raids become frequent. As a result, the drug cartels recruit a special batch of 20-something guys to act as mobile informants. One particular guy, Timmy, is rather excited to work with the cartel. Things start moving smoothly; the informants work nicely and develop a method for information transfer. They make a single call and decide a catchphrase each to signal danger. Almost all informants choose “code red” or some variation, others choose something like “shit” or “fuck” or “cocksuckers are here”. Timmy, however, has a rather peculiar phrase. The first time he senses a raid, he calls at the drug shipment warehouse and says “guess what” and cuts the call. The confounded cartel members are unable to make sense of it, and hence, get raided. Timmy gets reprimanded, with specific instructions to be clear. The next time, he calls again and says “guess what” and cuts the call, thus resulting in another successful raid. The cartel gang-rapes him and then cuts off his balls. They don’t kill him, because he’s one of their best spotters. The third time, he says the same thing: “guess what” and this time, a cartel member gets killed in the crossfire. They beat Timmy up to a pulp, and leave him to die. The cartel head walks over to him.

“What the shit were you trying to say, you dumb twat? The hell are we supposed to guess?”

Timmy coughs up bloody phlegm and says, “But I was trying to be very specific!”

“How the fuck?”

“Whenever I knew one of the new police teams was coming with a raid party, I always said gay S.W.A.T.!”

[rant] It’s Not You, It’s Me

sounds like something a drunk Iraqi would tell his cousin sister after banging her, in answer to her earnest question: “Who’s gonna be today’s suicide bomber?” This isn’t that context.

This context is very akin to the actual context, although I’d like to shed light on one little distinction. The popular context is associated with regret whereas I’m using the phrase in a warped version context of regret: pity.

Why? one highly curious individual might ask. The answer is rather simple: I don’t fucking have anyone who could make sense of the shit I’m dealing with. Yes offense, I’m surrounded by stupid people, which, by your measuring scale, might seem reasonably sane. 3 people I know personally are the only ones I can actually talk to without pulling intellectual punches. The remaining chunk [even friends + family] think I’m a crazy, sadist prick whose arrogance is going to be the end of him.

They’re not entirely wrong either. I process emotions, too [i won’t say I’m emotionless like 98% of half-arsed eggheads]. I can imitate all emotions to perfection, and I can read almost all emotions like a pro. I just don’t do emotions. My thought process keeps upshifting, and I keep getting better at both swift contemplation and bypassing emotions. My online presence (each and every one) is primarily for watching people and their reactions/actions only; I care far less about retweets and the like than the average social media connoisseur.

Even today, on my birthday, I watched people smile at me like it was a great achievement I’d made. I pity their sentiments, and I despise their frail minds. The only birthday to be celebrated is the day you were actually conceived: the first race you ever win. Apart from that, birthdays are just a day that people take out from every year to remind themselves to love themselves and make others show that they love them. An elaborate excuse to make one feel good, no doubt. Fuck you all.

I’ll just live with myself. Will you? With all the emotional anchors weighing you down? Probably not. I’ll do a post soon, and I’ll dissect love to pieces. Fuck everyone.

As a wise man once said: Sue me.

Pome #1 – De ‘kay

The sports bra makes it look very okay,

But my bosom is in a state of horrid decay

I see my scalp shedding hair,

Even my crotch is completely bare

My liver’s getting spotty and shivery,

My spots are getting snotty and livery

I think I’m pregnant, but my doctor says I’m not,

He laughs at my plight; my intestine’s a knot

Everyone’s an asshole, but not as pinched as mine

“You’re a little deluded cunt”, is everyone’s favorite line

I’m most definitely going to cry

Since my pussy is undeniably dry

But I never learned to bid goodbye

For eunuchs never die

They don’t, do they? Oh, fuck

Clear History?


It is said that a man is always haunted by his past [most women are a bunch of lucky bitches, sometimes with short term memory loss]. Similar is the case with Twitter. When you’re a newbie to the game, you inadvertently tweet some shit which later amounts to a palpable skeleton in your closet. A rather significant number of cunty tweets are dangerous to your reputation [reputation -> lul]. Also comes with this the problem of your identity: in all probability, it’s possible that a tweet containing media/links can point to your real identity.

Pro tip: Use Twitter’s advanced search for this purpose. Enter these search queries for required results and take care to observe where “-” has and has not been used.



  • from:@UserName filter:links
    • This returns all your tweets containing links (any bloglink/weblink) and tweets containing images (Twitter converts pictures to links, e.g. media.twitter.com/media)
  • from:@UserName -filter:mentions
    • This returns all your mostly original tweets (including media tweets, but excluding retweets and mentions)
  • from:@UserName -filter:retweets
    • This returns your entire timeline: all tweets except retweets (replies will also be returned)

These searches are very effective (can confirm) for people with a individually-deletable number of tweets. Like, 50.

What when you’ve to reset to your whole timeline proper? I recently cleared my account of all the shit tweets I’ve done. A simple software by this guy, it turns out, is sufficient. A procedure is provided on the author’s site, but I’ll try and simplify it. Here’s how you go about deleting your tweets in bulk:

  • Have a Twitter account lel
  • Request your archive, and download it [note the path]


    Don’t click on this lmao

  • Download this. The portable version works very well.
  • When prompted, login and get a PIN access code (kind of an OTP)
  • Locate your index file (also when prompted) and click on it to point the software to it.

Typical archive file

  • A huge timeline in reverse chronological order with all your tweets (including retweets and replies) will appear, categorized by month.
  • If you have a fuckton of useless tweets (including retweets and replies) to delete, select all subheadings – a month is a subheading – and deselect the ones you want to keep.
  • Keep in mind that your tweets will be visible in your archive
  • Click delete and watch a full chunk of your virtual life melt away
  • Get a life

Thanks for reading. Cunt.