Gheun Tag.

So, Tag it is.
After having ignored many many mails imploring me to spill out 18 wondrous factoids about myself, my illustrious life and career, I can't choose to ignore anymore. (Okay, they were forwards. Bite me.)
Also because I can't think of writing anything else. I sit before this black humming contraption and feel blanker than ever. At 21, I am drained. Stupid friends (and the film Proof) had convinced me that the decrescendo wouldn't start until 23. Oh, they'll get a piece of my mind. And extra sharp will be its edges.
Besides, nothing interesting is happening in my sad-ass life. That is of course excluding the fact that suction-evacuation (a method of abortion), according to our Obstetrics textbook, is an OUTDOOR (!) procedure (where are the proofreaders, where where?) and that pregnant women can dye their hair with impunity, without endangering the baby; a piece of information that made Rani jump in the manner of a pixie. Rani being a friend who is graying and balding. Sad times for her, these.

About the title; see, I like to believe I can pull off puns. And you need do nothing to convince me against it. (Living in my bubble is fun.).
I was thinking Tag-ore. But then, that would be just insulting the man, who in all kindness, has agreed to share his birthday with Spunky Monkey. (Yes, that is true. Wish me come May)
Then Tag-bug, Tag-bug, in an attempt to showcase my dhin-chak Bollywood side. If you are still wondering how that fits in, I was going for the "Tug-bug, Tug-bug" in Lakdee ki kaathi. Oh-kay, moving on.
Then sTag. To assert my single status, and thus attract the odd pretty fish with the red fin in the internet. But then, that would be ack desperate, and let's face it; I have a blog! That in itself, a friend agrees, is among the stages of clinical desperation.
It was then that Gheun Tag happened. What a concise phrase that one is! And how nice were those Channel [V] fillers with the Gheun Tak! You remember? Also, because it brings to fore my cross-lingual punning abilities. (I reiterate, living in my bubble IS fun)

Let's get ready to rumbaaaaallllllll.

1. Pick out a scar you have, and explain how you got it.

(What aptness in the questioning I say. Brings out your innermost secrets this Tag. Freud would have been proud of this venture.)

So, there was no one at home. I was bathing. Soap and all. Don't ask how else. Then, the bell went 'ding-dong', my favorite sound. Then, my brain started to race. Why? I was alone, and if I took any longer to open the door, they'd suspect I would be up to no good, what with the internet and the www and the unmentionable things therein.
Ayyo, ayyo, ayyo. (It is not a cliche/myth perpetuated by Mehmood and clan that the only exclamation South Indians know is "Ayyo! Ayyo! Ayyo!" It's actually quite true. Take it from me)
So, I run; wet, soapy, harried, holier-than-thou, and it was then that amma's extra-hard scrubbing of the floor, and sodium hydroxide took their combined prey. My chin. I cruised on the wet floor like a terrestrial fish and jammed against the edge of a wall. And bled. Like fucks. Which was also the time I decided against the Gladrags Manhunt thing.

If you thought the story was over, you also thought Bappi Lahiri was a man. So, no, not over yet.

One day I was walking along the hospital corridor for my Obstetrics (there, again) tutorial where a sad woman would be telling us the sad story of her sad life, read, the lecturer would be telling us the mechanism of labour in a breech presentation. (You don't want to know more, trust me). So, I was walking in front of the Ophthalmology department, (that was for you all to catch the irony bit), and fell.
Again.
And hurt myself.
Again.
On the same spot. My chin.
Again.
And bled like fucks.
Again.
My handkerchief looked like a, er, nevermind. It looked very spotted, let's say.

Had to get stitches. 4! On my face, damn it. To hide which, I have currently grown a goatee which by the way, has gotten so bristly I am considering harvesting them for a toothbrush company.
People suggested that I get a skin graft done, you know, skin off my butt on my face. I let that pass. I knew things would first begin with "Buttface!", then "Butt(ugly)face", and then wannabe Seinfelds going "Did you hear about the guy that had butt-cheeks and a butt-chin?". Gah.
And let's face it, I am no Hrithik Roshan.

So there, that was the long and tedious and tediously long story of the scar on my chin.
(I wish I was Hrithik Roshan, though)

2. What does your phone look like?

It looks like everything I don't look like. It's fat and dark and slow and nearly indestructible.
But then, it's getting what I will not - action. Its wallpaper currently is two millipedes fornicating. No, I am not into that kind of weirdness. But action is action. And it must be respected. It is a Nokia 6600, the marvel of mobile phone resilience. It Won't Break.

3. What is on the walls of your bedroom?

Currently, cobwebs. On the ceiling too, I see. And a spider doing a dangle-tango.
Also, a poster of Jimi Hendrix doing a weird pout thing. I know a grand total of six of his songs. But he hangs on the wall for purposes of coolness. There are also red stickers that read VIP Frenchie. And I can't believe I just said it. Assortment of posters, mosquito death spots, random pencil graffiti adorn my walls.
(and a small newspaper cut-out of Norah Jones.)

4. What is your current desktop picture?

It is a comic strip by Shannon Wheeler, called Too Much Coffee Man. I am sure you have heard of it. If not, you heard it now anyway.


So, yeah. Go read them. Funny funny funny they be.

5. Do you believe in gay marriage?

Look, I come from a country of donkey marriages and toad marriages. And where the biggest celebrities endorse tree marriages. Why not gay marriages then? At least by definition, they would be happy. And it is humans. That, is my first criterion for any marriage.

6. What do you want more than anything right now?

World Supremacy. Yeah.
Alternately, the Vice Chancellor's home number, so I could call his wife up and make up stories of infidelity and thus give him hell for the rest of his life. I hate my university. They are a bunch of undersexed assholes.

7. What time were you born?

I don't know if Amma is making this up to attribute every small detail of my life to a pre-designed proforma. But allegedly, I was born at 3:30 in the night. Which is why, she also vehemently insists, that I go to bed at around that time every night. She says she felt like going to the bathroom or something at about that time, and I suggested that I come out instead.
All said and done, I blame her pregnancy induced bladder issues for my poor attendance in Pediatrics, Orthopedics and Obstetrics-Gynecology.

8. Are your parents still together?

I mean, are you kidding me? To tolerate a monster child like me they need each other, very much. So, yes they are. And are, judging from the hush-hush tones I hear, conspiring to write a letter to their favorite astrologer on TV asking him when I would cut my hair (which is like Paul McCartney's during The Beatles' hippiest days) and shave that face fungus which, they say, makes me look like a Shivajinagar salesman selling them second-hand carpets.
Poor people; bad choice they made in thinking brother S would like somebody to play with. I near eat that holy child almost everyday.

9. Who was the last person that made you cry?

Sanjaya Malakar, and Ryan Seacrest every time he called him Sanzhaaya. Oh, what deadly lachrymose combination that was.
Also Michael Jackson. The man doesn't deserve all this. Come on, he can't even sniff a cry (that nose wouldn't let him), let alone the dilemma he has to face every time he has to fill in an application asking for gender, race, sexuality, nationality and planet.
And how can I forget Mr.L, whom regular readers of this blog might remember as the lascivious lecherous surgeon. The Bastard. No, he did not hit on me. But he might as well have; bloody near failed me, that midget with no balls.

10. What is your favorite perfume/cologne?

Huh? I don't know, but I think this one my cousin bought for me from the US would have to be my favorite.
It's called New York Nights, with a tagline that says Get Sexy. The fragrance ("mellow, smoldering, a bit macho") apparently lasts as long as I do, and it is "no wonder that women can't resist it". He chose wisely, my cousin. He recognized my dire need to socialize, from 8000 miles away.

11. What kind of hair/eye color do you like in the opposite sex?

(Why opposite sex?)
Anyhoo, straight. I like hair that way too.
Eyes, as long as they aren't red, I am fine. Talking of eye color, that guy Hugh Laurie, House MD, has unusually blue eyes. They are bluer than blue. They are like, BLUUUE.

12. What are you listening to?

An aircraft creating unsavory noise in the clouds, and pretty much all over Bangalore. Okay, now that moved away. So I listen to King Crimson, and their superlative 21st Century Schizoid Man.
But, lined right next is my current favorite, Disco 82!

Main ek Disco (ta ta taa)
Tu ek Disco (ta ta taa)
Main ek Disco, Tu ek Disco,
Duniya hain Disco!

13. Do you get scared of the dark?

Not particularly. But when it's dark, and the lizards are all aroused, and give each other those mating calls, is when I wish I was killed by that vicious mad dog that had chased me many years ago. Actually, the thing I most want right now, is for the entire lizard population in the world to die, and heap up on Dr.L, The Bastard.

14. Do you like Painkillers?

I like that song by Judas Priest. Songs like those obliterate the need to appreciatively nod, or let out that ironic smile, in response to the lyrics.
But yes, I strongly recommend it to others. Specially, my patients-to-be. Trust me, they'll need them.

15. Are you too shy to ask someone out?

Yes.
(See, I just shut up)
(See!)

16. If I could eat anything right now, what would it be?

Golgappa. The tastiest thing humankind ever invented.

17. Who was the last person that made you mad?

That thing pink, what is it called, Karan Johar. That one. And something called the Koffee Awards. Oh dear Lord of the Seven Hills. That is just about violating every one of my fundamental rights, and stretching the freedom of expression to intolerably strong shearing forces. What WAS that all about? If not for The Goddess Malaika Arora, my TV screen was in grave danger of developing a hole 29 inches wide.

18. Who was the last person that made you smile?

May be Amma. For what, I don't quite remember.
Or yeah, I smiled (like I always do) while listening to Lata in Manmohana bade jhoothe, when she takes those godawfully intricate taans in the end. That woman, to me, is all that is great music about. She turned 78 two days ago. Many many happy returns of the day to her, on behalf of everybody who cares for flawless notes.

(Why did it get all solemn in the end?)
(To relieve the solemnity, a PJ for you. Woh kya hain jo dil mein hain, mann mein hain, par dhadkan mein nahin?
.
.
.
Aamir Khan. HA HA HA)

I could mail you a powerpoint presentation called PJ World (what a fun world that must be to live in) if you, like me, happen to enjoy and laugh uproariously at such works of genius.

This tag, thus comes to an end.
For those that did not survive it, what's the point, you aren't reading this anyway.
For those that did, I hope you are okay. And you can write in regarding anything. We have only discussed some 16942 things in the entire post.

And I want everybody who has read this to go tag-bug, tag-bug.
I WILL keep a check on you.