The Mindless Musings of the Single, Bored 21 Year Old

I have spent the last four hours sprawled on a very battered bean bag chair, eating curd, and reading books single women write about their cats. It is, yes, one of the major avoidance activities when you are supposed to be studying for University examinations, ranked just below glaring at happy couples walking hand in hand and writing existentialist poetry. Hunting for haunted houses and making crowns out of festoons closely follow.

Cats are to a single woman what cigarettes are to an engineer. My father spent most of his youth smoking away his wonderment at all things mechanical and greasy. I, completely failing to inherit any of his genes, remain completely impervious to letting a cat run my life. If I ever do come across one, I hardly get the chance to exchange civilities before both of us are fleeing in opposite directions.

When I am a single 30 year old (note the assurance, I have taken it quite for granted I am incapable of ever being in a relationship. I am cold hearted, selfish and obsessive), I shall not keep cats. Nor hamsters. Definitely no dogs. I shall just let lizards overrun my apartment, where they may mate and eat flies to their heart's content. I shall then have lots of babies, and the babies, the lizards and I will have a happy life, watch lots of musicals, sing A Fine Romance, eat oranges and curds and read books about cats written by single women.

A cleaning fixation is one of the side effects of studying attempts. I have, till now, cleaned my desk and organized my notes by chapter, subject, exam paper number and probability of occurrence in examinations. This was followed by cleaning out all my bags. This was a very interesting venture since I have owned around nine bags since I joined college and they all have been used exhaustively. The things I found while cleaning them have been listed below, categorized according to appearance:

• A packet of peanuts (which is very strange since I do not like peanuts)
• Rs.124 in loose change
• a pair of grey socks (which I do not remember owning)
• a purple bandana
• broken lenses from the last pair of spectacles owned
• a heel
• cotton
• a matchbox
• 3 black crunchies
• a love letter
• 2 pens (one green, one black)
• nail polish remover
• a key chain shaped like a fish which says "Ship ahoy!"

I however find myself in a position to actually explain some of these findings. The bandana was a part of an impulsive purchase when I decided to protect the hair from all sorts of harmful elements. The heel was a part of a shoe. I had kept the heel when throwing away the shoes since I had loved them very much. The cotton, the matchstick and the nail polish remover were all a part of a bet where I had bet a friend that nail polish removers were inflammable.

The love letter was a part of another bet. I heard a friend of mine bemoaning the fact that girls could not write proper love letters and I swore I would write one and prove him wrong. Here is what that piece of paper read,

"Dearest,

I love you so much, I shall even watch cricket matches for you. I do not only love you, I like you very much. There is a huge difference between them, and if you do not appreciate it, you are a doofus and I can not see why I am dating you.

Sweetheart, there is no reason or sense left in my life since I have met you. I have stopped gazing adoringly at shoes, weep a lot while watching Meg Ryan movies and write poetry. Here is a sample.

You know what, never mind. I want you to love me back and not run away in horror.

Will you still love me if I wrote poetry?

This is where the letter ends. My otherwise substantial imagination peters off when it comes to romance and things akin to it. I also lost the bet.

Then came the great CD organizing fiesta whereupon I found certain lost bands I had acquired a taste for as a teenager. The big find was the Linkin Park: Live in Texas concert video. As I was watching it, I realized there was nothing more cooler in this whole wide world than being a rock star. Yes, I was transported back to my seventeen year old self.

When you are 21, lonely, bored and must go back to studies, there is not much else you can do with your life. Hence, you play all the Linkin park songs you have and pretend you are a member of the band and lip sync.

Pretending to be a band member in a concert has certain pre-requisites. They are mentioned below (I am obsessed about lists) :

• The clothing. The wardrobe of a geekish woman contains nothing a 30 something rock star would wear. So you end up wearing a pink shirt which says 'Bite Me! Bite Me! Bite Me!' you bought during a hormonal surge. I hope Mike Shinoda never comes across this blog.
• The mike. Since you have cleaned the cupboard two days back, there are no empty bottles of perfume. So you check in your sister's room and find a green bottle. It says Fa: Caribbean lemon. That is the mike. A green mike. When life gives you lemons, it does indeed give lemons.
  
• The band member: You want to be either Mike Shinoda or Chester. But you are not sure which one you want to be more. Rapping is the best option, speaking fast is your forte, but Chester is the one who gets to scream a lot.

To be frank, I have not really come to a decision about the last point.

In fact, the whole thing can be summed up in one line, a line which closed one of the saddest conversations I have ever participated in or made up during Avoidance Activities.

"I just wish Bonky, that someone loved me, and loved me as much as I love my hair."