A LETTER TO BATMAN'S GIRLFRIEND

The verdict is out. Did you hear that? You feel me? Visiting hours are over. Your exclusive membership to my mind and body has been revoked. Your access to my without-you-better-life is terminated. Now go home with your tail between your legs because you don’t get to contact me anymore. Forget getting back together as well. In fact, you lost that right some time ago. I used to be open 24/7 like some kind of a pharmacy, but that was before everything bad that ever happened and now I’m just closed up for good. Yeah, the truth can be a tad bittersweet.

Remember when I let you touch me? Remember when you owned stock in my heart? At a certain point, it felt like my body was more yours than it was even mine. You could do anything you wanted to me. Isn’t that an amazing feeling? Knowing that someone trusts you so completely you have free rein over them? When you have this power, you’re not supposed to abuse it. You’re supposed to always have their best interests at heart and protect your investment. You shouldn’t trade your stock! Hold onto it, watch it grow in value. You don’t go around gambling after you have won a lottery, you spend it wisely.

Right. Why doesn’t it ever work out this way? Why do the people who are supposed to protect you often end up leaving you for dead? Funny isn’t it? The ones who promised to protect you from all harm become the weapon themselves? The weapon with double sided sharp edges.
The Great Depression. The stock market’s terrible right now because of you. People are losing their homes because of your wandering eye.

There was a time when I accepted everything you said as truth. No questions asked. Why would I? Had you ever given me reason to doubt you? Your presence was always met with blazing fireworks, vulnerability and openness. I had no control over it. Whenever you would appear, I’d just open up for you. Do you even know how special that is? Why would you ever screw up such a good gig? Take a moment, Take a bow.

You used to have all of me and now you have nothing. Not a damn thing. Not even a dirty fingernail. You could touch my neck/ my butt/ my ear/ my bellybutton whenever you wanted. You could’ve cried to me on my shoulder and I would’ve been like, “OMG Hon! What’s wrong? Tell me more!” Everything to nothing in a single moment. All-acesss pass to blacklisted. From unguarded intimacy to being a stranger. Surprised?

I had everything a woman could ask for. Toys of all kinds, a sea of money and a heart oozing love. I even had a butler for crying out loud. I went and became a hero for your sake. Did everything you could ever ask for. But no, you settled for Mr. ‘TWO FACE’d bastard. See, serves you right. The worst part is that you ARE surprised. “I don’t even get a finger-nail? After all we’ve been through together?” Um, no. And the fact that you’re surprised, the fact that you think everything somehow could be okay, makes me more unrelenting in my stance against you, against us. The only power you’ve left with me is the power to reject you. And I’m sure as hell not going to let that one go to waste. Don’t mean to sound villainish, but I could pay a thousand bucks to see you cry. Don’t worry about me babe, I will meet someone more hotter, more prettier and more passionate. Someone like the Catwoman. Someone like Anna Hathaway. You go and watch some Bollywood flick with your guy. Maybe Cocktail or Tashan. So should I sign off with a “Piss off somewhere else” ?

                                                                                                                                Your's sincerely
                                                                                                                                  Bruce Wayne

WHEN YOUR PARENTS WANT TO KNOW YOUR CGPA

Pretend you didn’t hear. Pretend again. Pretend until you are kicked in the shin.

Screech in horror.

Talk about your other career accomplishments and how you’re “too busy” to achieving your dreams/hobbies.

If they are questioning you over the phone, make static-y and police siren noises into the phone and tell them you’re going into a tunnel. Then, hang up.

Stare at them. Borrow your dad’s cigar. Light it. Take in a puff or two. Declare the results only after watching Breaking Dawn.

Say you’re waiting for the CID series on Sony to end. Sing lines from Wiz Khalifa’s  “Black & Yellow.”

Send them a copy of your mark-sheet via e-mail but when they open it, it’s a TROLL pic of CID fame.

Put a top hat and do a moonwalk. Slowly whilst doing it, get out of the house.

Get a tattoo of the words “#7.SOMETHING” on your forearm — and when they ask, roll up your sleeves.

Condescendingly tell them you’re continuing to score 7  as part of living performance art, commenting on the societal pressure to always look cool. 8 and 9 ptrs are such geeks !

Flip the table. Storm out.

Proclaim you have two girlfriends named Sunny and Julia. Blame it all on them.

Transform into a bat and flap away into the night.

Bellow, “I am gay”. It surely has to be more important than your grades. I mean, we are talking about stopping the expansion of your family. Ever. A great way to come outta your closet.

Reverse the guilt. Be like, “You created me. You saw my childhood. You know what’s up over here. What do you think?”

Maintain uncomfortable eye contact.

Throw glitter in the air and prance away.

Sculpt a score out of delicious foods in front of their eyes.

Bring home your roommate who scored the half of you. Let him talk to your parents. When they freak out, remind them that you scoring 7 isn’t so bad.

Spray them with mace.

Deviate the topic into a classy uncomfortable coming of age-sex related-query filled conversation.

Promise them you will score a decent 8, as soon as you find out how Justin Beiber managed to beat Falguni Pathak. (Rockstar wise)

Crouch down and cover your head with your hands like during an elementary school tornado drill.

Toss a smoke bomb on the floor to blind them and disappear into a trap door.

Go into a frenzy – “Am I adopted?”. Trust me, this is the best time to ask this question.

However if you are a girl and have scored bad,(Highly unlikely) you can always come up with – “I am pregnant”.

Throw yourself through a glass window, because it’ll distract them and probably be less painful than answering that question. 

I NEED A WOMAN

I am a normal person. I have never starved for food. Never struggled for anything. Never slept on the footpath/railway station.
My parents aren’t divorced. They are still alive, very much happily working on their marriage. Unlike Chandler Bing, my mom isn’t an adult novel writer nor is my dad-gay.
I wasn't sexually harassed or molested in my childhood days. I am not adopted. Nor was I conceived in a test tube. I wasn’t a medical marvel either. I had a safe birth. I am my parent’s only biological child. I had a safe puberty. I never got into any kind of street brawls nor was I ever beaten up by anyone.
Never met with an career-ending accident nor had a life threatening disease. I don’t have cancer like SRK had in Kal Ho Na Ho, nor have any other kind of sympathetic tumour. I eat a banana only after peeling its skin off. I pay a visit to Naughty America on a semi-regular basis. Every time I see a woman, my eyes wander to her assets first. I haven’t watched all the movies, listened to the songs, read all those books which I claimed to have seen, listened or read.

So basically all I am saying is, I have had a normal, straight from the text-book life until now.
Abnormally normal. I eat sane things, shop from the same over-priced shops. Relationships/Marriages are not made on orgasms; but break, due to lack of them. So I masturbate on a cannot-disclose basis.
So how come a good person like me gets screwed all the time? Don’t I deserve out-of-the-blue good things? Don’t I deserve a girl/woman (Hot one) who finally reciprocates my love ? The one who will climax at the same time? The one who will watch F.R.I.E.N.D.S with me? One who doesn’t kisses a frog and waits for it to turn into a Prince, because she will rather kiss me. 

I may not be as cute as these guys. But consider me as a bit of both – A cross, if you will.

So, how come a decent/Ok-Ok types looking/ guy like me is a victim of bad experiences ?
Before I go declaring publicly, that I need someone who has the free license to touch my genitalia, take a look at this survey.

#Total Population : 6,975,486,910 (I know, I know -- that’s a huge number, right? Included in this number are more women that you can possibly handle in one lifetime.)
#Total number of women: 3,435,871,042
#Women who are active online: 1,037,633,054 ( Digital Age Lovestories)
#Women who are on Facebook: 145,367,749 (You can’t really date a woman using Blogspot, now can you?)
#Women who are active on Facebook: 33,723,074
#Women aged between 18 to 34: 15,500,056 (Below 18 is illegal territory and over 34 is, well — stuff on which romcoms about middle aged people are made. Plus, women in their 30s are more sexier. #Fact)
#Women who are single: 7,275,235
(Women in this age bracket are rarely single, and even if they are — your chances are more often than not nullified by the usual defensive disposition: “I have a boyfriend.” Which is just a polite way of saying that she’s not into you.)
#Subtracting benefit of doubts: 275325
#Women who are willing to cast their eye on you(Most probably): 5

         So, you see, it’s a pretty tough job. Locating potential spouses and pataoing them. I am tired of searching and tired of my past failures with women. I have devised a method, where everyone wins.

After much thinking, I have decided to allow women at large to apply to be my girlfriend. There are quite a few reasons why I’m going this way instead of the usual become-friends-start-flirting-then-get-drunk-and-have-sex-then-become-a-couple-to-avoid-awkwardness routine. I’m not going to dilute my awesomeness by telling you why you need to apply either. Ladies, if you’re here, you know you want to. Okay, now that the pleasantries are out-of-the-way, let’s get down to business.

#    Open a Word 2010 document

#    Enter your name, phone number, date of birth (please attach birth certificate as required), and place of birth

#    List down your previous relationships in reverse chronological order

#    Include a page which lists your financial standing, including assets, liabilities, liquid cash, and future   earning potential

#   Write a 500 word essay on why you are a potential candidate

#   Make sure the design and formatting of the document is clean, appealing and minimalistic

#   Send said document (duly filled) to my e-mail address listed in my home page, expect delays for I’ll obviously be overloaded by the sheer number of applications.
#  If your body description states 30B, or less, LEAVE THIS PAGE IMMEDIATELY.
(Even Ricky Ponting had declared in his ads – “Bada he, toh behtar he”)
#  Send in your photographs attached to the documents. With your best looking attire. No push-up Bras please. Its like a bag of chips : You open it and its half empty. So original photos with no Photoshop work.

    So there you have it, may the best woman win. Will be replying to your mails soon.

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