Re-Making While Break-ing Bodies And Meanings

The past few days have been emotionally as well as physically taxing, as I prepared for a seminar, re-wrote, re-edited and then wrote again my paper. Then deleted it and started all over again. A few years ago I had the nasty habit of never saving any of my writing, so I went along and got me an auto-saving program. Now all I need is a program that will swat my hand away every time I try to delete my writing. So you can understand, dear reader why I didn’t want to open or even read any of my TrollMail. Turns out, had I opened it earlier I wouldn’t be comatose in front of the computer screen, losing the battle against writer’s block. Some days, the universe just provides you fodder, while on other days it spews slander all over you and your virtual space.

Questions like, “Must you use such harsh language, when you talk of your body or anyone else’s body?” or another states “It’s not proper for Indian women to talk of the body in such terms. You sound Western when you do write like this. Indian women don’t and shouldn’t talk of their private organs so blatantly. This isn’t our culture”. And I edited this one, because I distinctly remember my LadyBrain slammed itself shut after these lines. Forgive me for not reading any of her remaining eight e-mails for my eyes blurred over as soon as she started defining what “Indian women” should do or rather shouldn’t do. And just as I start to write this, another e-mail scurries forward bearing the words, “What is the point of breaking up your body to show what you mean? Aren’t you mutilating yourself, under the name of using poetic devices? Also, isn’t this an extremely Western method of articulating ? Doesn’t this stand against everything you supposedly believe in?”. As I mentioned before, the Interwebes can smack any semblance of the Writer’s Block right out of you, on a day like this.

First of all, where does language lose its trappings of ‘beauty’ and enter the realm of the ‘grotesque’? As far as I can see, there are no specific boundaries as one of the biggest dangers of any art is its ability to transform tragedy into something aesthetic or beautiful. This is probably why I like Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night’ so much, despite the fact it is the man’s last painting before his suicide. Or the fact I like Sadat Hasan Manto’s grotesque short fictions, even though they leer so close to brutality, madness and often just plain violence. The one poem that speaks to me is where Emily Dickinson manages to write, “They shut me up in Prose –As when a little Girl/They put me in the Closet –Because they liked me “still” –-” leaving me with the image of muffled words and inconsequential mumbles. All of these artists use macabre to further their crafted skill. This doesn’t mean I don’t get goosebumps when I see Starry Night, read Colder Than Ice, the above poem or any other work that hovers on tragedy and yet manages it to make it beautiful. The tragedy or the violence of these works don’t reduce because of its aesthetic value. To my mind, they become even more beautiful and jagged, pierce deeper than they would have had they not been so brutal. Do you think this painting loses its value just because of how raw or harsh it is? In fact, one of the most basic components of ‘Trying-To-Let-The-Silenced-Speak’ is to accept a certain conceit as well as “darkness” in their writing. For after years of silence, when the ‘voiceless’ speak, zie is hardly going to bestow praises to the oppressor. Outside of a Margaret Mitchell book that is. To write off someone’s word as too dark, too harsh, too loud, too blunt is nothing but another form of silencing; reducing them to be less than worthy to have — let alone use — their voice.

Secondly, policing bodies is probably a tradition older than time. Religious texts across cultures as well as literature insist on shaming, labeling and prodding the body — be it human or otherwise. When you hide something away, create a taboo around a part of your body; you further ensure silencing. Why is talking about one’s ‘private organs’ such a faux pas for people? And Indian women in particular if I’m looking at the second TrollMail? And just who is this Indian woman every troll — virtual or otherwise — surely brings up? She sounds like she is completely SpineLess, devoid of any inkling of choice or consent and extremely happy to be a broken doll. Eternally malleable, manageable and has no more potential than a masquerade. If there is a specific person behind her existence? If yes, could I have a long conversation with them and perhaps smack them with common-sense till they get it that creating such dichotomies, ideals and definitions, they are trapping hordes of bodies in the realm of the ‘impossibly Indian’? This Indian woman serves to keep us in our place, one step below everyone else. She is that ever-elusive ideal that isn’t achievable. I shudder to think of the army of doormats women this ‘Indian Woman’ has the potential to produce. Kind of a female culture-factory. Even the visual stuns me into silence; to expect me and all ‘Indian women’ to adhere to this norm is more than a little naïve. Another thing that irked me was the troll’s insistence that “this isn’t Indian culture”, for who defines Indian culture? Historically speaking, it was a few privileged dudes who decided how everyone else behaved. Today, perhaps quite a few women have internalised this misogyny giving the illusion of choice while ironically they are still dancing to someone else’s tunes. Also culture isn’t a monolithic or fixed ground — for what is culture without its people? And if we are still to adhere to “original Indian culture” — which was first translated and recorded by German Indologists — then we should declare an infinite war against modern plumbing. But I digress. Policing and controlling this ‘Indian woman’s body’, by telling how she should sit stand walk sleep jump sprint eat move be swim follow dance run bend talk sound hear see do is like placing her in a box without holes and asking her to blow glass inside. And, by giving it the appearance of ‘culture’, the need to have ManMadeWomen, as desired so by people is hidden away.

Coming to the third TrollMail, I was rather surprised to see zie could be as presumptuous to say, “everything you stand against” as even I don’t know what things I don’t like on a fixed basis. But the most obnoxious statement was when they said I sound ‘Western’ — because that is the worst any Oriental would ever want to be. Even if it means choosing between terrorism and opposing the West, any sound-minded Oriental would pick the West. I hear they have nude beaches there. So you can see our indignation with you — because of my choice, form and use of words. It never fails to amaze me how many people want to believe that everything was perfect before they came; ‘they’ can mean the Greeks, Persians, Portuguese, English invaders (pick one according to your mood!) and regard everyone who doesn’t subscribe to this view as ‘Westernised Trash’. After being colonised for more than 200 years, after being told that we have no culture or anything at all, by people who ironically originate from ‘Barbarians’ themselves (as St. Augustine would agree), it’s a tad difficult to not be Western. We speak in a language that is not ours, go by laws that are fundamentally based on Western principles,  study in schools that still insist on teaching children ‘Daffodils’ by Wordsworth as essential poetry though we will never see that flower on our land, perceive the world through the Coloniser’s eyes. Our sense of what is ‘proper’, ‘public’, ‘private’ comes from our oppressors, even if it was Nehru behaving as the mouthpiece. And just for kicks, if I start speaking in the DesiTongue, will I become more ‘Indian’? Or perhaps I should pepper my posts with actual spices, for what screams more Indian than chillies (which we stole from the Mughals by the way)?

It is while experimenting with words, sounds, senses and meanings I can negotiate with my heart into believeing that somehow I’m articulating who I am, or am trying to be in a language I don’t belong to, that breaks me up every time I write. To deny me that space, to criminalise my chosen method, judge me based on what YOU think I should do is to ask me to  stop thinking and breathing. For it is after very long that I’ve managed to pry the blindfold off; and I have a few things yet left to see.


Using The Oldest Excuse In The Book

Hello dear BLOG! reading person. As a few of you know, I’m recovering from double attack of flu and submitting-overdue-assignments. In this vicious circle, I seem to have lost all time to collect my thoughts and sit down to freaking write something. I could go on a long-winded explanation or I can just say, “Patience”. Meanwhile, I’m posting a poem from a while back. Be nice people; for it isn’t every day I feel foolish brave enough to put something like this up.  And a special shout out to Nina for writing to me and encouraging this one!


Breathing Out.

Pity whispered in my ear,
“Dear girl, get out while you can.
This may be your last chance,
Don’t you just want to run?
It will be good for you, even fun.
You can still save yourself”, and left.

Anger raved in my head,
“If you don’t do something,
It’s the bastard’s mirth and glee,
Listen to pity, go flee.
If you stay where you are,
Then all you are is a farce”,
Then she left my boiling pit.

Scorn chuckled in my eyes,
“Do you see what you are?
A heartless doll, unsellable now,
Waiting to be pushed, pulled, shoved.
Molded, bent, ephemerally changeable
Are these the seeds you let them sow?”
Then they left, robbing me of sight.

Love stated in my mind,
“What is keeping you here
Are nothing but invisible shackles,
Just as hard to break as you fear.
We can help, if you let me.
We’ll do everything,
As long as you want it”
And departed before I could,
Shut my mind, boldly; tight.

I can muster my cowardice,
With more than a little effort,
Stand up from my crouch by the floor.
Clear my voice, ready, now
To show the hypocrites the door.
When I open my mouth,
Words fly out, run to my heart,
And the only thing I can say is now,
“O wise sages! Came hither to
Advice, force, help and change,
Can’t all of you see?
I am too fond of my cage”
As you form again a frown
I can do nothing but
Return to the ground.

P.S: Look out for a new feature on the BLOG! in a few days people who legally stalk follow me.

Re-enforcing The Single Story Again

Regardless of what people have to say, I think I’m quite an average person when it comes to using my GrayMatter for most purposes. It never really occurs to me how so many people treat me as a one would a baby by the sole virtue(s) that I have a LadyBrain, or failing that, the colour of my skin (which apparently declares my IQ). And even if it did strike me at some point that people really do speak from between their thighs with their heads jammed so far up their arses, I’ve become extremely adept at ignoring reality — a Lady doesn’t develop eight inches of thicker skin to fight trolls by just sitting around and dreaming about it, mind you.

Despite what Foucault had to say about exhibitionism and its polemics, I’m still going to go ahead and tip the contents of my inbox out so you can see for yourself what all my legitimate claims whining is all about. Now, most of my trolls in addition to never having met a dictionary or a proofreader also have never met logic or common sense. When I write about India or about my culture, a small flickering light seems to go off in their brains that say, “OOOOh I know Kamasutra! Snake-charmers! Slumdog Millionaire! Indian Porn! Elephants on the street! People riding on tigers to work! OOOOOh and little children going potty on the road!” and then the curtain falls, for a very, very long time. So when I’m talking about my own *subjective* reality that I live every freaking day of my life; something doesn’t sit quite right in the minds of TrollPeople. Just because they think of India as a congruent mass of puritanical Hindus (or not) or because the way it is portrayed in media, they make the tiniest of tiny boxes and squeeze us shut into it.

In conversation, whenever the term ‘India’ or ‘Indian culture’ comes up, more often than not, more people than I’d dare to acknowledge seem to be thinking, “Don’t our call centers always have some Indian thing talking in an American accent? And don’t they eat that pepper thing too?”. Laugh all you want, people have asked me quite a few times now that how come my ‘American’ is so fluent to which I always make monkey noises in fits of mildest irritation. At least in the version in my head I do. In reality, I’m too stumped to really say anything beyond, “Don’t you mean English?”. This is always invariably the exact moment Rex Harrison starts bleating in my head, “Why can’t the English teach learn to speak?” (don’t judge me. I’ll always have a soft spot for Shaw reproductions no matter how garish they are) meanwhile I may have possibly murmured something unintelligible to the annoying person in question. People are also very disappointed that I don’t have the exaggerated accent that most soaps mandate an Indian character to have. The most disappointing was when I helped a lady last week by speaking French as her English was horrendously poor she remarked, “Je savais pas qu’il y pourrait les indiens qui peuvent parler le français bien courrament plutôt quand vos langues sont même assez mal-développés”¹. Somehow that was supposed to make me smile. I’d like it if  I was allowed  to negotiate my stance about how I feel about living and grappling with the colonial identity instead of mocking it the next time. I’m not saying I blame people for being privileged or ignorant (let’s face it, some people just don’t want to care) but rather that I understand how this single set of images has been perpetuated by Western media and especially by Indian media. Take this recent ad film for example; this is proof of the colonised fervor that still runs amok in our veins.

[This add starts off with the woman speaking words in Hindi and English meshed up together  wherein she talks about how people used to make fun of her. Now that she knows ‘proper’ English, her pride and confidence is restored]

And in the rarest of rare conversations, when I seemed to have crossed the language barrier or rather fail to entertain them with gags of ill-pronounced English, the conversation then goes on to the “But-you-are-a-woman-therefore-you-infer-only-from-your-feelings debate”. By this time, I just want to smack the said Ignoramus with ‘A vindication of rights of woman’ by Wollstonecraft or ‘Sense and sensibility’ by Austen or with ‘Rudali’ by Mahashveta Devi that will end this ridiculous argument once and for all. I really have exhausted all options that I can do to make the person (most often a Dude) believe that what I’m saying can be backed with feelings as well as facts only to be ridiculed. The only thing left to do is completely stop talking. For a while anyway. And that’s in ReaLife! When I turn to my e-world, I see the same DudeCouncil silencing me and my voice.

If you think I’m over-reacting, let’s sort through all my sordid TrollMail together shall we?

  1. This is a special note from Jacqueline — Maybe when ur parents or som1 equally disillusioned told u that u were funny, u didn’t understand their sarcasm. Nothing that u write is funny. Also, u sound like either a lesbian or a tranie. Get spayed soon k?
  2. Ramma — Shame on you, you whore, c*nt of the highest order! Sullying our name like this. You shouldn’t live in India if you think it’s so bad. If I ever see you, I swear to God I will knock you down.
  3. A typical letter from the hordes of housewives I’ve seem to have angered — Is this what our values lead you to believe? Tainting the name of our culture! Chi Chi! Calling the Ramayan misogynist must make the devil in your heart very happy.
  4. Frosty — You do realise, nothing about yo is indiam? Indians aren;t like this at all. you are crazy and deluded.

All of these complaints and many, many more seem to be attacking the idea of the ‘one’ notion they had of India, Indian culture, what constitutes ‘humour’ or ‘ideal nationalism’. Who defines this ideal? And at whose cost? These questions echo in the air around me as they have and always go unanswered. People  just can’t seem to understand that multiple truths generally co-exist that eventually create history. And people say meta-narratives are dead. Or is this just me telling you to fuck off politely from my blog? YOU decide.

1- “I didn’t know that there could be Indians who could speak French so fluently when most of your languages are so poorly developed”. Exact quote. The only thing missing is my open mouth that wouldn’t shut for a whole hour after this.

This Is What Happens When You Mix Poop With Sh*t

Author’s Note : BLOG! people I might get a job this week. I’m going to be the annoying person that repeats stuff over and over again on the news. For practice, I can take this completely random example, say this one – My BLOG! posts are still dedicated to my SuperAwesomeFriend. Now, I noticed something odd last time around, people read my post, stayed on my BLOG! for more than hour – pay close attention BLOG! reading people! This is the climax  – but they didn’t leave my SuperAwesomeFriend any smiles or jokes. That’s just mean. So, now I have a new rule – leave a smile (even the emoticon) or a joke even if you smile the smallest of smiles while reading. I promise, the next post will have more reasons to smile. This is my personal favour to you, BLOG! reading people. You know what to do.

P.S. I’m not stalking you. Just my blog is. Blame stat-counter; not me.


This is for you jeaffe67 who says : u liik like you r smokin. he'res me boner. kiss me. I hope you liked it

This is for you jeaffe67 who says : u liik like you r smokin. he'res me boner. kiss me. I hope you liked it. And meet a dictionary will you?

The world is a strange, amazing place isn’t it? Not in a let’s-do-that-Into-The-Wild-And-Explore-Forests with Sean Penn kind of way, but I’m musing philosophically just-how-many-troll-people-can-infest-my-blog kind of way.  Something about my blog says “come hither you troll” like the way the Indian Parliament makes false promises *cough women’s bill cough* to all the troll-people in the world. Judging from the amount of troll comments and e-mails I received over the weekend, I actually considered changing my blog’s name to This Is What Happens When You Mix Poop With Sh*t for about 0.0002 seconds. I can’t give the troll-people that much satisfaction though. They will have to make do with this post title only.

You BLOG! reading people may have noticed I opened up a guest posting policy and repeatedly asked for anyone who wants to send their entries in to proofread for misogyny, racism, trans-phobia, homophobia or any other kind of condescending, privileged stance. But like most of my e-lectures blog posts, BLOG! reading people decided to ignore it and I got two posts. One is against me and the other is where the author denounced feminism. So I’ve added some special magic — also known as my wit in some circles —  plus the two guest posts and out comes wet with afterbirth the following new post. (Sorry about the afterbirth thing. I do overestimate my wit sometimes). Oh and both of you aren’t getting any credit for your words; mainly because I overwrote on them just like that; also you requested to remain anonymous. So this is what a guest post written by a troll-person looks like  (Spoilers – To make you not gouge your eyes out, I re-wrote it** and left my opinions in parentheses)

A Crappy UnAlternative To Life” .

Dear Reader,

I think this blog is a blasphemy blessing. We live in a beautiful crappy world (Really a world where a rapist tells his victims to learn from the rape is a beautiful world then my brains are gunk). There are a few many things that are essentially wrong with the world (see the rapist telling his victims to lock doors, people getting injured by bomb blasts, suicide bombers and other happy news from the past week to get what I am saying) and they can cannot be easily fixed even if we try (GO Team Unicorns! Try fixing Indo-Pak relations with your magic wand). The author of this blog is one of the most obnoxious delightful writers I’ve ever read  and she brings up the most inane thought-provoking subjects up for discussion. I don’t see why we have to read about her opinions on abortion, stupid sensible pro-choice and feminism. We live in a post-feminist world (This is a joke) and we don’t still  need feminism. Feminism makes women chase their men douche-y versions of men away. Which self-respecting and self-loving (no innuendo intended) woman wants that doesn’t like to get rid of douchebags? As a humble supremely over-confident person who has no reason to be, I’m here to state my opinion to you readers because the author has opened up her space (Guest posting officially closed for troll-people) and my though website gets doesn’t get half as many readers, I will tell you how it is be a whiny douche and write about how privileged I am.

Here’s the thing. My life is hard really boring and I will proceed to tell you the all the details in the most boring way possible. You’ll see how hard loser-y my life is. I am a straight dude douche from India, in my mid 20’s working as a chemical engineer in loserville. I used to be feminist (Ha! I can’t stop laughing) but I now devote myself to being an egaliatarian a CabbageBrain who flaunts his privileged ass  at every turn. I am trying to propagate a new way of thinking : CabbageBraining for Other CabbageBrains. I believe, with the power vested in me as a human an overbearing half-turnip, there can  be a way out for other self-deluded self-confident feminists. If you accept the take-charge nature partriarchal privilege that men have (Oh I accept it. I just won’t let it flourish) life would be doubly easier for you my pathetic little sack. My life is so hard loser-y because I’m not heard enough women run away from me (and they always will). You feminists make a lot of noise (!) about what should the world be (devoid of people like you for instance) but when I offer to create a solution more problems you ignore me. Don’t you know how hard loser-y my life is? I don’t have a job (I wonder why) and reading your sh*t about how women’s lives are difficult just make me laugh cry like a loser. My ex left me because (see the last parentheses) she couldn’t understand me I am a whiny CabbageBrain and then you write about how the world has made you an un-woman. Can you see why am I writing this to you ? (Not really). You need to stop writing what you write, especially they way you write and focus on making an egalitarian society (which translates to a patriarchal utopia in this dude’s head). I just don’t understand how do you have consistent readers? I write whine better than you (I second that).

This is my seventh e-mail to you and you just reply with “haha” (’tis true) all the time. It’s about time you take my words my super-whiny attitude seriously. I am a dude douche! I deserve a proper reply! You seem like an intelligent person (Finally! One thing you got right) and I’d like to know how you manage to get a consistent readership? I want to spread my ideas seeds of CabbageBraining too. Can you direct readers to my website? (The link is deleted because frankly I’m not that big of a sadist to inflict it on people).

I hope you answer this one. But I will write to you even if you won’t (don’t I know).


The CabbageBrain(s) of the week.

About four months ago, my 7-year-old cousin asked me what would happen if one mixes two different kinds of poop. When I replied that we would get a new kind of sh*t, I wasn’t entirely sure of my answer. Until now.

P.P.S – Guest posting is still open. Only, again, make sure its proofread for misogyny, transphobia, homophobia, racism or any other condescending stance. Otherwise the same will happen to you too.

** Do you think I may have crossed the thin line between the real-world and the WorldWhereIamQueen? Let me know.

Saved By The Spam Soldier…Almost

After living in a caffeine bubble for my whole life the last two weeks, my brain has adjusted to a whole new way of looking at things. For instance, my eyes don’t adjust to normal vision until I have hooked my system with a snort of caffeine every morning. Each morning I am at my weakest – totally blind and my BrainCells are asleep. This is generally the time when my friends, foes and family snicker evilly to themselves and ask for favours. There are countless some things I may have done/agreed to doing this morning without caffeine in my system ; after my first brush with caffeine I wake up to realise what I just agreed to is probably the worst idea known to humankind.

Exhibit A : I promised a friend I’d help her shop for books and abide for my self-imposed no-buying-new/old new books rule. I should have known this was as impossible as wishing my CeleryStick of a cousin would eat a slice of buttered bread (She gulps air and feels full!). I am now the proud owner of Gorky’s Mother and Alice Munro’s Dance Of The Happy Shades while my friend is still wondering which book she needs to buy.

Exhibit B : I was manipulated blackmailed asked to re-activate my Facebook account after a year of protesting against it (What part of legal poking is fun to you?). I violated my rule # 8974 Section D-12 To never activate my Facebook account under any amount of flattery, coaxing or pressure. If I do otherwise my eyes will kill themselves”. The first thing I get hit by is this picture. And I decided to never set foot in Facebook again. End Scene. Though it helped release my inner sanctum of crabbiness on the entire world – which was wholly deserving of my crabbiness in my defense – I was left with a feeling of complete loss in humanity. Well the boy section of humanity anyway. (This picture was a boy’s idea of humour. The consequent rant-a-e-mail that I sent him was my version of funny).


HOW is this funny!? Along with the legal peeping-tom-ism encouraged by Facebook, Jaded16 now presents to you the lowest form of intelligence known to humankind. If you find this picture funny, please leave my blog NOW.

Exhibit C : I decided to open my Spam box which was waving neon signs at my face as I tend to ignore it completely without coffee IV drip  hooked in my arm . And along with breast enlargement ads, pamphlets to Vajazzalising salons, ads to buy cheap condoms – anyone besides me notice a pattern to my Spam mail? – I did find my first fan mail. At first, I was confused to see why was the e-mail in my Spam box. After reading three lines I saw why my darling little SpamSoldier decided the mail was unfit to reach my eyes. For the general pleasure of making my little corner of the world as nincompoop-free as possible, I’ve decided to re-post parts of the e-mail as well as have my deep insightful thought process alongside. Let the mockathon begin –

1) “… I like the way you write. It reminds me of a stand-up comedienne. Somehow, I don’t know HOW but you’re funny, being a girl and all. Well, I can see you’re an exception…obviously. Because when girls try to be funny, they just cannot be, you know funny” — Besides being the oh you know, the smartest guy on the planet to figure out repeating words can give the impression that you might know something after all, you are also – I’m sure every self-respecting woman would agree –  a victim of the CabbageBrain syndrome. And you thought we Ladies couldn’t crack a smile. Look who’s laughing now?

Does this look a bit too much like you?

Does this look a bit too much like you?

2) ” … Though I think Feminism is a waste of time, I like the way you think. You don’t seem to be like those man-hating, unshaved freaks. I sometimes agree with what you say, though I think it would save you a lot of energy to talk about Feminism in every blog post, if you could just do what you do best – try to make people laugh” — What if I say I look like this?

Oh I have a mustache and a beard too.

Oh I have a mustache and a foot long beard too.

What’s with looking like a perfectly shaved Barbie all the time? Sometimes I like that I look like The Yeti. At least that makes the number of nincompoops that I encounter that day far less than the day when I’ve been plucked, waxed and glazed like a shiny floor.

3) “… One thing that I’ve noticed about your blog is that it doesn’t come off as Indian at all. Which is why I was shocked to read that HPV vaccines post you made about YOUR government. That’s when I realised you were an Indian chick. You don’t sound Indian at all. Which is good” — Before I mention the CabbageBrain syndrome again – can you explain how does one sound anything at all on a blog? Unless you can hear Appu in your head all the time. If you mean that I don’t adhere to your fetish-ist version of Indian “chicks” who are subservient, seductive and absolutely submissive; if I’ve shattered your notion that Indian girls can think of things beyond marriage, children and cooking then I hope you don’t get hurt living outside a bubble.  And if you think all Indian women can’t think beyond their wedding day and are constantly dreaming of looking like this picture, then I hope you have a nice time in La-La land as that is where you are headed.

There is more to Indian women than just being BrideBarbies. Of course that will never occur to you.

There is more to Indian women than just being BrideBarbies. Of course that will never occur to you.

4) “… I hope you continue writing. I like the way you think. Just these days you’re talking a lot about Feminism and that kind of things. I liked you better when you were critiquing movies. Maybe you should stick to that” — I am literally at a loss of words. Oh no, here are some : #*$%~>#, *&%@!*, #*$%~>#, *&%@!*#*$%~>#, *&%@!* and #*$%~>#*&%@!*.

Last words to my Fan –

Jaded16 sends you her @$&*^@~  best wishes and hopes that you’ll always stay out of her Inbox. For the sake of her sanity at least.

Learn from me people. If your SpamSoldier puts an e-mail out of your eyesight, it’s for a reason. Otherwise you’d spend your whole morning cursing yourself for –

  • Opening the e-mail.
  • Opening the e-mail without a cup of coffee in reach.
  • Opening the e-mail when there is NO more coffee left in the house.

And next time one of you decide to write to me, make sure you’ve proofread for any Misogyny, Sexist leanings and Racial subtexts. Otherwise, the same thing will happen to the CabbageBrain up here. *Indian Warrior Woman ahem “Chick” always has the last word*.

  • Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

    Join 76 other followers