Tales from the World's Worst Storyteller

In this world, it is tough to sustain an audience.

Probably, if I stop starting with proverbs, people would willingly listen to me more. Well, what can you do? I cannot ignore my inner prophet, out to save the world with mere words. "Alas, fool! Don't pee there lest thou wanteth us women to view thouest vilest procreation organ!" I keep spouting stuff like this all the time. And I realise why most of the prophets were killed in brutal ways.

So, that's how it is. I want to tell a story but looking for a listener in this crowd is a tough task. I do not want to advertise my "100% cuckoo" status in the very first impression. Take, it slow, Lady Fabulous, take it slow. Let them come to you. I give charming smiles, I flutter my eyelashes, I laugh at unfunny jokes, I listen to break-up stories, I promise secrecy for juicy gossip, I even share my chewing gum. Recruiting a listener is hard work that can take up to years.

The daily grind leaves one very little time to think, tell, or write stories. The juicer on top of my face has got lot of stuff rattling about, it's not like I'm out of stuff or facing a block. It is just that, by the time a story frees itself from the clutter and comes to me, the listener has moved on. Once this happens, physically forcing them to listen to me has not worked. That goes in the "Creepy Actions to Avoid" box, as my inner voice psychiatrist says. It is only because I listen to her that not many people call me creepy now. I'm much thankful to her.

How does one get someone's attention then? It is truly a test of your friendship when you listen to each other's stories, share insights, and give each other love and respect. There is also a lot of shit throwing, now and then, but it's nothing a bottle of liquor won't fix. But when you listen to a friend, you expect them to listen to you too. What is it that I'm missing? Am I not quick enough to sustain their attention? Or worse -- GASP -- are my stories that terrible?

No way that that's the case. My stories are kick ass! They are all about me being the greatest super heroine in the world and rescuing people with just my wit. It's the stuff of legend and comic book artists should be dedicating their books to me. Famous writers should bow down and kiss my rings. I inspire people. I am Lady Fabulous. No one doth protest my superiority.

Well, at least I can take myself not too seriously. I know that my stories are great. My juicer knows that too and appreciates that I know when to hold back and when to sprout the stuff locked in it. But it does bum me out when friends, family, and strangers turn away mid-story. I hope I don't do the same to them. I make it a point to even maintain eye contact until the storytellers themselves avert their gaze, no longer able to withstand the pure awesomeness they see in my eyes. Even my pupils scream "Genius".

Being the world's worst storyteller isn't that bad. At least I'm not an old grandparent desperately holding on to my grandchildren and forcing them to listen to how the neighbour across the road is stealing rubber from my backyard. Actually, I wouldn't mind being an old person if someone is there to take care of my shit. Old people can talk to thin air without people calling them creepy. Why can't young people be allowed to be senile? Why label and lock us up? Aren't we also just telling stories that no one has time to hear anymore?

Ask Me Anything But Not How I'm Doing

It's funny how people close to you are so concerned about your well-being. I find it endearing and sometimes it makes me go all "aww..." very loudly. That is emotion for you. I do not have a higher compliment for love or concern shown to me by others.

The reason I love being emotionally closed off to others' concern is because I find a lot of the "concern" to be fake and a formality. As it is the only form of conversation I have been taught, I also do the same. Not surprising, it makes me hate myself and I can never ask that question without gritting my teeth or hitting myself in the head. I do not like to inflict the question "How are you doing?" on friends, colleagues, acquaintances, or strangers.

How I am doing is a personal question. Do I want to tell people that I am learning how to get by in life one day at a time? Should I tell anyone that a former boss of mine was a prick in the ass? Does anyone need to know that I enjoy travelling in the metro every day while going to work?

I actually want to keep all of that to myself and show that in my writing. I've never been much of a talker as I've always let my creations speak about myself. Be it the clothes, Lego houses, drawings, illustrations, photography or writing. I am proud of each of my works because they are a part of my soul. It is very personal, but that is exactly what I choose to share with the public.

So, these days, whenever someone asks me that question, I roll my eyes or take a deep breath. I quickly run the updates of my life in my mind: what can I share with this person? Here are some of the options:

1. I made amazing pasta over the weekend and I gorged on it so much that I farted myself to sleep.
2. I visited a hill station and got piss drunk. I think I may be an alcoholic.
3. I was constipated for the whole of last week but then I ate some funny food the day before yesterday and now my system is all clean.
4. I've had a dry spell for such a long time that I had to fondle the girls for some self-love.
5. I am fine. My mother is fine. My father is fine. My brother is also fine. And my job is also going fine. There are no problems in my life. Thank you for asking.

Honestly, I am not trying to shock people or anything. But I have a limit of politeness and it usually does not last for very long. Sooner than later, my honest-but-potty mouth takes over and my brain keeps spewing stuff that people do not want to hear. I mean, I shouldn't be telling my former school teachers that I cannot get a guy because they fear my hyper-level libido or smart talk. I should not tell the priest in the church where my parents force me to go that bra shopping is difficult because they only seem to be making lacy or leopard-print stuff these days. I mean, there is a limit to honesty in a social setting. Something on the lines of "don't talk at all".

I do wish I could get away with my honesty. It doesn't bother me that I can only speak the truth to the public but lie very conveniently to my parents/teachers/bosses about the naughty stuff that I am up to. It seriously doesn't bother me. But people tell me otherwise. Friends who genuinely fear that I may get a fatwa or a slap on the face. The ghost in my room. The angelic version of me sitting on my right shoulder. They all wish the best for me and tell me to shut up or make stuff up when I am bombarded with this dreaded question.

So, how am I really doing? Seriously? Don't ask or I'll slap you on the nose bridge.

Vampire Romances to the Rescue

Sometimes my dreams end up surprising me. For a long time I was getting standard nightmares about harpies at work trying to choke or kill me in very innovative ways. Surprisingly, it wasn't an effect of watching too many crime shows. It was just a work thing. So after this very bad spell of nightmares, having a great dream is like discovering treasure. Not that I have an experience of ever finding any treasure but I figure that that's how characters in those fantasy novels feel like.

Now the dream. Being single for a long time has its effects on ones brain. The stimulants in my body which allow me to feel the effects of being in love were, sadly, dying. Not having anyone to fixate on was a sad thing. Since I didn't want to become a robot, I was concerned. How could I save my poor hormones and nerves? What could I think of that would ensure their survival?

Since these hormones and nerves do not come under stem cell research, top scientists of the world refused to help me. They also laughed, but that's beside the point. So, I had to come up with something. I had to make a plan which would help me be human and still have great boobs. Both these factors would ensure my survival. Attaboy, Darwin!

Leslie Nelson from "Dracula: Dead and Loving It"

To save myself, I thought, why don't I employ the use of those very skills which gave me the harpy nightmares? I mean, the skills I use every day at work: writing and imagination! Voila! Problemo solved! Thing is that I'm already writing a book on vampire-human romance that has vigorous sex between both species. Stephanie Meyer missed on that opportunity so I thought of cashing it in. I ensured that my vampires were the right degree of stupid to commingle with humans. Similarly, my humans had to be the right degree of rock-brains to flirt with semi-dead people.

I set my premise and started writing. The stimulants that were allegedly dead, came to life and with great vigour! My mind worked on Nitro mode and spewed out all kinds of vampire-human romances which were disturbing, at first. But if you are into that kind of kinky stuff, you'll love it. I'm a fan now. After writing a couple of chapters, my writing feels like crack. I'm addicted to it. That is the reason I am promoting it.

But my dreams... Oh, the turn my dreams took since the vampire romance tale is delectable. Being single is less of a worry now. I have my mind occupied on things that matter. And I'm not saying that it's work or family that is in the top of my mind, it's my writing and the scandalous stuff I write about. I am amazed at my ability of coming up with ways to make vampire-human sex easy, look natural, and attain orgasm each time. See, I am making the impossible come true. That's always something a writer should be really proud of.

Of course, the writing is done in secret and I can't reveal it till I complete the whole book. You see, I haven't introduced my characters yet. They've only had sex--lots of it--for now. So I need to do the mundane task of giving them a background, a story and a dysfunctional characteristic before telling the world any more detail. Each story needs that and I can't succeed without covering my basics.

The only thing I can hope for now is that I keep my concentration up and that there aren't any more videos of Hugh Jackman, Michael Fassbender and James McAvoy dancing to distract me. God, they're gorgeous!

When there are stories, there are no listeners

Many a times I have wanted to tell a tale. Many a times I have been politely and bluntly, told to shut it. But being hyperimaginative and very restless in mind (it's not a medical condition), I can hardly rest until the story reaches a climax. At least in my head!

I am the kind of person that likes making up stuff because there isn't much interesting to do in the world to keep oneself busy. And just like Agatha Christie dreamt of Poirot while washing dishes, people like me need a thought or two, to keep busy while the potatoes boil and the onions are crisped.

While there is still a solution to write off ones stories on paper or on blogs (like this one here), it is very seldom that people want to listen to your life's stories. People are interested if it's about sex, or drugs, or chicks/dudes (whichever they "dig"), or money, or humour, or gossip-worthy...in short, if it doesn't excite them, it's not worth spending time listening to.

Sad to say, I have few friends. It's even sadder that my friends have fickle hearing when it comes to hearing out my hyperimagination. So in a sense, ALL my stories lose importance. It becomes difficult when at times there's a lot on your mind and you just want to get it all off your chest. But where do you go when your friends won't hear you out?

I say, screw them!

Now, let me make it clear that Google isn't paying me money to promote their blogs but I am biased towards it, more because I'm a "writing" person than a "talking" person, unlike most of my friends. So I type instead of dialing a number. (I also save up on talktime a lot!)

But let me tell you, friends: Next time I look bummed out, ask me how I am because I always ask you how you are. Don't wait till you see a blog like this.

Also, I'm not a psychic and I'm not expecting you to be either. But can I at least be made to think of you as a fellow human being?

What do you say, people?