It sleeps!

I sleep, and the sickness sleeps with me.
It curls up safely inside me, making itself right at home.
I wake, and the sickness wakes with me. keeping me company in every motion, every inhale, every exhale. the sickness is a sucker for theatrics.

It drowns me in discomfort, it torments my body at every twist, every turn. and when the sickness is done admiring their handiwork, it hands me the broom and the dustpan on its way out the door, leaving me to clean up the mess.

It promises to be back when i wake the next day. do not fret, you haven’t seen the last of me. it’s an invisible crest I carry with me, a scarlet letter of sorts. do not get too comfortable, the sickness taunts. it threatens to make a mockery out of me, bringing me to my knees in submission.

The sickness has made a warrior out of me; I train daily for another opportunity to outsmart it, evade it, destroy it once and for all. but the sickness has secrets, a private arsenal I am not privy to. it is always one step ahead of me, no matter what I bring to the fight.

Most times I wonder: what does the world see when they look at me? do they just see the illness, the ugly, the scars, and the bruises? do they only see the war-torn shell of a human, making a fool of herself every chance that she gets? do they see weakness, do they lament my pitiful efforts? am I just another walking liability, a tragedy in mortal form? they must not see the talented gifts and passions that I possess. no, they must not see the daughter, the sister, the friend. the elusive illness ruins the party once again.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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You deserve someone who decides to do more than just staying!

I am tired of hearing we deserve someone that stays. We deserve more than that. I have been a witness to many relationships where partners had no intention of leaving but we are worthy of a love that is more than taking up residence on the other side of the bed, more than having a body on the other side of the dinner table.

I’ve been there. Been in a relationship where I knew I could trust their fidelity but I should not have trusted them to love me. On my bad days this person only made them worse, found ways to make themselves the main character in every story. They never took the time to understand me, slowly stopped touching me or listening to anything I had to say. I felt alone even with them sleeping right next to me. I knew I deserved more but I listened to others when they said “but they are a good person”. My own therapist even looked at me as if I was expecting too much. I wasn’t and you aren’t either if you’re wanting more from someone who isn’t making you feel valued.

You deserve to be put first, to be someone’s first thought at the rise of day. You deserve to be uplifted, words to hold you when the world lets go. You deserve to be rooted for, someone with arms raised for you on the sidelines. You deserve grace, someone to hold your imperfections with soft palms. You deserve to be desired, to feel want inside the grace of their fingertips. You deserve to be known, someone who’s memorized your favorite color, your coffee order, favorite flower, time of day, the wishes you’ve whispered in your sleep and all the things that give you butterflies. You deserve to feel whole, someone who would never take away from your precious life.

Please don’t settle for someone who only stays. I know loneliness can get the better of us but being with someone who causes more grief than joy, or isn’t adding any effort to your days will only leave you feeling more hollow. Demand more for yourself. Have the courage to wait for a love that you are deserving of. We deserve more than stay.

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I dialed !

I dialed your number hoping you’d pick up the call
That we could just pretend
Pretend again for the moment that everything is as it should be
It happened without coaxing, without pretense, without pressure
It seemed so easy and I visualized you picking up on the third ring so that you didn’t seem too eager
I’d ask you what you were doing and you’d tell me how you were thinking of me too and hoping that I would call
That you were just waiting for a moment of opportunity to know that you weren’t alone in your feelings
To know that you weren’t the only one replaying the memories over again in your head of the things that we said that came out as empty notes of acceptance and letting go
And we’d laugh
We’d laugh
We’d laugh and forget about the pain in our voices
All of the truths revealed that to be honest, neither one of us could really forget
I visualized the inflection in my voice as you spoke to show that I was genuinely happy to hear from you and that this wasn’t just a moment of weakness
I pretended we’d agree to meet over coffee the next day and catch up on life awkwardly scanning between each other’s eyes and our surroundings to gauge how honest the moment seemed
But you never picked up
I let it ring and heard your tone over the voicemail – something that used to seem so familiar but now felt so disconnected
I tried to hide the emptiness I felt welling in my heart
I hung up before the beep – All the words escaping me that could have left a message
“You called?”
I barely opened my eyes as I read the text message the next day
“I dialed you by accident,” was all I could say

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My daughter is not ours!

I’ve never been much of a man. I barely crack 5’6”, can’t handle my liquor, and I’ve never been in a fight in my life—but when Lainie got pregnant, I decided it was time for a change. I started working out. I learned how to change the oil and tires on the Buick. Hell, I even bought a pistol. I was going to protect them, Lainie and my unborn child both, whatever it took.

I could tell Lainie thought it was all a little silly, my newfound quest for manhood. It was easy for her to say. She was doing her part. Carrying the burden of life inside her, while all I could do was hold her hair, in the early stages of pregnancy, as she puked into the toilet—and sometimes I even fucked that up. She seemed to think she could do it all herself, and she was probably right. When I brought home the gun, she was livid. All we needed, she said, was a baseball bat. And someone strong enough to swing it, she might have added.

I took it back the next day and bought a Louisville Slugger instead.

The baby came without a hitch—little Annika, looking just like her mommy—and what we lacked in protection, Lainie made up for with near-neurotic preparation. She had it all; the books, the vitamins, the breastfeeding techniques. But perhaps her favorite new mom-toy came in the form of a Kiddos Baby Monitor that she got at the baby shower. I can’t remember who gave it to her.

It gave off a small hum, scarcely a whisper, every single night. Vague static; white noise—interrupted, only on occasion, by a cough or hiccup or whimper from sweet Annika. She wasn’t a fussy baby at all. The monitor rested on Lainie’s nightstand, securing my wife like a second quilt. A small red dot, indicating the device was alive and well, dimly bathed the room in crimson, and an optional display provided a blue-tinted camera feed aimed at Annika’s crib. We could hear her, we could see her, and all was well in paradise.

Oh, there were tough times, sure. The jaundice was bad and it led to things even worse. Pneumonia. Strep. Infections no fun for an adult but an enormous goddamn deal for a baby. We spent plenty of time in the hospital. The nurses all loved Annika. They always remarked on what a well-behaved baby she was.

The marriage grew stale, but what marriage doesn’t? The sex was rare and forced, just another thing for Lainie to check off her to-do list. Was it ever really not that way, though? I tried to remember, but life before Annika seemed trapped in a cloudless haze. Becoming a father seemed to alter the very structure of my brain.

The first year came and went. The Kiddos Baby Monitor ran out of batteries, and we never bothered to replace them. Annika was crawling. Then walking. The first word, spoken at the dinner table, which Lainie and I were both there for: Mango.

The words kept coming. MommyDiaperFull. They were all expected, yet all met with excited applause from her mother and me. And then, one day, while Lainie was at spinning class and I was doing the newspaper crossword on the couch, Annika piped up from her playpen with a word I did not expect.


I sat up, straining silently to listen, sure I had misheard. But then it came again, even clearer than before.


Most dads would be thrilled. I was confused, and frankly, a bit unnerved. I had no idea where she’d learned that. I was always ‘daddy.’ In fact, as far as I’d seen, nobody had ever so much as breathed that word in front of her. Yet there she sat, squawking away, giving voice to a word uncomfortably formal as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Father. Father. Father.

Lainie didn’t seem as interested as I did. In fact, she seemed more than a little bit miffed—Annika had been growing more distant from her lately. This was the age children usually clung tightest to their mothers, yet Annika seemed to have no such proclivity. One doctor theorized that Annika might be having her needs met through another source—did she have a stuffed animal she was particularly attached to? A blanket, maybe? We could think of nothing.

We had her tested for autism. Hell, we had her tested for everything. Nothing could explain her level of detachment from us, nor her remarkably tame behavior. The professionals had never seen anything like it, but didn’t seem to think it much cause for concern.

“Count your blessings, friend,” one of them told me in a heavy English accent as he escorted me from his office. “Between you and me, nine out of ten kids her age is a right little shit.”

Still, we couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. One night, Lainie had decided she’d had enough. She dug the old Kiddos Baby Monitor out of a box in the attic. She put new batteries in it, rewired the camera in Annika’s room, and for a few hours, the white noise hummed beneath our sleep once more.

I awoke to the sound of Annika babbling away in her crib. I turned toward the monitor, and my eyes swam, barely open, in the sea of crimson from its light. She was repeating the same word, again and again.

Fa-ther. Fa-ther.

I rolled over toward Lainie. She was still asleep—Annika wasn’t being very loud. I stumbled out of bed, wiping my eyes, and picked up the monitor. My fingers fumbled for the switch on the back, and when I flicked it, a dull blue glow sprang from nowhere. I squinted my eyes to see into Annika’s crib, and I let out a strangled cry. The monitor slipped from my hands and crashed to the floor. Lainie woke with a start, mumbling.


But I couldn’t speak. Someone was holding my daughter.

Without a word, I ran into the hallway, not even bothering to grab the Louisville Slugger from the closet. The door to Annika’s room was open. My socks slid out from under me and I crashed to the wooden hallway floor as I reached it, and as I lie prone I had a clear view into the bedroom.

Annika sat up in her crib, crying wildly for a change, startled by the noise. Nobody was holding her.

“I swear to God, honey—”

But Lainie wasn’t having it.

“The first night we start using the monitor again, and it just happens to be the night an invisible man breaks into our house? And leaves her placed all neat in her crib where he found her?”

“He wasn’t invisible, and I can’t explain it, Lainie, I’m telling you what I saw.”

“Alright,” she said, as though humoring a child. “What did he look like?”

At this, I drew blank. I couldn’t exactly describe him—I hadn’t looked long enough. I felt that I had seen him before, though. Somewhere. I felt that seeing him at all, even in a completely non-threatening context, would have made me deeply uncomfortable. But I didn’t know how to explain this to Lainie, this vague recognition. So I just shrugged. She scoffed.

“Jesus. What am I supposed to do with this.”

But the whole thing had her spooked, I know it. That night she told me—if you hear anything from the monitor, anything at all, you wake me up right away. So I did.

Father. Father. Lainie’s voice rang out above the dead white noise.

Lainie snatched the cooing monitor from her bedside table less than a second after I’d woken her. She sat up and flicked the switch.

Lainie shrieked a horrible sobbing shriek. She flung the covers from her and leapt from the bed in one fluid motion, leaving the monitor face-up on the sheet behind her. On it I could see the man, cradling Annika with a light bounce, more clearly this time. And in a flash I knew exactly who he was. And this time, I stayed right where I lay.

It took Lainie a long time to calm Annika down—that scream had put a good scare into her. I don’t think Lainie even noticed that I never came in. By the time she got back to our bedroom, the lights were on and I sat on the bed, spread out with a couple of her old college photo albums.

She walked into the room and stopped in her tracks. She looked at me, at the albums, and back to me. I think in that moment we both knew it was over.

“He wasn’t in there,” she said after a long pause. “I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t him. Nobody was in there.”

“Fine,” I said. “But he was on the monitor. You know he was on the monitor. Why, Lainie?”

She looked down at the albums, at the old pictures from which Will Harding’s dumb fucking face grinned up at both of us, feigning innocence.


She looked at me, and the guilt shone in her eyes.

“Will’s the father. Not me. Will Harding.”

She started to cry. I stood up and walked out of the room, pausing a few inches from her face to say, softly, almost sweetly:

“You’re a real bitch, you know that?”

Then I left the house and never walked back inside. Lainie brought all my stuff to my new apartment a couple days later. The divorce went through quickly; she didn’t want it but she understood. She, of course, got custody of Annika, having the tremendous advantage of not only womanhood but of actually being Annika’s biological parent. I didn’t fight it. It’s amazing how quickly I stopped loving both of them.

Will Harding was a big, brash man. He had tattoos, muscles, and watched football and drank beer and got mean when he did. That’s why Lainie left him, after two passionate, terrible years. She once told me she married me because I was everything Will was not. But it wasn’t long before she realized that by the same token, Will was everything I was not. I guess old habits die hard. And three months after Annika was born, so did Will. He found out that Lainie had had a baby and came to the house. She shut him out, screaming at him that he wasn’t the father, he wasn’t, he wasn’t. But he knew—she was lying. So he got real drunk and real mad and didn’t put on his seatbelt and on his way back to our place he sped his fucking Camaro up a curb and into a big brick mailbox.

Lainie went to his fucking funeral. She told me she was getting her teeth cleaned.

She sent me a Christmas card last year—she and Annika, smiling underneath a hearth in cheesy red sweaters, stockings hung on either side of them. I looked at the little girl I used to call mine, now seven years old, and felt nothing. I wondered absently if I should feel guilty, and if I’d somehow failed as a dad. But those thoughts, often though they came, never lasted long. She didn’t need another father—she already had one, after all, and she seemed to like him just fine. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Learn to love after trauma!

It’s hard to imagine that there might be other people who have endured trauma and might be experiencing similar roadblocks as mine. It’s a harsh reality, albeit comforting to know I may not be alone, to think someone else might have to feel these gut-wrenching emotions and battles.

Now over half a decade ago, I was in an emotionally, physically, and psychologically abusive relationship. Through my naivety, I had no idea I was dating a true sociopath for much of my young adult life. I’ve written page after page about these experiences. I have talked hour after hour in therapy about these traumas. I have worked long and hard to heal these scars and rebuild my own identity. I have come to terms with the horrible things that happened to my mind, body, and spirit over those five years. I gained strength, courage, and advocacy for my own self-worth. It took a long time, but I found peace. I found myself again.

I always knew my trauma was an old friend that would sit in the corner, never fully leaving the party. However, I learned how to protect myself from his harsh glares and biting words. I knew I could live with these memories and continue to learn from them. My internal battles were mainly fought and won. But now I’m realizing, all these years later, another war was waiting over the horizon. I had no idea how much more work I had to do until I started to love again.

Granted, my trauma has haunted many relationships since. It finds the smallest cracks to seep into and rips apart any chance at a connection. I have consistently had trust issues. I have sabotaged relationships with good, kind men for no reason other than it didn’t feel right. These were all minor battles, foreshadowing of the war to come. These minor characters in my life were never the ones I loved deep enough for the gates to open. So, they came and went in my life, never causing much of a commotion.

Things started to change when the real, “sometimes you just know” kind of love came to me. The effortless kind that seems to make you levitate. I found someone that reminded me I have a soul to give again; it was so easy to give. My old friend didn’t start to rock the boat until I was fully invested and fully absorbed in this love. And then, after a few months of bliss, he started to show his hand. My anxiety started to rise. Small things were becoming red flags. Trivial issues started to look like foundational problems. My own reality started to warp and I questioned every single one of my instincts. Am I overreacting to this? Am I being gaslit again, or did I cause this? Have I been the problem all along? At the peak of this emotional response, that debilitating feeling of anxiety that seems to consume my whole being, I find myself thinking, I wouldn’t wish this on my greatest enemy.

I drown in these thoughts, these inconsistencies, these anxieties. How do I recognize if I’m being abused again when I can’t trust my own brain? Is he yelling because I yelled first, or is it because he has anger issues? Is his apathy because I cry so much or because he completely lacks empathy? My impulse to protect myself kicks in during an argument and my voice needs to scream louder and firmer to make sure it’s heard. It remembers what it feels like to be small and suppressed. My body needs to be bigger and stronger because it remembers what it feels like to be taken advantage of. My heart fights to be nourished and cared for because it remembers what it feels like to be broken.

Then begins the endless cycle of self-loathing and regret. Those actions and words were not the real me. I worked so hard to rebuild and process this trauma, it is not possible I’m still damaged. All of those walls I have built to keep predators out were knocked down when I started to trust again. Now I second guess everything out of fear. My logic says that everyone is an enemy, but my heart sees the kindness in their souls. Where does the truth lie?

I wish I had a cathartic ending to this war, something to write in the history books. But I am learning. We all are learning. I hold out hope that one day a balance will start to form and I will be able to trust fully while not losing all of my strength. My internal conflict of overthinking will subside and the truth will become clearer. Until then, I will have patience with myself because even making it this far is a cause for joy and waving banners. I will find strength in the idea that maybe, possibly, I am not alone.

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I’m in love with the wave of you!

We deserved better timing. You deserved a better name than The One That Got Away. Our connection held a magnitude far beyond that cliché. It was kinetic – the kind you felt in the atoms that held the space between your skin and mine.

I mistakenly began to live in the book of you and I, not realizing you were just visiting a chapter of me. Both of us writing the words – you the epilogue, me the prologue. Even in our ending we balanced each other out.

I learned a lot with you. I learned that fleeting can still be impactful. That heartbreak is capable of compounding. While I was healing from him, I was hurting over you. Because while I was healing from him, I ended up hurt over you.

But the beauty of life is the dichotomy that she often dances within – and while I was healing from him, I was also able to attract you. While I was healing from him, I was able to open up to you. While I was healing from him, I was being inspired by you. While I was healing from him, you built me a safe space to do so.

In another lifetime you stayed a little while longer but in this lifetime I met you right after him. The Universe has a sick sense of humor. How do I mourn something that was never mine? Am I allowed to? How do I turn off the lights in the attic that holds the ephemeral moments of you. Are they even mine to keep?

Your t-shirt was only meant to be something borrowed and now it has found a home in the back of my closet as a reminder. A lesson in the form of an oversized Harley Davidson t-shirt.

I was a sinking boat that you pointed back home and I’m left here navigating the waters trying to accept you as the lighthouse instead of the shore I make it back to.

Until then, I’ll be swimming in the memories of the time I, for a brief moment, got to surf the wave of you.

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This too shall pass!

I know you are having a really hard time right now. And I know that “really hard” doesn’t truly sum it up…not in the least. If we are being real here, I know that right now you are feeling pretty devastated. You are hurting, both inside and out, and you can’t figure out how to make the pain go away. Your thoughts feel way too heavy and overbearing, and you don’t know what to do. You can’t figure out how to make things okay again, or how to convince yourself that it’s okay to be happy, or that there are things to be happy about. Instead, here you are, curled up in a ball on your bed, just trying to make your way through the darkness. Hurting on your own, while the rest of the world keeps moving on around you. I know how much it hurts, and how fatigued you are from just trying to keep your head above the water. I know how exhausted you are from holding the tears back and I know how scared you are feeling to be so alone and lonely in this dark space. You want help and support, but you don’t know what kind of support you need. You don’t know who to turn to or what to ask for, because you just don’t know what will help. You have no ideas left as to what will lift this heavy haze, this immeasurable sadness. You would love for someone to throw you a life preserver, but of course, it’s not that easy. You would love to take a Tylenol or get a good night of sleep to wash away the hurt, but you know that neither of these will fix the problem. You know that this is no quick fix. So you continue to tread water, and pray that someone or something will send you a “cure” to this immense pain.

I can’t fix what hurts. And I have no magical dust that will bring you immediate relief. But I can bring you hope. Or at least, I can encourage you to remember that hope exists. I can remind you of how loved and cared you are, despite the pain you are in. I can remind you that you are still loved and cared for, even when you are sad. And I can tell you that I hope things will be better for you soon. I can have hope for you, in the hopes that you will try your hardest to also have hope. And believe me, I know how difficult it can be to find hope when everything feels so very dark. I know what it feels like to have nothing to hold onto, nothing to steady yourself with, and nothing to believe in. But I still urge you to try. Try to be open to having hope. Because above all, even when things are awful and heavy and even when life feels insurmountable, the secret is learning how to have hope. It is learning that faith exists and that faith is real. It’s reminding yourself, over and over again, that you can have faith in tomorrow. It’s learning that the load will ease up in time. It’s learning that life ebbs and flows and that the goodness will outweigh the darkness in due time. All I ask of you is that you try your very hardest to trust that things won’t feel this way forever. Because they won’t. And knowing that things will get better will give you something to fight for. 

And sometimes you have to remember that the universe is huge, and you are tiny, and that something somewhere out there in that vast open sky, is watching over you. Maybe it’s God, or the heavens. Maybe it’s a supernatural spirit. Maybe it’s magic, or maybe it’s your loved one looking down on you through the light in the sky. Or, maybe it’s just the stars and the sky and that bright shimmering moon that are shining light on you, letting you know that you are safe, that you will be okay.

And please know that even when you are sad, you are still so very special. Even when your heart is burnt out and your soul is tired, you are still so brave and strong. Your light still shines, even when the hurt is reflected in your eyes. And when you are sad, I hope you remember that you are something so precious that the universe made only one of you. And when things are hard, I hope you don’t forget this. I hope you don’t become so afraid of life that you forget how to live at all. Or that you forget to believe in yourself. To believe that you are capable of healing.

So if you are struggling right now, know this. Know that even though life can be so intensely painful, even though it can hurt more than you could’ve imagined, it won’t be this bad forever. The pain won’t stab you so hard forever. Eventually, it will subside. And you will be okay again. You will be you again. And know that even though you may feel like you have nothing left to live for, you always always always have something to live for. You are so loved. And there are many people out there just waiting to know you and love you. So hold on. Pain ends. Fear ends. Anxiety ends. And in time, the sunset will look much more like a sunrise. In time, the nights won’t be quite as terrifyingly lonely. And in time, you will find your way again.

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One year of you!


It wasn’t love at first sight with her but familiarity – the kind that only deepened the more our paths crossed, like walking on uncharted territory and feeling at home.


I told her I was bad with directions so she drew me a map showing me the way to her heart and told me that if I ever get lost, she can be home. I knew then that I was slowly unraveling, my secrets spilling out, our souls intertwining. 


It was always an adventure with her. Even when we were just lying side by side on a rainy day talking about our dreams, it was a completely different world of our own. And I never wanted to leave.


The end came as silent as the leaves falling in autumn. There was no deciding moment; one day the leaves were falling then the next, the trees were bare. Our time has run out.


Suddenly it was raining gasoline and I was made of paper, and her name was a lit match. I set myself on fire every time I let myself remember.


Home suffocated me, and her face was painted all over the places we visited; there were too much of her, of us. I slept with the lights on and my doors open, hoping one night she’d come back. But she never did.


I saw her again and I could no longer recognize those eyes anymore. I wanted a goodbye that was concrete, something that could answer my questions, to bring out when I look back, but all I had was one last look of the face I loved turned into a stranger.


I had extraordinary days here. But the bad days were all that I could recall recently. They were drowning me and I couldn’t breathe without hurting my ribs. I needed to get out, to escape, to run away from here.


I waited for loneliness to make me want to come home. It never came. Where is home?


She’s been in my dreams recently; the kind that even when you wake up, you could still feel it, as if it really happened. In them, all my questions were answered and all our wrongs were made right. We were back to our place, and she was back to tracing constellations of promises on my skin. I heard her say my name and I swore, I almost wanted to come back home. But I woke up and nothing has changed.


I saw her picture on my timeline today. And I wish I could say that I didn’t feel anything but I did. It wasn’t an entire ocean drowning me, or an earthquake shaking my world, but drops of rain on my skin – not too much of a feeling but enough to be felt.


Spring was almost over. There was a cherry blossom tree near my new house, that reminded me of us – how short-lived its beauty was yet it was a blessing to have witnessed it. Thank you. I’m okay now.

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Thank you!

It can be quite hard for us to let go. Once we find someone who we connect with, it’s not easy to simply walk away. It can take us years to finally realize when it is time to go, and even then, letting go is not the easiest thing to do.

So, when the people we love abruptly leave our lives without any explanation or warning, it can feel like a shock to the system, like being thrown off of a moving train. We would have stayed on forever. We would have rode it right into the sunset.

Ghosting is an awful experience for anyone who has ever had to experience it. It is painful, it is harsh, and it is often a form of cowardice on the ghoster’s end. The warmth of love and affection is suddenly replaced by a harsh, cold winter. It can leave wounds that many struggle to heal from. As painful and enduring as it is, it can also be a way for us to get off a train that we don’t even realize we should not be on.

As Bob Dylan once said, “When something’s not right, it’s wrong.” Sometimes, things need to end before we even realize they do. When someone ghosts, it says more about them than it does about us. However, ghosting presents an unusual opportunity for self-healing. We often expect others to give us closure. We seek it out like a dog, calling and texting for that one last chance at it. Sadly, we never get it from those whom we seek it, and even when we do, it can feel terribly anticlimactic.

Ghosting presents us with the chance to give ourselves the closure we seek. We get to end the story how we want to. We get to tell ourselves that we loved and gave it our all. We get to analyze the relationship and understand where it went wrong in a way that helps us heal. As selfish as that sounds, we can give ourselves what we need to move on.

It is never okay to ghost someone. Everyone deserves clear and direct communication so that all parties have the opportunity to heal from the situation. However, not everyone has the empathy or the ability to do so, and what we can do with the circumstance of being ghosted is to let it allow us to be our own healers. We can give ourselves the very thing that the ghoster refused to give us, and that is the ability to see our own strength.

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Importance of a male best friend (By Priti Dalwani)

It never occurred to me that how my life would be without my male bff? I’ve never taken a moment to realize that how my life has been at an ease and comfort ever since he has joined me. He has now become an integral part of my life. Having him is like having a brother who is there to guard me but not a brother, you get me.! Having him is like having an ice-cream which would never cause me flu. I think i’ve always been selfish on my part, as he has never complained about not receiving the equivalent amount of love that he has always showered upon me. He’s the one who has made me believe that guys are sometimes good assholes to have around and to talk with. He has helped me in restoring the faith that not every guy with whom you cross your paths is for sex and relationship. Girl friends are great but having a guy best friend is beyond a feeling. Although, most of the male friends are annoying but these motherfuckers are worth to be annoyed by.They are the ones who introduce you to the world of profanity and its benefits. They are the most useless and precious at the same time. I hate their vulgar side but not much enough to abandon them. They are creep but they’ll pay attention to your cribbing side. My girlfriends are my skin, with me through thick and thin but my guy friends are spine, they bloody support me survive this cruel yet lovely world. I don’t wanna fall in love with them because i feel love comes along with destruction and at least in this lifetime i am not willing to forego my precious treasure in the name of love.

You must decide what’s really enough!

You must decide what is enough.

You must decide what is beautiful enough, what is successful enough, what is stable enough, what is wealthy enough, what is good enough.

You will never be at peace in your life unless you decide what is enough.

So do it. Draw a line in the sand.

You get to decide what a good outfit is, you get to decide what makes you look best, you get to decide what a good day at work is, you get to decide what a healthy day of eating is, you get to decide what a successful week, month and year looks like, you get to decide what constitutes a healthy relationship, you get to decide what’s the right hairstyle for you, you get to decide. 

When you decide what is enough for your life, it means you are no longer on the endless, bottomless, vicious cycle of constantly trying to improve.

When you do not decide what is enough for you, you let the world dictate what is enough for them. And you cannot please everyone.

When you do not decide what is enough for you, you ensure that you will never, ever arrive.

Nothing will satiate your need to feel “better” because your emptiness is open-ended. It’s a bottomless well.

The incredible thing about deciding what is “enough” for you is that it directly counteracts perfectionism.

The question is not: “what is the most ideal thing I can fathom here?” it is: “what do I really need to survive, what do I really need to be okay, what is it that really makes me happy?”

When you are thinking of what your dream life would be, you are always going to fall short. This is actually not the foundation on which you can go about building a happy, peaceful existence.

Instead, you have to decide what is enough for you to feel okay.

Decide what kind of home is enough, what kind of clothes are enough, what kind of work is enough. When you do this, you begin to realize how very little you need.

No longer are you trying to fit and meet everyone’s expectations. No longer are you trying to edit yourself into some version of who you might, one day, become. When you decide what is enough for you, something magical happens. Everything around you starts to be enough. 

When we are finally conscious of what it is we really need, we set a lower bar for what it takes to achieve it. When we do that, we feel more accomplished, fulfilled and healthy.

We are finally free to enjoy our lives because we are not constantly trying to fix and improve them.

Do you know what happens when we start behaving like self-respecting people who feel worthy, affirmed, and successful? We start creating worth, affirmation and success like never before. 

The trick of it is that when we are resistant to determining what is “enough,” we are really hungry to self-hate ourselves into change.

This is not how it goes.

Instead, we become paralyzed and uncertain, we seize up and feel like we can’t step forward. It is from this place that we make our worst decisions. You cannot be a self-hating person and expect to build a loving, healthy life. 

When you decide what is enough for you, you become a self-accepting person. Then you start to behave like a self-accepting person. Do you know what happens when you do that long-term? You build a life that someone who loves themselves would live.

You have to do it now.

If the money you have now is not enough, it will never be enough, no matter how much you make. If you are not happy with who you are now, you will never be happy, no matter how much you change. If you do not appreciate your relationships now, you will not appreciate them no matter how many you have. 

Successful, empowered, happy people try to tell us this all the time. Only sometimes do we listen.

You are your own foundation.

You have to approach your life from a place in which you feel as though you are not constantly reaching for something unattainable.

This doesn’t atrophy your ambition.

This makes you whole, more motivated and empowered than ever before.

The irony about deciding what is “enough” is that eventually, it creates more goodness than we could ever fathom, far more than we would let ourselves have before. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Losing Originality

People accept us for what they want us to be,

And not for what we really are.

The result: we try to possess

Qualities desired by others

So as to be appreciated by them,

Thus, losing originality of ourselves.

Depression exists because we try to look at ourselves

Too much in comparison with others,

And try to manipulate our negative qualities.

With the positive of the others

The result of which is: we discover our internal nakedness.

When we discover our nakedness,

We begin hiding our true selves

And become different persons

By trying to put on different qualities,

We don’t possess, thus losing originality of ourselves.

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You’re allowed to thrive!

You’re allowed to thrive.

You’re allowed to dig deep into your soul and find the things that lift you up and give you purpose and feed them. You’re allowed to nourish them and cultivate them in your own life each and every day. You don’t have to wait for someone to give you permission to begin. You don’t have to coast by, you don’t have to fly under the radar, you don’t have to live in a way that doesn’t let people see your shine – you are allowed to flourish.

You are allowed to thrive.

Yes, you.

You’re allowed to thrive in a marriage or a partnership that makes you want to lasso the moon. You’re allowed to wait for the kind of love that sticks. You’re allowed to wait for that person who feels like home, and your best friend, and your biggest cheerleader all rolled into one human being. I hope you hear me when I say that you do not have to merely settle into your marriage or your forever partnership.

You don’t have to settle for struggle – you’re allowed to thrive.

You’re allowed to thrive in a career that makes you feel excited to get up for work every day. It’s ok to want something that fills your heart and your bank account with meaning. It’s ok to wish that the two would co-exist. (They can.) Just as you wouldn’t settle for the great love of your life, I hope you wouldn’t settle for a career that leaves you empty, either. Let yourself shine in the skills that you have, and stop beating yourself up if you flounder within that discovery. It happens to the best of us. The trick is not believing the lie that you will flounder forever – you don’t have to. You’re allowed to thrive.

I’m not telling you that there won’t be moments of struggle. Of course, there will be. There will be moments of struggle, and moments of floundering. There will be moments when you think that you’ll never break through the surface or see the sun again. The key is remembering that you don’t have to stay hidden beneath the dirt for forever. You were built to grow, to bloom, to blossom and to flourish.

You were made to thrive.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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I think my daughter is killing people!

I’m 90 kilos (down from 120 during my years as a starting lineman at Gujarat State), 6’4” when I slouch, and used to getting what I want from people.

It’s been an adjustment accepting just how weak that Kiara – all 26 kilos of her – can make me feel.

I know that I’m not supposed to give my ten-year-old daughter anything that she wants. But when she gets moody, sulky, or irrational, and I know that I’m the cause – well I just don’t feel all that strong anymore.

She’s used to getting what she wants from me. I guess the apple doesn’t fall very far, huh?

Anyway, that’s how I ended up on a cruise to Mexcio.

Kiara loves reading about history and other cultures. That shit comes from her mom, without a doubt. Reading was something that I only ever did out of necessity. But she tore through books about Aztec, Olmec, and Mayan cultures faster than I could figure out how to pronounce the titles.

She researched the cruise herself, and even made a fucking spreadsheet about prices and excursions. She asked to take a family trip, I said no, and we booked it shortly after that.

I’m used to feeling strong. Nothing made me feel weaker than the times when Kiara was hurting. The night terrors when she was five left no memory with her, but I’ll admit that I cried when I didn’t know what to do when she woke up screaming. When she fell out of a tree at age eight, I started the precedent of buying her anything she wanted. That began her reptile phase; I bought more toy lizards and dinosaurs than I knew existed. By the time she was nine, I was actually skipping prime Sunday NFL time to watch ballet recitals.

I know that the best parent isn’t an indulgent one, but it’s hard to be confident on the day that you realize that your child is more intelligent than you.

“Remember,” the ship’s guide announced to the group, “this stretch of beach is a nature preserve. No one lives here, no one takes anything from here.” She shifted her sunglasses and looked away from the small tour group and down the ramp to the dock. I scanned her body when her face was turned. Not bad overall, at least an eight. And before you judge me for looking, I’ll have you know that my wife is a ten in my eyes, and she’s the only person besides Kiara who makes me uncomfortably weak.

I’d do anything for my family.

“There’s a Mayan saying about this area. ‘The heart of the land belongs to us all, because we come from the earth. We take nothing from the earth without giving something back.’ It’s a beautiful beach, folks, so please take nothing but photos. My name is Sarah if you have any questions.” She flashed a sweet but manufactured smile and led the group down the ramp and onto the shore.

“Look, Daddy, it’s a heart!” Kiara squinted in the bright daylight despite her little pink sunglasses, and handed me a warm piece of obsidian. “Can I have it?”

I took it from her and stared at the rock. It was, indeed, heart-shaped, four inches long, and rather out-of-place on this rocky beach. Everything else was smooth and tan. I sighed.

“No, Kiara, the nice lady said that we can’t take anything from the beach,” I explained firmly.

“I know, but can I take it?”

We took it.

“Morning, Sweetness,” I said, tousling her hair as I passed by her sleeping frame, empty coffee mug in hand.

“Mmmmffxx,” she mumbled in response.

I loved getting up early; Kiara hated it. My heart secretly ached when I thought about just how much more of my wife was in Kiara than I was.

She sat up in bed, her hair a wasp’s nest of chaos. “I’m sorry about the bees,” she offered, eyes still mostly closed.

“What’s that now?” I asked, pouring myself a cup of coffee.

Her eyes didn’t move. “When I found the giant bees, I wanted to look at them, because I didn’t know that they could be so big. You told me to get away because it wasn’t safe. Then I laughed and you yelled at me. I’m sorry I laughed. They all yelled at me.” She blinked and looked around blearily. “Well maybe it was a dream.”

I looked at her with mild concern. Heavy sleeper that she was, Kiara rarely talked about remembering any of her dreams. Even the night terrors didn’t leave an impact on her, and she never had any recollection of them the following morning.

“C’mon, Sweet Thing.” I responded, trying to push it from my mind. “Let’s get out of bed. We’re set to go scuba diving today!”

I tried, and failed, to ignore the memory of the buzzing sound that had awoken me the night before.

I couldn’t ignore what happened the next night.

Kiara had been reading some books about the native species of southeastern Mexico. Those books had lead to internet searches about different animals, her curious mind never satisfied. “Did you know that some bats have tongues that are longer than their bodies? And that the kraken was probably based on a real giant squid? Dad? Dad?”

I smiled and asked her what we might see on land tomorrow. She dove back into her book, fell asleep within minutes, and I chose to leave her undisturbed.

That’s when she started screaming.

Do you have any idea just how much noise a ten-year-old girl can make? The answer is no, unless you’ve heard one rip the night with a soul-chilling shriek.

She had been asleep on the fold-out couch when she sat up. Still asleep, she opened her mouth.

I was sure the other passengers would report an attempted homicide.

I was able to hold her trembling frame and rock her back and forth until the screaming stopped. Then she fell back over, still out cold, and I left to take a walk.

I was only crying a little.

It was well after midnight, and most people were back in their bunks. My wandering took me to a remote passage near the stern of the ship. The lighting was dim, with weak lamps spaced at fifteen-foot intervals and darkness in the gaps between. In retrospect, I think that it was near the crew’s quarters, but my aimless wandering had no apparent destination.

I nearly shit myself when a man emerged from the shadows.

“Sorry!” The man shot at me, clearly rattled himself. “Sorry. I thought I heard a kid screaming, so I ran out here… did you see anything?” He emerged into the fuller illumination of a hallway lamp. He was just a kid, really, one of the employees of the boat. I guess I really had wandered off the beaten path.

“I…” What could I say? That a screaming kid is exactly what had sent me out here? “Sorry, no. I’m just out stretching my legs.”

The kid didn’t seem to relax. “Okay, sir. Why don’t you head back to your bunk? I’ve been hearing a lot of-” Here he cut himself off and looked into the air like he had sensed something odd. I was about to ask him what it was when the sound came.

Do you have any idea what a hiss mixed with a growl sounds like? Neither did I. But here it was, creepy, eerie, and extremely discomforting. It was followed by an odor so overpowering that it nearly knocked me to the floor. It smelled of fish and decay.

That’s when the spider’s leg emerged from the shadows on my right and slammed onto the floor.

I was far too shocked to react at first. It was eight feet tall and had crashed into the metal walkway right next to the kid. He froze, completely pale.

Then the other leg landed right next to him. The hissing growl followed, horrifyingly vibrating the floor.

And I saw that they were not legs at all.

They were wings. What had seemed like giant spider legs were actually the claws of an enormous bat.

Shimmering green scales hung down from the appendages like jewels. What I was seeing was completely impossible. It made no sense at all. So I turned to run.

But to my left, in the darkness on the far side of the weak lamp, I saw the tentacles. Long. Green. Filled with suction cups, tipped in a triangular appendage, at least a dozen of them. The owner of the tendrils remained in darkness.

We were trapped.

And then it got worse.

At first, I thought it was a snake crawling across the floor to my right, arriving to complete the impossible unholy trinity of coils from the darkness. Then I realized that it was a tongue. It slithered across the ground, half a foot wide and five feet long. It left a trail of thick, gooey saliva in its wake. It turned and rose up in the air like a snake being charmed, and lovingly tapped the kid’s neck. Ghostly white, he stared wide-eyed at me. The only part of his body that he was willing to budge was his lips. He mouthed a silent “Help Me” before the tongue spun around him like a vortex, pinning his arms to his sides, and sliding its thick, slimy tip into his mouth.

The kid slammed to the floor, and the tongue dragged him into the darkness with a sick screeching sound. He never broke eye contact with me as he slid into obscurity. Soon all that was left of him was a dropped nametag, oozing with thick saliva, the word “Corey” just visible in the dim lamplight.

Only when I started to breathe and move freely once more did I even realize that I had been frozen in place. I looked to the left, and saw the green tentacles slide away as well.

Two thoughts bombarded me at the same time.

Get back to the room and make sure your family is safe collided with If you leave him now, Corey will certainly die.

What would you have done? Answer that before you judge me.

Because I turned to the left and sprinted toward my family’s room.

I know that he was someone else’s kid. But his father wasn’t here. Kiara’s father was.

My fears grew with each step. As I raced back to Room 3191, I was almost certain that I could see the tip of a tentacle whip around every corner just ahead of me. It was as though the thing was taunting me, and doing a damn good job of it.

I heard the door creak shut as I sprinted around the final corridor to our room.

No no no no no no no no I reached my hands out, sweaty and shaking, and grabbed the handle.

It opened easily.

But what I saw was not so easy to understand.

Kiara was still asleep on the bed, the light shining dimly just above her. Four tendrils slithered across the floor, then rose up into a space above her head. But instead of reaching out and grabbing my daughter, they were being sucked into oblivion, disappearing impossibly into thin air. The tentacles whipped back and forth at a faster and faster rate as they got shorter, in the same way that the end of a piece of spaghetti vibrates electrically before the tip is finally sucked up. In a sudden moment, the tips were all pulled in and disappeared as Kiara opened her eyes and sat up.

She stared at me sleepily. “Dad, I had a really bad dream.”

That was last night. This morning, we woke up to the ship buzzing with rumors. One of the employees seems to have disappeared. Nothing has been confirmed for certain.

But I don’t need confirmation. My daughter accidentally killed someone, and I intentionally let it happen.

Nothing can change what just happened. Nothing.

But for now, I’m trapped on a ship in the middle of the Caribbean, and I’m terrified about what’s going to happen next.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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I was just a body to you!

I took all of the love you gave me, and I ran with it. I ran a marathon with it. Through hills and valleys, I carried your love. Your love was heavy. It wasn’t light, and it wasn’t easy to hold.

See the thing is that you never loved me, for me. You loved me, for you. 

You loved me because it was what you needed. It wasn’t because I was what you needed.

You never kissed me because you loved me. You kissed me because you were desperate for affection, to cover all of the sides of yourself that you didn’t want anyone to see. You didn’t want anyone to see that deep down you were burying yourself. You were laying bricks on top of your past, on top of your insecurities, on top of your ability to do what you actually wanted.

See the thing is, you always knew that it wasn’t me. You always knew that deep down you wanted someone else, something else. Yet, you were so desperate for a covering, and I was your covering. I was your escape route. I was just a body to you. 

With me, you didn’t have to confront the demons that were still chasing you after all of these years. With me, I could be your life, and that would distract you from the nightmares that were still in your mind. You were so deceiving. You were so good at fooling me. You had me believe that you were fully invested, that you genuinely cared about the broken bridges of my life, and you were willing to put the pieces together. You would wipe my tears, kiss my lips, and touch every corner of my body, not for me, but for you. I was just a body to you. 

See the thing is, all of these things collapsed, as they naturally would. Eventually, it got to a point where you couldn’t hide anymore. You had to look me right in the eyes, and tell me why you loved me. You had to tell me that it wasn’t for love, it was for the lust. You had to tell me that it wasn’t for my strength, or my resilience, but for my body, and only my body.

I was nothing more than just a body for you. A body that was ready, and available for your unrealistic urges.

I was just a body to you.

Once you had seen all of me, once you had experienced every part of me that there was to experience, you just threw me away. No apology. No conclusion. You had finished me, and you were ready to go. You knew that you were on the brink of hurting me more than anyone had before, and yet you still did it.

Simply because I was just a body to you.

 Although this realization is painful and disgusting, for all of these things I thank you. I thank you for using me. I thank you for giving up on me. I thank you for not fighting for me. I thank you for opening my eyes to the fact that nothing can replace transparency, and that true love isn’t two bodies who are compatible. Thank you for showing me that true love is a commitment. True love is someone who sits with you, and listens to all of your demons. True love is someone who chooses you. True love is someone who wants to conquer everything with you, and see you just took what you wanted, and gave up. And for that I thank you.

And my God, I can’t wait to find the person who stays. I can’t wait to find the person I can love with all of my broken pieces and can love me with all of theirs. I can’t wait to find someone who sees me as a body with a soul that has grieved, loved, and conquered each day. I can’t wait to find someone who sees me as more than just a body since I was just a body to you. 

I am so much more than just a body.

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I am the girl!

I’m the girl you meet at the bar, the one you’ll flirt with, the one who’ll stumble back to your place at 2am, words slurring, clothes flying everywhere.

I’m the girl you meet at the club, dressed in a shirt that’s probably too low and a skirt I can’t sit comfortably in. Our eyes will meet from across the bar, my bright red lipstick alluring you more than you’d openly admit. I’ll be the one with a whiskey neat, an AMF, or maybe a long island. Anything strong enough to give me that liquid courage.

I’m the girl you take shots with, our breath smelling like alcohol as the words flow oh so smoothly. We talk about superficial things – our favourite bars, favourite restaurants, favourite hangover food. We never approach anything too serious, after all we’re just here to have fun.

I’m the girl who grabs you to the dance floor, yelling ‘this is my jam.’ Our hips grind to the sound of the music. It seems so easy. We’re without a care in the world, it’s just us and the music.

I’m the girl who will grab your face and plant one on you. Confident. Forceful. You’ll know I want you. The one who will make out with you on the dance floor. A room full of people and yet I could care less. I’ll block them out, convince myself it’s just you and I.

I’ll allow myself to be flirted with, to be charmed by you. However, I won’t be naive. I won’t find myself in this alternate reality when you want me for me. I’ll know it’s all bar talk; you’re just here for the moment, never the long run.

I’ll allow you to play me, partially because I’m playing you. I’m flirting with you, using my charm and the presence of my body to allure you.

I’m here for the moment, come morning I’ll be gone.
Maybe I shouldn’t be proud of this. I’m just another player. An empty girl searching for a fix. But, maybe it’s temporary. I wasn’t always this girl. I used to want something more, something real. I didn’t want to be the girl you took home; I wanted to be the girl you woke up to.

Maybe it’s just temporary.

I’m lonely and need something to fill my empty crevices. I need to feel wanted. Like I’m important. Like I matter.

Or maybe it’s as superficial, as the world’s a bit quiet at 2am and sleeping alone is no fun.

All I know is, in this moment, I could care less. I have no regrets. It’s just fun and games.

I’m the girl you drunkenly hit on and I’m perfectly fine with that.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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You deserve it!

I never thought a person’s presence in my life could turn my life upside down and make it feel like it’s the right side up finally. Looking back to where we started, I never thought we’d be where we are now, what we are now, how we are now.

I never thought I could crave another human being the way I crave you. You make me look forward to every tomorrow because it’ll be another day to be with you. It’s like all the chaos of the world disappears when I’m next to you.

Before you, I always thought I knew how love would be like, would feel like, would look like. But you proved that love is far beyond my wildest daydreams — that love is in fact made of delicate little tugs in the heart that form little melodies that make your soul dance under the stars.

I never knew what love is until I found myself just looking at your face and all I could think of was, “God, I want to share my life with this person.” You make my world a better place, and I wish I wouldn’t need to live it without you. You taught me how to love and feel loved. You fill my heart more than you’ll ever know.

I want to thank you for sticking around. I want to thank you for your patience, your kindness and understanding, for the compromises you make, and for the effort you put in to make our relationship work. Thank you for carrying us both when I can’t hold my own. Thank you for carrying us through. You make me want to be better. You make me wanna be the best version of myself because you deserve nothing less. You deserve to feel loved without doubt. You deserve to be loved unconditionally. You deserve a love you can count on, a love that never fails.

You have become my home, my love. I am most comfortable with you. Having you scoop me from the edge of the bed back to your arms and into a cuddle is the best way to wake up and fall back to sleep. There are fewer things in this world better than the feeling of lying in bed, having my face pressed against your chest and your arms wrapped around me like you will never let me go.

Looking at your smiling face is like looking at the sun set or the moon rise. It feels like lying on a grassy field during a warm summer day. It’s like watching the clouds swirl around the blue sky. Looking at your smiling face makes me smile back to the world because it’s beautiful, and it makes me feel good to be alive.

My love, I will never cease pursuing you. I will always want to win you over and over and over again because I will always want to keep you. And I will do what I can to make you not want to leave. Just like how you make me fall in love with you every day, I will make you feel the love you deserve, the love you’ll want to have around forever, the love you wanna grow old with, the love that makes you feel alive. You deserve the love you make me feel.

We deserve this love, my love. We deserve the love that fills us.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Fall in love with someone who embraces your flaws!

You are lost. But then one day, in the most mundane of moments, for an unknown reason, you find someone you feel is different than anyone else.

Someone who understands you in the most intimate way without you having to whisper a word. Someone that holds you like you are the most delicate beauty in the entire universe. They don’t let you fall. And even if you do start to fall, they don’t hesitate holding you up before you even have a chance to hit the ground.

On the really hard days when you do find yourself in too many broken pieces, they help glue your brokenness back together. They don’t get impatient with you. They don’t raise their voice. They don’t make you feel like you are too much to love. One beautiful piece at a time, this soul helps carry you to a place where you feel whole again.

You may find yourself laying close to them, absolutely beaming in awe that you finally made it back to you again. Not because of them, but because they didn’t give up on you. We deserve people who love us through our healing. You did it together. You deserve someone who loves the rawest form of you. This is what you have always deserved.

You may find yourself in a mess on the bathroom floor, emotional in the most passionate way. Not because you’re sad, but because you can’t believe you’re worthy of this kind of love. You will feel them as an extension of yourself, like you have been split down the middle, and now this, this is your soul finding its other half. You never knew it was possible to love a heart you’ve never held, but now this soul is holding yours, and you can’t move from the disbelief, from the pure delight. They become your definition of your other half, missing pieces, and everything in between.

You deserve the most gentle soul who believes in you and never gives up on you. Who is there for you no matter what. Someone who helps rescue you from the painful places you didn’t know you could ever escape from.

When you find this soul, you know it. There is no other way to describe it. You. Just. Know. And when you do know, I hope you never let them go.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Coming out for real!

(Disclaimer : Just a person’s perspective, I am very much straight!)

I don’t know about you, but nothing about me ever fit into the cookie-cutter mold that society expects us all to be. I knew that I was different from other girls, but I spent years living in denial, hoping that my feelings would eventually change. I tried living the facade of a hetero-normative life. I went to great lengths to keep up appearances and hide my true identity from almost everyone I knew.

By hiding my true self, I avoided years of torment and harsh judgments from narrow-minded people who seem to think there’s only one real way to love. Unfortunately, I also missed out on years of sexual exploration and potential partners because I couldn’t stand the thought of even more rejection or abandonment from my family, my friends, and my community.Sorry, the video player failed to load.

I eventually embraced my sexuality whole-heartedly nearly three years ago, but I did so more quietly than you’d think. In fact, my “coming out story” was more like a whisper stuffed between several other juicy bits of information. Even after I “came out,” I still presenting myself to the world as a typical heterosexual white girl because I could.

Maybe I finally hit my quarter-life crisis, or maybe I’ve finally lost my mind once and for all. It doesn’t matter, though, because I’m finally ready to live my truth. So this is me coming out (for real this time).

I’m done hiding behind half-assed excuses or stumbling over my words when someone comments on my androgynous appearance or the “bi pride” badges on my bag. Instead of trying to change myself to fit others’ expectations, I want to use my voice to educate and correct misnomers that people outside the community often unintentionally spread.

I want people to know that my sexuality isn’t “just a phase” and that love is love regardless of the genitals between your legs. I don’t expect everyone to understand (or even to agree), but I need to come clean and live the way I was made to be.

I’m done closing myself in the closet and letting fear hold me back. I want to start making memories rather than continuing to live with countless regrets. It’s time to flirt with women and take them out on dates, even if I crash and burn before I learn to fly. After all, who dares wins.

I just want to feel comfortable in the skin I’m in instead of living with a deep, dark secret. I know that it won’t be nearly as easy, but at least when I’m “out in the open,” maybe I’ll finally feel free?

I’m done lying to everyone, but most of all I’m done tormenting myself. This is me coming out (for real this time), embracing that I love women and I love men. So if you’re still reading this, now you know — I’m bisexual and I’m no longer afraid to say it.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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When love is bigger than anything else!

I stood at the side of his bed, a man in his late sixties who had undergone brain surgery. I watched as his wife gently held up his back and helped him sit up straight. The surgery left him unable to do much on his own, and as he attempted to string a few words together to say to me, she stopped rearranging his tubes, bent low, and looking into his eyes, mouthed the words for him to follow and speak.

Later in the living room, I told her it broke me to see how beautifully she loved him. She turned to me, and with the same loving gaze I witnessed just moments ago, she whispered softly, “He’s all I have.”

When love is bigger than a feeling, it makes you cut through the surface of things and dive right into the reality of a human being. You’re no longer attached to an idea you once held. You learn to see things in all their fullness and you learn to accept and hold this human with all the tenderness you can muster.

When love is bigger than a feeling, you don’t sense a need to possess. You will do all you can to protect their heart because you know how precious what you have is. You learn to lean into security and safety, and you create a space for them to come as they are and be all that they want to. You don’t need them to conform to an image that you hold. You are free in your love and you want them to live the same freedom through your love.

When love is bigger than a feeling, you learn to navigate the unpleasant moments in unhurtful ways. Because you know that nothing, nothing is more important than this person. You know the love you share is bigger than any problem you will possibly encounter and you will battle it out together.

When love is bigger than a feeling, it looks a lot less like self-seeking and a lot more like serving. You know there is absolutely nothing inferior about giving yourself in big and little ways to a person who knows how to receive it in a healthy manner. Serving your person becomes second nature to you, and you start to find joy in the dailiness of things when done in love for someone.

When love is bigger than a feeling, it no longer looks starry-eyed or sounds dreamy or has butterflies doing rounds in our bellies, but it transitions into a quiet knowing between two hearts that this what we have here is gold.

There is a deep sense of peace that settles within you, and no matter what storm is spinning around you, it calms you to know that you are loved and held through it all.

There is something so rare and so beautiful about knowing that you are known. There is something precious about being able to see a person in all their aches and pains and laughter and gains and silently committing to stand beside them through all that’s yet to come. There is something so brave and vulnerable about letting yourself be seen in return and allowing yourself to be loved in all the ways that you love.

There is something wonderful about choosing a person and then choosing them yet again, especially on days when you feel so far from it. When all you want to do is run out the door and make different choices and live a different life. When you’re faced with hard things and walls that seem to only be closing in on you, and you choose, you still choose this person. Because when love is bigger than a feeling, it is a choice.

A choice to always do what’s best for the person you love and to keep choosing to do this when you could choose a dozen simpler things.

Because one day, when you’re gazing deep into the eyes of someone who is your all, your everything, you will want to have learned how to love like that. To love with deep knowing, with tender holding, and with relentless giving.

Because the real love that really lasts is always more than a feeling.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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I’m not your mood! (By Dhimahi Jani)

Heyy all!!
I’m pretty sure everyone has gone thought this phase where you think someone is treating you according to their mood and you never treat them according to your mood where you be nice to people even if you don’t has that great thing to pass on!
Can I know what you do when people treat you this way? Not just your friends but even at your home. Just ignore or clarify things? I’m sure you just ignore and not clarify. You just think it is you who is not talking or being proper but have you ever thought of that your moods and your mental state matter? Whatever the person is you don’t have to everytime stand for that person if he/she treats you with their mood!
You don’t treat them the same way because you feel its inappropriate to oppsite person! And what about your moods and your happiness sadness? Its a feeling that uou can’t ignore and everyone needs to understand that your happiness, sadness and moods matter.
I know whenever you try to express your moods and feelings the person say ‘I’m really tried of hearing this or I’m don’t want to talk on this topic’ whereas you listen to them everytime they take this topic up! Why? I know I’m too a person like this but you don’t have to always listen to someone’s repetitive story if someone is not listening to your states in your times!
You know your feelings which you always hold back plesse let them out because no one will come and ask you ‘whats wrong with you’, ‘what are you suffering from’, etc whereas they will come to you and stay stuff on face and you will keep quite and listen to them! Dude your selfrespect matters! Stop them, tell them I’m not your mood! Please talk to me nicely or I’ll treat you as my mood!
On a positive note You be happy for Yourself because no one will ever appreciate. Treat yourself like a KING & QUEEN! Stay happy!
By the way you can drop in your suggestions here I will surely answer them!

  • Dhimahi!

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You will never be enough for someone who doesn’t appreciate you. Someone who doesn’t recognize the value you can add into their lives or the kind of love you’re willing to give. You will never be enough for someone who doesn’t want to try, someone who doesn’t want to invest time and effort into your connection. You will never be enough for someone who doesn’t think you’re worth their time and attention because they’re so busy chasing other things.

You will never be enough for someone indecisive. Someone who is not sure about you. Someone who is still comparing or exploring or playing the field. Someone who is looking for a filler to get over someone else or somebody to hang out with when it’s convenient for them. You will never be enough for someone who is not serious about you, someone who doesn’t think of you as a person they can see a future with. You will never be enough for someone who can’t make up their mind about you.

You will never be enough for someone who stops at every bump in the road. Someone who only makes excuses for their absence or their lack of effort or their indifference. Someone who never makes you a priority because they keep putting everything else ahead of you. Someone who doesn’t understand your love language or the way you want to be treated. You will never be enough for someone who keeps forgetting what you want. You will never be enough for someone you have to remind of the little things and the big things. You will never be enough for someone who doesn’t know how to love you with honesty, with integrity, with passion and with utter conviction that you are worth every second and every minute of their day.

You will never be enough for someone who isn’t strong enough to claim you or mature enough to overcome challenges to be with you. You will never be enough for someone who is always hesitant about you. You deserve someone who knows for sure. Someone who wants to try. Someone who gives your connection a real and fair chance. Someone who wants to take care of you and be there for you. Someone who is committed to every promise they once promised you and someone who doesn’t make you question them or their intentions. Someone who doesn’t make you constantly doubt yourself. Someone who doesn’t make you feel like you’re too hard to love or too complicated to understand.

You will never be enough for someone who doesn’t want to love you. You deserve someone who can’t get enough of you.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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My type!

I believe in the concept of having someone who is your person.

Your person is someone who wants to be there to celebrate all your victories just as much as they want to help you pick up the pieces of your failures.

Your person knows all your annoying habits and only adores you more for them. Your person knows all the silly little things that make you excited and not think they are silly at all.

Your person never judges you and understands when you need space and when you need to be held. Your person knows exactly how you’re feeling within the first few seconds of seeing you. Your person encourages you to express yourself and never feel ashamed of your feelings.

Your person is always happy to hear your voice on the other end of the phone, even if they are too tired to keep their eyes open after a long day.

But most importantly, your person adds value to your life in ways you didn’t think were possible and inspires you to tap into all the potential welling up inside you. On the days you don’t think you’re worthy or you don’t have the strength to show up for the world, your person reminds you how strong you are and how much they and the rest of the world needs you. 

I never thought I’d meet my person during such a dark time in history. Living through a global pandemic has presented so many challenges for society and individuals alike. One of the greatest challenges has been losing human connection—not being able to see family and friends and hug them and look them in the eye while you tell them how much you love and appreciate them.

That’s why it’s ironic that my person and I created one of the deepest connections during a time when connection for most has been lost. Part of me feels guilty for this, but I also know that despite the losses the world is grieving, I am still allowed to find happiness and foster the rare connection souls like ours deserve.

I also think the world could use the hope that comes from realizing that nothing can stop true connection and that one can find their person even during the bleakest of times. One of the most inspiring authors of my generation, JK Rowling, wrote that “happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if only one remembers to turn on the light.” My person always remembers to turn on the light so I’m forever grateful the universe let me find them.

I have to believe that everyone finds their person at some point in their life. Without this belief, loneliness would win and put out so many flames that shine light on all the goodness still present in the world.

If you feel like your light is shining a little dimmer than it used to know that there is someone out there who is waiting to share their light with you and encourage you to shine brighter than you ever have.

I found my person at the most unexpected and rather dark time. I think it was meant to happen that way so that I could learn that happiness can rise from the ashes of lost flames.

Our world has recently lost a lot of important flames that gave us direction, but together with our person by our side, we will restart the fires hidden within our hearts and experience the jubilance we deserve.

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Trust issues!

People with trust issues didn’t choose to be this way. They didn’t really have a say when they were abandoned by one of their parents or when their best friend betrayed them or when the love of their life cheated on them. They didn’t choose these stories for themselves but they had to deal with it without any guidance, without any prior experience and without anyone to reassure them that it won’t happen again.

People with trust issues are hard to love because they always think that people will leave, that they will find themselves alone eventually, that everything they shared with someone will turn into a bunch of memories to look back on. They’re used to being alone. They’re used to keeping people at arm’s length because they don’t know how to let people all the way in. They don’t believe their words or their promises, they think it’s only a matter of time before they change their minds. People with trust issues have heard it all before and seen it all and they know that hearts change and people eventually let them go. 

People with trust issues are not closed off but they’re looking for a certain kind of security and reassurance that not many people are able to provide. They’re constantly testing people’s limits to see if they’re invested and in it for the long haul or if they’re just temporary visitors. Their minds are programmed not to believe people who come in and sweep them off their feet. They’re always looking beneath the surface for more answers and they’re always questioning people’s intentions because the last time they believed in that kind of fire, the flames burned them.

People with trust issues are hard to love because they don’t really know how to silence their skeptical minds, how to calm their anxious hearts or how to just live in the present moment. They’re always anticipating the downfall, the breakup, the lies or the day it all ends. They know it all too well. They’ve lived it time and time again. All they have from their past is evidence of why they shouldn’t trust people.

People with trust issues are hard to love but once they trust you, once you give them the security and reassurance they need, they will pour all their pent up love and emotions on you. They will be faithful, loyal, honest, generous, kind, caring and giving. They will fight for you like no other. They’ll always be by your side through thick and thin. They will never leave because they know what it’s like to be left and they know what it’s like to be lied to.

They will never make you question their intentions or their love because the truth is these people crave love more than anyone and they’re willing to do whatever it takes to make it work. That mask they put on, these walls they build are just their way of protecting themselves from another scam or another lie but deep down, they’re soft and their hearts melt once they feel safe. Their love is actually the loudest once they start hearing the roaring noise of their trust issues fade away.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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The power of A.I!

Two deliverymen appeared on my doorstep, transporting a package on a wheeled platform that mimicked a gurney. I looped Tanvi Lonkar onto three sheets of papers, initialed twice, and flashed my ID to prove my identity.

The corporation frowned upon customers requesting models of celebrities or neighborhood crushes to fulfill dirty fantasies. One could only order a replica of themselves. The products were restricted to suit the company name: Another You.

Six months earlier, I had stepped into a full body scanner in a glass domed building to have my proportions taken, my facial features mapped, and my vitals recorded. On the limousine ride home, I re-watched the first episode of A.I.Rising, wondering how realistic AI in the real world would appear.

With the product finally in front of me, I grabbed a pair of scissors from the junk drawer, then second-guessed jamming a blade into the box holding a Rs.5,00,000 replica. I peeled the packing tape off with my nails instead, denting my french tips, and unfolded the cardboard like a tiger crouched inside.

I expected a caricature. I received a mirror. The android looked like an exact reproduction — from the shade of skin to the freckles to the hair even my stylist struggled to color match. Every feature appeared identical to my own, down to the blackhead on my chin that sprouted earlier that morning. Six months ago, during the scan, my skin had been clear. Not a single blemish in sight.

I tried to visualize the terms and conditions I had skimmed through before completing my order. I had signed a nondisclosure agreement. A covenant not to sue. A stack of unending paperwork with wordy warnings and conditions and fees.

I recalled a section about the replica syncing up with me, about its body mimicking mine like women who lived together and experienced their period at the same time.

That turned out to be more than a simile. After activating the other me, her time of the month started the same week, the same day, the same moment as mine. She grew pesky hairs where I did. She fell sick with the flu when I did. Her immune system copied mine.

Before I realized any of that, the first time I saw her on delivery day, I used a command word to snap open her eyes. She ran through voice activation. No switches. No batteries. No hints of artificiality.

She tilted her pointed chin upward, appraising me. “Pleasure to meet you,” she said, same voice as me, same mannerisms, same inflections.

“You look nice,” I said. “Aside from the ensemble.”

She wore a red sweater dress with triangular cutouts on the hips, the same one I had been wearing during my body scan. A trend from two seasons back. It needed an upgrade.

“I know, I know. Cutouts are ancient. But if I’m wearing them, everyone will assume they’re back in.”

My lips curved into a smirk. In addition to her physique, she held the same personality as me due to a combination of FAQ questionnaires, ink blots, social media analyzation, and DNA testing. A perfect copy. A perfect crime.

Running underground, Another You helped the rich grow richer. I could sit on my ass while my replica draped an apron over her breasts and flopped meat over a stove. I could find a second sugar daddy and make my replica fuck him until he trusted her enough to hand over the credit card.

Throughout the following three years, I ordered her to complete my household chores — mopping and dusting and dish washing. I asked her to take my place during tedious charity events. I instructed her to amuse any guests. I even invited her into a threesome during a drunken hookup where I’d pretended to be a twin.

I got my money’s worth.

However, like anything, a puppy-love-relationship that seemed like it would never die or a breathtaking view of the mountains from a honeymoon suite, the luster wore off eventually. The replica became routine. Uninteresting. Dull.

Without groceries to order or guests to entertain, I grew restless. I wanted to attend the charity events again. I wanted a taste of the mundane because it felt better than sitting motionless in my loft.

Deciding to regain control of my life, I used a voice command to keep the replica’s eyes locked shut and stored her in a spare room, more akin to a closet. I propped her dead weight against the innermost wall like a mop, leaving her to gather dust.

By the time I remarried and my stomach bulged with a baby, I completely forgot she existed.

With a midwife by my side, I gave birth inside of my bathtub, supplementing narcotics with natural herbs. My husband gave me a turn coddling our little girl, nuzzled his bald head against her bald head, and then waved the midwife over to clean the leftover gunk from her body.

The second the pair scurried out from the room, I heard a baby shouting. Loud, screaming sobs.

“What is she doing to my child?” I said to my husband, then once again so the midwife could hear.

“It’s not your baby,” she called back.


She reentered the room, cradling the silent child against her chest. “It’s not your baby that is screaming.”

Failed possibilities flipped through my mind. Sound from the television? No. We had a no-electronics rule on Sundays. Sound from the neighbors? No. They had several children, but our walls muffled their sex sounds along with everything else.

After a sweep of the house, my midwife discovered the source of the cries. Inside of a room, akin to a closet.

Beneath a swelling stomach, a baby squirmed against the carpet. It wailed even with its eyes shut tight, not fully activated, but created.

Just like the replica had gotten her period at the same time as me, she had gotten pregnant at the same time as me. Her system had copied mine. She had given birth to another (living?) thing. A thing caught somewhere between synthetic and flesh, between soulless machine and heartless human. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Someday you won’t be sorry for opening up your heart and giving love a real shot. Someday you’ll be glad you kept your heart alive and hopeful. Someday your heart will thank you for not giving up on love after everything you’ve been through and everything you’ve seen and everyone who gave you a reason not to believe in love. Someday you’ll be glad that you still have it in you to share your world with someone because when that time comes, they won’t leave, they’ll want to be a part of every story and every memory and every occasion. 

Someday you’ll understand why some people had to leave and why you had to walk away, your heartbreak will make so much sense that it won’t even hurt anymore. It will give you clarity. It will make you understand why some people came into your life but weren’t meant to stay or why some people lied to you or why some people just didn’t want to fight to make things work. Someday you will understand that you won’t have to force anything that’s real and you won’t have to chase anyone who truly wants to stay.

Someday you won’t be sorry for bringing someone home and introducing them to your friends and family because they won’t let you down. They will show up for you so you never again have to see the disappointment in people’s eyes when they ask you about the two of you. Someday you won’t be scared of telling your mom about how much you love them because you’ll be sure that she will see how much you’re loved and cherished and she won’t worry about your future. 

Someday you’ll be proud of your vulnerability and you won’t have to shy away from being a hopeless romantic. Someday you won’t think twice about sending a text or saying I love you or expressing how you really feel. Someday everything you ever learned about love will be wiped out by someone who shows you what true love really is. Someday you’ll be thankful you kept your heart open because it will lead you to a very special person who has been waiting for someone like you to come into their life and turn it around. 

And someday you’re going to look back on the lonely nights and the painful breakups and the nasty fights but they won’t mean a thing because you’ll be with someone who is finally gentle with your heart and you’ll be so glad that you didn’t quit or let the wrong ones give you a false impression of love. Someday you will be so grateful that you never lost hope and that you believed against all odds. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Many people,
May it be friends or family do ask this question to me.

That isn’t it wise to do a job or a get into family business rather than working on this library thing?

  • Growing up in Malad was fun until I got out of the school and stepped into my fascinating college life where we people from suburbs were also known by ‘MAKABO PEOPLE’

After 3 years of college. It got on my nerves. And I finally decided that I personally want to do something and change the situation atleast on my personal level.

The only complain you get to here over here is

‘Malad me to kuch hai hi nai yaar’

Thats true. But not for a long time.
We did not have Good Air Conditioned library for students here so starting with a Library,

I have taken a small step in my Area’s Development.

In these 5 years of Library.
We also started with a Turf,
Which also didn’t exist previously.

Right now

Providing Services of
Study Library,
Circulating Reading Library For Books,
Pen Friend (where we get assignments done for people)

Then Turf, A Beauty Parlour,
An Ad Agency, An Event Company and what not!

In future also coming up with
Cafe or Open Mic Clubs in our area.

I Genuinely want to change the face of the place I live in and want to live in all my life.

So yes. Thats why

We have received great response and touchwood success in these years and planning to run it for a lifetime and solve all study related issues for the students.

More than 1500 Students have registered till date!

Follow the founder Parth Shah at!

Follow Dreambaux Bookstory at!

Follow Dreambaux Library at!

More on Dreambaux in a couple of days time!

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Jeegar Stories!

A Boy who thinks emotions and memory are more effective when

shared with others.

So Hop On with me in my journey of YouTube and let me share my

journey with you through my videos.

Started my YouTube Journey on 4th February 2021. All I need is your support.

Subscribe to Jeegar Kawa’s Channel

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Being Judged (By Nishika Gala)

Why do we judge a person for everything he or she does? Why does he or she always have to think about others reaction on what they wish to do? why are there invisible boundaries of what the society thinks? Why do we judge people on their skin tone or physical appearance and not on the way they treat us? Why is a person not accepted for what he or she is?
Since childhood I have always asked these questions to myself. But I can’t answer them even today. I was always the one who was not included in a group of people since childhood because of my physical appearance. May it be school or locality I have always found difficulty to be a part of some group. In the beginning it bothered me a lot. Whenever I used to get down to play, I was avoided most of the times. And then I used to go back home and cry. Then as the years passed by, I started to work on myself. I changed my mind set to not worry about what others think about me instead I started to challenge myself to become a better version of myself. You must be thinking everyone says that they are working on themselves and they don’t but let me tell you just don’t care about what others are doing just think about what you are doing. Are you satisfied with the life you are living? Are you satisfied with the knowledge you have? Today is the day you question yourself and work on it in a positive direction. It is never too late to start doing something for yourself.

Follow Nishika Gala at!

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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What hurts more?

I believe in the concept of having someone who is your person.

Your person is someone who wants to be there to celebrate all your victories just as much as they want to help you pick up the pieces of your failures.

Your person knows all your annoying habits and only adores you more for them. Your person knows all the silly little things that make you excited and not think they are silly at all.

Your person never judges you and understands when you need space and when you need to be held. Your person knows exactly how you’re feeling within the first few seconds of seeing you. Your person encourages you to express yourself and never feel ashamed of your feelings.

Your person is always happy to hear your voice on the other end of the phone, even if they are too tired to keep their eyes open after a long day.

But most importantly, your person adds value to your life in ways you didn’t think were possible and inspires you to tap into all the potential welling up inside you. On the days you don’t think you’re worthy or you don’t have the strength to show up for the world, your person reminds you how strong you are and how much they and the rest of the world needs you. 

I never thought I’d meet my person during such a dark time in history. Living through a global pandemic has presented so many challenges for society and individuals alike. One of the greatest challenges has been losing human connection—not being able to see family and friends and hug them and look them in the eye while you tell them how much you love and appreciate them.

That’s why it’s ironic that my person and I created one of the deepest connections during a time when connection for most has been lost. Part of me feels guilty for this, but I also know that despite the losses the world is grieving, I am still allowed to find happiness and foster the rare connection souls like ours deserve.

I also think the world could use the hope that comes from realizing that nothing can stop true connection and that one can find their person even during the bleakest of times. One of the most inspiring authors of my generation, JK Rowling, wrote that “happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if only one remembers to turn on the light.” My person always remembers to turn on the light so I’m forever grateful the universe let me find them.

I have to believe that everyone finds their person at some point in their life. Without this belief, loneliness would win and put out so many flames that shine light on all the goodness still present in the world.

If you feel like your light is shining a little dimmer than it used to know that there is someone out there who is waiting to share their light with you and encourage you to shine brighter than you ever have.

I found my person at the most unexpected and rather dark time. I think it was meant to happen that way so that I could learn that happiness can rise from the ashes of lost flames.

Our world has recently lost a lot of important flames that gave us direction, but together with our person by our side, we will restart the fires hidden within our hearts and experience the jubilance we deserve.

Next blog will be out soon.
Please share this blog, like it and comment what you feel about it!

Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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You matter…! (By Dhimahi Jani)

Heyy people!!
You matter for everything. This pandemic has taught us many things. But one thing is always clear that you respect nature and nature will respect you.
It’s so easy for nature to make us their friends and save us from every thing like they know us since so long. Every thing isalways linked with each other but we humans search friendship in texts and messages. Isn’t it funny that you break a friendship just because the opposite person didn’t text you for 3-4 days?
If nature doesn’t differentiate between whom to serve and how to maintain friendship then why do humans do? I don’t want to blame you but just think of that one person with whom you broke your friendship just because of texts I think they will think twice before making a friend if he says sorry bye you didn’t text me.
You know everytime I look at sky and say thank you for being my mom and thank you for being my dad and thank you for teaching me the importance of saving you and making a strong relation friendship with others not just texts.
I hope you understand my message!
Thank you!

  • Dhimahi!

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Because I love you, I’ll sit with you in silence. We won’t have to talk. We won’t need to cause we’ve created a space between us that doesn’t need to be filled with words because we already know them. We can feel them wrapped around us both.

Because I love you, I will tell you how I feel. I won’t make you guess. I won’t pretend that the feelings aren’t there. I won’t shove feelings down inside my heart, I won’t sweep them aside, or lock them away. I’ll tell you. I hope you’ll tell me, too.

Because I love you, I will not lie to you. Even when I know you’re not going to like the answer to the question that you asked. I love you. And love is rooted in honesty – it has to be, or else it unravels. It has to be, or else words get lost. It has to be, otherwise, too many things go unsaid. And I will tell you everything.

Because I love you, I laugh more than I ever have. I think you laugh more, too. I realize now that love and laughter are twin sisters, forever linked. One should happen with the other.

Because I love you, I fight with you sometimes. It’s not out of malice. It’s not because I’m looking for a fight. It’s not because I want to hurt your feelings. It’s because we’re two people, and sometimes, we miscommunicate. Sometimes, we have a bad day and we get snippy. Sometimes, we lash out. It happens. But it’s ok because it’s not rooted in harm. Because I love you, I always work to be better – because of love, I know you do, too.

Because I love you, I know what home means. It’s within me, and it’s also within you, and it’s within the little family we’ve built together. Our love is all of that. Love is all of that, too.

Because I love you, I see love everywhere.

Because I love you, I give love to everyone.

I do all of this because, I love you.

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The Future looked positive but turned out negative! (By Palak Agarwal)

This blog is also available here.

This is the future- the way we live today. Many years ago, people expected that 2020 will be a year of growth and success. So we were all living comfortably as we awaited this future. Greta Thunberg’s School Strike for Climate captured the world’s attention, we were making memes on how to fix things with instant ramen, etc., until the time an unheard virus shattered everything we used to perceive as normal. The lethal virus, COVID-19, has become a household name now. COVID has been the most often used expression in history. 

We, humans, have a proclivity to manipulate life to make things work on our terms so that we can chart our own path towards achieving our goals. But life, on the other hand, has other intentions and does not always go as planned. For example, who would have expected that a pandemic would occur, stranding us all inside our homes?

The yearlong lockdown compelled mankind to reconsider its decisions made over the last few decades. Things we took for granted were quickly ripped away from us, such as the way we used to head off to college, the way we used to dress up for celebrations, the quick drive we used to take to the nearest grocery store, or the way we waited in theatres to see movies. Our lifestyles have changed dramatically as a result of digitalization, from socializing with peers to “let’s do a zoom call.”

2020 had been a one-of-a-kind experience for everybody. It had forced people to change their working patterns from the workplace to the home, forcing them to devote more time to care for their loved ones. Others found it frustrating due to the large amount of free time, where they were curled up at home with little to do but watch Netflix, scroll Instagram, and live in frustration. Although some enjoyed this isolation, others were experiencing difficulties. In those times, daily wage workers and unorganized sectors were struggling to survive and earn a living.

The “New Normal”

The way we lived in 2020 is now a part of our everyday lives. However, boredom has led people to pursue their passions, which they once had little time for. Many people have shown their culinary abilities, while some have admitted their enjoyment of reading books, while even others have used this time to take new courses online.

Last year, the malls, restaurants, movie theatres, saloons, shops, schools, colleges, and religious places, were shut. The world had come to a standstill. But that made us realize that we can still lead our lives, we do not need to go out for vacation, or order food from outside, or necessarily sit in the office for long hours. This period has made us realize our existence, the importance of family relations, and spending quality time. 

Now slowly and steadily, things are opening up, and the countries are trying to get back to being “normal”, or whatever the hell it is. Since we are now operating from home, businesses have reduced office rooms, expenses, and travel budgets for themselves and their workers. Furthermore, for a large city like Mumbai, the traffic was atrocious. People now save a lot of time by not getting caught in traffic. This time is better spent on other things. It seems that this trend of WFH is here to stay at least for the foreseeable future.

What’s in store ahead?

People all over the world are profoundly shaken and affected. This pandemic has wreaked havoc on many facets of the world’s economy, finances, families, jobs, and physical and mental health. Nonetheless, we humans remain hopeful that the planet will return to pre-pandemic times. We want to feel secure in our lives and be in command of them. But this has drained us emotionally, and we are stuck in a never-ending cycle of “what if it never happens?” This has caused us to conjure up hypothetical possibilities about what will happen next, but no one knows for certain. We’re all in the same boat. 

Everyone is clueless right now. We cannot predict what disease will come next, where will be the next bush fires, or will life change for the better? Will we ever shake hands and hug our friends like before?

What will the ‘post-coronavirus civilization’ bring for us?

Over the early years, there was a pervasive belief that the world would eventually improve. However, in the name of progress, man has destroyed nature, resulting in the annihilation of mankind. For example, humans caused a lot of emissions by using cars, ships, and establishing new industries. Much of this has, in the long term, affected our lives. They’ve got Asthma, Diphtheria, and other illnesses. Nature, however, is recovering as a result of the pandemic. The Ganges Water, which was formerly polluted, is now completely clean. 

Before Covid-19, we lived as if we were the ultimate identity on this planet, taking advantage of the man-made facilities to the next level. We didn’t realize that there is a high risk of the emergence of life-threatening illnesses capable of eradicating our simple mortal being. Following the Covid-19 episode, we now must be careful that more lethal diseases could occur in the future. The fact that Covid-19 leaves no stone unturned to persuade us that further events are possible, humans do not seem to have been impressed. Are we waiting for a more lethal version to jolt us out of our stupor?

The year 2020 will live on in the minds of people for the rest of their lives. It will be remembered as the incident that threw our lives into disarray. It resulted in tumultuous changes. It was an excruciatingly difficult year for some, while for others it was a year with a complete lull in their calendar.

Despite the abundance of year-end declarations telling us to put 2020 behind and never look back, the comfortable T-shirts and Pyjamas, quarantine TikToks, and countless Zoom-themed memes all brought a little levity to what had become a rather challenging year. I recall that the year 2021 began with fresh dreams, resolutions, and prayers. People were hoping for life to return to normal.

But are we making some realistic decisions for 2021 based on last years’ experience? Or are we simply waiting for the vaccine to allow us to resume doing whatever we were doing before the virus paralyzed us?

Since the future is unknown, it is up to us to make decisions that will pave the way for new opportunities. Some paths may lead us to harmony and peace, similar to how the sun rises every day in the hope of igniting a new desire and hope. Our happenings from the past and the present can affect our future.

Personally, I believe that the covid vaccine will become readily available in the market soon, most people will wear masks even a year from now, and that lifts will have self-cleaning buttons. We may or may not have virtual yoga lessons or squats with a bag full of books, but we will certainly meet the demands of pandemic era exercise.

Although there’s one thing that we have discovered now- we learn the best when we are affected as individuals, when our freedom and our satisfaction are at stake.

To all the people out there, stay home, stay safe, save lives. Remember, you are not stuck at home, you are safe at home! Please use double masks, sanitize yourself, and get your vaccine as soon as possible! We will fight this together!

Comment down below and tell me what do you think is the future now?

Written by Palak Agarwal

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Everyone deserves love!

You have had your heart broken in the past. People you once trusted have walked away from you without a word. They have made you doubt whether anyone is going to stay in your life instead of getting bored and saying goodbye.

But you deserve someone who would never dream of leaving you. Not after having a fight. Not after hearing your secrets. Not after seeing you cry. Someone who will stay. No matter what.

You deserve someone who doesn’t make you fear abandonment. Someone who you can bring up your deepest thoughts with without having to worry about whether your honesty is going to chase them away. Someone you can fight with without worrying about whether they are going to throw up their hands and say that the relationship has become too much work.

You deserve someone who will work through problems with you instead of letting them simmer until you slowly grow apart — or someone who will leave at the first sign of trouble. You deserve someone who will stay by your side, even when you’re crying your eyes out or screaming your lungs out. Someone who will fight to keep your relationship strong, because they understand that even two soulmates will have their ups and downs.

You deserve someone who will make sure that you get home safe after a drunken night, even if you pissed them off that day. Someone who will still kiss you goodnight, even if they’re going to bed angry. Someone who will love you with all their heart, even when you are being annoying.

You deserve someone who won’t threaten to leave you when they get frustrated with you. Someone who means it when they promise you forever. Someone who isn’t going anywhere.

Date someone you can talk to about anything, because nothing you say could ever change the way they feel about you. Someone you can realistically picture a future alongside. Someone you can imagine in your life not just five years from now, but fifty years from now.

You deserve someone who would never dream of breaking up with you. Someone who knows the rough patches you’ve been through are just a hiccup along the road to your happily ever after.

Of course, that doesn’t mean you have permission to treat them like crap, because you are confident that they will always stick around. It means you have even more incentive to treat them the way they deserve. You have even more reason to give them every little piece of your heart.

You deserve someone who would never dream of leaving you because they know you are the perfect fit for them. Because even though there are problems with your relationship, you are strong enough to overcome them together. Because you give them so much to smile about, so much to be thankful for, so much to look forward to in the future.

You deserve someone who would never dream of leaving you because you are truly committed. Not just for now. Forever. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

Someday Maybe! (By Prerana Kamat)

A bus just arrived at the bus stop,

Seems like it didn’t have any plans to move forward.

It started doubting it’s abilities as every second dropped, it lost control.

Slowly, the wheels began to tear apart, the headlights were no longer as bright, they gazed at every passing vehicle filled with fright.

Whether or not it will ever move again.

Whether or not the thought of giving up will ever cross it’s mind.

The parts were hugging the engine tight, so that it doesn’t let go.

The places it wanted to tour, the smiles it didn’t want to forget, it’s seats that held thousands of memories…all of it, gone, in a flash.

The noise of the window cracking intensified like it was begging for hope, a reason to hold on.

Someday, it will find the joy of it’s tiers carshing the road again, it will find a better place to be, someday maybe.

-Prerana Kamat


                 I remember so vividly, the weather was gloomy and getting up that day felt forceful. I have always heard people saying that we have good days and bad days..well, that was definitely a bad morning. My heart just felt heavy, to be honest there was no particular reason that I can pinpoint. As I was doing my daily Instagram scrolling, that uneasy feeling just kept hitting and I wanted to get rid of it. So, I began to think about solutions to feel better. I used to maintain a personal diary in which I would articulate all my angst and happy moments, I realized that writing is something that I enjoy doing for myself. There was a page and a pen right in front of my eyes, without thinking twice I kept my phone aside and started introspecting. Personally, if you ask me how did I come up with this write up, I don’t know how to put in exact words. I just know that I felt emotional and most importantly relieved. Somehow, after expressing my thoughts into a piece of paper the little sense of achievement I felt made my day a lot easier than I had expected.

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I mean it when I say it!

When I say that I love you, I mean that I see you for who you are, even when you don’t see yourself. That I want to hold space for you to explore and go to the edges of your being, of your identity; to run free and create yourself anew every day, only to love you all the more when you come home and recount for me your new treasures and discoveries.

When I say that I love you, I mean that I never want you to feel caged in. I never want you to feel pressured to stay when you want to leave, and I never want you to feel that leaving means you lose my love. When I say that I love you, I want you to know that it isn’t conditional on whether you love me back.×Volume 0% 

When I say that I love you, I mean that I love the way you formulate words, the way they rest on your heart and travel to your lips and into my ears. I love the way your hands trace my body like they trace your guitar, turning me into a song that only you know how to play. I love the way your face becomes so animated when you tell a story, like one of your characters. I love the way you hold my hand when we watch movies in bed and our fingers dance together like they have all their lives.

When I say that I love you, I mean that I would never hurt you or make you feel unworthy. I would never try to put you down or make you believe you are anything less than the miracle you are. You are human, and you are everything messy and complicated and imperfect that comes along with it, and I would never fault you or make you feel guilty for that. To me, that is what makes you beautiful.

When I say that I love you, I mean that I will still get angry and upset with you, and you will get angry and upset with me. I want to have difficult conversations that make us cry— not because they break us apart but because they break us open and bring us closer.

When I say that I love you, I mean that I want to champion your dreams and hold your pain in my arms when you feel that you can’t carry it on your own anymore. I want to be there at 2 a.m when you can’t sleep and remind you that you can— that you don’t need me or anyone else to do in this world what you came here to do, but I will be here for every step forward and every step backward along the way, even if those steps lead you away from me.

When I say that I love you, I mean that I know we are on different timelines, but what I feel for you is timeless. Our story is but one endless run-on sentence.

When I say that I love you, I don’t mean anybody else’s definition of love. I don’t mean to label you or me or us. I don’t mean I want with you what society or our families tell us love should look like. I want what we create together, by no other definition than what it means in our hearts— a love we get to redefine at every moment.

When I say that I love you, I mean that you don’t owe me anything. What I feel for you is now a part of me, of who I am and who I am becoming, and I will integrate that into my being forever. I will love you, even if I never see you again. Even if I never hear your voice whisper in my ear or feel your arms around me once more.

When I say that I love you, I mean that my love doesn’t have an expiration date. I will not be here suffering in the waiting for you, but I will be here— no matter where you are— wanting nothing but the very best for you. Praying that whoever you choose to share your life with never takes a single second of it for granted and is capable of giving you everything you didn’t know you wanted.

When I say that I love you, I mean it.

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It’s midnight again, and you are the only thing on my mind.

I’m sitting here wondering how it could already be three years since we last saw each other. It is almost my birthday, and I can’t help but hope that maybe you will reach out to me. Maybe you will call and serenade me with that stupid birthday song you swore you would sing to me on my next birthday all of those years ago.

I always knew deep down though that you wouldn’t. I knew that our time together was fleeting. I knew that no matter how badly I wanted you to stay in my life that ultimately, you were going to leave. I knew that you were going to go home to Mumbai, while I stayed here in Canada. I knew that we would go back to being strangers, even after all of the time we spent getting so close to each other. You would move on with your life, while I tried to do the same. I wonder if you have done a better job of that than I have.

I like to think that I cross your mind as frequently as you do mine, but most of the time, I just feel delusional for ever thinking that. You cut me out of your life for a reason. And even though I may never know that reason, I will always know that it was what you wanted.

You didn’t want to see what I was doing with my life once you left. And you didn’t want me to see what you were doing with yours. There would be no more celebrating each other’s milestones. No more funny memes and bad jokes. We would go back to being meaningless to each other. I would become just another face from a place where you used to live, and you would never have to think of me again.

Is this really what you wanted?

It has all been so difficult for me to understand. One day you tell me that I will always have a home where you are, and then just a few days later, you cut me out of your life for good. I always thought that we were closer than that. I know that we didn’t know each other for that long, but the connection we had was stronger than anything I had ever had with anyone else. I never expected a drunken stranger on the train to become one of the most important love stories of my life.

How many people can say that someone ran off of a train at a stop that wasn’t theirs just to ask them out? It still feels like it was a scene out of a movie. Sometimes, it doesn’t feel like anything between us was even real. How many of these emotions have I just made up in my own head?

Did you ever feel the same way that I did?

I swear the day that you went and got me breakfast before you went to class and I went to work was one of the best days of my entire life. It might sound silly to someone who is used to that sort of thing, but to me, it meant everything. Every moment with you meant more to me than these words could ever do justice to. I never expected someone I was never in an actual relationship with to treat me so well, but you were always so full of surprises.

The night we first met, I knew that you were someone special. I knew that you were different from anyone else I had ever met before. I will never forget that date. September 24, 2019. Regardless of if we ever speak again, I will always remember that date as the day I was reminded that love is still out there. There are a lot of shitty people out there, but then, there are also people like you. People who care so deeply and love so passionately, even when they know that time is not on their side. People who can make the most mundane moments amazing. People who will show you that it is okay to love again after you’ve been hurt.

I swear that I have thought of you every day since we first met, and I don’t think I will ever stop. You showed me more love in just a year of knowing each other than I ever felt in my multiple-year relationship with the person who supposedly wanted to marry me. I don’t think I will ever be able to thank you enough for the way that you treated me. Even when things got messy, you didn’t lash out at me. You stayed calm, just like you always did.

I just hope that you know how sorry I am for everything that happened between us. I am so sorry that I didn’t speak up sooner and tell you what my actual feelings about our situation were. I am sorry that I wrote the harsh, anger-fueled words that I did and had them published for the entire world to see. I’m so sorry if I ever made you feel like I hated you or regretted my time with you.

If I had the choice to do it all over again, even if I knew we would never be able to be together long-term, I would still choose you. I would still choose you for whatever time you would give me because that is how much you meant to me.

Thank you for seeing me in ways that no one else has ever been able to. Thank you for showing me what true love and affection are actually like. Thank you for spending the little time that you had left in this city with me.

Our time together meant everything to me.
And so did you.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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She’s on the loose!

if she reads the poems, if she asks, tell her you’re sorry. tell her you love her. tell her you love her gentle and warm. tell her you love her because it’s the truth.

but don’t forget you loved me, too.

tell her you love her, but tell her you loved me black and blue. tell her i loved you ragged. tell her you couldn’t make love to me without leaving a bruise.

how you still had the leather belt in one hand when you took my face in the other the first time you whispered “i love you.”

tell her how our mouths waltzed among the comets, how we kissed and built a sanctuary among the stars. tell her my name still glows bright and sticks to your tongue.

tell her you cannot help but still think of me.

tell her you compared her ferocity to mine. tell her about the storm behind my eyes, how they pleaded with yours when you spoke of her. how you held me in your arms when you told me she hates putting her hand in yours. tell her how for you i would have given it all.

tell her you love her, but tell her you told me i felt like home.

tell her you weren’t brave enough to love this hard.

tell her she was the easier choice.

tell her how you’re whisked away from her by the autumn breeze, under the full moon, and in the middle of that song.

tell her you’ll always remember me. how could you not?

tell her i loved you as much as i could ever love anybody without you ever giving me anything.

tell her she can keep the best of you, i’ve loved the worst parts of you.

tell her how much you hurt me over the years, and how all i ever felt was love. tell her about how this is my beauty, not yours.

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Even though they’ve gone, you’ve won!

Even if they lied. You were honest. You were real and that’s what matters. You meant what you said. Your words were soft and your actions were genuine. You didn’t take them or their emotions lightly. You weren’t scared of the truth but most importantly, you were true to yourself. 

Even if they took you for granted. You were kind. You were giving. You were caring. They’ll always remember you as the one with the big heart. The one with overflowing love and kindness that very few people can drink up.

Even if they picked someone else. You did what you had to when you like someone. You chose them. You invested in them. You did what you would want someone to do to you. You practiced what you preached. You didn’t just expect a kind of love you weren’t able to give. You gave it all and more and that kind of karma will return to you in magical ways.

Even if they thought you were temporary. You know deep in your heart that you’re not. You know that you didn’t play games or manipulated anyone into loving someone you’re not. You were honest. You showed them your vulnerability, your feelings and what they meant to you. You showed them that they mattered. You showed them your scars without trying to conceal them. You were an entire galaxy for someone who couldn’t even see the stars.

Even if they made you feel like you weren’t good enough. You gave your all. You did your best. You did everything you could to be someone worth loving and if that’s not enough for someone, it’s not your job to change them. It’s your job to stay exactly the way you are because you will always be more than enough for someone who is looking for depth, for quality and for strength. Maybe you were too strong for the weak ones or too deep for the shallow ones or maybe you were a home when they were looking for a vacation.

Even if they leave, you win. Because they’re showing you who they are. They’re showing you what they’re made of. They’re showing you what kind of person you don’t want to be with. You don’t want the kind of person who walks away because they can’t handle who you are. You don’t want someone who acts and lies just so they can manipulate you into loving them. You don’t want someone who is only looking for attention. You don’t want someone who sees you as a placeholder. You don’t want someone who makes you feel like you’ll never be good enough.

You don’t want someone who doesn’t know how to stay.

So trust me when I say that even if they leave, you win. You win every time someone who wasn’t afraid of losing you, leaves. You win every time God takes away someone from your life because that means he’s making room for someone so much better.

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Warriors / Mothers?

I realized I love you so much that my heart could burst. It was the night after my stepfather left us—we were gathering our clothes from the yard before the rain came, and I looked at you under the moonlight, working so hard to keep everything in order even as your world was crumbling down.

Let’s rewind. 

My mom had me at the age of 19. There were a lot of things that she had to abdicate when she chose to keep her pregnancy, even when all the odds were against her. Our path hasn’t always been easy—we’ve been through awful lots, we’ve been cheated on, we’ve been lied to, we cried alone in our rooms, we learned to lean on the pain as a way to build ourselves from scratch over and over again. We thought it was finally time to breathe in safety, to let our hearts rest in the hands of someone else, to expand our family. It turns out that again, we were wrong, Mom. But at least from that, we won our precious little boy to protect as well.

Momma, I know it’s hard as hell, and I know it hurts when life keeps knocking you down. But then again, every time it happens, there’s a permanent thing. Us. Together. No matter what has happened, no matter who comes between our little family of three, we’ll always have each other.

I know we most likely always disagree on everything. We fight. We get annoyed.

But it only takes looking at you and seeing in your eyes how much you love us.

Right now, I see you putting my baby brother to sleep (as I’m now occupying the space of the man we thought would be here forever for us). You’re singing a pretty lullaby and his little eyelids are closing so peacefully, that it makes me envious of how pure he still is. Right now, Mom, no difference between us matters. I know we’ll give everything we have to keep his world from being shattered too.

I know that right now it’s hard to see through the pain and that the agony that you’re feeling feels endless. But I promise you, all that really matters is that you’re not alone. You’ll never be.

If you’re reading this and you have a warrior disguised as your mother, a mother who is also father, a mother who tries again everyday, a mother who is no longer here (but still looking over you nonetheless), a mother that’s a best friend, a mother who fights just to see you smile, or if you have any loving mother at all, don’t forget to show or send her some love.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Even girls are allowed to let loose!

I often find myself having conversations with my female friends about whether or not they watch porn. I’d say about half of my friends dabble in the x-rated genre, while the other half pretend not to. Porn is just way too interesting to pass up on. You’d think we could all be honest with one another, but it’s just one of those taboo topics people hate discussing. Why?

Too offensive toward women

Guess what ladies, feeling like this is completely normal. In fact, a recent study reports state that 59% of women are “very concerned about how the industry treats women and/or feel it perpetuates stereotypes”, 56% are turned on “but are concerned about how the industry treats women and/or feel it perpetuates negative stereotypes”, and 41% keep it as “something secretive they don’t want anyone to know about”.

So, what’s the consensus? Women watch porn and they enjoy it. Can the porn industry change its tactics? Hell yes! But will they? Probably not. Most porn sites perpetuate aggressive male behavior toward the opposite sex, which in turn teaches young men how to behave. With hostile (and quite frankly disgusting) categories like bukkake, gangbang and rough sex (yes, I did my research), are we really surprised with how young men act? Porn is in no way wholly responsible, but it certainly plays a role in the issue.

To all the ladies, if you’re still worried about how you may be perceived for watching porn or how in general females are treated, I’ve curated a list of female-friendly porn sites, literature, tumblr pages, etc. for you to check out. You can thank me later.
Lady Cheeky – This Tumblr site focuses on sensuality through a series of images and GIFs. Great site for first-time porn users.
Literotica – Consists of poems and stories ranging from first-time experiences to funny fucks. If literature is your thing, check out this site.
We Love Good Sex – A female-centric sexual blog focusing on our “dark sides” and what they mean. Perfect if you’re interested in exploring the depths of your own sexuality.
Bellesa – Erotica with an emphasis on female pleasure. If you’re a long-time porn user, this site will keep you very busy.

That should be a good starting point. Let me know if this has been helpful to you and your kitty or partner. And if you still don’t want to watch porn…Big mistake. Big. Huge.

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Heart’s demise

She said it ended –

Prematurely – finally – thankfully –

It ended.

It was one of a kind. Surely, it was extraordinarily different.

It was two-sided, sometimes three, but mostly lopsided.

It was unsteady, see-saw-like, reckless, but it fulfilled her

Needs. She needed it more than he did.

He knew that; she knew he knew that, too.

But who cares about wet eyes and a snotty nose after the world’s

Sweetest caresses?

Who cares about the loveless stares and the commoner’s touch?

Who sees when the color fades from the picture and the fire in his eyes vanishes?

After all these years, his love became like water – essential yet deadly. She mastered the skill of carrying water in a basket – a notable feat!

She was doused in his love but managed to uncover parts of herself that were blotted out, like a messy piece of art

With her tools, she began to clean up the mess

Taking light from the Sun, she enhanced the beauty in the lines

She removed nothing from the old, just chipped away at the dry, crooked walls

She spent weeks anointing every space of her newly restored parts, pouring love and adoration into every orifice,

Singing homecoming songs and dancing happily and out of tune,

She was chasing away the waterfalls,

Chasing every storm cloud and every crashing thunder to the furthest skies

She needed to be safe from drowning, she needed a period of drought to find a natural spring.

When the work was done, she smiled; she was the woman she dreamt she would be.

So she vanished like the fire from his eyes, never to return.

She learned that, sometimes, the Heart becomes the trickster, leaving the Brain flooded with fluffy details.

Eventually, the fluff clears, and the Brain will witness the Heart’s demise and end it –

Prematurely – finally – and thankfully.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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We’re untouchable!

I’m restless. I turn over, look at the clock. Sunday night, 2:07am. I turn back around, staring into the darkness, thinking. This time last week. We were in a leather booth in a dark bar downtown, the lights dimmed on the chandelier above. Music played in the background, but in my drunken mind, I could only hear your voice. Nothing else in the world mattered, except for you sitting next to me.

Two beers on the table; we see who can drink theirs faster, but of course it’s you. The anticipating look in your eyes dare me to take another sip. At first we’re not touching, but the vibes in this place are electric, and I can feel your presence drawing me closer as our eyes meet. Our legs finally touch; you ask me to take off my jacket. I do.

The alcohol hits us at the same time, and suddenly our hands are intertwined, and your face is next to mine, our lips almost touching. It’s everything we craved, but were too afraid to do sober. You knew you couldn’t stop thinking about it after that night at the party, us walking together afterward hand in hand with burgers in the other. All too innocent, yet all too unattainable.

Like in my late night fantasies, you pin me to the booth – just how I like it – whisper something in my ear I can’t remember, but all I know is that it lights me on fire. You let me go from your grasp, and gently pull me back into your arms, your eyes searching my body for answers, your fingers lingering on my skin. You pull me closer and I feel your lips on my neck, and I find myself doing the same as I hear you let out a sigh of contentment. You trace my lips with your fingers, igniting a feeling so strong in me.

For those late-night moments at 2:07 in the morning, I wanted your touch, your presence, your desire, and you couldn’t deny it. I couldn’t either. Your magnetic pull drew me in. I knew you were forbidden, but something about the way you move made me want you more.

Maybe it’s the concept of not being able to fully have it. Maybe it was knowing that this was here and now, that these moments may never come again. Fleeting, just like the possibility of us.

You were mine for the night, and I was yours. Your irresistible touch created sparks that could light a fire. We were untouchable, even if just for a little while.

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Friendship (By Nishika Gala)

“There are friends, there is family, and then there are friends that become family.”
The above quote makes so much sense. Whenever you meet a new person, you start knowing each other and eventually you become good friends and the journey starts. The journey from sharing each other’s food to sharing our whole day with one another, from meeting each other’s family to become one. Let me tell you about my best friend. It all started with staring each other in the class and judging each other like “Oh! She seems like she is a scholar”, “ew! Teacher ki chamchi” and it goes on.
But have you ever thought that not all friends stay for life time? Whenever we have a fight with any of our close friend’s we most of the times end up not talking to them. But have we ever given it thought of going and clearing the misunderstandings? Something like that happened with me last week. I and one of my best friends from school had a fight which led to not talking to each other for days. We used to talk daily and meet once in a week. We actually had a place in each other’s family. When I told my mom about our fight she suggested me to go and talk to her and clear the things out. But I did not do so. Then later on after a few days again she asked about her and I told her that we aren’t talking. She again told me to clear things with her. Then for once I had a talk with my friend and we cleared all the misunderstanding. Later that day I thanked my mom for forcing me to talk to her. She then told me that “whenever your friend’s families are aware of the bond that you share with your friend, the bond will last forever” and I felt it.

Follow Nishika Gala at!

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One night stand!

For starters, I hate that term, “one-night-stand”. Not only is there rarely ever standing involved (if you know what I mean), but also these moments in our lives aren’t just one night. They’re learning experiences that stick with us for months, even years, to come. They are small, yet significant, flashes in time that help us grow and learn through this really tough world. They also can be hella fun.

1. Natural Antidepressants

An evening with someone you have great chemistry with is empowering. It can be exactly the thing to help lift someone out of a period of sadness or a heavy situation. The act of flirting with anyone is a natural aphrodisiac. It shows confidence and self-esteem, while also being a beautiful opportunity to meet someone or learn something new. Getting over a break-up? Is your heart hurting and you’re feeling alone? Buy a new dress and go talk to someone cute. Having someone stare at you with raw curiosity, intrigue, and infatuation is enough to pick up anyone’s spirits. If things go well and the stereotype is completed in the bedroom, then good for you girl (or boy!). You were cherished, respected and worshipped by another human being and that—no matter the duration of time—is something magical. Let it fuel your soul and shine on.

2. Because We Fucking Can

Society is not your mother and cannot dictate when and whether or not you embrace your sexuality. Society is also not your best friend and unfortunately won’t Facetime you while you are in the hotel bed Sunday morning. Society is too much of a prude to shout ‘Yassss girl, get it’ out a car window during your long parade home (walk of pride, not shame, by the way). As long as you’re smart, respectful, and safe, then there is not a single reason you should not say yes to that beautiful stranger. There will always be people who do not agree with your choices in life. Don’t let that stop you. Most of the time, they are just envious of your free-spirited, zero-fucks attitude. Get swept away and lose yourself in a single moment. Do whatever makes your heart sing and ride out that song however long you damn-well please. You strut your beautiful self any place you want, at any time, and do what YOU want. I support you.

Feel free to be free. Without judgment.

3. True Human Connection

Something beautiful happens when two human beings connect in any way: spiritual, emotional, physical, etc. We were put on this Earth in the plural form for a reason. We need real connection to survive. Now, I don’t mean “we’re all in this together” preach-talk about the collective whole, but rather our internal need for connection. Intimate moments between living souls, whether physical or psychological, is a fundamental part of being human. Why shouldn’t we seek these experiences out at any point possible? If you feel any sort of connection with someone, it is your right to pursue that feeling and hold onto it for as long as you care to. One night or 50 years, it doesn’t matter how long. Hold on to that feeling of closeness for an hour or a lifetime, but never hesitate to feel it. Take in all the moments, anytime you can.

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Why’d you leave?

You liked me. I liked you. It seemed like our relationship was leading somewhere — even if it was only to the bedroom.

I’ve had girls sleep with me, even though they weren’t ready for a relationship. I’ve had girls sleep with me and decide they wanted nothing to do with me the next day.

Worst case, I thought you would be another one of those girls. Best case, I thought we would end up dating.

You surprised me when you walked away because neither of those things happened. I could never wrap my head around what you wanted from me, and now that you’re gone, I’m more confused than ever. There are a million questions buzzing around my mind.

I’m not sure why you spent so much time flirting with me. I’m not sure why you called me cute, why you pressed your lips against mine, why you made me believe you had some kind of feelings for me when you never made another move. I’m not sure what your end game was if you apparently didn’t want to date me or sleep with me. I’m not sure what you got out of flirting with me.

We never slept together and that should be a relief. I should thank you for being one of the girls who walked away before dragging my heart through the mud, before making me get too attached to you. As much as I appreciate your decency, it doesn’t make me any less confused by you.

The girls who slept with me and walked away the next day hurt me, but they made sense to me. They only wanted to be with my body. They only wanted me for a night. When they got what they wanted, they decided to move onto the next person. They screwed with my heart but they showed me their true colors when they stumbled out of the sheets. They made it completely and utterly clear why they led me on.

But you’re still a mystery. I’m still trying to figure out why you acted interested in me in the first place. I’m not sure if another guy ended up coming around and stealing you out from underneath me. Or if you got to know me better and started to like me less because you saw my crazy. I’m not sure whether you were too shy to make a move or whether you didn’t think I was worth the effort of moving from friend to boyfriend. I’m not sure about a lot of things.

We never slept together, which isn’t a problem. I’m not complaining about that part. I’m glad you didn’t lead me on anymore than you already had. I’m glad you left without using me first.

I just wish you were clearer about how you felt about me. I wish I wasn’t left with all of these questions. I wish I had some sort of idea about what you wanted from me and why you eventually changed your mind about me.

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She’s the one I crave!

I hear she tells her friends how loving I am to her. How she wants to take me on dates though I don’t say yes often. But she’ll keep asking till I give in.

I hear she tells her friends how she holds her breath just a little bit when she sees my name on her screen. She then goes on to writing and rewriting what seems to be her ‘almost perfect’ responses to me. Hoping to make me laugh, and that I’ll continue to reply to her.

I hear she tells her friends, how much she yearns to be close to me. Close enough that the scent of my floral perfume still lingers on her shirt after I leave.

I hear she tells her friends, that she sees me in her dreams. Lazing in bed together on a Sunday morning – underneath the sheets with her arms around me with my lips on her cheeks.

I hear she tells her friends, she wonders when I will see, that she’s standing right in front of me waiting and wishing for me.

But if only she knew, that we were never meant to be. I was just trying to be friendly, I do not wish to come across mean.

So many eyes on me but mine are set on her. Not the one who thinks I’m loving and not the one who yearns to be close to me. Neither is she the one who sees me in her dreams.

But SHE.

She’s the one who leaves me, wishing that they were him. The one who lights up my entire day when her name is on my screen. The one who holds me close on a Sunday as my fingers trace her skin. But most of all, she’s the one I crave for but she’s never craved for me.

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Moving on is difficult but not impossible!

This phrase has been relayed over years to countless innocent babes looking to get out of the woods after a breakup, but does it really work?

As millennials, by default, we want everything at lightning speed. Faster wireless internet, faster job promotions, faster weight loss, faster ways to orgasm, faster methods to meet partners (0.6 seconds per swipe on average) and of course faster breakups.

So perhaps after a breakup, we could eradicate our exes from our minds and hearts by getting over and sleeping with somebody new.

Potentially each notch on the bedpost could chip away at the love we have for our ex, the touch of another can make heartbreak a less bitter pill to swallow. A distraction as powerful as sex can surely take your mind off what you’re really missing.

Or maybe that’s solely what it is, a distraction, trading one infatuation for another, temporarily sexing the mind into submission to forget.

Indeed a slice of naughty pie tastes good on the lips but that one fix won’t eradicate your sugar cravings forever. If anything you might crave sugar even more. ‘Sugar’ being your ex-boyfriend, fling or ex-buddy.

On the contrary, pleasure can pull off a very sweet job of masking pain, we often encounter people using pleasure to cope with pain in the modern world.

I’m sure there are guys and girls that sleep around after a breakup and wind up finding the one. These kinds of stories often take place.

Though, for the most part, I’m willing to go out on a limb and say that sleeping around acts the same way as a band-aid.

Band-aids, of course, provide promising benefits, they assist in healing and quickly stop the bleeding but eventually, you remove them and let the wound heal naturally, they aren’t forever.

The basic truth is that no one person can make you feel exactly the same way as you felt with your ex because no two people and no two loves are ever the same.

Therefore sleeping around may fill a hole for a short time (and by that I mean in your heart) though it’s not a reliable approach to wholly get you over your ex.

Time may be the most trustworthy and dependable healer.

Brokenhearted people often break hearts because they’re not invested in the new relationship, other than stocks in orgasms and short-lived highs. It’s a risky game when feelings are on the table, especially not just your own.

It may be cliche but I believe it’s accurate that the best way to get over someone is to get on with your life and let time blessedly do its job.

Sex is most definitely amazing and can occupy you until your love for your ex inevitably becomes faded, yet have a care in others if you use this method to propel you forward to where you were always meant to be heading.

Everything happens for a reason.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Bird’s eye view! (By Purna Parmar)

Have you ever observed how everything in nature does its job effortlessly? The flowers don’t push themselves to bloom, the birds don’t force themselves to fly, and the sun doesn’t try hard to shine. They effortlessly and naturally do so. We are a part of nature too, and this thus applies to us as well. So why do we resist? Why are we not effortless? Why don’t we act out of and embrace effortless being which happens to be our natural state of being?

There is something on our minds, unfailingly, always. If not that, something on the back of our minds, sitting latent or wending its way in spirals. We scarcely ever question why it is so, the way it is, and eventually get accustomed to living in this manner.

Every “adverse” situation that we experience in the present or something that took place in the past which plays on repeat mode in our minds, or anxious anticipation of something that hasn’t even occurred yet, seems to us as the most prodigious calamity ever in the life of any human on earth. It is only when we take a bird’s eye view, we cancel out the obliviousness we hold about the triviality of the issue. With this attitude (altitude, haha!) all seem fine and perfect the way it is. The way it was. The way it will turn out to be.

On the grass-root level, what gets us to this bubbly, effervescent, anxious state of mind, which swirls with fear and uncertainty, are simply our expectations, judgements and the need to control what and how it all must be. How it must look like, how it would have been if I had done something differently or said something different, how will it be in the future? What if it turns out right in the manner I most fear?… But my dear, the way it all turned out, all that you did, all that you said and everything that happened in the past, happened exactly in the way that brought you here, right where you are now. Is there a chance of a mistake?

The bird’s eye view here enlightens us by letting us know that there is absolutely no need to dwell in the past, nor the need to worry about the future. All that is, is this present moment. And this moment is perfect.

Bird’s eye view teaches us to ‘be’. Just ‘be’, effortlessly, wherever we are, with whatever we have. In this place, we find the peace and contentment we seek.

Here we find bliss.

Imagine a place where the bird’s eye view is your constant state of mind. Won’t that be peaceful? Won’t that feel light and happy and simply, beautiful?
This is what I strive for, a constant state of being _. No, not being something. Not being happy. Not being contented. Not being ambitious. Just being. Effortlessly, without forcing myself to be happy, contented or ambitious. In the state of just ‘being’, whatever comes to me is what I feel in that very moment. And this state of no control brings absolute freedom.

This is what I strive for.

Just being.

This blog is also available here.

Written by Purna Parmar.
You can have a look at some of her work here.
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Why should boys have all the fun?

I often hear from women that, “men can compartmentalize” better than women. So, women should be wary of going into a friends with benefits relationship because they will likely “fall for him” and “get attached”. Women advise each other, make sure you “protect your heart”.

The implication about men is that they just don’t have feelings for certain women even if they have sex with them; or that they choose not to have those feelings. The implication about women is that they can’t control what feelings they have and they will fall in love with most men they have sex with and then that will hurt them so much it’s not worth the sex.

All of this is absolutely false.

The fact that people believe these things makes me really sad because both women and men are missing out on the possibility of some really fun and sexy times. They are missing out on an opportunity to connect with another human — missing out on learning how another person experiences the world; missing out on the chance (well actually the responsibility) to practice empathy and respect and honesty. And missing out on all those lovely chemical cascades that come with sex and affection; that revitalize our bodies and make us laugh and shiver and sigh and sleep so sweetly.

Neither men nor women are processing feelings healthily and are both missing out.

Men, in the scenario described, are blocking their emotions. The emotions are there, they are just stuck. And women, in this scenario, are allowing their emotions to dominate them.

We can learn something from each other. Fancy that! I find that the best way to learn from others is honest, intimate, nonjudgmental conversation. And I can think of one great place to do that…..

Sex is not just sex, women are right. Sex does bring up feelings, that’s the point of it! It gives us physical feelings and emotional feelings.

We just have to become adept at processing these feelings in a way that enhances our spiritual growth and happiness. It’s just as unhealthy to squash the emotions down as it is to let them spray all over the place. It’s unhealthy for us and its unfair to the other.

Sex is not a promise of any future behavior, men are right. Sex happens in the moment, not the past or the future.

We have to become adept at expanding the present moment and are really, truly present for our sexual partner, sex gets better and more satisfying. Suddenly, we find that afterward, we are not yearning for something more — more affection, more love, more attention. If we are truly present, all of that is exactly what we get. 

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Mother’s Day Special!

(Written from a mom’s perspective)

Mother’s Day is the most commercial of all commercial holidays, and it triggers people in various ways. Mother’s Day is dope if you have a mom who is motherly, and who rallied for you in the ways that made you feel loved and validated. However, some of us do not have a positive nor healthy relationship with the woman who birthed us, the day is overwhelming and dreadful. I used to enjoy and look forward to Mother’s Day as a kid because I would put all my effort into making my mom a card, and writing her a cute poem. I became a teenager and our relationship became strained and tedious. We weren’t close, we were on opposing teams, she didn’t like me, I was scared of her, but I didn’t respect her because of how she treated me.

Mothers are people who are just trying to get through their lives. Some do their best, others do what they can, and others don’t give a shit. There’s a whole spectrum of all kinds of mothers. Yet, my reality is that my child doesn’t owe me anything. I chose to bring her into this world, it’s my duty to love her, nurture her, pour love and energy into her EVEN when I don’t want to, feel like it or can’t. I have to find a way to give her my energy, and the very best of me because she did not ask to be here. Without her, I wouldn’t even have a day to celebrate.

My first Mother’s Day as a mom was excruciating. I’d just separated from my daughter’s dad, I had a 5-month-old who was so cute but also really tough emotional work, and I cried every single day. I was in the deepest depression of my life, and I did nothing but think about all the reasons why I needed to die. I thought about who I would leave my daughter with, and I was thinking of ways to kill myself. I was sad. Everyone was asking me about Mother’s Day, but no one was asking about ME, the person, the human being.

If we aren’t going to be checking on the mental health of the people we are celebrating, then what good is Mother’s Day? Perhaps someone should have checked in on my mom. The way she was with me was unacceptable. The things she said and the way she treated me was not something I deserved. I suspect that she was probably really sad. She was probably dealing with her own heartbreak, loneliness, perhaps contemplating her own suicide, and suffered in silence. Maybe she had many dreams and hopes that I fucked up. Maybe I was a constant reminder of a sacrifice she didn’t want to make and she never let me forget it. Instead of celebrating the commercial aspect of Mother’s Day her people should have checked on her mental health. My dad should have been checking on her and helping her. She should have had more support. I feel that deeply.

I can enjoy motherhood because I have an exceptional group of women with whom I can share all of my parenting woes. We have all shared stories of trauma and drama, and no one is judging. My friends will not let me die, they will not let me suffer, and they will be there with me when I want to cry and vent. Our babies are loved and they are being raised in a village where we are not perfect, we are not ideal, but we are present, raw, unfiltered and committed to being great mothers. It’s hard being a woman, it’s harder being a mother and it’s even harder dealing with all of that if you’re alone. The world can be a nasty place, but I think we have to find our tribe and look for people whose souls vibe with yours. It is not enough for us to just say, “Happy Mother’s Day.” Check on my mental health, check on my heart, check on my emotions and make sure that I am okay.

Me, the woman, the human being and not JUST a mother.

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Let’s face it, modern love sucks!

Modern lovers suffer from a lack of intimacy, a result of a lack of privacy.

We learn too much about each other too soon. This must be destructive for new love because it kills the mystery of passion. There’s almost no space between people anymore. Sure, we can opt out of the madness you say. But when you like someone, you want to know what they’re up to. And instead of reaching out to them and unveiling your vulnerability, all you have to do is click on their profile. Boom. In 30 seconds you can find out everything they did that day, why bother ask?

For some of us, these platforms are what we use to promote our work. And at some point, the lines between the personal and the public blur until it’s not clear what to share or what to keep to yourself.

No one wants to get married anymore. I mean some people still do, but that number is shrinking rapidly. The age of marriage has also increased, as more people go through more relationships than ever seen before. Everything feels so…temporary and elusive.

Thing is, if you were unhappy with your marriage a decade ago, there was only so much you could do about it. You could sign on to a chat room, or text your secretary, but both options ran a high risk of getting caught. You could also make an effort to fix what you had.

Nowadays though, you have all the temptation you could ask for in the palm of your hand–in the supermarket aisle and on the toilet seat. That little demonizing ‘buzz’ ready to steal your conscious attention enough times that you are intentionally seeking it out. An addiction? Perhaps. But to what? To attention? Validation? Acceptance?

All the things that one lover used to satisfy, can now be fulfilled by two, three, even two thousand other people. And it makes you wonder, is that why some of us opt out of love altogether?

Women hustle just as hard as men, so financially speaking, most of us don’t need to get married. Everything else we once enjoyed from love–sex, undivided attention, and support, is also easily accessible elsewhere. So the burning question remains: how do you settle on one person when there are so many other options?

The whole process of falling in love has shifted. Do we fall in love with a person, or a persona we see projected on our screens?

Have mind games multiplied since everything about online behavior is a fucking algorithm? Click on someone’s profile enough times and social platforms place them at the top of every list. Even if you wanted to tone down their importance, you’re reminded of them constantly.

I’m not complaining. But I am fascinated and terrified at the state of things. I feel perfectly split in the middle–half of me believes we are free to choose how we interact with each other. That flakes are flakes with or without the tools we have at our disposal. But the other half of me feels like this technology has added a dynamic to relationships that we don’t even know how to think about, let alone handle yet. This extra layer gives us a chance to express ourselves to more people in five seconds than we once could in five years. It allows us to numb our pain by constantly running away from it. It allows us to close a chapter of our lives as fast as we can open another one. We can follow and learn each other’s patterns, personality ticks, and on some level, it takes out a chunk of the guesswork.

And yet, even though so much is exposed, secrecy has never been used so cunningly. A finger tap to erase your verbal indulgences forever.

Is modern love as obsolete as an Instagram story? This is what I want to know. If I refuse to swipe right, will I get left behind or risk being naive in the modern dating world?

How many old souls are still waiting around for the old school romance we once heard about?

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Happy Birthday Chintu!

Tum pe likhna shuru kaha se karu,
‘PADA’ se karu ya ‘Chintu’ se karu,
tumhari dosti itni khubsoorat hai,
pata nahi tarif dawa se karu yaa dua se karu.

Hum ladte 👊hai, jhagadte 😜 hai,
koi baat nahi ae Dost,
Dost to sachhe hone chahiye achhe to kutte 🐶bhi hai😂😂

Duriyo se koi fark nahi padta,
Dosti to kuch aap jeiso se hoti hai,
warna mulakat to jane kitno se hoti hai!!

kuch rishte RAB banate hai
kuch rishte LOG banate hai ki
par kuch log bina kisi rishte ke rishte nibhate hai
Shayad wohi dost kehlate hai..

kabhi pasand na aaye meri dosti
toh saaf saaf keh dena Dost
Kasam se, Hans kar nikal jayenge teri zindagi se teri khushi ke khatir☺️☺️

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Not your type of a girl?

I’ll openly admit, I am the “no strings attached” type of guy’s worst nightmare. I’m clingy, I’m needy, I’m not the type of person who can just have a hook-up without expecting something. Normally the expectation is friendship because as we all know, relationships take a lot of work. Relationships can be too difficult to follow through with, and it’s easier just to have a friendship most of the time.

When someone says “no strings attached” I can’t help but assume that means they don’t want friendship, they don’t want anything past hooking up. That’s not the type of person I am. I’m the kind of person who wants to know someone before there’s any kind of involvement. I need to know the person I’m with cares, to at least some extent, anyway. 

We live in a hook-up culture. I get that. Not all people are looking for only hookups. There are definitely people that are looking for friendship, relationships and everything that comes with them. That’s great! For those people anyway.

Another thing I’ve picked up on from people saying “no strings attached” is that they may be looking for a long term hookup partner. A “fuck buddy” in most terms. They just ignore the “buddy” part of the title. It’s a “booty call.” Gwen Stefani says it in the best of terms, “I ain’t no hollaback girl.”

Think about it in realistic terms. If someone wants everything to be “no strings attached,” there are always going to be strings of some sort. If something happens in which you need the person to step up and act like a real human, they’re not going to be there. The person isn’t going to be there to care about you if you actually have an issue. If someone wants everything to be without strings, they’re not going to treat you like a human, either.

Personally, I don’t see the point in having something that’s no strings attached. Friendship isn’t too much to ask for. Friendship can take maintenance, but it also builds trust, it gives you knowledge of the person, you know what you’re getting into.

I’m not here to shame people that believe in a no strings attached type of situation. Everyone of appropriate age can make their own decisions, and they should be able to make their own choices. The point is, that type of life isn’t for me. Based on social media posts I’ve seen, people looking for a no strings attached situation have a reason for it. They’ve been hurt, they’ve been fucked over a few too many times, and they’ve given up on anything else, at least for the time being.

I’ve had some friends enter a no strings attached situation in hopes of changing the person. That’s not likely to happen. Every once in a great while, it can happen. They can convince the person they’re worth being more than a no strings attached situation. It doesn’t happen often, I’ve seen it happen once or twice, but more often than not, at least one side gets hurt.

There aren’t always reasons they’re looking for it, there may not be a deeper meaning behind what they’re looking for. Sometimes, they just want to have genuine no strings attached situation and that’s that. There’s no shame in that, people should not be made to feel ashamed for their sexual decisions unless they’re causing legitimate harm to another person.

I’m just saying that it’s not the life for me. I want a friendship, I want to trust someone, and genuinely care about them, and I want them to have the same kind of comfort with me. From what I’ve learned, no strings attached rarely works out. One of the parties is going to sprout some strings, and it can become a much more complicated situation than it was ever meant to be.

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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What’s really worth 12 million dollars?

Chintan told me about you.

I need you for the night of November Fourth.

Unlike many of your clients, I want very little from you. I’m conducting an experiment about the afterlife. You will not be harmed. You may even be bored.

I need you to make my heart skip a beat. I’m sure you’re familiar with that.

If you’re interested, respond with a location.

Nidhi Bhanushali

I get this email on a Thursday while scanning Google reviews of expensive restaurants, so of course, I say yes.

“There isn’t that much of a difference between getting paid for sex and getting paid to kill me,” Nidhi says, her fingers twirling the stem of her enormous wine glass. “Both are illegal. One’s just more illegal than the other.”

I press my thumbprint into the warm bread the waiter just brought to our table. She couldn’t wait for appetizers before bringing this up.

In part, it’s my fault. If a woman who looks like Katrina Kaif hires you for the night, it’s probably too good to be true.

“The technology is there, and I have the equipment,” she says, sipping the red. It stains her lips, which are oddly relaxed as if she’s rehearsed this speech before. “I’d be dead for no more than a minute—two minutes, tops.”

She emailed me a link to what she’d purchased “through a third party” and said she’d successfully tried it on her cat. That statement made me want to kill her a little bit, but not enough to be convicted of murder.

“I don’t get why you’re even doing this,” I say. “Can’t you just take peoples’ word for it that the afterlife is real?”

“No,” she says resolutely. “You can’t believe what someone says for publicity.”

And here I am, supposed to believe what this woman says about returning from the dead. “If the machine defaults, then what? I get put in prison for murder.”

“I’ve made up paperwork, and my lawyer is aware of the situation. I wouldn’t just leave you out to hang for this.”

I don’t know her well enough to believe that. “You have an answer for everything.”

“I’m a woman making eight figures a year,” she bites back. “I didn’t get here without being prepared.”

“And you don’t have someone to do this for you.”

The remark deflects off her like candlelight to the diamonds in her ears. “Not anymore,” she says. “Cancer’s a cunt.”

I stifle the urge to take pity on her; I don’t want to be sucked into this. “Is that why you want to die?”

“There’s no guarantee I’ll see anyone,” she said. “Not to sound insensitive, but this is about boredom. I’ve afforded everything that’s supposed to be interesting. And it fell flat.”

She is a psychopath. “You’re insane,” I say before I can catch myself.

“You were raised by two parents, went to a decent school, and you’re screwing for money so if I’m insane you’re in the same boat as me,” she shoots back. “Have you ever wondered why you’re alive?”

I roll my eyes. “I guess.”

“What did you come up with?”

Tearing off a hunk of bread, I chew before I answer her. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t think anyone knows,” she says. “Until they’ve died.”

I watch her eyes to see if they pop out, tracking any possible twitch. There’s nothing. If I hadn’t heard her words I would’ve imagined she just told me about a new business plan. There is nothing but logic in her gaze.

“Can’t you just do this in Japan?” I ask. “Is this normal there? I feel like they’re always doing crazy shit.”

“This isn’t normal anywhere,” she responds. “Hence the interest.”

“But it’s been done before? Successfully?”

“I told you I’ve done it myself.”

“On a cat. Which is really fucked up, by the way,” I say, gauging a reaction. She rolls her eyes.

“Don’t act so high and mighty. People kill animals all the time.”

I take a few sips from my wine, which tastes good for wine but not hard enough for this conversation. I want to ask for bourbon, but wonder why I’m still here. As I sit here with four hundred dollars of a reservation fee I can get up and leave with the story of a woman who wanted me to kill her. It would be enough material for several parties, and enough money for a few fancy dinners on my own.

“There’s something in this for you,” Nidhi says, crossing her legs elegantly under the table. There will never be a day when I can do that without bumping my knee. “I’m willing to pay a lot. I’m ready to suggest you to others who will do the same.”

“How much?” I ask, casually interested.

“How much would it take?”

I think for a moment, of a life where I can do anything. I think of an obscene number. “Ten million dollars.”

“Make it twelve,” she says, and the noise leaves the room. My heart is in my head and I feel the wine in my throat. “Twelve million dollars. For less than an hour of your time.”

On the way to Nidhi’s apartment, I ask to see the legal papers and she provides me with a copy. The only legal document I’ve ever taken part in was a restraining order against a client. This one is ten times thicker; it looks as if someone has written a manuscript of the Bible. It’s dense and she knows I won’t be reading the whole thing.

Maybe it’s her plan to bury me for this. Yet it seems a little far-fetched that she would die to incriminate a stranger. I have to stop making logic out of this. There is a check for twelve million dollars in my purse. Twelve million dollars. Tax-free.

I’m not even thinking of what to do with the money. That thought barely went through my mind after I found an excuse for doing this. If Nidhi comes back from the dead I may never be afraid of anything again. From what I’ve read of people coming back, there’s a lot of warmth and light. Overwhelming feelings of love and a renewed sense of compassion. It doesn’t sound so bad, really, but like her I have a small sense of doubt stem from not knowing the subjects. I want to know, not enough to kill myself, but enough to get paid for temporarily killing someone? Maybe.

“Do you believe in Hell?” I ask, almost off-handedly. As if Hell is such a stretch to two people who will murder or die to figure out what does exist.

“You think people who’ve never died can tell us what happens when you do?” she asks, then gives an absentminded small laugh. “I haven’t heard any witness say something about Hell. Are you worried?”

The more I think about it, I’m sure I’ll go there if it’s real. “A little.”

“Whatever is real, we’re going there anyway,” she says. “Seeing it doesn’t change anything.”

Nidhi shows me how to hook her up to an EKG, and jokes dryly how I could have been a nurse.

“I suppose it doesn’t pay well,” she says quietly after I don’t laugh.

“You could have gotten a nurse,” I respond.

She punches a few buttons and the screen glows, oddly familiar with the medical dramas I’ve watched. “No one used to obeying the law would do this.”

“For twelve million dollars?” I ask.

“Hmm,” she says, her mind not in the conversation. “Maybe I figured you’d be fine with what happens.”

“With what?” I ask, though her tone said nothing.

She brushes me off and pierces her own skin with a needle for the IV, or whatever it is that’s hooked up to her machine. I stare at it, averting my eyes from her fingers as she lays medical tape over her inner elbow. “When the machine hits 62 degrees, I want you to keep me under for ninety seconds.”

She gestures to the large digital timer on her bedside table. We’ve gone over this before but seeing her blood stream through tubes as she speaks the instructions gives me chills. She continues to talk for a few minutes before her speech starts to fade.

“Just…” she trails off, her eyes struggling for engagement in my direction. “Stay…”

Her mouth stops moving, though I hear a few humming noises as if she’s still trying to communicate. I realize under her lipstick that her lips have turned blue. The only color left in her cheeks is blush and bronzer, her lack of circulation illuminating disguise. In the contrast I can see a few scratch marks, that I imagine are a result of her pet experiment. Her eyes fade in and out, and her eyelids start to flutter closed. I watch them, something inside of me yelling to look away.

It has been seven minutes since she last spoke and her body temperature reads 88 degrees. Glancing back at her face I see her eyes open now, wider. I wonder if this is what fear looks like without facial expressions. For a few seconds, I have a strong urge to save her life.

As crazy as this is I want to know where she’s going if she’s going anywhere. I’m not a religious person, the only experience with religion I have being a brief stint in Sunday school when my parents needed free babysitting. I remember the ark was a big deal for me, but don’t know if they taught us about Hell. Maybe they figured we were too young to have to learn about it. Their talks were mostly packed full of angels and Jesus’s love for all of us, even the weird kids in the back that picked their noses and stuck what they found between the pages of the Bible.

I stopped believing when a Jewish girl in my second-grade class told me if I stuck up my middle finger God would send me to Hell, right then and there. That night I must have been curious because I did it underneath the covers, and the fires of the underworld didn’t open beneath my canopy bed. I’d thought they might. If God wasn’t watching me committing this heinous sin, I figured, He’s probably not out there.

Her body temperature is down to 81 degrees and her eyes are dead. Occasionally they shift. Her breathing is so shallow it’s almost nonexistent. She told me the machine will move oxygen for her, to just pretend that she’s meditating or in a deep sleep. Unfortunately that’s not so reassuring when you’re used to people who snore.

Something soft brushes my leg and I scream, feeling like I’ve just shed a layer of myself. I stare frozen down at the floor and see a cat, what must be her cat, staring up at me. It looks more cute than scary and I pick it up, letting it nestle into my lap as it watches its owner.

“Now you get revenge,” I say, and the cat purrs. I wish it could speak; maybe Nidhi would have believed what it saw.

Nidhi has passed hypothermia and I feel like her body has chilled the entire room. My skin has goosebumps and the cat’s fur feels cold and almost threatening. Softly it leaps from my lap to the bed, padding over to lie on Nidhi’s chest. As if her breathing wasn’t already shallow enough.

I watch the monitor– 73 degrees now. I wonder if Nidhi will be known as my strangest client. Of course, there are always odd ones, but a little research and I’ve learned to expect the guys who want to wear diapers or ask me to pee on them (one of the reasons I never eat asparagus anymore). The man who suggested me to her, Chintan Makwana, is a longtime client and a friend who often requests that I wear a full burka to see him. He works for the Pentagon.

I look around her room for a sweater or something to warm me up and for some reason my heart slows when I see her closet. It’s nothing to close a door but I’m on edge with this whole temporary murder thing and wonder what’s inside. I could get up and open it, look to see, but I shouldn’t leave the monitor. Ninety seconds, that’s all she can be dead for, the most precise timing I’ve ever had to deal with. I think I’ll probably flip the switch at eighty-five seconds just to be safe. That’s enough time to see the afterlife, I think.

Hopefully not too much time.

As her temperature hits seventy, cold sweats are running through my body. I feel nauseous. Even the cat seems nervous, and has risen to its paws from its place on Nidhi’s chest. It moves instead to her feet and stands there, occasionally glancing at me but mostly keeping its eyes on the dying woman in the room. I wonder if the cat is happy about this, the shoe being on the other foot now. Maybe it doesn’t want me to flip the switch.

68 degrees. I could flip it now, but don’t know if this is something a person can go through twice. She seems like someone who’d try it again, and if there’s anything at all out there I don’t think it’ll let her come back after tricking it. As it stands we’re fucking with some serious power here and I do not want anything bad to happen to me over this. Please don’t let this be the thing that opens up the underworld to suck me in. Because maybe flipping the bird just isn’t bad enough.

I don’t want to go to Hell. Just about everything in my life means that my only hope is it not existing in the first place.

Her temperature is 65 degrees and my stomach’s halfway up my throat as I watch it slowly drop to 62. The machine beeps and I almost faint.

In the end I left before Nidhi woke up, phoning 911 beforehand so she’d have someone with her when she regained consciousness. What I know from Chintan is that she’s happy, and she’s a yoga teacher now. He’s asked me if I wanted to know what she saw. He’s also asked me if I’d be willing to put him through it.

I have possibly permanent scars on my arms from what happened after she died. There are things in my head that I cannot un-see, though I’m not sure if I ever saw them. I know I felt them. Someone didn’t want her to come back. Nidhi, possibly, because she later sent me a package with a thousand-dollar cashmere sweater and a note saying:

Sorry for what I did when I was dead. Thanks for flipping the switch.

I want to ask her for her cat. I don’t know if I can wear the sweater. I can afford to buy one of my own now, but I haven’t really made a dent in the money she gave me. Instead, I’ve gone to church, not just church but temples and mosques, trying to hit up every religion to see if one matches with what I experienced (except for Scientology and Mormonism—I’m not crazy). And maybe a religion didn’t get it right. But who knows; there are literally thousands of them.

The only logical thing I can think of to do with the money is travel the world. Maybe I’ll go to India and study yoga and pretend to be Julia Roberts. Or I’ll take a road trip across the United States like Jack Kerouac. Everything that I can do is already a movie I’ve watched or a book I’ve read, but maybe I’ll find something different.

Because you can never take someone’s word for it, you know? You still have to figure it out for yourself.

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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How to hit a home run?

Sensitive content alert







The average clitoris is about 5 millimeters.

The average penis is about 130 millimeters.

That’s a size difference of over 25 times.

So in that spirit…

How to touch the clitoris:

When you’re touching a woman’s clitoris, imagine what feels good to your penis and shrink it down by a factor of 25. Take your basic penile stroke and divide by 25.

In other words, tiny movements. Not just the range of motion though. Also, use only about 1/25th the amount of pressure. Pressing into a clitoris to a depth of a couple sheets of paper is like squeezing into your hard penis by about the thickness of a pamphlet or a magazine. It’s a lot of pressure. There’s a ton of highly sensitive nerve endings crammed into that tiny space.

Maybe also try moving 25 times slower than you would do to yourself. Again, just as a starting place.

To give you a sense of what it feels like when you touch her without the 25x adjustment factor, imagine subjecting your dick to a jackhammer, or sandpaper. Too much.

So as a starting point, think of her clitoris as a tiny, ultra-sensitive penis and touch it accordingly. Then you are at least in the ballpark. Ask her what might make it better. Keep inviting her to give you honest feedback until she feels unabashedly at ease letting you know what she likes and what she wants.

How to touch the G-spot:

The G-spot isn’t like a hidden button that, if you find it and push it, lights her up like a video game, causing her to come instantly and be eternally devoted to you. You will not master the G-spot by reading Cosmo or men’s magazines. There isn’t a secret ninja technique involved.

But here’s an analogy that might help you find your way.

Let’s start with some anatomy.

Search for images of the clitoris and you will see something vaguely wishbone-shaped. At the top is the glans, the touchable little pencil eraser we’re all familiar with. The rest of it is inside her body. (And is more like 10cm altogether.) The clitoral shaft splits into two “legs” that run down either side of the vaginal canal. In principle, you could gently reach inside her, carefully press into the deeper soft tissue, and pleasurably stimulate those nerve bundles.

You can get a vague sense of what this might feel like, and how to go about exploring it. Because your penis is similar. It doesn’t just stop right at the base, it extends into your body. The shaft continues on behind your balls and runs just underneath the patch of skin between your legs, from your scrotum to your anus.

When you’re hard, you can feel the rigid shaft in there. And stimulating it feels… interesting. I’m not talking about the skin, which is nothing like the skin on your penis. But further in, the shaft itself, feels kind of similar down there as it does above. You can press into it. You can kind of reach around either side and almost grab it. Etc.

And playing with it can produce a range of sensations from very pleasant, to neutral, to not so great, depending on what’s being done. So let’s say your partner is sucking your cock. If she starts exploring this lower shaft area at the same time, it can add a lot. It can potentially feel fantastic. Not guaranteed though. The two of you would need to explore together what feels good. She may have mastered this with a previous lover, sending waves of ecstasy through his body doing this, but it doesn’t matter, it’s going to be different with you.

Get it? It’s very similar with her G-spot.

How to make her climax during intercourse:

When you’re inside of her it feels great. Kind of hard to imagine how it could possibly not feel as fantastic to her as it does for you. Aren’t you basically rubbing the same analogous parts against each other, her vaginal canal and your penis? They’re so perfectly matched for each other, aren’t they innie and outie equivalents?

Well as it turns out, no.

Let’s take a look at how our sex organs begin to form while we’re still in the womb. For awhile in the beginning, they’re neither male nor female. After the first couple months the hormones kick in, and the genitals start to differentiate into either male or female. There’s a tiny nub, a small patch of tissue, that will grow to become either a penis, or a clitoris.¹ And another area that develops into either the labia, or the scrotum. And so on. These are called homologous body parts.

The point is, your penis is not homologous to her vagina. The area that on her grows and becomes the uterus and vaginal canal, on you shrinks and more or less disappears.

So yes, having you inside of her feels good, and for some women it feels really really good, but not in quite the same way that it feels to you. Most of her sensitive parts are in and around the opening, not deeper inside of her.

Imagine having your scrotum gently fondled. Feels good. Might feel really good. Maybe there are even some guys who could climax from that alone. Generally speaking though, it’s not the primary get-off area for you.

Well, it’s like that with women and penetration. Her vaginal canal is just not anatomically where her primary get-off nerve endings are, though it might feel good or great in its own right.

If you want sex to feel as good to her as it does to you — and chances are you do — pay attention to the clitoris. That’s a good starting place.

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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The gypsy woman!

I will never forget that summer. It was August of 2011. My friend informed me that her aunt had a gift. I didn’t know it then, but that woman’s gift would end up changing my life.

You see, I’d never had my cards read before. I always believed in the paranormal, and I think it was that very belief that had kept me away from Tarot Cards for so long. However, this summer was different. I was desperate. I needed answers, and I didn’t really care who gave them to me or where they came from, so long as I could find an inkling of truth to help alleviate the nightmares that had been haunting me for far too long.

A year prior, I’d had a falling out with a friend. I missed her, and worried about her often. Her personality seemed to have shifted after a traumatic loss within her family, and I just needed to know if she was alright, because it wasn’t my place to ask her anymore. I had tried reaching out to her once at school after we had stopped talking, but she ignored my efforts. Consequently, I had been dreaming of her suicide for months. I just needed to be sure that the dreams were purely symbolic in nature, and not intuitive or foreshadowing an actual tragedy that might happen.

So, there I was. 17 years old, the summer before my senior year of high school, in my friend’s basement, sitting across from the woman who would change my life forever.

I never gave her any details about my situation or my concerns, and that was the way she liked it. She handed me her deck of cards, told me to shuffle them however I pleased, and then to break the deck in half and hand it back to her. That’s exactly what I did.

She laid out seven cards. The symbols and pictures on them meant nothing to me, but they told her everything that I didn’t.

“You’re missing someone? A girl?” She asked, placing a cigarette between her lips.

“Yes,” I sighed, “She wasn’t exactly my friend, but she may as well have been.”

“She misses you, too,” The woman said, flicking her lighter and holding the flame to the end of her cigarette, “But not for the same reasons you miss her.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. I knew exactly what she meant.

“She was using you. But you already know that, don’t you?” The woman smiled sympathetically, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the space between us. “She misses all of the things she could take from you.” She pointed to a card on the table. “You were also her scapegoat. She could blame you for her own shortcomings and faults. That’s why her mother didn’t like you. That girl blamed her own mishaps and bad ideas on you.”

 “I know,” I said, looking at the floor, “but I really cared about her.”

“I can see that,” The woman said, pointing to another one of the cards, “You cared so much, that you’re suffering from nightmares about leaving her behind. Is that right?”

“Yes,” I admitted, “I keep dreaming that she is going to kill herself.”

The woman shook her head, “She won’t. That is just your subconscious trying to process the trauma of losing her and what you thought was a friendship. She removed herself from your life. And now, to you, it feels as though she is dead. It feels like she may as well have killed herself, because of the way she departed your life so suddenly. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“She will be fine.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. That was my main concern.”

“However,” She picked up the card closest to me, “Death is in your cards. I don’t think it means anything though, probably just a manifestation of your own anxieties about your friend and the nightmares you’ve been having.”

She examined the cards more closely. She picked a couple of them up and rearranged them.

“Hmm. I’m sorry Darlin’, I’m not really seeing much else here. There might be something here symbolizing a changing of the seasons, but that might just mean the transition going on in your heart, as you move on to the next phase in your life and let your friend go.”

I smiled politely, and reached out my hand to shake hers and thank her. When she took my hand, the expression on her face shifted, and the energy in the room intensified. She narrowed her eyes and stared at me through the cigarette smoke lingering between us.

 “I see needles,” She said, “Did you recently get a tattoo or a piercing done?”


“Do you or someone close to you have Diabetes?”

“I mean, my grandma-”

“No,” She interrupted, then held her other hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. “Do you know someone who is into heavy drugs? Heroin, maybe?”

My eyes widened. “Y-yes, actually. One of my other friends, Tanvi. But she said-”

“She’s clean.” The woman finished my sentence for me, still holding my hand. “I’m sorry Darlin’, but that just isn’t the truth.”

“What do you mean?” I asked reluctantly.

“I don’t want to startle you. Nothing is set in stone, and my interpretation could be off, but I feel like something is going to happen to your friend Tanvi. With the shift of the seasons, when the leaves begin to change.”

“Okay…” I shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the woman’s stare, “Say this is true, what can I do to prevent it from happening?” I asked, trying to keep my composure.

“Tell her that you know she isn’t clean. Tell her that in the fall, September maybe, she is going to get a really good batch. It will be stronger and purer than anything she is used to. Tell her to take it slow, to divide it in to smaller portions than she normally would. Because she won’t see it coming.”

I shook my head and pulled my hand away. “I don’t know if she will believe me, or listen. If she actually is clean, I don’t want to discourage her progress by making false accusations of her relapsing.”

“I understand,” The woman took one last puff from her cigarette, and snuffed it out on the ashtray beside her. “All you can do is try.”

The next day, I told my sister about the reading I had received while at my friend’s house. I told her that Tanvi was lying to us about her recovery and that she might overdose in September. My sister decided to reach out to Tanvi in the most logical, sensitive way that she could. Of course, Tanvi completely dismissed her efforts.

“I totally believe in that stuff,” Tanvi wrote in Facebook Messenger, “But I think that lady was blowing smoke up your ass.”

“I would just rather be safe, sound crazy, and tell you now, instead of being sorry later.” My sister typed.

“I appreciate your concern, Love.” Tanvi sent multiple heart emojis, followed by,” But I am clean. I promise you that.”

At the time, that had been enough. Hearing from Tanvi had been the confirmation that we needed. She would be fine. She was clean and going back to school in a few weeks to finish her nursing degree. She was engaged, and her life was finally falling in to place. For the first time in a long time, she was happy and healthy. Nothing could get in her way.

Or so we thought.

I will never forget what happened after that. On September 8th, 2011, I had just finished my first week of my senior year of high school. I was walking home after class and catching leaves as they fell from the trees around me. I was so happy to see that the first of the leaves were beginning to fall, and the summer heatwaves would soon return to the depths of Hell where they had come from. I remember turning the corner on to my street and feeling my mood shift as I noticed my sister standing in our driveway, waiting for me.

When my sister noticed me, she started running down the street to meet me.

“What are you doing?” I asked, as she reached her arms out toward me. “Why are you hugging me? We only do this when-”

“When someone dies.” She finished my sentence for me.

“What? What happened?” I asked, pushing her away from me.

“Do you remember what you told me last month?” She wiped her eyes on her shirt.

“No? When?”

“Do you remember what that woman said? The one with the Tarot Cards?” Her voice broke.

I stared at her blankly, trying to recall what she might be talking about.

“It’s Tanvi,” my sister whispered. “She’s dead.”

I tried to speak, but suddenly, my mouth was dry and my tongue felt like it had grown three times its size. Finally, I managed to choke out one word.


My sister took a deep breath and looked up at the sky before answering.


It has been 8 years since we lost our friend. The foretelling of her death may have been pure coincidence, but even with the warning, none of us saw it coming. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about Tanvi, or wonder if she is still around us in some unseen way. I feel her presence all of the time, and I often hear her voice in the back of my mind, encouraging me to pick up a pen and write.

So, Tanvi, this one’s for you.

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Killer smart home!

I spent the last few days petsitting for my boss at his three-story mansion of a home. I actually got paid to spend time with the bounciest, fluffiest dog in the universe. Even better, I was encouraged to stay in their guest room, which was bigger than my entire apartment. Lucky me, right? I thought so too. I’ve been Instagramming the hell out of this place, bragging to all my friends about the talking fridge and the automated sinks and the shower that remembers your ideal water temperature.

But what’s that phrase people like to throw around? Social media shows off everyone’s greatest hits but not their behind-the-scenes? Well. My behind-the-scenes sucked. Like, they were starting to scare me they sucked so much. I don’t believe in ghosts, and I certainly don’t believe in robot uprisings or any of that sci-fi crap, but something weird went down in that house.

It started in the bathroom. Like the rest of the house, it had the works. A mirror that lights up when you apply your makeup. Speakers in the walls to play any music you ask Alexa. A heated toilet seat that keeps you cozy while you’re doing your business.

I was trying out that toilet seat for the first time, almost ready to wipe, when the thing got hot. Too hot. It went from warm to scolding in two seconds flat. I jumped onto my feet as fast as possible, but it was too late. When I checked their full-length mirror, I had burn marks spread across my thighs and cheeks. Fucking embarrassing. I was too chickenshit to tell the owners what had happened and ask them how to readjust the settings, so I borrowed some Aloe vera and called it a day. The next few times I had to pee, I hovered.

The next few hours were completely fine. Fantastic, even. My boss didn’t really need a petsitter when the dog bowl filled itself according to a timer and the backdoor opened whenever it sensed the dog standing in front of it. But they didn’t want him to get lonely, they wanted him to socialize. So I played fetch in their backyard. I tugged his rope toys and spread peanut butter on a bone.

Taking care of him was easy peasy. Things didn’t get weird again until I tried taking care of myself. All I wanted was some Mac and Cheese. I had an entire fridge of gourmet food but couldn’t hide my twenty-five-year-old, poor-kid cravings.

I put a pot underneath the sink and it filled automatically, stopping in exactly the right spot. Then I moved the pot onto the stove and it started cooking without me programming a thing. So I left it alone like an idiot. I flopped on the couch (on my stomach because my butt hurt like a motherfucker from the burns) and got distracted watching Disney+.

Maybe I was supposed to program the timer myself. Maybe I shouldn’t have relied on the smart home to handle everything on its own. Either way, it was too late for the what-ifs. The thing caught on fire. A small fire, not enough to set off alarms, but still a fire.

There weren’t any buttons or knobs on the stove, so I couldn’t figure out how to turn the damn thing off. I tore apart cabinets searching for an extinguisher — and that’s when the dog started barking. The house heard and spoke to him with a preprogrammed message. “Don’t worry,” my boss’ voice said. “We’re going to be home soon, bud. Here’s a treat.” And an extra bone dropped into his dish.

That put the obvious idea in my head. I should talk to the house. I started screaming random commands. EXTINGUISH. FIRE. STOVE. FUCK YOU. HELP. I don’t know which one worked but ceiling sprayers went off. Water sprinkled over the stove. The flames died.

The dog was perfectly happy, munching on his bone, while my stomach growled. I dumped my burnt dinner and settled on eating some leftover Halloween candy found in the cupboard. Who needed lunch anyway? I would wait a few hours and order Postmates for dinner.

In the meantime, I decided to shower. To relax. To forget about all my fuckups.

Before my boss and his family left on their vacation, his wife helped me preprogram my own personal settings. I chose my ideal water temperature and water pressure and playlist. All I had to do was say: “Alexa, start Cassandra’s shower,” and it should activate my ultimate shower experience. 

I stepped inside the cube. The shower was glass on all four sides. A modern look. Like something you would see in a magazine.

I said the magic words and the shower started spraying, the music started playing, I started to forget everything that had gone wrong that day.

But slowly, the water got a little hotter. And a little hotter. And a little hotter.

“Stop,” I said. “Cold water, please. Too hot. Stop. Lower the temperature. Colder.”

In another minute, it grew from uncomfortably warm to as scalding as the toilet seat. There would be burns across my entire body if I stayed in for much longer. I tried to push out the door, but it wouldn’t budge. It had sealed. Locked me inside.

“No no no,” I said. “Stop. Off. Turn off. Shower off.”

The music turned off instead. It was replaced by a female voice. My boss’s wife.

Her preprogrammed message consisted of seven words: “I know you’ve been fucking my husband.”

Then the door unlocked. The water sputtered to a stop. I scrambled out of the shower, dripping wet.

I stuffed myself into my clothes, booked it out of the house, called an Uber, and started writing this on my Notes app.

I’m not sure whether I should contact the police or quit my job and forget about the whole thing. After all, she’s right. I screwed with her family. I slept my way into her fancy house. Maybe I deserved all this bullshit. I don’t know… All I know is, I’m never fucking with a smart home again.

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Maybe she’s coming for you!

My Dearest Kyra,

I’m writing this because I feel it would be far too difficult to talk to you in person. I also need you to hear me out, without rolling your eyes or interrupting me. There are some things that have happened that your father and I never told you about. We tried to bury it and move on because as quickly as it all had come into our lives, it was gone. Sometimes, I wonder if the whole thing had just been a figment of our collective imaginations; Maybe we were all just stressed out at the time of my pregnancy with you, having just moved into a new house, and trying to prepare everything for your arrival. However, as your mother, knowing that you are currently carrying my unborn granddaughter in your belly, I feel it is my responsibility to tell you what happened to us when I was still pregnant with you.

When I saw you last weekend, you looked so tired. I know the dark circles under your eyes weren’t the shade of exhaustion that typically comes with the third trimester of pregnancy. They looked far too familiar, like the ones I had carried under my eyes during that spring of 2019. I’m going to go with my instincts and trust that they mark the presence of something far more sinister.

You see, Kyra, It all started that spring when you were still growing in my belly. Your father and I had rented this house on the west side of Delhi. With your big brother and grandma also living with us, we needed a house with more space to accommodate our growing family. We were running out of time and funds, so when we found that place, we eagerly took it and never looked back.

In the beginning, we were so happy. The house was everything we needed. Your brother, almost three years old at that time, finally got his own bedroom. We were so excited to make a home for ourselves and prepare to welcome you, because we knew you were coming that summer. We were so relieved to have a place to call our own again. It was nice to not have to answer to anybody.

The first two months of living there are kind of a blur now. Strangely enough, nothing really happened during that time. All of the activity started that April.

The first strange occurrence that I can remember, happened when I was trying to take a nap upstairs. Our bedroom was finally completely unpacked, and I was exhausted. I had been having difficulty sleeping lately. With my pregnant belly, finding a comfortable position to sleep in had become a challenge. When I was finally about to drift off to sleep, I heard a creaking coming from the floorboards in our room. Initially, I had thought that it was your father, coming home early from work. It wasn’t until I opened my eyes that I realized not only was the creaking actually coming from behind the headboard of our bed but that the sounds were coming from inside of our bedroom wall.

When your father got home later that day to find me sleeping on the couch, I told him what I had heard, and he validated that he had been hearing strange noises coming from inside the walls for a few days. He said that he would hear scratching from inside of the walls sometimes late at night when I was asleep, but he didn’t want to wake me up or scare me. Your father even said that he tried to investigate what the source of the noises were on his own, but found that the door to the cubby that lead to the inside of the walls had been drilled shut by either the landlord or a previous tenant of the home.

After we both confirmed to each other what we had been hearing, it got worse. Kyra, I swear, there were nights where the scratching in the walls turned in to thumping. Only then, it wasn’t just coming from inside of the walls, It sounded like it would move up the walls, and in to the ceiling. However, that was impossible, because there wasn’t enough space between the roof and our ceiling for any animal to wedge itself up there, let alone move around. But I swear to you, that is what we heard. Except it sounded more human than animal; Boney knees and elbows scurrying clumsily across our bedroom ceiling.

I hated sleeping in that room without your father. On days when I couldn’t take it anymore and desperately needed to take a nap while your father was at work, I would lay down in the living room, on the couch. However, it wasn’t long before strange things started happening in there, too.

One night after work, your father was in the living room playing video games while sitting on the couch. He had this headset on that allowed him to hear what was going on in the game, and interact with other people who were playing the game in different locations. At the time, he was really focused on what was happening on the TV screen in front of him. Then, out of nowhere, he felt someone physically tap on his headset, on the piece that had been covering his ear. His automatic assumption had been that your brother, Bhuvan, had snuck out of his room and on to the couch while your father was distracted. When he looked around and discovered that he was all alone in the room, he quickly got up and checked in on Bhuvan, only to find him sound asleep. As well as everyone else in the house.

Later that week, I was sitting in the living room and folding laundry when I heard your grandma call me from her bedroom. I tossed the clothes aside, carefully got up, and waddled my pregnant self in to her bedroom to see what she wanted. When I got there, she looked at me in confusion.

“Well, what do you want?” I asked, impatient with the way she was just staring at me.

“What? Nothing.” She said.

“Then why the hell did you just call me and make me come all the way in here?”

“Megan,” she said, sitting up from her bed, “I never called you. I was laying in here looking at my phone.”

I wasn’t the only one hearing voices. It might have been that same day when your father was sitting in the living room, and Grandma came in and said, “What?”

Your father looked at her and said “I didn’t say anything.”

“Boney, I just heard you call my name. What’s up?”

He looked at her and laughed nervously, “Tammy, I didn’t call you. I swear.”

Then, they both heard me call “Hey you guys, come here for a second!” from the kitchen.

Your father and grandmother both looked at each other suspiciously, then walked in to the kitchen, only to find it empty. They both started yelling my name, thinking I might have gone down stairs.

“What’s up?” I asked, walking into the kitchen behind them, “Why are you yelling? I just got Bhuvan to lay down for a nap.”

They both turned around and stared at me in horror.

“You were in Bhuvan’s room this whole time?” Grandma asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“Then who the hell just called us in to the kitchen?” Your father asked, locking the door to the basement.

“Who called me in to the living room right before that?” Grandma asked, terrified.

I looked back and forth between their faces, just to make sure they weren’t trying to pull one over on me. When I decided that they were both genuinely confused and frightened, I said, “Was it like earlier when you called me in to your bedroom, but it wasn’t you?” I asked Grandma, goosebumps consuming every inch of my body.

A few nights later, I was awoken by my phone at 4 in the morning. It was your grandmother, calling me from her room downstairs. When I answered, she was sobbing.

“Megan can you come down here please?”

“Mom, what’s wrong? What time is it?”

“Please hurry,” She whispered, terrified, “And don’t hang up until you get here.”

“Mom, I gotta pee-”

“No!” She started sobbing again, “Come down here right now!”

So, I waddled as quickly as my swollen ankles would allow, and rushed in to her room. I turned the light on, and found her hiding under her blankets in bed.

“Mom, what the hell?”

I turned the light on and hurried over to her bed.

She pulled the covers off of her and looked at me in complete fear.

“There was someone, or something here,” She choked, “I felt it sit on the edge of my bed! I thought it was Bhuvan crawling into bed with me, but it didn’t move. I just felt the weight on my mattress and blankets, and then it was just still and silent and wouldn’t move. I couldn’t pull the blankets out from under its weight or anything! If it was Bhuvan, he would have moved. He would have struggled to climb into bed with me. It wasn’t him!”

“Mom, hold on,” I handed her the box of tissues off of her night stand. “Are you sure it wasn’t-”

“It wasn’t a dream, Megan! I felt it sitting here with me! I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and hid under what blankets I could and called you. It was still sitting there as I was on the phone with you! When I heard your footsteps coming down the stairs, I felt it move. It got up, but I don’t think it left. It’s still in here, I can feel it-”

“Mom, it’s okay. I believe you. weird stuff has been happening around here lately.”

She blew her nose and nodded in agreement.

“I know you’re scared, but I’m gonna go check on Bhuvan real quick. I gotta make sure he’s okay.”

“Yes, go!”

Thankfully, when I checked on your brother that night, he was fine. He was sound asleep in his bed. However, the phone that we kept in his room that doubled as a nightlight as well as a source of soothing music to help him sleep, had been turned off and was on the floor on the other side of the room. We always kept it on the dresser, where he couldn’t reach it. judging from where we usually kept it and where I found it, there is no way it just fell off of the dresser. It was like something had to have grabbed it and flung it to the other side of his bedroom. This realization scared the hell out of me, because now, whatever had been happening in our house was getting physical. What else could it do?

All of these occurrences had happened inside of the first two weeks of April. On April 15th, 2019, I had one of the scariest nightmares of my life.

I had dreamed that your cousins, the ones I used to babysit as children, were staying at our house. They were little again, and they had been sleeping on our bedroom floor. In my dream, one of them had awoken and was crying. She pointed down the hallway toward the stairs and said, “There’s something there!”

I tried to soothe her, but she wouldn’t calm down.

“Something is over there!” she insisted.

Just then, in the dream, I heard a noise coming from the hallway. It was a rapid thudding, accompanied by quick, raspy breathing. The only way to describe it is that it sounded like something was crawling quickly toward us.

“Okay you two, get up here!” I yelled, frantically grabbing at the children, trying to yank them in to my bed with me, “Get in this bed right now! I don’t know what that is but I want you to get behind me right now-”

And then I saw it.

A grotesque hand reached around the corner of my dream and grabbed the edge of the wall. The fingers were long and inhuman, the knuckles gnarled as if they had been riddled with decades of arthritis. In that moment, I prayed as hard as I could not to have to see who– or what— was attached to that hand.

Before I could scream, I saw a face peek around the corner and glare at me. It was the most disgusting, horrific face that I have ever seen. It makes me feel physically ill to even write about it now. It was the face of what can only be described as a hag. As soon as we made eye contact, the thing unhinged its jaw and let out the shrillest, most nauseating scream I have ever heard in my life. Then it turned away, shape shifting in to a dark shadow, and flew into the bathroom.

Running on pure rage and adrenaline, I jumped off of the bed and chased after it. I entered the bathroom just in time to watch the dark mass fly down the drain of the bathroom sink and disappear.

I awoke from that dream in a cold sweat. I got up, ran to the bathroom, and threw up.

The second half of that April was pretty stagnant, as far as any paranormal activity goes. I mean, your father and I continued hearing the scratching and thumping in the walls and ceiling. As a result, we were exhausted and irritable all of the time, but there were no more nightmares or physical evidence of anything strange happening.

Then, on April 30th, 2019, everything came to a head. It was my 25th birthday, and we were all sleep-deprived, including your grandmother who had been terrified to sleep in her own room, absolutely insistent that there was a presence in there. On that day, your father and I had wanted to go out and run some errands, and we asked your grandma to watch your brother, so we wouldn’t have to get him dressed and worry about him coming with us. We wanted to get things done quickly, and it would just be easier to leave your brother home. Of course, we were all tired and snapping at each other on this day. Grandma was giving me a hard time about having to babysit, so I finally got fed up and told her we would just take Bhuvan with us. At the last minute, Grandma changed her mind and agreed to watch him for us. I still thank God that she did.

I had grabbed your brother’s coat and a blanket, because I had thought we were going to have to take him with us. When grandma finally said she would watch him, I was so exhausted and frustrated and desperate to get the hell out of the house, that I took his coat and blanket with me without realizing it. When I got in the car, I sat with them on my belly, then put my seat belt on.

Kyra, I don’t even remember where we were headed on that day. All I know is, one minute your father was driving and everything was fine, and then the next, I heard a high-pitched, eerily shrill scream that was familiar in the most awful way. Then, our car lurched forward, then sideways. There was an explosion of glass all around us. The little shards of glass flew in front of my face in slow motion, collecting the sunlight and shimmering with the promise of tomorrow and the potential death of that day. In that moment, all I could think of was you as my head whipped involuntarily this way and that. When the car finally fell silent again, the only heartbeat I was desperate to hear was your own.

As it turns out, some asshole had run a red light. The scream that I had heard, the same exact one from my nightmare, had been his tires skidding across the pavement. Somehow, he had managed to hit the back of our vehicle, spin out, then come back and hit us from the side.

When the initial shock passed, and we realized we were both okay, your father and I both turned and looked at the back seat. We both gasped in horror as we saw your brother’s car seat mangled in the wreckage, among the shattered glass and the dented frame of the back car door.

Returning home later that day, after assessing our injuries and discussing the damages and everything that had happened, we realized how truly lucky we were. All at once, everything began to add up in a way that, to this day, I cannot believe was a coincidence.

You see, Kyra, if all of these strange things hadn’t been happening in our home for the last month, we all wouldn’t have been so exhausted. If we weren’t so exhausted that morning, we would have taken your brother with us. Bhuvan would have been in that car seat during the collision of that other vehicle. Bhuvan would not have come home with us. He would not have survived.

If Bhuvan had come with us, he also would have been wearing his winter coat and that blanket I brought for him. If he had been wearing his winter coat and using that blanket, I never would have absentmindedly placed them on my pregnant belly before putting on my seat belt that day. If I didn’t have Bhuvan’s coat and blanket with me to cushion the impact of my belly against that seat belt, I might have ended up with far worse injuries than whiplash that day. What I’m saying, Kyra, is that you might not be here, reading this letter.

As terrifying as that month had been for us, looking back now, I can’t help but wonder if maybe that horrifying woman, who we all believe was also the source of all of the paranormal activity that had been occurring around our house, had possibly been an omen. Maybe the purpose of her presence in our lives had been to prepare and warn us of what was yet to come. Maybe, in some way, she had been protecting us, from the sinister intentions of something else.

All I know is, after that car accident, everything stopped. We never heard voices that we had mistaken for each other calling our names from different rooms in the house. Grandma began to sleep normally again, because she felt as though the presence had finally left. Nothing ever visited her bedside again. Nothing moved in Bhuvan’s room without explanation after that. Even the scratching and thumping in our bedroom walls and ceiling stopped after that car crash.

I have spent days upon days researching and looking for a plausible explanation for what happened to us that spring. At the time, we had thought that she simply came with the house. We thought maybe, she was a spirit residing within the walls who we had awoken after moving in. However, that never made sense, because the activity didn’t start until two months after we had already been there. There was something about that April, like it had been cursed. The only thing I have come up with– the only thing that kind of fits our experience– is this creature, known as The Banshee. Irish Lore has it that The Banshee is an ancient female spirit whose screams forewarn of an impending death within a household. In our situation, her scream sounded exactly like the screeching tires of the vehicle who ran the red light and almost took everything from us on that fateful day, all of those years ago.

As I mentioned earlier, I am writing this letter to you because I have noticed how you have been plagued with exhaustion lately. I have also noticed how you and your husband have been snapping at each other in a way that I have never seen before. I know something is happening.

Tell me, have you been having nightmares? Are you hearing voices calling to you from another room, only to find that nobody is there? Has there been scratching or any other noises coming from within your bedroom walls?

Kyra, I felt a presence sit on my bed last night. I believe it is her. I think this woman, this Banshee, has returned to warn us once again. Only this time, I believe she has come for you.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Peek a boo!

The other day, I made the mistake of watching Shane Dawson’s newest conspiracy theory video. He talked about how there were a growing amount of apartment buildings and Airbnbs with hidden cameras — and how easy it was to disguise them. He showed cameras installed in tissue boxes. Smoke detectors. Clocks. Pens. Water bottles. Picture frames. Outlets. Screws. Phone chargers. They were nearly impossible to detect, even when you were actively looking for them. It scared the crap out of me.

The problem is, I rent my apartment. My landlord has keys to my place in case I lock myself out or there’s an emergency where he needs to barge inside. I never really worried about it before, even though the apartments on either side of me were empty, undergoing renovations, leaving me pretty much isolated. My landlord might have been a weirdo, but I felt confident he would never sneak inside while I was in my bathrobe.

But what if he snuck inside when I wasn’t home? What if he installed some of those baby cameras and watched me in my bathrobe from his room on the other side of the complex?

The thought freaked me out. I tossed on a sweatshirt to cover myself and slipped into big, fuzzy socks in case he had some kind of foot fetish. Then I swept the room with a blacklight, on the hunt for miniature cameras smaller than a thumbnail.

The fact that I found nothing should’ve calmed me down, but the longer I looked, the more memories came flooding back to me. The time he asked me whether I enjoyed The Circle finale, even though I’d never mentioned being a fan. Or when he volunteered to come in and fix my sink before I even told him it was broken. There were a million little moments where he knew too much. Moments I overlooked, brushed right off.

He couldn’t have known any of that information unless he was watching me. He had to be watching me. I was sure of it.

I continued searching for cameras, tearing the place apart in the process. I ripped my shower curtain to shreds. Disconnected my smoke detectors. Smashed a clock open. Disassembled outlets, almost electrocuting myself.

I was about to crack apart my television when my almost boyfriend texted me. He got off from work early. He wanted to see me.

I looked around the room, seeing the place with his eyes. He would think I was crazy if he stopped over. Maybe I was crazy. Maybe my landlord was a friendly old man who heard me playing The Circle a little too loud and found something wrong with the pipes leading to my sink.

There was no way I would have time to clean up the mess I’d made in my apartment, so me and my almost made plans to meet at a restaurant.

I was about to leave for our date, dressed in a tight blue dress, when I noticed something on my bedroom wall. I thought it was chipped paint or a leftover screw, but the dark splotch was something else.

Not a camera. A hole.

It turned out I was wrong about him watching me on secret cameras. He was watching me from inside the next apartment.

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Sweet Dreams!

Suhani had vivid dreams ever since she was a child. No sooner would she close her eyes than a movie would start playing, or at least that’s what she called them when she was too young to understand what they were. ​Mama, I watched a movie when I slept last night. Rishi was in it, she was alive, ​she would tell her mom in the morning over breakfast. She often dreamt of different family members, or characters in books that she read, or people from a movie she watched before bed. A few times she tried thinking about certain people right before she fell asleep to see if she could control who she dreamt about, but she couldn’t.

For weeks on end, she would have nightmares. She’d dream about death, about cats with long nails clawing her eyes out, she’d dream about drowning or about being stuck in the house while it blazed on fire. On those nights she’d wake up screaming or in a cold sweat. She’d slide off of her twin bed and walk quietly over to her sister’s. Slowly and very carefully Suhani would fill whatever space was left on the bed. Breathing in tandem with her sister until she fell back asleep. 

The dreams and nightmares followed her well into her teens and adulthood. Boyfriends would break up with her because they couldn’t sleep with her. When she was twenty-one she went to Mumbai with her then-boyfriend and dreamt every night there. One night she dreamt of a monkey in a red suit and hat, slapping symbols together. He was sitting in a bucket seat on some kind of contraption sliding up and down the hotel room wall; the monkey’s head slamming the ceiling, getting louder with every bump.

Suhani woke up laughing hysterically. When she tried to explain the dream to her boyfriend, he rolled his eyes and said, ​Even when you dream, you’re a lot to handle.

Suhani was used to hearing this, or versions of it. She had an overactive imagination, she lied a lot, she told and wrote stories for hours on end. She was dramatic and even the lightest push or shove from her sister turned into ​Mom, Meera keeps hitting me! I’m bruising everywhere! ​In elementary school, Suhani lied about headaches and stomach aches nearly every week. She’d stay home from school or get her mom to come pick her up before lunch because she “felt so sick.”

Eventually, her parents stopped believing her. Stopped giving in to her every cry for help. Her stomach aches and her headaches were ignored. They refused to pick her up or let her stay home. Suhani would have to spend recesses indoors, hiding from the children who made fun of her for her glasses, her mortadella sandwiches, or the way her dad was always dirty from his construction job. She would hear their taunting in her dreams.

In high school it was a lot easier to blend in, to become invisible. She had to wear a uniform, sat at the back of every class, and refused to bring a packed lunch. It was in grade eleven that Suhani decided to take control of the high school dynamic. turned every confrontation into a scandal. She wrote anonymous stories for the school newspaper and spread rumors like wildfire. She loved the drama, loved to create scenarios that could match the excitement and fear of her dreams.

She wrote these rumors in the form of poems or short stories and was careful to mix fact and fiction as subtly as possible. After weeks of being made fun of in gym class by Khushi and Sufiyana, the prettiest and thinnest girls in grade 11, she took matters into her own hands. She crafted a poem that she is still proud of. One involving a cheating boyfriend and a sex scene reminiscent of Jack and Rose in the back of the car. The boyfriend looked insanely similar to Sufiyana’s and the girl he was having sex with looked a little too much like Khushi.

A few days after the poem was published Sufiyana ran into the cafeteria, screaming at Khushi for being a HUGE WHOREY SLUT. Sufiyana defended herself while the boyfriend backed away slowly. The screaming turning into a girl-on-girl brawl and the school was never the same.

Now, at the age of thirty-five, after giving birth to her own set of twins, Suhani still dreams. She doesn’t lie like she used to, she doesn’t crave the creation of drama. She’s had enough of both. She spends her energy trying to understand her dreams. She dissects them, mulls them over in her mind, asks her husband about them, keeps a notebook by her bed and documents every dream she has. Her bookshelf is full of books about dreams and she spends a lot of time researching their meaning. She finds comfort in seeing the books on the shelf even if she didn’t always like what they were trying to tell her.

Now, it’s rare for Suhani to have the same dream twice unless she’s really bothered by something. Since giving birth to her daughters thirty-three days ago, she’s had the same dream almost every night. When she wakes it feels like she’s been stuck in a memory rather than a dream. On the thirty-fourth morning of having the same dream, she calls her sister.

​I’ve been having the same dream for over a month. I was standing by a large window in a white, grey and yellow kitchen. It looked like a test kitchen; the kind of kitchen you see on The Cooking Channel or in a magazine. It looked like I was on a T.V. set but it felt and smelled like it was lived in. If you looked closely enough at the walls you could see scuff marks and coffee stains. You could see the paint chipping on the window sill. It was oddly warm inside; I felt sweat droplets on my temples. I stood next to a man who was, and wasn’t, Sanjeev Kapoor. I felt too at peace for it to be him. It looked like him, it spoke like him, but it just couldn’t BE him. Even the me in my dream knew that I would never be standing beside him, ever again. Not after what he did.”

“Okay, so what happened?” Meera asked,

“I’m a child in this dream, I can tell by the way he towers over me. There’s a huge stainless steel bowl on the counter in front of us filled with a yellow doughy substance. The mixture is so tart that when I lean in and take a whiff, I can feel my cheeks pinch back and my mouth begin to water. I know that there’s lemon in the concoction but we don’t discuss this, Non-Sanjeev Kapoor and me. We pretend like it’s supposed to be there.

Supposed to be taking over our senses. I reach for the icing sugar and pour a mountain of it into the bowl. I grab the hand-mixer and turn the power on HIGH before I even get it into the bowl. The whole kitchen fills with a cloud of sugar. A thick, wet, fluffy sickly sweet and sour snowstorm pours down on us.

Non-Sanjeev begins to laugh. A volcanic, guttural laugh is about to erupt from my mouth, where a SORRY should be coming. I can hear a ‘sorry’ but it’s coming from the lips of Non-Sanjeev, in between bouts of laughter. The dream ends with my laughter echoing so loud in the big, bright, beautiful kitchen that I wake up with a smile on my face. I didn’t think he would ever be able to make me laugh again.”

Her sister is silent. Breathing into the phone, letting her thoughts marinate.

“What do you think it means? I haven’t thought about him in years,” Suhani asks.

“Suhani, it’s been exactly five years since he drove his car into oncoming traffic. It’s probably that” she replies matter-of-factly.

“Do you still believe it was suicide? The police said he hit a sheet of black ice and went flying.”

“Oh, I know what the police said but I think his guilt was festering all those years and killed him from the inside.”

After his divorce, Sanjeev Kapoor moved in with their family when they were ten-years-old. Suhani and Meera were excited, he was the fun uncle who doted on both of them. Took them out for ice cream and let them stay up late when he babysat. Meera would fall asleep on the couch and Suhani would be wide awake, not being able to fall asleep until the movie was over.

Meera lets out a big sigh, “Suhani, a real Uncle, doesn’t do what he did to you. A real uncle doesn’t lie or use you. He doesn’t ask you to keep secrets when you’re too young to understand what’s going on. Just because he’s blood doesn’t make him family.”

“Not according to Mom – she still doesn’t believe me,” Suhani walked to her refrigerator and opened the door absentmindedly.

“He’s her little brother and you were such a goodman liar as a kid. No one wants to believe the worst in people,” Meera said, “Listen, we both love mom but I’ll never forgive either of them for this. Can you fucking imagine if this happened to your girls?”

Suhani reached for the jug of water filled with thick lemon wedges and pulled it out of the fridge. She slowly grabbed a vintage blue tumbler from the cupboard and poured herself some water. A lemon wedge fell into her glass, making the water jump, splashing her wrist.

“I think you just wanted him to say sorry, to apologize for what he did to you. That’s what this dream is really about. It’s okay to be happy he’s gone – I fucking am. Suhani, your past is not you. Don’t let him hurt you when he’s not even here.”

Suhani silently wiped her tears while thinking about what to say next. She wanted to put into words how guilty she felt, how angry she still was, how every time she looked at their mother and she saw bits of her uncle it made her sick. She wanted to tell her sister that she wished she could tell her mother exactly what happened all those years ago, all over again. She wanted to admit how mad she was that their mother didn’t believe what was going on. How could she?

As the scent of lemon hit the back of her nose, she replied, ​You’re right.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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My take on relationships (Vidhi Mehta)

When we say a word Relationship the very first thing comes to our mind is LOVE.
Relationship is not only about love …it is about understanding, a strong bond, lots of trust, some matured conversations, little bit possessiveness, insecurities, jealousy,etc…
We are always ready to do every possible or impossible things for our partner, by this we don’t even realize that we are losing our own originality sometimes…

To make our relationship strong we are always ready to go out of the way and sometimes somewhere at the end we realize …..why am i doing this ,only to make him /her happy.
At this point we get to know that relationships is more about sacrifices.
Yes we should definitely go ahead for the sacrifices but without losing our own identity, our originality..
Be who you are, don’t change yourself for anyone or only to build or make your relationship strong….

Written by Vidhi Mehta.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Nutella & Love (Ushma Ashar)

When anyone asks me about love, the first thing that comes to my mind is Nutella!
Amused or Amazed?

According to Google, Nutella is a hazelnut cocoa spread and Love is a feeling.
As a cocoa lover, Nutella is best when applied between 2 soft slices of bread.
It keeps them together, adds a yummy oomph to them.
Same goes to Love.
The slices of bread can be any 2 individuals, mother & daughter, father & son, husband & wife, 2 friends, or girlfriend & boyfriend.
And Nutella can be the sticky love between them which adds an oomph to their relationship.
Love isn’t always sweet and happening, it can be nuttier and complicated, that doesn’t lessen its value in a relationship.
When evenly spread Nutella tastes delicious, just like Love.
Next time when you think about Love, try associating it with your favourite ingredient of Life!

Written by Ushma Ashar

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Teach me how to do, what you do!

Please teach me how you do what you do. How you can kiss me like you mean it and make me feel so at ease with you. The way you resonate so well with my values and tease me out of the blue. Your arms wrapped around me, under the sheets till noon. Holding me tightly ignoring the snooze.

But baby, most of all please teach me how you, not let one bit of emotion consume you. How to enjoy company without feeling the blues, when time comes for us to part and to bid adieu.

Perhaps maybe it is a part of you. But I’m learning to be stronger each day, if only you knew. I’m tough up front and a softie with you. But I refuse to play games or be used.

I know we’ve got our own dreams to chase, and we’ll be going our separate ways. But why do you do what you do? Perhaps this is something I could learn too?

Then I’ll be stronger and can move on to say, “so maybe I like him but gotta go my way”. Just another stranger, just another stop. Life is too short so why not?

I just find it hard to comprehend. How well you can play pretend. I thought you were different but I guess not. Probably just like the rest of the lot.

They call me naïve, they call me nice. But I think I’ve given a lot of my time, to boys with no manners and with egos so high. I think I’m done and so sick of your kind.

But baby teach me how you do what you do. So, I know better than to fall for someone like you. I’ll enjoy your company and kisses a lot. But maybe it is finally time for us to stop.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Modern dating!

I thought I was looking for a boyfriend when I set up my online dating profile.

I’d never had much luck with dating. It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested — I’d always loved men. Dating them was fun, the balance between a man’s personality and my own feminine one was electric, it kept things interesting. But for whatever reason it never lasted very long. I’d do things like leave town for days without telling him or bringing my phone, or stay in bed with a book all day and forget to answer his texts.

It just wasn’t second nature for me to be tied down and predictable.

When I met Ronak online I expected the same cycle to occur. We met up at the corner dive bar where I prefer to meet all my first dates. He complimented my lip color — it’s always a great sign when a man isn’t intimidated by lipstick. He asked me about my writing and he told me about messing around with a popular edgy publication when he went to college with the founder but now he had to keep his distance because he’s a lawyer and the legal world is super conservative.

I told him that was too bad, the idea of a guy being associated with something somewhat dangerous was exciting. He smiled mischievously and said, “You have no idea.”

Girls don’t need tricks to get guys to come home with them at the end of dates but I happen to have an excellent one anyway: I live in a condo along the river in my city. A walk along the river is the perfect nightcap to any date and the guy will always walk me up afterwards, “to make sure I get home safe .”

So Ronak was sitting on my bed while I made some drinks and thought about whether I wanted to have sex with him that night. I was attracted to him, sure, he was broad shouldered and tall with dark hair and dark eyes I couldn’t stop staring into. There was no strong reason not to, I figured, but we may as we’ll wait another date in case he was one of those guys that’s weird about first date sex.

That changed fairly quickly.

I handed him his drink and he announced, “I’m going to enjoy this drink while you suck my cock.”

“Excuse me?!?” I couldn’t have possibly heard him correctly.

“This looks like a great drink, and it’s going to be even better while you’re blowing me.” He stopped to take in my negative expression and lifted my head with a single finger under my chin. “A girl like you can make a man really happy. You want that, it’s what makes you special.”

I couldn’t deny that he had some sort of power over me at this point. The way he was controlling the situation turned me on and his hand caressing my face stirred up a familiar feeling in my abdomen.

What did I have to lose?

So I obliged him. I set my drink down and kneeled before him, unzipping his pants.

I wasn’t surprised to find his cock was larger than average, it’s this way with most confident men, like a chicken and egg thing. I flicked my tongue over the head of his penis a few times before I began to take him in my mouth. He watched me cooly, taking a swig of his drink.

Inside somewhere, a deep need to impress him rose. I went to town. I kissed and licked and deep throated. I massaged the sweet spot at the tippy top of his shaft on the underside. I took his balls in my mouth and swirled my tongue around. I gave him my A-game and looked up, searching for approval written on his face. It was there, but not as fully as I’d hoped for.

“To completion,” he reminded me.

I slid my hands down his forearms and the grasped his hands, depositing them on the back of my head. This wasn’t one of my “moves”, I didn’t know what I was doing anymore. I was on autopilot now.


He had two fistfuls of my hair, one on each side of my head. He was gentle, but firm as he held me in place, thrusting his hips and pouring himself into my mouth. It was uncomfortable at first, I worried about gagging. But I heard him gasp as he slipped into my throat and I knew this was special for him — he was enjoying himself, losing control, losing himself to me.

I may have been the one kneeling on the floor, but he was at my mercy, he was in ecstasy, and he needed me to feel this way.

I held up my hands, showing him I wasn’t going to resist and he groaned loudly in excitement. He thrust faster into my mouth, careful to make his movement fluid. This time I felt his grip tighten on my hair as he didn’t allow his dick to slide back out of my mouth. He held me there. I could feel him tensing up so I made an extra effort to hold this position, and I was rewarded with his loudest groan yet and a mouthful of salty cum.

I swallowed and licked my lips. I felt satisfied somehow.

He grinned and stared down at me. “I told you you would like it.”

He laid down on my bed and I instantly curled up next to him. I felt happy and comfortable. With my head on his chest I reached up and began massaging his scalp, my sudden need to please this man had not been satiated.

“What do you want?” I asked him.

“I want to come over two or three times a week and stand over you and fuck your throat. I don’t want to jerk off anymore.”

I gulped. This was definitely not what I was looking for. It was sleazy. “What if I want more than that?”

“But you don’t want more. You just think you’re supposed to want more. Did you hear yourself earlier? You told me you don’t like being tied down. And look at you, look at how your body responded to being my sex slave.”

He quickly reached down and knocked my thighs apart. Before I could register what he was doing his fingers were inside me and my back was arched. Holy shit, I gasped as he masterfully, rhythmically rubbed my gspot with the tips of his fingers.

I looked down at him to see that he was hard again, and grinned.

He got up and kneeled between my legs and pulled me up, so my butt was resting on his thighs, legs wrapped around his waist.

“I am going to fuck you and then we’ll sleep here together and you’ll see. This is better than dating — to give ourselves to each other completely.”

I nodded. This was exciting, and what else was I going to do tonight?

He grabbed his drink off the nightstand and poured a bit into my mouth before kissing me and sucking the taste of whiskey off my tongue. He trailed the dewey glass down my neck to my collarbone and I shivered. He took the remaining ice cube and deposited it in his mouth before leaning down and kissing my nipple. It was the most divine sensation, heat and ice.

I felt his hips move under mine and the his cock sliding around my wet pussy, but not entering. I always loved it when guys did this, the anticipation was unbearable, in an addictive way. It made time stand still.

“You’re such a good girl, Alia,” he mumbled as he kissed my neck, clearly enjoying himself. I lifted my hips to meet his and he drove his cock deep inside me. That moment — the first time it goes in — is always the best. It always reminds me why we do such crazy stuff for sex, it really is that good.

I’d consider his offer later. He didn’t need an answer now. He just needed me to be here, writhing with pleasure as he had his way with me.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Ordinarily extra ordinary things!

My goal in life is to continually increase my awareness, to every day make the tiniest step to understanding myself and the world just a little bit more.

Of course I read, write, think, meet new people, listen to opposing view points, meditate, go on long walks, and drive my car nowhere particular, listening and thinking.

But I wanted to do something out of the ordinary, so I decided to do something only I can, “Only Dhaval things!”

Once a month, I’m looking to find misunderstood people such as prostitutes, the godmen, LGBTQs, homeless people, just people that we have an overall consensus of. We think we know what a ‘prostitute’ is because we know his/her profession, but just as you wouldn’t think you know a doctor because of his/her practice, the same rule applies. What they do is just a tiny fraction of who they are.

Part One: Meet a Prostitute with an Open-Mind

I visited the best place to find anything illicit: Anma.

Within 5 minutes, I found tons of ads for prostitution in very clear terms, contacting one and explaining my situation, who I was, and that I would pay for their time.

We agreed to meet at her home 4 hours later, I felt a little bit nervous. I wasn’t sure if this would be awkward or if she would take offense at my interest in her, even though I explained my goal of going into the meeting with a blank slate and just looking to learn about her, what she was interested in, her family etc.

I arrived and knocked on the door, and as she opened the door I wanted to retreat, but I stayed and she politely said hello.

I sat down at her kitchen table, and she offered me some warm chicken noodle soup she was making on the stove, which I immediately found amusing because she’s already broken the stereotype within 5 minutes of my arrival.

As we sat down to eat, the conversation was very casual, she was asking me about my life, what I do, etc. and then I started the questions.

Q: How did she get into prostitution?

I was a masseuse for a while, but couldn’t pay my bills, so slowly I started offering ‘happy endings’ to guys and girls at the end, in very subtle ways as not to get in trouble. Rationalizing it in my head, I didn’t find it to be prostitution, but just something a little bit in the gray area. I happened to be a little too forward with a man who then reported me to my boss and I was immediately fired and blacklisted from all the local spas. But luckily, or not so luckily, I had my clients’ numbers and they visited me at home.

Q: How did it escalate into full-scale prostitution?

One man said he didn’t care for the massages anymore and would pay triple just for sex; it took half the time, so I offered the same to other clients and suddenly I was making 6x the amount as I was before (3x the money, in half the time).

It was fueled by money.

Q: What would you do if you weren’t in prostitution?

I always wanted to be a mail-woman. I have no idea why it’s so cool to me, but I lived in a townhouse growing up so they didn’t drive, but parked their car at the top of the street then walked door to door. When I was younger, I thought they travelled on some terrific voyage with these very important letters, fighting off bad people, and making it to our house just in time. For some odd reason, they were my superheroes. So that’s what I would be.

Q: When your son grows up & inevitably finds out, will you be upset?

Yes. It haunts me before bed every night. I take NyQuil every single night of my life; I am haunted by the demons of shame. I don’t care what the neighbors think or my mom, or sister, or enemies. I care what he thinks, and I shake with anxiety when it comes into my mind. It’s why drugs are so pervasive in prostitution.

Q: Do you take drugs regularly?

Only NyQuil to sleep. Without it, I cannot.

Q: What’s the most misunderstood stereotype about prostitutes?

That we’re brash women that are addicted to sex or don’t have any emotions. They think we’re like ‘men’ because we have so much sex, when in reality I don’t view this as sex. This is a business deal.

Q: What’s your age?

I am 23 years old.

Q: Since when are you into Prostitution?

4 years.

You have to understand having ‘sex’ with a prostitute or in any case where there is an obvious arrangement, like buying a younger woman expensive things, will never be the same thing as a true sexual experience where two people are with each other for the sake of being with each other. There’s no ulterior motive in their hearts.

I don’t enjoy this business deal ‘sex’ it’s like work; when I have real sex it is different, I separate the two completely.

Q: Who are the ‘type’ of guys that come to you? Sleazy?

Some, yes. The diversity hits the entire spectrum from local businessmen, local politicians, janitors, bus drivers, a lot of schoolteachers (7-8 of them) etc. The ‘type’ of person is insecure though; it’s never about what job they hold, but their personality.

People come to me because they have huge insecurities so they pay me and feel like they’re in control, or they’re in a safe place because I derive my income from them. When you’re paying someone, you feel a sense of security and power, whereas their wives or girlfriends could leave anytime. They know I won’t because they pay me well.

It’s sad to see, it’s sad because even though my psyche tries to block this out, it can’t, I’m very good at seeing the truth of society because I’m behind the curtain. I don’t live in a world where people keep up fake appearances. I’m in the darkness, the real-real life. It’s scary, sad, & dark, but it’s real.

Q: Without meaning to offend in anyway as I know I’m no better, no worse than you are, but coming from an honest place when/if I have a daughter, I wouldn’t want her to be a prostitute. What would be the advice you’d give to anyone out there?

Small steps lead to giant changes. You can take that positively or negatively, but I took a small little step when I would jerk-off a guy in a massage, or so I thought. I was a prostitute then, but we’re so good at rationalizing the not-so-great parts of ourselves that it’s so hard to see the truth. Our ego holds us back, whether that’s lying to a friend, stealing a piece of gum, it all starts small, but takes something away from us and it compounds over time into a completely different life.

Q: What are some hobbies of yours?

I love colouring books. They bring me solace in the dark times, and lighten my mornings. With my boyfriend or by myself, I’ll colour for hours. It feels like 2 minutes goes by, but it’s been an hour or two. I love go-karts; those little indoor tracks you can go and race real go-karts are so fun to me. I’ve gotten at least 7 friends hooked on them too. I would also say I love music, I don’t play any particular instruments ‘officially’ but I love the guitar and piano. Such weird instruments I know, but there’s something entrancing about them, sometimes I’ll play them both at the same time, or my boyfriend will play with me.

Q: What’s something positive that prostitution has brought out in you or done for you?

Besides income, the biggest thing I would say it has done for me has developed empathy. When you’re scowled at by people who know what you do, family disowns you, clients yell obscenities and degrade you with every form of hate when they’re upset with you, you develop a huge sense of empathy for others who are in pain.

Whether they are sad about a person leaving them, depressed, anxious, homeless, whatever it may be, I know how they feel. I’ve felt it many times and in my life, and you can’t have empathy for someone until you’ve “walked a mile in their shoes.”

I’ve spent a night homeless and therefore when I see a homeless person, I empathize with them and connect on a deeper level whereas a man or woman who hasn’t just looks the other way and can think in their heads nasty things about the person because they’ve become the ‘other.’ Volunteering is great, but if you want empathy for any person or group of people in life, simply live with them for a week.

I wish I could tell you something shocking or outlandish happened, but I went into a prostitute’s home with an open-mind and had chicken noodle soup in her kitchen as we proceeded to talk for hours about all kinds of topics—family, philosophy, education—but the main purpose was to ask a few poignant questions on my bias towards a specific group of people.

It went as expected, in a sense, that I knew she would be just a normal person, with a little bit of an abnormal life. But I didn’t realize how much we would have in common, how we viewed the world and faced challenges in our life. She also opened my mind instead of just interviewing a person for the night, I felt like I spent time walking in her shoes.

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Never forget to check your mails!

If I’m being perfectly honest, I don’t care much for the whole e-mail process anymore. I know this is going to sound terribly hipster or whatever, but I think it’s already outdated as a means of communication. It just feels clunky and slow, kind of like the way real mail started feeling as soon as the internet was first becoming a thing.

So that is my peremptory excuse for what I am about to tell you. I just feel like I needed to get that explanation out of the way. Because, as a friend, I really fucked up. Big time.

It must’ve been several months prior to yesterday that I had checked my inbox, so a lot of stuff had happened in that interval. My sister married a guy as super religious as she is and became pregnant with a baby. And one of my cats died, so that pretty much ruined my life for an entire month. Cats are a pretty big deal.

Also, one of my best lifelong friends, Veer, wound up committing suicide. I guess I shouldn’t say “best,” or “lifelong,” because we were those kinds of friends who bounced in and out of communication with each other over the years. But every time we would start talking again, it was like no time at all had passed, and nothing had changed. Even after several years of silence, we could pick back up on inside jokes that were going on several years running.

I barely even recognized his mother’s voice when she called. She sounded hoarse, like she was losing her voice. And I’m not sure why, but she kept calling me “son.” I was hesitant at first, but I somehow brought myself to ask her the question that had been nagging me the whole time.

“How did he do it?” I asked.

The line fell silent for what felt like hours, punctuated only by her raspy breathing.

“Why do you want to know something like that, son?” she asked. “Did the cops tell you to ask me that?”

“What?” if she was any less hoarse, I would have thought she was joking.

“Did that detective Burman put you up to getting information out of me?”

“Why would they need information out of you?” I asked. “You said he took his own life, right?”

“My… baby…” she groaned, and fell to sobbing so loud I was almost tempted to hang up the phone.

There was another eternity of her just wailing into the receiver like that. Suddenly the whole thing was starting to make me feel a little sick. I was sad at first, and almost even felt like crying myself. But the more she just wailed into the phone, and the more I thought about the police thing, the more disturbed I felt.

So I just hung up. I apologized to her and ended the phone call before she could say anything else. I don’t even know if she heard me or not. As the day went on I started getting calls from some of the other guys in the group. Word was spreading, and as it reached me, I started realizing that the nature of Veer’s death was in question. It looked like a suicide, but there was reason to suspect something else.

Still, the question was nagging at me. How did he kill himself? No one knew how. Apparently it was information that the authorities were keeping confidential.

So I made up my mind to take some vacation time from work and get a plane ticket back to Agra. I felt like it was my duty or something to be there and help in any way I could. But I was still unsure of how to approach Veer’s mother after what happened on the phone.

Luckily, I never made it that far. I had to sign up for a new account on a ticket website, because I’ve never done much flying. So it was right then that I needed to check my e-mail, for the first time in months in order to get the confirmation link. And when I opened up my Inbox (with 2,030 new messages, mostly spam) I saw Veer’s name three rows down, from a week ago. The subject line read:

 “Lokesh, please read.”

I felt a chill crawl down my spine. My best friend, who had just committed suicide, had sent me an urgent e-mail only days before his death. I was almost too scared to open it. I had this guilt burning in me, like I had betrayed him or something. Even before I opened it, I convinced myself that I could have helped him if I had just fucking checked my e-mail a little sooner.

After staring vacantly at the computer screen for an eternity, I opened the e-mail.

Hey man,

I’m not really too sure how to start this thing. We haven’t spoken to each other for a while now. But I couldn’t just go talking to Ali about something like this. He would just laugh it off like he always does.

I’ve been having these memories, Lokesh. Like when I wake up in the morning I remember things about the past that never even happened. I know what you’re thinking… I’m sure they aren’t just dreams. Fuck you for thinking cynically like you always do. I know the difference between a dream and a memory. And these feel like memories.

I know that because it’s disturbing to me, the way I feel about them when they come. It’s sick. The shit that I am remembering, it’s so sick and I know it never happened, but when I see the images in my head I get this rush in my stomach. It’s like a shot of adrenalin and it hits me like I was really there when the things were happening. But they’re not real. I know they’re not.

This morning, when a new memory came to me, I saw Adi. He looked exactly like he did that last day of school before he went missing. Except that this clothes were torn. And I… He was looking at me like he was terrified. No, not me. He was looking at whoever these memories belong to… or maybe they belong to no one. How could I possibly be remembering something that happened to someone else? I must sound like a lunatic right now.

I saw Adi die, Lokesh. I know this is hard to hear, but I think I know why he went missing. It’s gruesome. In my memory I was holding a big two-sided axe, like the kind that my dad used to keep in his garage. He was backing away from me and I was walking up to him.

Do you remember the last thing he said to us before he left school for home, Lokesh? He said he was going to meet someone he met online. But he never said where… yet I know. I think I know. He was by our old clubhouse, two miles into the forest west of your house. I know I saw the big Cedar tree that we belt it into.

I killed him, Lokesh. Jesus Fuck, not just him. These memories. There have been so many people that I have killed, and I have to relive every single one of them. But why me? In my head I’ve killed Adi, Tanvi, Gauri, and Purav. I never even realized we’ve had so many friends go missing throughout the years. Did you? And now all I can feel is sick, like I’m the one who did it.

These memories only started like a week ago. I told my mom about them, but she thinks it’s just because I stopped taking my medication a little bit ago. She’s certain they are nightmares from resurfacing emotions that the medication has been suppressing. Some shit like that. But I know what I need to do now.

I need to go out to that clubhouse, where I saw Adi murdered. His body was never found, so what if I find it there? That means… I don’t know exactly. Or maybe I don’t want to know. But I’m going to find out. I’ll write you again once I find out what’s going on.

I miss you, man.

So he committed suicide shortly after that. The realization was like a knife in my chest. We used to always get into mysteries with each other when we were younger. If I was there, I would absolutely have gone with them. But then what?

Still, as the days wore on, I couldn’t stop obsessing about something. I was rooting through my old Facebook photos, the ones with Veer in them. There were some with all of us hanging out when we were very young, before Gauri had died and Purav and Adi went missing. We were intact.

But for some reason I felt like I was suddenly seeing a look on Veer’s face that I had never seen before. His eyes seemed darker, almost sunken. Then I found a photo of just him, a candid one I had taken. I remember bursting into his bathroom hoping to embarrass him with a photo of him taking a shit, but I just found him staring at himself in the mirror. On the counter I saw a small prescription bottle. I don’t know how I never caught that look on his face before, as he was staring at himself in the mirror. He looked so dark.

Suddenly I started wondering what kind of medication he was taking. Reluctantly, I took up the phone and called his mother again. It was awkward at first, but she pretended like nothing happened. I didn’t waste any time getting to the point of asking her what kind of medication he used to take. I knew I was getting closer to the truth when she hung up on me without another word. She’s scared.

Then, several hours later, I got a call. It was Mayank, another old friend of ours whom I had spoken to shortly after I heard the news about Veer. He was drunk, like always.

“Hey man, I totally forgot to tell you,” he said, sounding out of breath. “Veer called me the night before he killed himself.”

“How the fuck did you forget to tell me that?”

“Sorry bro, but I remembered that he asked me to tell you something. He said he didn’t have it in him to write another e-mail. He wanted me to tell you, ‘I had another memory this morning. In that memory, I looked in the mirror. And I saw myself. I saw my own face looking back at me.’”

I was speechless, frozen. I wanted to say something to him, but I couldn’t find the words.

“Oh, also,” he continued, “he said he found Adi… isn’t that sick, man? What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” I said, instantly, remembering how strange his mother had been with me on the phone. “It doesn’t mean a thing.”

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Embrace your body!

SEX. Do I have your attention yet? Ok, sweet.

In our modern day society, it seems that we have been culturally conditioned to believe that the orgasm is purely based around climax: Just like waves, it comes and it goes, it ebbs and it flows. Right? Wrong. Believe it or not, like many good things in life, it doesn’t have to end all at once. The tantalizing fireworks that ignite from within can, in fact be tempered into slow, mindful motion and then applied to in all aspects of your life. The emotions released and the total self-awareness tied to this concept of “orgasm” can actually be utilized to accentuate your creative energy, your state of balance, your relationships, your personal development and of course,your happy vibes. And then came this concept of slow sex.

How I Began to Find My Sexual Self

For YEARS, and yes, unfortunately… I mean more years than I am proud of admitting, I had given up on my ability to be intimate, to feel sexual or even comfortable in my own birthday suit. For a while, I threw in the cards on my efforts to embrace that majestic feminine energy that circulates within our vulnerable physical bodies. Whether in the bedroom or simple day-to-day life, I subconsciously drowned out the senses my body was capable of experiencing. There were moments I even questioned if I was alive “down there.” Maybe TMI? But yeah, totally true.

It wasn’t until I started prioritizing various mindful practices such as yoga, breathwork (i.e. Holotropic breathing) and Vipassana meditation, that I actually began to FEEL in my body… externally, internally and well, everything in between. We’re talking the feelings not only pertaining to sex but also, to our day-to-day existence surrounding the ferris wheel of emotions and activities that so mindlessly structure our days.

Let’s put it this way: imagine the gift of pure chocolate being introduced into your taste palate for the first time. A mind-blowing and utterly transformational experience for your senses. Because I compare most things to food, this is as best as I can relate it to you. Much like chocolate or any other “guilty” pleasure,with the simple gift of presence in your body (whether pertaining to sex or not), you can enhance your overall life experience in more ways than you can imagine. Once you’ve truly experienced it, you will very rarely go back.

What I learned about Slow Sex

One day, a good soul-friend and I got immersed in a conversation about a not-so-typical lunch topic: the orgasm. A topic I would once steer clear of, especially in public. But why? As the conversation progressed, she recommended a book called Slow Sex by Nicole Daedone, founder and CEO of OneTaste and Orgasmic Meditation practitioner. Having been on a continual journey of self-discovery and sexual awakening, It didn’t take much for me to want to know more.

In Slow Sex, we are introduced to the intriguing and totally soul-immersing concept of Orgasmic Meditation or as some refer to it: OM. Orgasm? Meditation? In the same sentence? No way. But, hold your doubtful little horses, because contrary to popular belief, this beautifully constructed practice goes so far beyond the superficial plane that now shapes our existing perspective of sexuality and well, the act of sex in general. Having abandoned the metaphysical, feminine part of my being that embraces my inner sexuality for an extended period of my life, I can confirm that this concept will have you wishing you knew about it sooner. Mhmmm…it’s THAT good.

Daedone structures the book with enrapturing personal and professional perspectives on the art of sex and of course, the orgasm. A book, comprised of narration that so perfectly flows in alignment with our sexual desires, needs, traumas and well… questions. Because, let’s face it: we’ve alllll got questions.

A practice that taught me to focus on the feeling. Not the act. Either with yourself or someone else. Love the process and wholeheartedly embrace the intelligence, the wisdom, the empowerment that this sensory connection imparts onto and into you. In fact, the “climax” should be the least of your worries. Embrace your body; feel in your skin; know your wants and cherish your needs…. and the rest will come.

Our Greatest, Innate Superpower

The orgasm is, for lack of a better description, a total badass. If you don’t think I’m nuts yet (and even if you do) then please… keep reading. Daedone refers to this omnipresent force as the innate compass and highly accessible powerful surge that resides within all of us unique individual human beings- comprised of body, mind, soul and spirit. It is this remarkable entity that has the ability to connect our physical vessel to the metaphysical, higher self and beyond. It can be one of our greatest teachers and trustworthy guides. The desire and balance that we often circumnavigate the ends of the Earth for, can simply be accessed by taking the time to familiarize ourselves with the bodies we were born to inhabit.

So, if I don’t have you convinced yet, just consider the fact that I am telling you, as a girl whose body once induced itself with a sexual anesthetic and having felt entirely detached for a large chunk of my twenties. I’m not saying the transformation comes overnight but, like the most valuable things in life, with a bit of patience, slow persistence and intimate conversation, you will be set sail on an epic voyage into the innately powerful (and sexual) self.

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Yess, you’ve been there!

Yess you’ve been there
the winds changed their direction,
the spring turned to Autumn,
Days felt dizzy,
And I went crazy;
You calmed my soul,
Fetched in peace,
Held my hand
Walked me through Bleeds!
Introduced my fears as strengths,
Transformed my tears to blaze,
The star in you befell me in darkest nights,
In the paralyzed moments,
You hugged me tight
And so, I make sure
Even if you come
With no face,
With no skin,
And just your soul,
I’d still recognise you
My best friend!


Snowy diaries!

It’s been snowing forever. Every time it seems like it’s about to let up, the sky clouds over with that flat white paper look and down it comes, more goddamn snow.

I stopped shoveling the walk after the first two days. My dad was always real particular about his shoveling so I try to do the same but fuck, man. It was useless, I may as well have been that Greek guy with his boulder the way it piled up after I broke my damn back trying to clear a path. Told myself I’d do the neighborly thing and take care of it as soon as the thaw started but it hasn’t started yet so it seemed like the best idea to just stay inside and stay warm. Make some soup and drink some whiskey.

And, after last night, drink more whiskey. Kind of a lot of whiskey.

You might think that was the problem, the whiskey, but no. I mean, I was drunk, but a good drunk, the nice easy drunk that makes your head buzz in the funniest way. I hadn’t looked outside in a while; early on I’d pulled down one of the blinds to sneak a peek but saw only more fucking snow, the whole world was white and it was starting to piss me off so I let the blinds go with a little snapping sound that made me feel better for some reason. Like, yeah, take that, snow.

It was getting late but I wasn’t really paying attention to the time. I only knew it was dark out because I hadn’t moved from the couch to flip the lights when the gray-glow outside finally went down – you couldn’t say that the sun set, not really because it wasn’t out all day, it was hidden behind them damn thick snow clouds – and the living room was that weird kinda blue you get when your only source of light is a TV screen. I’d spent most of the day hopping from cable movie to cable movie, pretty bored but drunk enough by then that the sight of Goldie Hawn in “Overboard” wasn’t too rough on the eyes. She’s an annoying bitch in that one and she’s got a mouth like an insane person but she’s still pretty hot, so I’d settled in with a fresh glass of Jack (pants unzipped in case I felt frisky) and that was when the noises started.

Sort of quiet at first, so quiet I thought it was just snow or sleet hitting the windows. Then a little louder. Then, drunk or not I couldn’t ignore it: tap-tap-tap-tap.

I was right, it was at the window for sure but no snow makes a noise like that. After I really heard it the first time I waited to see if it was a fluke. But after a second, again: tap-tap-tap-tap.

Not fast or nothing, and not random either. Real deliberate. Tap-tap-tap-TAP. Same sound it makes when you drum your fingers on a table if you’re restless. Right on the widow pane of my porch window.

Someone was screwing with me, I was sure of it. Maybe pissed I hadn’t shoveled the walk yet. Out there, tapping on my window in the middle of a blizzard just to hock me off.

I waited another minute. I didn’t turn down “Overboard” in case they were listening close – didn’t want them to know I knew they were out there, I was gonna catch them off guard, see – and when I heard tap-tap-tap I snapped down one of the blinds, ready to make mean eyes at some punk kid or nosy neighbor.

Nothing out there, though.

Weird, too, because the tapping, it was on the glass right there, right behind those blinds.

I half-watched the movie for about 10 minutes, waiting for the tapping to start up again, but it didn’t. Pretty soon I’d drained half the glass of Jack and I was feeling okay again, a little jumpy I guess but it hadn’t really scared me, not yet.

It was just getting to the part where Goldie really gives it to that snooty teacher when I heard something else. It started quiet again, getting a little louder every minute until I couldn’t write off the noise on the storm. This time, I did mute the movie, and almost immediately wished I hadn’t.

It was this low voice – couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman but it was low – and it was talking. Only that’s not right because it wasn’t really saying anything, it wasn’t saying words, just sort of gibbering, a constant babble of sounds and wheezy grunts that meant nothing.

And it wasn’t like another language or anything either. Like, you know when you hear another language, and even though you can’t understand them you know they’re saying something? Maybe it’s the way they say it, I dunno, but this was different.

My dad had a stroke when I was a kid. We were out shopping for a gift for my mom’s birthday and I asked him if he wanted to look at cards and when he opened his mouth he started talking, but it wasn’t words, it was just garbled stuff, and he knew he wasn’t saying the right thing but he couldn’t fix it. I hadn’t thought of that in years but the sounds outside? They were like that. That’s the closest I can get.

Whatever it was heard me turn down the volume and got louder, gibbering like my dad that day in April, and for a horrible second I actually thought it was my dad’s voice, but he’s been dead a long time so there was no way, and it felt like as soon as I let go of that memory and that thought the gibbering sounded less like him until I was sure no, it wasn’t my dead dad out there on the porch in the snowstorm. I was drunk, like I said, and for a minute I felt kinda sad about that.

My head, it felt kinda funny too. Like I’d been watching TV in the dark too long. The buzzing that was nice earlier sounded more like hornets than bumblebees now. I finished the glass of whiskey, slammed it on the table, and looked through the blinds again.

Nothing out there. Snowing, still, harder than ever. But nothing on the porch. And right away, the gibbering stopped.

I don’t know why I looked like that. I should’ve been more careful, I didn’t know what could be out there, if it was a homeless guy or whatever trying to find a warm place to sleep in the storm but a part of me also knew it wasn’t a homeless guy and that I should’ve been more careful when I looked because homeless guys don’t sound like your dead dad no matter how drunk you are.

It was okay, though, because nothing was on the porch. But I didn’t unmute “Overboard” and I was pretty quick to get some more whiskey.

A few minutes went by – probably the same as before, if I really think about it – and now I heard something running, full-on running back and forth across the porch, something with big heavy footsteps and an awful lot of speed.

Every third run or so I’d hear it throw itself against the wooden banisters at either end of the porch. The wood would groan and whatever it was would let out some weird chuffing sound, not like it had knocked the wind out of itself, more like it was laughing.

I didn’t know what to do, I was too scared to look now and really wishing I hadn’t had so much to drink (or maybe that I’d had much, much more) but after the latest slam against the banister I thought I heard wood splinter and without thinking I yelled, “Hey, STOP!”

It did. It got real quiet. The phone was in the kitchen, I should’ve called the cops but it didn’t even cross my mind because then:


It was the same babbling voice from before, and it made my name sound like gibberish, like my name didn’t fit right in its mouth.

“Dannydannydannydanny.” It wasn’t running anymore, it sounded like it was shifting from foot to foot, back and forth back and forth, fast like when a kid gets hyper or has to pee. It was right outside the front door.

“Dannydannydannydanny are you sorry Dannydannydanny?” it said, and my stomach suddenly felt like it was full of cold mud. “Are you sorry Dannydannydanny you’re sorry aren’t you Dannydannydanny? Oh Dannydannydannydanny your daddy knows, oh yes Dannydannydanny your daddy’s here…”

It sounded like my dad again, yeah, but not really, the way a funhouse mirror looks like you but not really.

“Come outside Dannydannydanny,” it said, “daddy’s here, daddy’s back, Dannydannydannydanny, open the door, you forgot to shovel the walk Dannydannydanny, daddy’s awful mad at you…”

I looked down and I was standing at the door, reaching for the knob. I didn’t remember even getting off the couch, or setting my drink down, or zipping my pants back up.

“I didn’t forget to shovel,” I told it, stepping slowly away from the door. “I’m gonna do it when it stops snowing.”

“Oh Dannydannydanny,” it said, “don’t you know it’s never going to stop? Oh, aren’t you sorry, Dannydannydannydanny, you’re going to be so sorry if you don’t get out here and see your dad-deeeeeee…”

“My dad’s not out there.” I said this more to me than to whatever was on the porch. It felt good, like I was getting a handle on something, so I said it again. “My dad’s not out there, it’s the middle of a damn snowstorm and he’s been dead 15 years and I don’t know what you are but you’re not my dad.”

The gibbering started again. It stopped saying my name and went back to running back and forth across the porch like it was throwing a tantrum.

I dunno why it latched onto my dad. Maybe because he was the first thing I thought of? Maybe because I hadn’t thought about him in a long time? Like I said, I dunno, but I listened to it barreling across my porch, babbling sometimes in my dad’s voice, sometimes in the same low voice I heard first, sometimes something else entirely.

It ran back and forth on the porch for almost four hours. I never unmuted the TV, just stared at the blinds covering the windows to the porch and finished the bottle of Jack.

Finally, the sun came up. I mean, not really, the sky got ivory white and the sun was behind the clouds somewhere but the important part is it got light out and the thing stopped. I was pretty wasted by then but I waited another half hour, waited to be sure it was gone and the that morning had really made it go.

Remember how I said more whiskey? Kind of a lot of whiskey? Well, I meant it, I’m gonna need a lot more to get through this. Because well, I checked the weather report today, and another winter storm is coming through tonight. Up to six more inches by tomorrow morning. And the thing is, I don’t know if I’ll make it to tomorrow morning. That thing is gonna come back, it just is, and this time I don’t know what it’s gonna say but what I do know is that the first time it came, I almost opened the goddamn door for it.

The other thing, the other reason I started drinking as soon as I woke up this afternoon, is what I saw before I finally passed out after my all-nighter with the whatever outside. What I saw when I finally did open the door and look at the porch.

The snow is deep, maybe up to my shins if I really get out there and wade in it, but it’s not so deep on the porch. Since it’s covered, you know. But there’s enough to leave tracks.

And the damndest thing is – there are tracks. But only hands.

No footprints. None at all. Just a hundred handprints, all over my snow-dusted porch, clear as day.

Sorry if this doesn’t make much sense. I’m drunk and it doesn’t make much sense to me either. But it’s gonna be dark soon and all I can think about is what’s coming back, what speaks in my dad’s voice, what walks on its hands in the snow in the night.

And you know what?

am sorry.

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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I am infatuated with you when I should be infatuated with myself!

This is me raw. This is me spilling out every emotion I have had in the last 4 months. This is me shredding all of my skin and all of my bottled up thoughts – because I can’t express any of them to you. I promised you I could handle it, I nodded like a good little girl when you told me that we moved way too fast and those were not your intentions. I told myself I could be that girl, that girl that I constantly find myself in the position of being. This isn’t new to me, this isn’t something I’m unfortunately not used to. I tend to repeat my mistakes over and over – telling myself I learned my lesson the last time.

I have done plenty of big things on my own – from traveling throughout Europe to moving a thousand miles away from home for 4 years. I went the furthest away, out of all my friends, to college and with each move and new experience I adapted. I pushed through the hard times and I came out a stronger, even more independent person. I made friends that will last a lifetime, I created connections with strangers that will forever be embedded in my mind, I worked through scary situations and found a light at the end of every tunnel. I changed for the better and I grew more than I could have ever imagined. I have been told that I am beautiful on the inside and out and how rare that is to find in someone. I have had men stare me in the eye and tell me how unique of a person I am, how precious my soul is and how endearing my actions are. I have best friends that constantly call me for advice and listen to every single word I say. I have strangers approach me and tell me their life story because I give off that “vibe”.

Tell me then, why it is impossible for me to go see a movie alone. Why I can never have a meal by myself, why I can’t stay in at night with a movie and my dog without someone else laying there next to me. Why I can’t accept the fact that you don’t want a relationship with me but instead I accept you wanting me only when its convenient for you. Someone tell me why I don’t hold the standards that I preach to all of my friends for myself. I think about you constantly, I crave your acceptance and your attention in such an unhealthy way – I know how unattractive it comes off, and yet I can’t stop. I try to sit and think about what I find so fucking special about you and even when I can’t fully understand where this infatuation comes from, I still need you. I don’t want to change you, I don’t want you to be a different person. You have every right to acknowledge your want for independence, your understanding that you’re not ready for a relationship, your maturity in the fact that you know you don’t have enough time to dedicate to yourself let alone someone else. What I want to change, is myself. I want to find that woman that is used to being alone and that can explore the universe without someone next to her the entire way. That woman that can strike up a conversation with her bartender and have the confidence to leave her number as she signs her receipt. I want to be that woman that isn’t waking up in the middle of the night to see if you sent that infamous “want to come over” text message. I can hear how pathetic I sound when I complain to my friends about you and how strong I sound when I give them the advice I should be taking, as they complain about a similar situation. I know I can be her, I know deep down she exists in a parallel universe but at times it feels almost impossible to get to her. Your actions should be enough for me to cling onto that side of me. Having you wrap your entire body around me while we sleep, having you hold me so tight I can barely breath, having you kiss me so gently but then a day later act like I am barely a good friend of yours when we are out in public. That should immediately bring out the “I don’t give a fuck about you either” in me. Watching you approach another woman, right in front of me, and have a conversation that leads to exchanging phone numbers should burn my soul so deeply that I never want to jump out of bed and rush over the second you call. I want to be that girl that you chase and strive to figure out and understand. I want to give you just enough space that I leave some curiosity and want in you. I want to tell you this isn’t working out for me, because my feelings are too strong and I care too deeply for you and have you realize in the end that you made one of the biggest mistakes of your life. I want you to come running back to me with a grand gesture and provide nothing but the emotional connection that I deserve. Because I do deserve that, and part of me knows I do. I deserve someone that wants my carefree spirit, someone that sees my independent side but also accepts my emotional side. I deserve someone that understands that my highs are high and my lows are low and will accommodate for those feelings. I deserve someone that truly appreciates how much I would do for them, how caring I am, how much I can relate and understand what they want before they even know what they want. I wear my heart on my sleeve, I can only hide my stresses and my feelings for so long before they explode out like fourth of July fireworks. The problem is, I constantly surround myself with men that force me to do that. The explosion happens because I can’t let my feelings out as they come or I’m considered too clingy, too much to handle, too attached. I want you to miss me but in the end, I know you won’t. I know if I disappear, you won’t think twice about me and you will move on to the next girl that can in fact “handle” your request of a fuck buddy.

So for now, I will continue to destroy my soul and my heart and I will continue to keep this physical relationship going because at least if you’re fucking me, you’re with me. You are choosing me for that one night and that to me, is better than no night. For now, I will suffer through this until I find my independence again. I will have a moment in time where all of it comes crashing down on me, more than it has already, and I will break through the rubble even stronger than I was before. There will be a day I won’t need to force someone to miss me. I know she’s in there, I know she exists and I know she will one day prosper. 

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Blurry lines!

I sat at a table of this dimly lit bar, unable to cross my legs properly because the skirt I chose was as tight as it was short. I was seeing him and I knew it was always wise to opt for easy access around him. I pulled out my compact from my purse, quickly reapplied my lipstick—MAC’s Matte in Sin—and puckered my lips. I grabbed my travel size Flowerbomb, dabbed a little more on my neck, and reminded myself to re-apply on my thighs the next time I visited the restroom.

Always leave a trail of perfume where a man’s mouth will follow.

Anxiously sipping my merlot, I kept watch on the door.

He had texted me saying he wanted to see me. I asked where he’d be going out to that night, told him I was bound to be up and out late, too.

“Now. I want to see you now,” read his next text.

I wouldn’t have found it strange, but we usually only ever made arrangements for weeknights, unless we were drunk texting each other late night on weekends. We didn’t go out together much, unless it was part of a sex game or scene we were acting out, but I’d know if that were the case. He would have notified me, provided me with some direction, possibly even made a few requests.

He dictated everything when it came to the bedroom, always ensuring I wasn’t doing anything I wasn’t comfortable with. He took the lead, he set the rules, and I trusted him enough to follow. There was only ever rapture in it for me, after all.

After meeting by chance and having made it a habit of waking up in his bed one or two times a week, he had given up on asking me to dinner. I wasn’t looking for romance back then, though he was perfect on paper, and I would later end up learning he was actually wonderful. It had nothing to do with him, but everything to do with me and where I was in the world.

So, as it goes with these things, we entered into a kind of unspoken ongoing arrangement. We understood each other as far as was necessary. He knew how to send my nails digging into his back to draw blood. I never found myself faking an orgasm with him, only drunk and paralyzed from the gratification. I knew every single move, suck, and tease that got him high off of me, and just how hard he’d cum with each.

We never got serious, but we had fun. He was the kind of guy who would run into me on a Saturday night and take me into the bar bathroom to fuck me. Once, he left me tied up to his bed on a Wednesday night while he stepped out for a few errands. I had never been angrier, and I had never been wetter. He was also the kind of guy who would put a glass of iced water on the bedside for me after sex and before sleep. I remember him cleaning me up gingerly and tenderly each time after sex, either in the shower with his body wash using his hands or with a damp towel as I laid spent in his bed. I hated it only due to the fact that I secretly loved it. I didn’t want to like it. It was something that made everything feel a little more intimate.

I tried to remind myself he was sweet where it counted, as I sat there on an early Saturday evening, a little frustrated I was earlier than him, half-annoyed and half-intrigued at his urgency. I wondered if he was going to tell me he had met somebody, that it had been fun, but this is where it stopped, or maybe that the pictures he had of me had gotten into the wrong hands.

I bit my lip wondering if this could just be foreplay for one of our little sexcapades.

In he strolled. Broad shoulders, crisp shirt tucked in, a leather belt I wanted to feel coming down on me, gray slacks sitting on his hips. Those strong, big, rough hands adjusting his gold watch that glinted in unison with the ring from his alma mater. I imagined those hands on me, I imagined one hand curled around my throat, while the other caressed the inside of my thigh, searching, teasing…

As he got closer, cologne invaded all my senses with bergamot, cedar, lavender, and spicy notes. The physical effect it had on my body was immediate.

There were mornings I would leave his place and get home, my skin and hair smelling like him, the chemicals of his cologne embedded into my pores. It was a divine masculine yet soft scent. I’d roll around my sheets, spreading the aroma onto my own pillow, wait a few hours to shower because I loved being enveloped in it. On mornings it was a designated no-wash-hair day, I’d carry it in my curls all day. I didn’t revel in it because I had any sort of emotional or sentimental attachment to him, it was because it oozed pure lust, pure masculinity, sex, something raw. It was because it reminded me of where my body had been and what it had been doing the night before. Truthfully, it was mostly because it made me feel less alone. I struggled with the thought that maybe he did the same.

Watching him sit down in front of me, I made a mental note to finally ask him the name and designer of his elixir.

“You kept me waiting.” I rolled my eyes, a little exasperated.

“Wet for me already?” he teased, his icy blue eyes twinkling with promise.

Trying to suppress my smile, I bit my lip and rolled my eyes again.

“You’ll forgive me soon enough. I was only getting a few surprises ready for you.”

It was enough to warm me up and send my foot running up his leg. Part of me just wanted to watch him struggle with a hard-on.

“Go into the bathroom and take your panties off. I’m going to pay for your drink. Meet me out front,” he demanded.

I obliged.

We were walking the street hand in hand, to where, I had no idea. As we stopped to wait for the MetroRail to pass through, he looked down at me and flatly whispered, “Give them to me.” I reached into my purse and there went my black lace panties into his hand. There they went up to his nose in the middle of a busy block downtown. And there they went into his pocket.

Holy fuck.

We reached Prohibition Theatre and I wondered how long he’d been planning this, briefly struggling with the thought that if he hadn’t gotten these tickets last minute, he was either originally taking someone else or expecting I’d drop whatever plans I’d had for him. I tried to push back both thoughts as we walked inside. Fuck it, I was here, I looked fabulous, and from where we were seated, I would never be able to afford to come here on my own.

We had our own personal bartender and server, seated at the mezzanine, looking down on the lower level and the stage. It was a mix between modern swanky and 1920s ritzy style. My stomach was growling, but I was more interested in the burlesque girls we’d be seeing than whatever we were going to order for dinner. I was dazzled and a little giddy.

He ordered us oysters and picked a drink for each of us off the cocktail menu and politely asked our server to keep us topped off with the water.

“I was thinking the other night,” he began, “while that beautiful mane of yours was fanned out on my thighs, how much I enjoy watching you suck my cock, how much more I enjoy watching you swallow, and how sexy you must look devouring a meal.”

We’d gorged on pizza and Thai so many times on his couch, but I couldn’t remember us actually every sitting down for a proper meal.

“So, this is what tonight is all about? You felt an urgent need to watch me eat?”

“No. That’s not it. Eating is just one of the many things I want to watch you do tonight. Lose the the tone and the attitude. I don’t want to hear sarcasm in your voice.”

So, it began. We were embarking on a little game after all.

Instinctively and quickly stepping into the role I knew he wanted me to play, I whispered, almost purred, “Whatever you’d like, Sir.”

I felt myself growing warmer and wetter at the apex of my thighs, thinking about him controlling me, owning me for the night. How in turn, I would be the one driving him mad, the one possessing him, how he only got the power because I allowed him.

I could feel the blood rushing behind my ears, the anticipation building at my core and in my throat, as I wondered what limits our desires would drive us to push that night. I was as excited as I was terrified, the fear almost turning me on as much as anything else. It was never vanilla with us. Most people were bound by the walls of their own conventionality, chained to their everyday conformist adherence. But not us, at least not when we were together.

Losing his wolfish grin, softness descending into his eyes, he grabbed my hand and murmured, “You remember you don’t ever have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with, right? Tell me if at any point tonight you are. I’m always happy to just take you into my bed with me.”

Our drinks were set in front of us just after he slipped a pill I recognized into my hand. I wasn’t a stranger to Molly, and it wouldn’t be our first walk around the block together. The last (and only) time I had gone down the rabbit hole with him, and it was as pure of a hit as I had ever had. I wanted to feel that way again. I wanted to feel that way again with him next to me. I wanted to feel that way again with his hands on me. Everything brighter, warmer, sharper, more vibrant, more intensified.

“Only if you’re up for it tonight,” he reassured me.

“Bottoms up,” I cheered, taking a sip of my aromatic cocktail.

We made it through our starters, halfway through dinner and through our third drinks, before he put a hand on me again.

My skirt had inevitably ridden up. From where we sat, if anyone stopped looking at the stage to look back, they’d be able to see what his hands were doing underneath the table. He had scooted his chair to sit next and not across from me. He placed his hand on my kneecap, slowly moving up to my inner thigh and tracing his fingers. I spread my legs only a fraction and he slid his hand up a couple of inches higher, gently caressing my soft skin with his fingertips as he moved closer and closer to my clit. I relaxed into my chair, my head on his shoulder, while he massaged me in circles and I grinded into his hand. I grabbed his hand to direct his fingers inside of me, I wanted to feel them against my walls, in and out, hard. He stopped any kind of movement completely.

Looking at me, he commanded, “You don’t call the shots here. Tell me, ask for what you want with words, and maybe I’ll let you have it.”

“I want you to finger fuck me, please,” I breathed.

I could feel the effects of the drug slowly taking a hold of me, vines wrapping themselves delicately around my torso and every limb of my body like a serpentine. I wondered if he was feeling it too. Was his hand between my legs a calculated move? Did he know I was starting to feel complete bliss in each and every one of my senses? Was he feeling it too?

Slowly and very deliberately, he slid a finger inside me, followed by another. He worked in a slow and steady rhythm, tantalizing me. He began to pick up his pace, pushing harder into me. “Is this what you want,” he grinned into my ear.

He didn’t stop until I came in his hand, my legs tingling, my whole body vibrating. He rubbed the same fingers that had just been inside me over my lips, put each one into his mouth and sucked. He then moved back to sitting across from me.

Throughout the rest of the show, I ached for nothing more than to feel him inside me, but we were young and so was the night. Sex never started in bed with us, neither did foreplay, and it was just beginning.

I remember that night so vividly. It’s one of the memories I sometimes replay over in my head. It lives as a journal entry I sometimes go back to when the big empty is flowing in and out. I felt so alive that night.

This is what I will always remember: A club mix of Ellie Goulding’s rendition of High For This. A throbbing pulse through my body. The city lights. A crowd of dancing bodies, somehow us feeling like the only two in the room. Flowers blooming where we touched. Wind sweeping the hair from my face. My hand in his hand. Electricity down my spine. A cab. A playlist of songs on repeat. Candles flickering. The scent of fabric softener in his sheets. The cologne on his skin. Losing control. Our animal nature taking over. His calloused fingers roughly digging into my flesh. Him moving inside me, how good it felt, how much it hurt. The look in his eyes, something primal about it. The familiar crashing of waves through my body as I tightened around him. That time not thinking, “That was good,” but thinking “I could fall in love with him.”

His body felt like a furnace wrapped around me all through the night. It always did, the same way he always wrapped himself around me in his sleep, never letting go. If I moved, he moved with me. If I escaped his embrace, his arm or leg found itself around me again. Always. I laid there awake as he breathed in and out, peacefully asleep next to me, remembering the couple of times he told me he wished I would just stay. Had that admission carried a deeper meaning? Was I just then realizing what he had meant by that?

In this moment, I, too, wanted to just stay.

I wanted to blame it on the sex. I wanted to blame it on the drug. But part of me knew I had just unlocked a thought and a feeling I wouldn’t soon shut.

I relished his warmth all throughout that night. I wanted to remember how safe it felt. How less alone it made me feel. How wanted. With my face in his chest, I savored his scent. I didn’t want to forget.

Because when the lines between sex and love get blurred, there’s only one thing to do—you leave.

I feigned sleep when he got dressed in the morning. I could feel him there standing in his bedroom and staring at me. He dropped something on the bed and a few seconds later I heard his front door shut. He’d left me a note: “Gone to get breakfast. Look to your left. If you wake up, don’t leave, I’ll be back soon.” There was a glass of iced water on the nightstand next to me. I didn’t want to leave, but I knew if I stayed, I’d never want to go.

I never answered his messages or his calls.

A year later, a stranger walked past me in a cafe. Bergamot, cedar, lavender, and spicy notes. I couldn’t help but call out to him and ask him what cologne he was wearing.

Zara he said.

Anytime I find myself at any department store I look through the fragrance counters to see if they carry it. I spritz some in the air. Each time I wonder if I made a mistake.

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Our sextape!

Hanging in our favorite haunt. Me and Charly. Was a grey, gloomy Tuesday and we’re hiding from life. Staring at her phone, she looks up. Looks at me. Out of nowhere, she says: “I want to make a sex tape.” And then pauses. “With you.”

Charly does this. Random thoughts just spew from her head. I say, “Ok.” But the with you part doesn’t go unnoticed… We go to our favorite haunt in the Catskills; mountains, trees, fresh air and a bed as big as your house. We loved this place. She had found it while on a bachelorette weekend. And then just said, “Baby, we’re going there.” I say, “Ok.”

Because she wants to sit naked together in a huge tub, drink champagne, close our eyes and be one. Be us. So we go there a lot. The big bed calls us. We lie together in it as I slowly take off her clothes. Inch by inch. I kiss everywhere as I go.

I fumble with the bra, because I always fumble with the bra, and because even after all this time I’m still a teenager on a first date with her. The effort is always worth it. Her breasts spill forth into my eager mouth. I kiss her stomach. I kiss anything I can find.

I go lower. The jeans… I got those. They snap open as smoothly as James Bond orders a martini. I pull her out of them, spread her legs and keep kissing. She starts to moan and writhe as my tongue spreads her legs farther. I begin to probe deeply inside her with my tongue. And I’m lost, because I love this girl so much.

Charly begins to pant, short, shallow breathing. I decide that I’m going to move here, right between her legs. I’m good at this. With you, I think.

She pants louder, urgent pleas with herself. I need some air, so I look up, expecting to see her head arched back, her eyes clouded over and her beautiful breasts waiting for me. Instead I see an iPad. She’s filming this, I realize.

She sees me look up through the screen, peers over it and gives me a look that defies me to say this isn’t fucking hot, her watching me through the screen.
And she’s right. It is. I pull her down toward me, so that half of her is on the bed and half off, supported by my arms. The iPad comes with her. She sets it up next to her on the bed as I enter her. “Ohhhh baby,” she purrs as I thrust slowly, teasing her.

Her hand moves down and finds my shaft and she strokes and touches herself at the same time. And I’m watching all of this through the iPad, I realize. I watch my technique, if you can call it that. I watch as I alternate thrust speed and force. I look away and look at her. She’s looking directly at me, staring into my eyes. “God lovie!,” she moans.

The room has a fireplace and plush couch. We move to that. Set up the iPad on the coffee table and I turn Charly around and gently push her to her knees on the couch.

As I kiss her ass, I reach under her and grab her breasts, playing with the nipples until she starts to pant again. I’m hard as a rock. Literally, my cock could drive nails right now. “God, you make me so hard,” I gasp in amazement of her ability to do just that. “I love making you hard,” she says. I enter her from behind, her favorite position. Mine too.

We’re both staring at the screen. But it’s not centered correctly, so I reach out to move it. And fall right off the couch and out of her. Stunned, I’m not sure what to say or do. Her laugh saves me. It’s the laugh I want to hear every day for the rest of my life. The one that says: I love you, you big dork all in one laugh.

We start again – with the right angle for the iPad. And I watch myself rocket into her over and over and over. Beautiful slapping sounds of flesh meeting flesh. I watch her turn away from the screen so she can concentrate on her building orgasm. Charly shakes when she cums. Literally, like she’s having a seizure, so violent is her pleasure with me. With you.

She grabs a small pillow and grips it hard. My hands traverse all over her body as I continue to thrust, harder and faster now. I want her to cum, and I want to see it on screen. Her back is coated with sheen of slick sweat. Her groans become more rapid. She’s panting for air. “God, yes, yes, yes, baby!” she screams into the air as she cums; once, then immediately again, her body twitching with pleasure and joy and naked, raw sex.

Exhausted, we move to the bed. She puts me on my back and takes my cock in one hand and gives me her iPhone in another. With a devilish gleam in her eye she watches as I film her. She kisses my neck, may arms, my stomach, my thighs. Finally she takes my cock and licks it like a lollipop. The pleasure, expectation, sensation inside of me is unreal. She takes me fully into her mouth and begins to suck. My brain explodes in pure pleasure and anticipation as I stare at the images on the phone. And I can’t tell which is hotter, watching this beautiful woman suck my cock on the small screen or live.

I zoom in. Her face, hair and my quivering cock fill the screen. Jesus, this is fucking hot, I think. My breathing becomes shallow now. My vision is blurry. All I can do is feel. Feel her mouth. Feel her bringing me to a place I’ve never been. “I’m going to cum, baby.” I say. “Uh-huh,” she mumbles as this news spurs her to suck harder and faster.

I explode inside her as I watch the screen. I see myself shake; see my toes curl inward, see her smile at the ecstasy she has brought me. Such is the power of Charly. She looks up. Says, “I always wanted to do that, baby.” “With you.” 

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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To All The Girls I Have Loved Before

This is a surprise off time blog from me!

But I couldn’t wait to share this with you all! Love you all my viewers, thanks always ❤️👽

“For obvious reasons I’m not gonna name anyone!”

“I hope you get to read this, if I’m not blocked”


Sometimes love doesn’t go according to plan, it stops or isn’t giving in return, in this open love letter, I want to tell all my ex girlfriends that they taught me something very valuable and for that reason only I still love you… (P.S. Not literally!)🖖😋
Letter To My Ex Girlfriends That I Still Love

Dear Exes,
Today, I had a rough day today since I broke my glasses last night.
Y’all know how fidgety I am with things!
You must be surprised I’m doing this after all this time without any news.
I didn’t expect this either, believe me. I had never in my life written a letter before this one(I won’t count a stupid love letter I wrote in school), I guess we’re used to first times by now… I don’t know where to start, sorry if I’m babbling.

It’s been years since we put a stop to our relationship.
More because of me than of you, I’ll grant you that. Since then, I tried to build new stories, to meet new girls, new exes… 🙄 But it’s no good, every time I get on a relationship, I remember the mistakes of the past that affected our relationship. I thought I had changed but I hadn’t. The more time goes by, the more I miss you (again not literally), the things you told me to change and lament. I mulled it over for a long time before telling you about it because I didn’t want to hurt you – I believe I have hurt you enough as it is. 💔

Everything we’ve lived together somehow seems to come back in my face, I reread all your messages, remembered the moments you cursed me for crying, looked at all our pictures and this huge wave of sadness just came crashing on me. Because you weren’t there. Sure we used to fight and barely ever agreed on anything, but I felt good when I was with you. Life was simple when I was next to you. There weren’t 1,000 questions constantly buzzing around in my head, life was simply good.
I miss you, I just had to tell you. I haven’t forgotten you… (not like that babe)
One of you taught me to express more, 🤷
One of you taught me to exaggerate less, 🙏
One of you taught me to stop lying, 😷
One of you taught me to prioritise things, 🤕
But most importantly you all taught me to love with a pure heart without really expecting much in return because someday I’ll get someone who will be just like me! 😊
Post our break up, you always kept telling me believe in doing good and you’ll receive good! 🤗

With all of you, I’ve had a lot of memorable moments but the one that truly stands out and is etched in the mind is the 1st meeting ever! 😍

Not saying it was a love at 1st sight, coz then I’ll have to get my eyes checked for so many loves at 1st sight, but that certain something clicks and the vibe tells you yeah she’s the one (** times)! 🤣😂

This is only for the girls I was in a relationship with, the one’s who rejected me are probably unable to read this as I’m not that necessary! 😤

(Heere ki pehchan johri ko hoti hai!)

Thank you all of you,
For being a part of my journey.
Many of you have moved on and have found someone better than me (Only in some things!) 🤓
Many of you have moved on and have found peace !
But the truth still remains that each one of you will remain a decorated part of my life! 🤐

Many relationships were plagued by sadistic as***les! 👿
Many relationships hit the roadblock because of the visible enemy, “BESTFRIEND” 😕
Many ended because of Social Media advisors who were desperately dwelling in your DMs! 🤑
But I’ve found peace with myself and the break ups!
Coz I’ve finally found another new love!
Just hope this relationship doesn’t find place in this list! 🤞

The funniest part though was the one where this former best friend of mine would meet me after a 2 year gap and everytime we met, she had a new bhabhi to know about! 😹

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Next blog will be out on 2nd June at 4 pm.
Please share this blog, like it and comment the adversities faced by you!

Desai Thoughts MEdia.

Feel for you

Today I met a stranger online, yes I said online because I know many of us think that meeting someone online is not trustworthy.
So I thought by writing blog I should share my experience.
I met a stranger ,when I said stranger it means that person is completely unknown for me , I don’t know him , I have never seen him but that one random text changed my life into colours. Like everyone I also thought of not trusting him , obviously how can I trust him right? But then gradually when we interacted with each other , we got to know each other . Still i think , why am I talking to him ? Am i going on a right track ? But that feel is pushing me to think for him all day all night . I tried to stop myself by not texting him , by keeping myself involve in other things like i was distracting myself but then I realize that this is the feel that is attracting me towards him .
We started interacting on calls,we shared our problems,our habits,our likes dislikes,our friends families,our past and Now i got addicted to his voice which gives me positive energy every time ..its like i have to talk to him without fail everyday ..
Yes i feel for him from deep inside my heart , You know what he taught me how to love yourself,and the amazing part is that he helped me heal from my past my worst past experience and now that made me feel for him so strongly because of this feel I cannot love in moderation……
Actually , we should not love in moderation .
Why to measure love , feelings ?
We must express our feelings without any doubt ,without any hesitation. If we really feel for someone , they should know about our feelings for them..I did the same thing. I told him how much i feel for him, how much I am affected by him . Yes,he is the person who helped me to overcome from my worst past . He knows my flaws my weakness he is completely aware of how I got so much involved in my past and how I use to hurt myself but he taught me that instead of hurting myself I should learn to respect myself and to love myself . He always use to say
“know your worth”.
For me this is love where we try to dissolve all the negativities from our life partner…He did the same …and therefore i always say that I feel positive vibes when i am around him . Now i don’t stop myself being around him. He became the reason of my smile and happiness. Usually i get stressed and get afraid of again losing love and happiness from my life but again my healer my love says that
” SENORITA JUST GO WITH THE FLOW ” and makes me smile again…
We love each other and expressed our love for each other .
“Love,Express Your Love,Spread Love”

Written by Vidhi Mehta

What is Maturity?

Age is an extremely relative topic. It’s just a number, and yet it is interpreted as a measure of maturity. Age is not maturity, just as maturity is not age. And even after that distinction, “being mature” is not just a simple blanket term, you have the capacity to take certain things in a more mature way than others.

Not to come off as arrogant, but look at me. I lost my sister when I was in the second grade, the victim of a disease that has no cure. Her loss, shattered the family completely and I was in a state of turmoil. Needless to say, I learned relatively quickly how to handle being alone, and how to take care of myself and my own best interests. Now, some could say that has made me mature beyond my years, I’ve heard it many a time before. And yet, I have a difficult time handling myself “maturely” in relationships. I’m not “mature” dealing with certain types of people or social situations. And I’m definitely not mature when it comes to disclosing my thoughts and emotions to others, on the rare occasion I might actually share such feelings.

Does that mean I’m actually an aged and jaded adult, and not a teenager? No.
Does that mean then that I’m not actually “mature?” Of course not.
Judge people for how they act and who they are, not their labels or measure of years passed.

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How to lose a guy in 10 hours!

The first thing you need to do is to make him fully believe you’re someone you’re not.

So when he only wants to show you pictures of himself jerking off even though it’s a casual 5 PM and he knows fully well that you’re out with friends, you act like it’s so hot. You “lol” and send perfectly angled selfies in the right light so it catches your highlight in response. You don’t ever say to stop and you make it seem like it’s such a turn on even though the last thing you are is remotely into it.

You slip on this other skin, this mask, entirely. This other version of you. It’s not entirely inaccurate. You do love the attention and it is kind of hot to have someone want you that badly, even when it’s 5 PM on a casual Tuesday. But it’s only a percentage of you. It’s not the whole being. It’s not an accurate representation of you actually are as, you know, a person.

But he doesn’t need to know that.

He doesn’t need to know you’re a person.

So after you make him believe you’re more simplistic, less layered, that you’re entirely one-dimensional and that one dimension is fuck fuck fuck, you completely pull down that mask and maintain it.You don’t force him to see you as anything but this one-dimensional sex object that he wants. You don’t push it. You don’t ask questions. Honestly you don’t ask for anything.

And that’s the key.

You don’t ask for anything. You don’t need anything.

Because remember, you’re not a person. And not-people don’t have people needs.

It’s all about him.

And that’s the next step. You make sure it’s all about him.

And you don’t really consider what that means for you. You’ve become so focused on him, on his need to see you as absolutely nothing other than a place for him to get off, about his complete lack of interest in anything you are and anything you might be, and you forget what it feels like to be desired for anything other than your body. You forget what it feels like to be anything else than a vessel for somebody else’s want.

You forget about yourself for so long it’s not just your need, your wants, your thoughts that you forget. You forget about you.

And so when he’s there, when he shows up, when he’s not just some figment of a fuckboy that hits you up after 11 PM, when you actually have to be a person around him, it hits you like a freight train.

Because you forgot what it means to have to be a person.

You don’t know how to do that, because he’s never seen you as one.

And so it all comes out like a tidal wave. All of your opinions start spilling out uncontrollably and washing over him not stopping for a second to let him get a word in. All of those layers you had hidden so purposefully behind lols and winks in 2 AM texts, behind the perfectly angled selfies and the omgs to 5 PM dick pics are immediately torn apart. You’re no longer perfectly angled, you’re no longer just a container for fantasy, for want, for fuck fuck fuck.

You’re a person again.

Which is the last step. Become a person again.

And well, that wasn’t what he wanted.

So you have half-assed sex and drink too much whiskey and make fun of his inability to spell. The kissing is awkward because you don’t fit together and you sleep with your back turned to him. You hog the pillows in bed and don’t bother putting makeup on in the morning and when you hand him a cup of coffee you can see that he doesn’t even recognize you. You tell him why he’s wrong about things like Thanos and rent control and when he asks you if you’d like to day drink and you say no because it’s 9:30 AM so he shrugs and drinks more of your bourbon without asking.

And when he makes some excuse to go and immediately drops off the face of the Earth, you can’t even be really that bothered because you know what happened. The writing on the wall was already there even if you were ignoring it because for a brief minute you liked the attention.

Because it’s all too easy to lose a guy in 10 hours when the guy had no idea who you were to begin with.

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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A different form of love!

“What a perfect time to practice for your future,” you joked quietly in the pharmacy. I told you I didn’t know how to ask for what we needed. You asked me to try. Just to you, in an aisle quietly and that you would try not to laugh. All I remembered was that the Spanish word for pregnant sounds a lot like the English word for embarrassed and I was hoping in just a few minutes to know I would only be one of those two.

Your pharmacies are different. There weren’t even bottles of water for sale so you asked for one from behind the counter. That much I could understand.

When you handed me the brown paper bag and tiny airline style water bottle I laughed. I started unboxing the pills before realizing you didn’t expect me to take them right there. Standing in my latex boots I bought off Instagram, my first reaction was to take them and open my mouth to prove it, like I used to have to with my parents after I got caught doing drugs a few times, maybe between three and twelve. But drugs bad enough that it was enough to ruin the rest of high school and why I wasn’t allowed to take any pain medication after getting my three wisdom teeth removed.

I only had three, naturally. It’s no wonder I’m not that smart, I thought. If I ended up here standing in a pharmacy at 1am in Mahim Circle.

Before any other customers could take too good of a look, I stuffed the bag into my purse and took a few sips of water to wash out my mouth that still tasted like sex but would soon be filled with iPill, which I still honestly don’t love.

For a moment there, before getting into the Uber I called by tethering off your iPhone’s internet, I felt like you trusted me. That you knew that I would take them. Leaving potentially the rest of your life, and future, and mine, in my hands. In a small brown bag, in a cab on the way to a club and that maybe that is what love, the impermanent and sometimes just lasting a few hours type, feels like. 

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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The kind of guy a girl wants!

I’m told that being rich is pretty fucking great. I get it. It seems like life is a lot easier for people who don’t have to stress about bills, and can afford to do extravagant things like schedule a dentist appointment or buy organic produce. Having a job that puts you in a position of power seems nice too. It’s an ego boost, surely, to be the boss. You’re in charge of people, and they’re reliant on you and your opinion of them to further their own careers.

When you have money and power, you must feel invincible. You can do whatever you want. You can say whatever you want. The repercussions will be small — if there are any at all. The more wealth and power you obtain, the easier it becomes to do as you please. The easier it becomes to silence those who are against you.

It must be fucking nice. You must be so goddamn happy. Shit, I would be too. You’re untouchable. Now that you’re untouchable, fucking must be easier too.
Women are attracted to wealth and power, aren’t they? You were told your whole life that as soon as you obtained these two things that women would immediately throw themselves at you. We’re talking attractive women too. Women blessed with symmetrical faces, and have what you’ve been told is a perfect body. Basically, the only kind of woman you look at these days. The only kind of woman you deem worthy of your time.

It seemed like the perfect life plan, but for some reason your sexual advances toward women are not met with the enthusiasm you expected. They still don’t want to fuck you. You remind them that you have money and power, but their minds don’t really change. You’re at a loss. You don’t really understand why this isn’t coming easy.

Well, I’m here to tell you why. You suck.

All this time you thought that getting rich and being powerful would satisfy women enough to willingly have sex with you whenever you want. Most women, however, do not work this way. Despite the narrative other men try to feed you that says otherwise, people at their core are attracted to other people for reasons that have nothing to do with social status or income. Of course it’s true that this isn’t the case for all people, but we’re not talking about them. We’re talking about the average person, who isn’t a monster like you.

The average woman who is capable of empathy and has a need to be satisfied emotionally as well as physically, does not find your resume to be what gets her going. It can be something that initially attracts her to you, sure. It can be the thing that gets you that date with her. I am not denying that. But, do you know what would be the thing to make her genuinely fall for you? That would allow her to be intimate with you in a consensual, and genuinely-desiring-you sort of way?

Not being a piece of shit.

Now, what does it mean to not be a piece of shit? I’ll break it down for you.


There’s no such thing as breaking a woman down. When a woman says no, she means it. If your way of obtaining sex involves bargaining, arguing, several failed attempts, and the need to remind her of your status, there’s an extremely high probability that even if she ends up saying yes it will be out of a feeling of defeat and fear. Bottom line, she still means no. Listen to her, and take her words seriously. You don’t know what she wants, she does.


Genuinely give a shit about the women you meet. Get to know them, and care for them. Whether you are sexually attracted to them or not. Make sure they are comfortable when they’re around you and if they’re not, be open to their criticisms and opinions without chastising them or writing them off as overreacting, crazy, or dramatic.

Practice Honesty

If you find yourself lying to women frequently, reexamine your fucking life. Be honest about your intentions, what you want, and what you’re doing. Your honesty might sometimes hurt your chances of getting laid. Your honesty might hurt someone’s feelings, or even your own. At the end of the day though, it’s your honesty that will eventually make you a more trustworthy and better person.


Empathy is the most important thing to try and keep as you climb the ladder of success, yet it’s the easiest thing to lose. A human being’s ability to understand others and comprehend things from their varying perspectives is what prevents many of us from being abusive, hateful monsters. If you only surround yourself with people who are just like you, you’ll all fail to see how the people who don’t have what you have might be hurt from your words and actions. You won’t be able to register first-hand how your decisions affect them. Remind yourself on a daily basis that all people matter. Not just you or people like you.

Again, it’s great to afford nice things and to have the authority to make others as wealthy or as famous as you. Please note though that these are not the things that make up your character. These are not the things that we find to be what makes you the person you are. When you discover that your influence and capital aren’t working to your advantage when it comes to your interpersonal relationships, do not get angry. Do not become the despotic villain who is suddenly incapable of viewing others as people. Do not downplay their hurt and anger towards you. Definitely do not ever try to make yourself the victim. We all know that’s some bullshit, dude.

Instead, ask yourself why your still having trouble connecting with people in that way that you desire deep down. Work on being a better person. Practice listening, caring, honesty, and empathy. With this, you’ll find that you don’t have to take advantage of people in order to get what you want out of them. Better yet, you won’t want to take advantage of anyone. Life will be a whole lot fucking easier. For all of us. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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We’re all just broken children under adult bodies

We’re all just broken children living in adult bodies, aren’t we? We’re mostly made of scar tissue and deflated imaginations, composed of the narratives handed down to us from our parents. Parents who we sometimes forget were children just like us, with all the angst, insecurities, and paralyzing self-doubt.

Our parents learned to love from the only examples they had. Learned what to preach, when to praise, and how to punish. Then, whether intending to or not, they carried on these lessons to their own children and the cycle continued. If from a young age, we feel the hot sting of a hand across our cheek after misplacing one of our toys, we may very well improve at looking after our belongings, but what happens to that child who grows up believing that imperfection is unacceptable? Perhaps this moment in time is deemed insignificant, but do these moments not eventually define us when we’re older?

We may not remember the exact moment our abandonment issues emanated. We may not know why we fear the dark, cramped spaces, or being alone. But somewhere within our tender histories, we developed these phobias. This is also where we developed our bad habits or crooked ethics.

When we become parents ourselves, we vow to not repeat the mistakes made in the wake of our upbringing. We vow to guard our young against all the evil we’ve witnessed, at least until they’re strong enough to do so on their own. Surprisingly, many of us end up morphing into our parents regardless of our intentions and find it impossible to unstitch their teachings. Teachings that may have only resulted from scarcity beliefs or irrational fears. It’s not even just our parents, it’s our neighbors, our friends, our school teachers. Every relationship we have influences our posture to some degree, whether we realize it or not.

The good thing about these learned behaviors is that they can be unlearned. We can break the cycle and start our own. We don’t have to wear the scars of our parents or our friends or our teachers. We can manifest any life we want, assuming we learn to recognize what scars actually belong to us.

There likely isn’t a human being that walks the face of this earth and doesn’t have some sort of unhealed trauma. But there’s no reason why that trauma needs to reside in us forever.

If we do the grunt work and heal ourselves, we keep history from repeating itself, and we save the lives of future generations. If we stop blaming and learn instead to forgive, we find resolution. A breath of fresh air and a newly paved path for our families to walk amongst.

No one is at fault for their brokenness. But anyone who doesn’t attempt to mend what needs healing is only amplifying the problem. We all are broken children living in adult bodies, but we can choose to acknowledge our frailties and in the future maybe we will be far less likely to pass them on to our own children, and them to theirs.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Passion! (By Khushi Kava)

The first part of figuring out how you want to spend your one and only life,the things that make you light up,the things you love to do more then anything else; it’s Passion.
You acknowledge your passion only when you follow your own path only when you truly believe in yourself.
Each one’s have different passion but to achieve it there should be consistency and sincerity in oneself.
Sometimes for some individuals passion becomes their career, but for some it just happens to become their dream.
There are people who go after or are following their passion by holding supportive background, but for some it is a lonesome path. But never lose hope because that is what will make you feel inferior about yourself and in society.
The most difficult thing is the decision to act, the rest is merely tenacity. The fears are paper tigers. You can do anything you decide to do. You can act to change and control your life; and the procedure, the process is its own reward.Passion is worthwhile in itself.
Focus and emphasis on what you relish and your hobby, be ambitious to fullfill your dream. Hustle for your passion and to be there, where you want yourself to prevail at a future time.
Don’t be greedy, compete with yourself and not with others. Challenge your own self everyday to keep the pace. Keep optimistic mind and ambience so positivity is alongside of you.
The breakthrough to acquire your passion won’t always be fortunate, you’ll face negligence, non-fullfillment but never lose belief in your self.
Your pace for passion should have intensity but not anger nor lust, strive for it steadily and everyday. It will be sedate-slow going process but you’ll taste the sweet glory.

Written by Khushi Kawa.
Also check out her Blog.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Don’t you dare!

Don’t you dare close your eyes and wish for me when he’s no longer next to you. When the smell of his hair on your pillows has gone stale and you can no longer remember the scent of my shampoo, how my skin tasted when you kissed the soft spot of my temple and breathed me in.

Don’t you dare let your mind drift and dream of me, of the way I would stay up too late just to listen to your voice, my eyelids fluttering, getting heavier with each exhale.

Don’t you dare remember how I looked into your green eyes when you spoke to me, tracing back years of each other’s lives that we missed.

Don’t you dare look up at that ceiling with longing, remembering how I would create constellations with the dots, the cracks, telling stories almost as beautiful as our own.

Don’t you dare pretend I’m coming back, to that space we shared for a moment in time, now that it’s no longer swelling with the energy of the two of you.

I will not be your placeholder boy, your nostalgia, your moments of temporary bliss. I will not be the number you call when you’re lonely, the one who only graces your mind when you’re not busy with the thought of someone else.

I will not be your second best, won’t come crawling back to the arms that so easily let go. I will not think, for a second, my worth is resting in the palms of your hands, in the gentle graze of your fingertips on my skin.

Don’t you dare think that you have this all figured out. That you can walk into someone else’s outstretched limbs and call them home for a while, only to come back to me when you’re less afraid.

Don’t you dare think you can close our door, but keep it opened just a crack, in case you want to return when your legs aren’t as unsteady.

Don’t you dare remind yourself of all that we used to be when your heart is finally broken by someone who never had intentions to keep you.

Don’t you tell me I was right; I don’t want to be right, I want to be free. Free from the words that try to hold me back, from the hands that pull me down. From the girl I thought was a woman but never loved with the same tenacity. And perhaps never will.

Don’t you dare miss me when he’s gone. When there is no longer a body to pull close to you. When there is only one pair of shoes at the front door. When both his, and my memories ache somewhere deep in your chest, a dizzy mess of regret you can’t quite sort out.

Your feelings are not genuine. You’re simply alone. And I am worth more than to be the one who catches you when you fall, the body you desire when you’re lonely, the love you want to replace, to fill what’s missing.

I am already overflowing for myself, and just as easily, someone else. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Date someone like this!

Don’t date someone who makes excuses to avoid giving oral. Someone who claims that he hates the taste, that it hurts his neck, that you take too long to cum. Someone who finds a reason to avoid putting his head down there every time you’re in the mood.

Don’t date someone who selfishly expects to get an orgasm every time your clothes come off but won’t bother to return the favor. Don’t date someone who thinks it’s perfectly fine to push your head down but it’s unacceptable for you to sit on his face. Don’t date a sexual hypocrite.

Date someone who goes down on you, even when it’s not your birthday or anniversary or some other special occasion. Someone who eats you out spontaneously, without you having to ask for it. Without you having to beg for it. Without you having to remind him that you deserve attention, too. That sex isn’t supposed to be one-sided.

Date someone who goes down on you — even if it takes you thirty minutes to finish. Someone who doesn’t get annoyed with you for being unable to orgasm as quickly as he does. Someone who understands that women take more time than guys do because their bodies work differently.

Date someone who puts effort into learning what turns you on. Someone who will try new techniques and then actually pay attention to see whether you’re moaning or squirming more. Someone who notices what you like and dislike so that he can be better the next time.

Date someone who goes down on you without complaining. Without acting like it is a chore. Without acting like he just did something spectacular after he’s done and like you should be bowing down to him for being the best boyfriend in the universe. Date someone who doesn’t think of giving oral as something extra he’s doing, but thinks of it as something he should be doing. Because if you’re giving him blowjobs during every period, the least he can do is try to catch up during the rest of the month.

When it comes down to it, you should date someone who respects you outside and inside of the bedroom. Someone who knows sex isn’t all about his pleasure. Someone who knows he isn’t the only one who is supposed to get something out of the deal. Someone who thinks you deserve a release as much as he does.

Date someone who tries to give you as many orgasms as he gets. Someone who doesn’t mind working hard to get you to finish. Someone who does whatever he can to get you off, because he knows that you are doing the exact same thing. He knows that you are giving just as much as he is giving.

Date someone who actually enjoys going down on you because he thinks you look hot when you’re horny. Because turning you on turns him on. Because he is madly in love with you and wants to make you happy in every possible way. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Sorry for welcoming you in my bed and not heart!

I’m sorry for welcoming you into my bed,

But not into my heart.

I’m sorry you opened your heart to me

And I only opened my legs.

Sometimes I feel the only way I can attract the opposite sex,

Is with my body, my lips, my sexuality.

Sometimes I feel my mind is too fucked up to be loved,

So I offer what I know won’t be rejected.

It’s an unconventional way to show affection,

But it’s the way I show it.

The safe way to show it.

No heart, no feelings, no emotions.

I know my mind and heart are not too fucked up to feel, to love.

But I know others will believe them to be.

I can handle the bodies never returning to my bed,

But I can’t handle the thought,

That one of those bodies would have a grip on my heart, a look into my mind, a glimpse into the chaos,

And that be the reason they don’t return.

So when I bare my body

Instead of my soul

Know I am opening myself up to you the only way I have ever known

The only way I have ever been comfortable with.

Just know

When you bare your heart and soul to me,

I am listening.

But don’t expect me to reciprocate in the same manner

I have to protect myself first.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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She wishes you to do this!

She wishes that you would place a hand on the small of her back while walking down the aisles of the grocery store. She wishes you would hug her from behind while helping her bake cookies in the kitchen. She wishes you would reach across restaurant tables to squeeze her hand and stretch your legs out beneath those same tables to play footsie with her.

She wishes you would absentmindedly play with her hair. She wishes that you would breathe in the scent of her perfume during lingering hugs. She wishes that you would rest a hand on her thigh at the movie theater. She wishes you would place your hands across her shoulders and give her a surprise massage just because she deserves it.

She wishes you would place a kiss against her forehead before leaving for work. She wishes you would let her rest her head on your chest while lounging on the couch. She wishes you would be the big spoon while cuddling on some nights and be the small spoon on other nights.

She wishes you would place more kisses on the back of her hand. On her collarbones. On her breasts. She wishes you would remember to run your hands down her back. Her arms. Her legs.

And when you reach the bedroom, she wishes you would take your time with your movements instead of reaching for the zipper on the back of her dress. She wishes that you would let foreplay last longer instead of jumping straight into sex.

She wishes you would press your lips against the soft skin of her neck. She wishes you would tease her by kissing the flesh of her thighs. She wishes you would look her deep into the eyes. She wishes you would whisper compliments about her beauty into her ears.

She wishes you would touch her gently. She wishes you would caress her cheeks. She wishes you would skim your fingers down her arms until she shivers. She wishes you would take your time with your tongue during oral, moving slowly instead of rushing. She wishes you would make lovemaking romantic.

And other times, she wishes you would be more rough. She wishes you would shove her against the bedroom wall. She wishes you would grab her hair. She wishes you would spank her hard. She wishes you would pin down her wrists. She wishes you would climb on top of her and take the lead.

She wishes you would touch her in the spots that make her moan the loudest instead of instinctively doing what brings you the most pleasure. She wishes you would pay more attention to what she wants. She wishes you would touch her the way she’s been dying to be touched. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Pleasure vs Arousal!

Some of us get confused between these two concepts.

We think that the same things that turn us on are also the same things that feel pleasurable.

But if you examine closely your own experience, you will most likely realize that the two are separate, distinct elements of your sexuality.

At times, it is quite obvious.

For example, you might be turned on by a fantasy of some sort — and then, not enjoy playing that fantasy out.

Other times, it is more subtle.

You might be turned on by feeling adventurous and taking risks, but once you engage in sex that is more perilous than what you’re used to, you might not find it enjoyable at all.

And more subtle still.

You might be really turned on by thinking of your partner penetrating you — but you are not ready for it and if penetration was to occur now, it might be painful or uncomfortable.

Most people know what turns them on. But many people do not know what gives them pleasure. And I find it especially true for women.

Learning what turns you on is simple — it usually engages your imagination and that’s it (even if this imagination is simply recalling a past event or fantasizing about a future event). Our brains are really great at occupying ourselves with the past and the future.

When it comes to learning what gives us pleasure, we are not necessarily as good.

In order to really tap into our pleasure, we must stay present. We need to pay attention to the current moment. We need to focus inwardly to the sensations in our body.

It is too easy to get distracted. To continue doing something just because it turns us on and because we assume that it will feel better down the track.

Not long ago I came across a woman who said she is okay with feeling pain when her partner thrusts against her cervix because sometimes she will experience an intense orgasm through this motion. And although there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that, I personally don’t think there’s any need to endure pain in order to (possibly) enjoy an orgasm later.

When pleasure is our main focus, we have to stay present. We have to maintain our awareness in the here and now.

When we stay focused on pleasure, we can see that it shifts and changes.
Sure, some things may stay the same — you might like your clitoris to be stroked in a particular way, for example. But you might also notice the subtle change that is required for one specific occasion. You might feel that just a little tweak of pressure, or angle, might feel much better on a different occasion. And you might discover that different phases in your menstrual cycle feel slightly different in terms of the pleasure your body can sense. You might discover that at different stages of your life your body responds in completely different ways.

As long as you keep your attention on the current moment, you will most probably be able to tap into your pleasure with minimum effort.

This is one of the reasons why I’m a big fan of slow sex.

Slow sex, amongst other things, trains our mind to stay focused on the current moment, allowing us to enjoy the subtle sensations of pleasure everywhere in our body.

The other reason why I’m a big fan of slow sex is that its emphasis is on the one thing we all crave for in sex (and relationships in general): connection. True, deep intimacy. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Date 1 ~ Drinks.

Date 2 ~ Dinner. Drinks.

Date 3 ~ Dinner. Drinks. Lots of them. Invitation to her place.

I was shocked when Sonya had me follow her car out to the suburbs to her mansion at the end of a cul-de-sac surrounded by houses that looked all the same. The girl wasn’t even 20, but she lived in a three-bedroom, 2.5-bathroom house a good 30 minutes outside of the city? It’s funny how much less you vocalize questions you have about people before you have had sex with them for the first time.

I had a distinct feeling that wall was coming down that particular night. There was no way Sonya had me drive a half hour each way, already somewhere between buzzed and drunk, just to have one more drink.

Once inside the house, Sonya explained that both of her parents died fairly young and left her the house. It was a heavy dose of negative emotion to throw into the heavy petting and making out we were doing on the couch, but I was relieved to find out she wasn’t actually married to a 30-year-old guy who was going to burst through the door in the morning with a shotgun or something.

The conversation melted away faster than I thought it would. It was only a matter of time before I was in Sonya’s pink bedroom which looked like it hadn’t been redecorated since her high school years. Even more morbid than hearing about her parents dying as I had my hands all over her was taking things to the next level next to a poster of The Jonas Brothers.

Things unfolded the way I hoped they would. Actually, even better than I thought they would. Had I been the kind of guy who had a list written out of the best sexual partners I have had in my life, Sonya would have been number one with a bullet.

I laid back on Sonya’s bed at peace. I was excited to sleep in with her and wake up to cool off in the pool the next morning. I thought there was a good chance I might actually end up spending the whole weekend with Sonya at her place. I could get used to the burbs.

Sonya interrupted my daydreaming when she returned from a post-coital trip to the bathroom. I sat up when I felt wet tears wipe off her cheeks and onto my shoulder as she snuggled up next to me.


“I need your help with something. I hope it doesn’t freak you out,” Sonya said into my naked chest.

Sonya led me over to the closet in the corner of her room. She opened the doors and revealed a wooden rack adorned with metal shackles and chains. It looked like a torture rack you would see in Game of Thrones.

“I need you to chain me up,” Sonya said.

I laughed.

“It’s not funny.”

Sonya walked in front of me, still naked and put her back up against the rack.

Okay. So the girl was into some serious S&M. It was probably going to keep me from bringing her home to mom and dad, but I could roll with it for a while.

I helped Sonya put her wrists and ankles in the shackles and latched them shut.

I reached down and took my boxers off and took a step towards Sonya, poised for a kiss. She turned her head away.

“It’s not like that,” Sonya said, her eyes on the floor. “You should put your clothes back on. The key is in the nightstand by my bed. You have to use it to lock these up and then unlock me in the morning. You can sleep in my bed. Close the door when you’re done.”

I pulled my boxers back up.

Sonya looked me in the eyes, fresh tears dripping down her cheeks.

“I can explain more eventually, but this is just how it is right now.”


“Just do it!” Sonya said.

I locked the shackles, closed the door on Sonya and walked back downstairs to the kitchen to make a drink. It was going to take a lot more booze to get me to fall asleep after that.

I woke up on the couch. My head ached. I polished off four glasses of straight whiskey to force myself to go to sleep and it took me well into the night to accomplish that. I must have only got about three hours of restless sleep on the couch before the morning sun blazed through the large window in the living room and shoved me back awake.

I climbed the stairs up to Sonya’s room. I pushed through her door and was greeted by peaceful silence. I looked at her closed closet door. My body shivered, even though we had forgot to turn the air conditioning on and the temperature in the room had to be above 80 degrees.

“Sonya,” I said in the direction of the closet from the doorway.

“Good morning,” I heard Sonya’s groggy voice through the door of the closet.

I walked over to the closet and opened it up. I recoiled a bit when I saw Sonya laying back against the wooden board, her body naked and sweaty, her eyes barely open. She gave me a little smile.

“You can let me out now,” Sonya said.

Sonya and I caught up about the night over iced coffee next to the pool to the soundtrack of singing birds. It would have been bliss had the topic not been about tying her up in a closet so she could sleep at night.

“I’ll save you the awkwardness of even having to ask,” Sonya broached the subject before I had to. “I don’t know exactly what it is, but I have horrible blackouts at night, but only after I have sex.”

I thought Sonya was making this up. I thought this was the world’s most-elaborate prank. I almost laughed.

“What do you mean, blackouts?”

“I don’t really even know. It started happening once I started having sex when I was in college. I would go to sleep and then wake up somewhere completely different with a path of destruction in my wake. One time I woke up with my car covered in debris in a creek-bed. Once I woke up in my Kindergarten classroom, covered in blood from punching a window out to get in, one time I woke up in downtown LA on skid row sleeping with a bunch of bums. I eventually had to install the rack thing in there to keep me from running away in the night. I tried just having the door sealed from the outside or getting tied to the bed, but it never worked. I would always find a way to get out.”

“Do you hurt people?” I asked.

“Physically, I don’t know. Emotionally, yes. I understand if it is too much, and I’m sorry for throwing you into this without a real choice, but I got drunk last night and I needed some company. It had been a long, long time. Since before my parents passed. Thank you. Now, I understand if this is too much to deal with.”

“I mean…yeah. That’s pretty crazy.”

“I know.”

“You’ve been to specialists and stuff for this?”

“Of course.”

“Yeah, stupid question.”

“I’ve done everything someone could do in this situation except get themselves committed. Which I’m sure could happen at some point.”

“Only if you have sex.”


“So you just don’t usually have it?”


“So we will be fine and you won’t have to sleep in a closet as long as we don’t have sex?”

“Precisely, but I doubt that will work in the long run.”

“I know I’m probably not supposed to say this, and you’ll probably run to the Tinder hills because I did, but I really like you,” I said (nervous laugh).

“We can try.”

Sonya and I tried. We dated seriously for a couple of months without doing the deed.

I came up to her house in the suburbs on the weekends for sleep overs, she came over to my place in the city on weeknights. It was bliss. My endless nights of swiping right only to find damaged goods that didn’t have time, energy or the heart for a real relationship were over. Strange enough, the girl who needed to be shackled at night to make sure she didn’t burn the city down was the least-damaged girl I had found in years of dating in LA.

Sonya and I made it work. There were ways around sex and I think avoiding it for a couple of months helped us build a better bond in a day and age when a lot of people start relationships on a one-night stand.

I have to say the issue was the elephant in the room of our relationship which grew larger each day. Well, more like a hideous monster. I felt that monster might grow so large that it pushed us out of our cubby hole of comfort if we didn’t confront it, but I said nothing. I didn’t want to sabotage what we had.

Sabotage ended up being something we didn’t discuss, we just did it one night, when two drinks with dinner turned into seven drinks and a late-night skinny dip in the pool. I interrupted our make out session when the REO Speedwagon song “Can’t Fight This Feeling” popped into my head. There was no getting away from it this time.

Sonya and I made love in her bed. We soaked the sheets with the chlorine water which still clung to us. We were so drunk, I don’t think either of us thought about the consequences until we were lying with our eyes to the ceiling, catching our breath with that post-coital urge of sleep filling our bodies.

“Well…at least it was worth it,” Sonya said.

Sonya got up and went into the bathroom. I almost feel asleep by the time she came back a few minutes later. She didn’t even come back to the bed, she just walked over to the closet and started locking herself in.

“Just come lock it and we can go to sleep,” Sonya said.

I walked over and locked up the closet. Sonya and I avoided eye contact when the door closed.

“Good night,” we said at the same time just before the door closed all the way.

I retreated to the bed. I was so drunk and tired, it didn’t take me long to drift away into sleep.

I woke to the sound of heavy pounding on the closet door. I slowly opened my eyes. The room was still lit by a dying candle next to the bed I forgot to put out before going to sleep.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Methodical pounds rapped against the inside of the closet door. I looked over and saw its white doors shuddering with each hit. The pace of my heart started to pick up like the engine of a car that just pulled onto the on ramp of a freeway and started to accelerate.


I waited about 10 seconds for an answer. None came.

“Sonya?” I said again.

I got up from the bed and walked over towards the closet. The pounding stopped. The sound was replaced by the sound of heavy breathing.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

No answer.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

I slowly walked away and went back to bed. I laid there for hours, never falling back asleep, listening to those steady pounds hit the inside of the closet door until morning came.

I was shocked how normal Sonya looked when I let her out just after sunrise. You could have never imagined the girl was up the entire night before attacking a door. She pulled me in for a long, sweet hug as soon as she was free.

“We messed up, but it’s okay,” Sonya whispered into my ear during our embrace.

We promised again to not get too drunk and let our desires get the best of us. It was a nice short-term promise, but I still had my doubts about the long-term plausibility of how this would all work. Were we going to spend our whole lives sober and celibate? We might as well have become Mormons. Neither of us seemed to have a solution.

I would prod Sonya with questions whenever the time felt right. She swore up and down that all doctors had no idea what it was. Night terrors or something, was about the best explanation I ever got. She showed me official documentation from physicians. Confirmed that she had tried a bunch of medications, but none of them ever worked. I saw the half-empty pill bottles.

We went on with life. Every day together was a joy. We went Facebook official. I knew we were only a few months away from having to decide if we want to move in together full-time. The obvious choice would be to move into her already paid-off house with the pool, but I had my hesitations, for obvious reasons.

Those hesitations picked up some momentum when Sonya and I slipped up again on Halloween. We had too much to drink. Had incredible sex (it’s amazing how good it is when you let it linger for months at a time) and I locked my love in a god damn closet with iron clasps around her limbs.

The sounds from the closet started before I could fall asleep this time. A low growl, like the one a mean dog gives when you start to get to close to its food dish. I stared up at the ceiling and listened to it drone on for minutes before it was replaced by soft crying in Sonya’s usual soft feminine tone. It took everything I had to not run over to the closet, throw it open and pull out Sonya, but she promised that addressing her once it all started was the worst thing to do.

I listened to those growls and cries for hours. I felt like each minute that I had to listen sucked my soul out of me a little bit more and more.

Those pieces of my soul still floated out in the ether even with my relationship with Sonya flourishing. I couldn’t help but feel hollow each night when we said goodnight, kissed and I laid there with a throbbing erection (sorry, but it’s the truth) and a wonder if my girlfriend who was sleeping next to me was telling the truth about everything.

I soldiered on. Everything in my life seemed to take shape once I started things with Sonya. My mental imbalances appeared to mostly just be the stress and anguish of being a hopelessly single young person. Going to a spacious home with an actual kitchen and a backyard conducive to zen on the weekends helped me fight off the troubles of each work week and come back in on Monday refreshed and not drinking more than a couple of drinks on any given night was probably the best thing for me, mentally and physically.

So…I compromised…I let slide…whatever you want to call it. I was happy. We were happy. That was all that mattered.

Until…there’s always an until, isn’t there? Even in the happiest of stories.

This one didn’t start with booze. It started with a very sober, very thought-out and very-calm conversation with Sonya.

Sonya met me as soon as I walked in the front door of her house on a Friday night. I at first thought this was going to be one of those “talks” where I ended up driving back home in tears, but it was much the opposite. Sonya wanted to start scheduling sex on a regular basis. She was worried we were going to eventually have a problem, if we didn’t already, unless we did something. She could live with being locked up for a night every other week, she decided. I agreed. We set the next night as a lift off night.

Lift off came and went. It was amazing. Making love with someone you have been with for just the fourth time well over a year into your relationship causes you to release some unbelievable passion when you finally lock horns. I could barely walk by the time we were done.

Our lack of intoxication finally let us cuddle and bond after the deed. We laid there in bed for about an hour. I asked Sonya what would happen if she just didn’t go to sleep, but she said she didn’t want to risk it. What if she dozed off for a minute and then took off on a tear? Fair. I locked her up. I gave her a long kiss before I shut the door.

I was able to go to sleep peacefully that night. The formality of the whole thing seemed to give me security. It felt like a well-planned vacation or work activity.

I woke up to silence. I gave it a few minutes – listened for pounding from the closet. I listened for crying, growling, plead for help. I heard nothing. Just the hum of the air conditioning.

My bladder was what nudged me from my slumber. We pre-gamed our intimacy with virgin daiquiris in the pool and my body was ready to expel the fruity goodness at 5:30 in the morning.

I sat up in bed and instantly forgot about having to go to the bathroom. From the bed, I saw the doors to the closet resting open.


I got out of the bed and walked to the closet.


I looked in the open closet. The shackles were empty.

“Sonya?” I whispered.

I checked the bathroom. No Sonya.

Had I forgotten to lock the shackles? I couldn’t remember.

The door to the bedroom was closed. I walked over and put my ear to it. I didn’t hear anything.

I opened the bedroom door and peered out. The rest of the house seemed still, silent, dead. I left the bedroom and took off exploring.

My first destination was Sonya’s parents’ room at the end of the hall. It seems crazy to say now, but more than a year into half living at Sonya’s place, I had never been in her parents’ room.

The room let out a musty scent the second I cracked open the door. I peeked inside and saw a room that looked lived-in, but clearly had not been touched in quite some time. It reminded me of the re-staged historical rooms you commonly see in museums which try to capture how a place may have looked 100 years ago.

Everything about the room was unnerving. There was a pair of white boxer briefs on the floor to the side of the bed, an uncapped pen rested on a calendar on a desk, half-empty glasses of water rested on each nightstand. What looked like a red wine stain at the foot of the bed which trickled burgundy splatters into the bathroom.

No Sonya.

I took my investigation to the rest of the house. No luck. I even checked the garage and backyard and saw no sign of Sonya, or her potential exit. All the doors were still locked. Her car was still in the garage.

I went back to Sonya’s room. I checked her bathroom and closet again. Nothing. I gave a look under the bed. Just dust bunnies and old shoeboxes.

I stood back up and noticed something I must have missed earlier out of the corner of my eye. There was a space created behind the door when left opened the way I left it. The light was low and it appeared there was a shadow hiding behind the cover of the door.

“Fuck,” I muttered to myself.

I took a few steps towards the door.


I took a few steps closer. I thought I saw the shadow behind the door move closer to the wall.

That was it. I had enough. I was a 6’2 205-pound guy in his late-20s afraid of his girlfriend. I stomped up to the door and pulled it shut.

Nothing was behind the door. Something was on top of it.

Perched on the top of the door like a frightened housecat was Sonya. She had maneuvered her barely over five feet and 100-pound frame onto the thing and squatted above me, naked and coated with sweat.


Sonya jumped down at me. She pinned me to the floor. She held me down with a strength I never could have imagined could come from her tiny body.

I looked at Sonya’s face. Her eyes were red and bloodshot, opened wide and set on me like those of a rabid dog, her usual full and voluminous hair was slicked back, her teeth clenched in her mouth which was clenched in a snarl.

“Please, Sonya…

Sonya’s hand came down and her nails ripped across my lip, immediately drawing blood. I screamed out and tried to squirm away from her, but could only make it a few inches on the hardwood floors.

Sonya’s nails went from my lips right to my back where they dug in like razors. I tried to swing her off of me. She wouldn’t budge. I felt her teeth dig into my back and chomp down on my soft flesh.

I screamed like a baby.


I found that superhuman strength people always say they find deep within themselves when faced with death. I was able to do a push-up and shake Sonya from me for a second. I scrambled to my feet and ran for the bathroom.

I slammed the door behind me as soon as I crashed into the bathroom. I twisted the lock in the door handle. I prayed the bolt lock and the flimsy wood of the door would hold up under the stress Sonya started to put it under like she was a female Jack Torrance.

Pounds harder than the ones from when I could hear Sonya going at the closet door months before blasted the bathroom door. I watched the door shake on its hinges. I feared it would only hold up for about a dozen of those powerful strikes before it came down.

A few more strikes shook the door, but then stopped. Maybe the sun came up, sunrise was approaching? No. The power on the other side of the door turned its attention to the door handle. I watched the gold handle rattle like a toy in front of my face.

The door handle seemed much more vulnerable than the door. Good thinking psycho Sonya.

A few twists of that handle had the thing spinning around in the door, no longer attached to the wood. I saw the handle scrape out of its hole and fall to the hard tile of the bathroom at my feet.

A single crazy eye appeared in the hole.

“Sonya…it’s Dhaval,” I said as calm as I possibly could at that moment. “I know something is really wrong with you right now, but I just need you to know that I love you and I only mean you good. Please, I just want to get that through to you,” I said.

A few crazed scrapes ripped on the other side of the door, but the eye remained. I stared at the eye with tears forming in mine.


The scrapes stopped. The eye vanished from the hole in the door. I let out a deep breath and then turned around. There was a little window above the shower/tub behind me and I saw a sliver of gray light coming out of it. Sunrise must have come.

I gave myself a few minutes to catch my breath. Just focused on breathing in and out at a steady pace. I wiped heavy sweat off of my face with my t-shirt.


I heard Sonya’s voice through the door.

“I’m sorry,” Sonya went on.

Sonya eventually talked me out of the bathroom. She wrapped me in a huge hug and leaked tears all over my body. She quivered in my arms for minutes before we went outside and we caught our breath and lowered our temperatures.

Sonya and I talked through things. She didn’t know how she got out of the shackles and the closet, but I admitted that I thought that I may have not actually locked them. She had no idea why she didn’t just go right at me when she got out, but how the hell were you going to try and attach reason to the madness that was her condition?

Our relationship went on, but it was never the same. It was like one of those colossal fights, or little pieces of information that is a sharp knife to a relationship, but not a kill shot. It’s almost worse than a blow up, because it didn’t submarine the relationship, but instead poked enough holes in it to where it would never be the same and it would eventually sink.

I internally delayed plans to move in with Sonya full-time. I stepped our relationship back a little bit. Took some nights off, even poked around on Tinder to see the lay of the land. I created a little bit of a distance. I was pretty sure Sonya noticed.

We drifted. It happens. Like everyone in the modern dating scene, we let things linger for as long as humanly possible, even though we knew it was bound to fail and it was going to create more problems.

I still spent weekends at Sonya’s. My visits felt a little hollow, but I still hit the freeway every Friday afternoon and slogged through traffic until I was in her cul-de-sac and ready for an awkward weekend.

We were about two months into this when things got strange. I got off work a little early and made it to Sonya’s house a little over an hour before I usually got there. She wasn’t there.

Sonya worked from home and knew I was coming so her absence was fairly strange. I had texted her a couple hours before that I was going to be early, so she knew I was coming.

I waited for her for nearly 30 minutes on the front steps of her house. She showed up hot and bothered and excused her tardiness from getting stuck at the store buying wild shrimp instead of the farmed shrimp at Ralph’s or something. I didn’t really think anything of it at the time. I just wanted to move on and get the night over with.

Our night went according to plan. Sonya was a bit standoffish and I was a bit distant, but that had become our M.O. We went in the pool and jacuzzi, had a couple of drinks and headed off to bed for sleep without sex.

The last thing I remember thinking about before I fell asleep was what my excuse was going to be to say I had to go back to my apartment in the city the next day.

I woke up in the bed alone in the middle of the night. I couldn’t feel Sonya’s form next to me the second I opened my eyes.

I scrambled around the bed as if she may have been hiding in the fold of the blanket or something. I looked to the bathroom, the door was open, it was dark inside. The closet door was closed as well.

“Fuck me.”

I figured there was a good chance Sonya was just down in the kitchen or something getting water. We hadn’t had sex, so she shouldn’t have been rabid.

Footsteps pounded outside the closed bedroom door. They sounded swift. Hitting the ground at a pace between a fast walk and a jog.

A thought flashed into my mind. Sonya didn’t have sex with me, but she may have had sex with someone else. It explained why she showed up late and flustered.

The footsteps stopped right outside the door. The door opened slowly. I saw the outline of Sonya standing in the doorway. I couldn’t make out her face, her features, it was too dark, but her slack stance wasn’t as threatening as it had been the last time she had been creeping around in the night.

I started to walk backwards, towards the only window in the room. Luckily it was left open the night before. It had a screen, but I pictured myself ripping that thing off and jumping out of the second-story window. There was grass outside. I hopefully wouldn’t break anything.

“Did you fuck some other guy?” I asked Sonya.

Sonya stepped into the room without an answer. I saw blood in her eyes in the low light of the room.

I took off to the window. I heard Sonya’s feet slam on the hardwood on my tail. She was right behind me when I reached the chest-high window.

I punched an arm through the screen of the window as hard as I could. My arm tore through the hard mesh, but I felt the thing rip my flesh all the way down to the elbow before it stopped.

I pulled the screen backwards and felt something shred my back worse than the screen had my arm. I recognized the hot sting of Sonya’s long nails dig into the top of my naked back and then rip down to my lower back. I screamed and stumbled backwards with the screen stuck on my arm.

Sonya pulled me away from the window with the furious strength I recognized from her last attack. I was able to fight it and stand my ground, but getting out that window seemed like a bridge too far.


I started to plead, but I knew it was hopeless. I saw a clock which read 4:14 when I first woke up. I would not be saved by the rising sun this time. I was going to have to fight.

I turned around to face Sonya. She frothed at the mouth and slapped her hands at me. She locked eyes.

“You’re right. I fucked that guy. Then I came home and kissed you,” Sonya yelled at me, sounding a lot like the demon from The Exorcist.

“You’re fucking crazy,” I screamed back.

I used the little gap of space our interaction provided to spin around and make a mad dash at the window again. I dove out of the opening from a few feet away and felt myself soar in the air. I felt Sonya’s nails slash me on the calves as I flew through the window looking like a dolphin going through a hoop at SeaWorld.

Sonya’s cuts still hurt on the way down to the grass lawn on the side of Sonya’s house. I hit the ground with a hard thud. I didn’t even take a breath to examine the damage. I just took off to get around the front of the house. I had a Hide-A-Key underneath the bumper of my car. I prayed I could get to it before Sonya tore out of the front of the house.

I grabbed the keys with no presence of Sonya. I unlocked the door with no presence of Sonya. I started the engine with no presence of Sonya.

I thought I was going to get out of their scot-free until I started to back up and saw Sonya standing in the street completely naked, blocking my path.

I didn’t care anymore. I reversed the car as hard as I could.

Sonya must have dove out of the way of the car, because I lost sight of her before I whipped the car around and floor-boarded the hell out of her driveway. I made the long drive home in just my boxers, without a phone and was damn lucky to have roommates who let me into my place when I knocked because my main keys were still in Sonya’s bedroom.

I called the police in Sonya’s suburban town and told them what happened. They didn’t really seem to care. At best, my case was a domestic violence dust up between two people who went their separate ways. I was fine with letting it go.

Not an hour goes by where I don’t think about everything that happened. I assume it will stay that way till the day I die.

It has been nine months and the whole incident just zapped back into my mind full-time. My god-awful manager at work who I hate more than anyone I have ever met in my entire life showed me something very interesting on his phone while trying to brag at a lunch.

He showed me a “smokin-hot babe” he recently started dating off of Bumble. He had only “slayed” her one time so far, but he explained that he was closing in. He said she had a killer place outside of the city.

He showed me a picture of her on Facebook. Yep, it was Sonya.

I just smiled and said I thought she was hot. I decided I’m just going to let that one play itself out. Maybe he will forget to lock up Sonya one night too. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Our society focuses so much on sex that you’d think we’re all sexual experts by the time we hit our teens. But it’s all sort of a misnomer and a false expectation to say the least. And when we shift the topic to an aspect like virginity, the crowd grows silent and shifts their eyes down to the floor.

But talking about sex is important, especially during those hella awkward, hormonally-overwhelming teenage years. And although you didn’t ask for my two cents, here are a few things every teen should know about sexuality and their virginity.

First and foremost, remember that nobody owns your body.

I know that may sound extremely obvious, but seriously, soak that in. Horny peers will beg for you to undress before them while your father figure pushes you to remain pure. And while they all make you feel obligated, you don’t owe any of them a Goddamn thing.

The only person who dictates what happens with your body is you. Forced sexual encounters are not sexy, but daddies who drag their daughters to the gynecologist aren’t doing anyone a favor either. Embrace your purity or celebrate your conquests; it’s really all the same as long as the choice is yours.

Oh, and there’s no “scarlet letter” that lets others know that you did the dirty (despite what your father may say).

People will tell you all kinds of crazy nonsense about how to spot people who gave up their virgin status. While scare tactics are fine and dandy, most of them are inflated tales or complete make believe. Hate to burst your bubble, but your hymen likely won’t tell your tale, nor will any “two-finger test.”

You should always ask for consent.

While you might think it sounds cheesy, it’s actually quite the opposite. Nobody is a mind reader, and our body language doesn’t always speak the truth. Just because she took her shirt off doesn’t mean she’s giving you permission to take off her pants. And although he’s obviously experiencing an erection, that doesn’t mean he’s ready to go. Asking for permission shows you care (and may even turn your partner on a little more). It’s best to err on the side of caution than second guess yourself after the deed is already done.

Also, keep in mind that sex isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be.

The media makes sex look so appealing, especially that moment when you turn in your v-card. We assume that it will feel amazing while heaven and nature sing. Everyone instantly feels happier after sex, so we should all be “getting some.”

But there are never any fireworks that first time, despite what we see on our television screens. In fact, it’ll probably feel uncomfortable (and you may even cry). Sex is one purchase that you can’t get a refund on, so if you’re in doubt, window shop and save that powerful v-card for someone who truly matters.

Finally, you decide exactly what constitutes “losing it” for you.

Much like the federal government and stereotypical gender roles, the term virginity is largely a social construct created to fit into a cookie-cutter, hetero-normative world. But unfortunately, the widely accepted view of what defines losing your virginity misses the mark on so many other sexual acts. It completely invalidates people from the LGBTQ+ community, victims of rape, and even some people with disabilities.

Despite what some may say, sex isn’t limited to penial penetration of a vagina. You can actually reach orgasm and fully enjoy yourself sexually in so many other ways. Therefore, it’s important that you decide what constitutes as “losing” your virginity and, likewise, what does not.

Sex can feel amazing, but it can also cause a ton of emotional pain. Just remember that no matter what, Vivian Ward (Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman) had the right idea: “I say who, I say when, I say how much.”

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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1 vs all!

“What the fuck?”

“How did we get in here?”

“I think I’m bleeding.”

“We’re all bleeding, dumbass.”

My fingers reached for my slick forehead and slipped off, smearing blood across the couch as I let my hand fall limp.

Thirteen of us filled the room, and judging by the gashes running from the center of our skulls down to the bridge of our noses, someone brought us there by force.

The house looked harmless enough, with stark white floors connecting living room to kitchen and a spiral staircase crafted from white wood, but the people inside – some slouched across counters, some propped against walls – acted as if someone had thrown them into the wild.

“All right. We need to sort this shit out,” a boy with an ocean sleeve said. He climbed onto the coffee table inside a semi-circle of couches to be better seen. “Anybody here have any memory of… anything?”

Murmurs floated through the room, soft and confused. Maybe a serial killer kidnapped us, drugged us, and dragged us here? Or maybe we all suffered through trauma together, a plane crash or a shooting, and formed collective amnesia?

Each new theory out-crazied the last, but I failed to come up with anything to beat them. My mind felt heavy, thick with questions.

“To hell with this,” a girl with paw print tattoos across her collarbone said and slogged toward the front door. “Who cares why we’re here? Let’s get out.”

Before she could jiggle the handle, right as her fingers curled around the silver knob, electricity shot through her body. The convulsions started at her fingertips and worked their way down her spine and into her legs. She shivered there, stuck in an electric seizure, for ten counts until she stiffened and dropped.

Wait… I could still do that. I could still count. I knew numbers and letters and words, elementary school knowledge. I forced myself to create lists inside my head and realized I could name dog breeds and sports cars and Disney movies. Crime novels and fighting styles and gun classes. But I found it impossible to list off my family members or my cell number or my age or my weight. Personal details stayed lost in a fog.

I continued to sift through my memories as a coping mechanism, as a distraction to avoid watching Ocean Sleeve check Paws Prints pulse, dip his head, and announce how faint it felt. To avoid the chaos that came next, of someone pointing out the lack of windows, and someone else winding back to punch the wall, discovering steel beneath the sheetrock.

Other discoveries were made, on the edge of relieving and disturbing. Food in the fridge. Cans in the cupboards. Clean clothes in the closets and shampoo in the shower stalls.

Someone set up this place. Someone planned for this. Someone picked us for a reason.

“Maybe it’s the end of the world,” an older woman with black angel wings across her shoulders said, pacing around the kitchen. “Maybe this is a bunker sent to us by God and it’s good we can’t get out because everyone else’s skin is bubbling up and bursting apart from the radiation.”

A teenager with tribal markings raised a brow. “What about an alien abduction?” he teased. “Can’t rule out that either.”

With limited memories, figuring out why someone brought us there felt impossible, so I tried to find a link between everyone in the house instead. Something we all shared. A reason someone would group us together and lock us inside.

I glanced from face to face. At Ocean Sleeve. Paw Prints. Black Angel. Tribal Marks.

“We all have tattoos,” I said, my voice thin and cracked from disuse. “I don’t know, maybe that means something.”

Tribal Marks made a comment about how everyone had tattoos nowadays, how even old ladies sported ink. Heads nodded. Throats cleared. Conversations branched toward other things.

“Wait, no, wait. Our tattoos could help,” Angel said, raising three fingers like a girl scout leader. “It’s doubtful that’s why we’re here, but maybe it can spark a memory. Maybe it can give us a clue about who we are.” She lifted her tattooed shoulder. “I mean, I must have gotten this for a reason. Oh, maybe I was a preacher’s wife! I’ve always had a thing for those southern types with their long…”

Ocean sleeve rested a hand on her shoulder, his gentle way of cutting her off. “Don’t judge a book by its cover, that’s the saying, right? I don’t want us to go judging people based on their tats when we need to stick together. Besides, I think we’re better off focusing on how to get out of here than who is already in here.”

A burst of heat hit my cheeks, along with the desire to leave the room, because I’d started the blasted conversation. I wondered if that happened as a little girl. If I excused myself and hid in the bathroom after raising my hand and getting the wrong answer in class?

I stumbled upstairs, anxiety still swirling through my stomach, and discovered a row of bathrooms back-to-back. I chose the middle one and undressed in front of the full-length mirror inside, even though I worried whoever put us there also installed cameras. But I needed to see my tattoos, to see what mattered enough in my life for me to transfer it into ink.

I found four of them. A jet black garter belt holding a knife which circled my thigh. A half-faded skull on my wrist. A yellow jellyfish on my hip. Barbed wire around my ankle.

Nothing looked familiar, except for the fish, and for a moment I thought I poked at a memory – but then I realized Ocean Sleeves had the same one. In the middle of the blue waves across his arm, a yellow jellyfish with the same markings dripped down his bicep. Identical to mine.

Come to think of it, his hair color matched mine too, so he could be a brother, a cousin, an uncle. Or I could have been fucking him. He could have been the love of my life or an ex who hated my guts.

I slipped my shirt back on, thankful to be covered, because maybe I should keep my tattoo a secret from them all? Maybe I should pull Ocean Sleeve aside and tell only him instead of announcing it to the whole house? Or maybe…

I stopped when I heard a yelp, cut short in the middle, like the person heard himself start making the sound and then forced his vocal chords to freeze.

On tiptoes, I exited the bathroom and walked toward the adjoining one with its door ajar. I knocked hard enough to swing the entryway open and saw a man with a teardrop tattoo sitting on a closed toilet seat, razor in hand.

“Hey, whoa, are you okay?” I asked, knowing how stupid the question sounded when blood already squeezed out from a thin line in his wrist.

Teardrop twisted toward my voice, stretching out the arm holding the razor. His wrist shook as much as his voice when he said, “I killed someone.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“There’s a fucking teardrop on my cheek. I might not remember much, but I know what that means.”

“There are multiple meanings,” I said. “It could also mean that you spent time in prison. Or some people get them to mourn the loss of a family member.”

I cleared my throat to sound more convincing, unsure of how I learned a fact like that. I wondered if I dated a felon, took a psychology class, or just watched a shitton of crime documentaries.

Either way, I held onto hope that he would believe me – until he lifted the blade toward his neck and said, “You should probably turn.”

The skin sliced and his head tumbled forward. I grabbed a towel and tried to apply pressure, tried to reel him away from the reaper, but only managed to stain my shirtsleeves and step into blood puddles.

I don’t remember screaming, but I must have either called for help or cried a few decimals too high, because the rest of the house clomped up the stairs. They dragged me away from the body to get their own turn plugging his gash and checking his pulse.

When Ocean Sleeve tried to lift him into another position to slow the blood, Teardrop’s shirt buttons popped open, revealing paw prints across his collar bone. Five of them.

“That’s the same tattoo that the electrocuted girl had,” I said.

Did they know each other? Did everyone in the house have a match? Were we all couples, all siblings?

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Tribal said, losing interest in the now-dead body and flying downstairs to find Paw Prints.

When he returned three minutes later, he shoved through the hallway crowd and lifted his hands in the air. “She ain’t in this house. I checked every room. She disappeared.”

“There’s no way she escaped,” Ocean said. “She was still knocked out. I left her on the couch.”

Even if she woke up after hearing all the commotion, we already scoured the house for extra doors and windows and escape hatches. She couldn’t have stumbled outside on accident when the rest of us failed to do it on purpose.

Everyone scuttled downstairs to see the proof themselves, but of course, Tribal told the truth. No Paw Prints in sight.

A few people grouped off to re-search the house, but most of us stayed in the living room, confusion mounting us in place.

“Those two girls have matching tattoos, too,” Angel burst out, pointing to a set of identical brunettes. “They both have butterflies behind their right ear. I noticed it before and didn’t think anything of it but now – What if we all have a match and when one of us dies and the other gets to leave? One winner, one loser?”

Every voice dropped into silence, because she actually sounded plausible. That actually sounded disturbing enough for the truth.

Tribal wasted no time in ripping off his shirt. “Come on. Strip down. Let’s see what everybody’s got.”

The girls shook their heads. The boys gave nervous laughs. And I crossed my arms, holding them even tighter to my body as Tribal approached.

“Come on. We need to test the theory and find our match,” he said, thrusting me against the wall. His fingernails pierced my wrist, pinning it to my lower back. I squirmed against the tile as he reached for my jeans, trying to yank them down my hips without unbuttoning.

I felt the weight lift off me and realized Ocean had grabbed Tribal by the arm and heaved him against the backside of one couch. Tribal tumbled to the ground, and when he stumbled back up, he launched a punch toward Ocean’s jaw.

They threw right hooks back and forth, ducking and sidestepping, with the occasional hit that sprouted blood from their lips and noses. No one tried to pull them apart. They just kept watching, looking thankful not to be involved.

Underneath Tribal’s shit talk, I heard a female voice say, “I’m sorry for all this.”

I followed the sound to see one of the brunettes holding a butcher knife she must have swiped from the kitchen drawers. With one hard push, she dug it deep into her twin’s chest and twisted.

The girl collapsed, knife still plunged through her flesh with the handle poking toward the sky. But her sister’s butterfly tattoo glowed a bright white, like LED lights were placed beneath her skin. That shine worked its way up and down her body until she became a burning glob of light. A star in the center of the room. It blinded me with white, and when my vision returned, she was gone.

“Holy shit.”

“Oh no no no no.”

“See? She’s gone. It’s true.”

It took me a few tries to find the strength to said, “Yeah, but this doesn’t mean she wins or whatever. She could be someplace else. Someplace worse.”

No one listened to my theory. Without warning, strangers lunged toward each other. They ripped shirts from skin. They scratched and kicked and bit. Without knowing their match, they attacked anyone who came close to them.

I made a run for one of the bedrooms, planning to lock myself inside, but Angel grabbed a fistful of my shirt. Every time I tried to pull away, she yanked me harder in reverse, so I went the opposite way, letting the shirt slip over my head so I could escape in only my bra.

I scrambled toward safety, passing Ocean on the way and I just know he saw. I watched his eyes slip down to my waist where our matching tattoo sat. Where my identical jellyfish swam.

I swiveled on my heels to switch directions, bolting toward the dead twin and pulling the knife from her chest, pieces of flesh flying off with it. I needed it for protection, nothing more. A just-in-case scenario.

When I made it to the bedroom, after slashing one man in the palm and kneeing another in the groin, I locked myself inside, scuttled over to the furthest side of the room, and slid down the wall.

My best bet would be if someone else killed Ocean in the chaos, sending me into the light. Not that I wanted him dead. He protected me earlier and our matching tattoos must have meant we knew each other before this, it must have meant he mattered to me.

Maybe I could find a way to protect us both, maybe our match didn’t have to die. Maybe we just needed to not have a match to be set free.

Maybe if I could find a way to remove my tattoo, and I didn’t technically have a match anymore, we would both survive.

I stared at the knife clutched in my hand, wishing the jellyfish sat on a fleshy part of my body like my thigh or underneath my arm. Not my hip. My bony thin hip.

I pinched the skin between my fingertips and tried to bunch up the skin as much as I could before resting the knife against it, sawing at the mound, ripping off my flesh.

Each swipe of the blade stung, so I tried to think of other things, happier things – but my mind stayed blank. Without any memories, happiness felt hard to find.

Somehow, I had removed half of the tattoo, which rested in flakes on the floor, when I heard a knock at the door. Heavy. Impatient.

“I can’t let you in,” I said.

“I wouldn’t hurt my match.” Ocean. His voice sounded faint through the wood. “Besides, I don’t think they have it right anyway. When we first got here, there were only thirteen people. Now there are nine. With an uneven number of people, how could everyone have a match? I tried to tell them, but no one out there would listen to reason.”

The last piece of my tattoo fell to the ground in a flutter, releasing a heavy string of blood.

Nothing happened. No light. No freedom. Nothing.

“Fuck,” I screamed, but it came out as a whisper.

I tried to stand, but the stretch hurt my hip, so I crawled over to the door on my elbows and knees. Reaching for the lock sent a bolt of pain through my side, but I flicked the lock out of place and Ocean barged inside.

As I clamped my palm over my wound to stop the blood, I felt a memory tugging at the corner of my mind.

“My parents never let me get a hip tattoo. They said it was too sexual.”

“So you got it behind their back?” he asked, sliding down to my level. His eyes darted between my unexplained cut and the abandoned knife across the room.

“I don’t think I know you. I think someone gave us these tattoos. At least the matching ones. I don’t even like jellyfish. Especially bright colored ones when the rest of my tattoos are plain black.”

Ocean parted his lips to speak, but I lifted a hand to shush him, because I could hear whistling. And the only reason I could hear whistling was because the rest of the house had gone silent. Because everyone else had stopped breathing or poofed away.

When the last remaining person came inside, a gun swung from her hands.

“I don’t like questions so I’ll just throw out some answers,” Angel said, holding up her index finger to silence us. “No, this is not earth. This is purgatory. No, I am not a guardian angel. I am your chaperone. And no, you were not good enough to get into heaven. But hell is overcrowded.”

The bile in my throat cut off my laughter. She must be joking? But then, it made sense in a sick sort of way. The loss of memories. The unrecognizable body art. The white light snatching souls away.

“You all – everyone in this house – behaved shitty throughout your entire lives. Shitty enough to be sentenced downstairs. But due to overcrowding, we had to find a way to weed out the decent souls from the true sinners. Basically, a select few of you get a free pass upstairs,” she said, gun now at her side against her popped hip.

I struggled to stand, legs shaky. “And you test us by placing us in some random house with random people?”

“By placing you into a stressful environment and seeing how you react to extreme doubt, distress, fear. It’s different each time. Each guardian gets free reign to design whatever type of social experiment they please.” She talked so casually. Like a teenager, not an otherworldly being. “You’re lucky, really. Other guardians stick their participants in rough waters. In lava pits. Or they mimic hell and test reactions.”

Ocean’s top lip met his nose in a snarl. “Are you telling us we passed? Are you congratulating us?”

“Neither of you killed anyone, but…” She sucked air between her teeth. “We don’t want too many criminals upstairs. We’ve been doing half-and-half. That’s why I came up with the matching tattoo bit. To break you into pairs. A killer goes to hell, their match goes to heaven. Gets their memories restored. Gets their loved ones’ company. Only room for one more of you, though.”

She crouched to the floor. Slid the gun toward Ocean and I. Waited.

Another test and we both knew it. Both hesitated. Whoever shot the gun would be sent directly to hell. And the other…

I swiped the weapon from the floor, ignoring the fire in my side, and bolted past Angel and into the living room where the front door stood. After pushing back the safety, I fired the full clip into the lock.

It sparked. Sizzled. Eased open.

I kicked the door the rest of the way to reveal a white expanse of nothingness.

Pure purgatory.

As I hovered on the edge, I thought of Teardrop and the blood splashed across his skin. I thought of Butterflies and the way she shoved a knife through her twin. I thought of all the painful things I could remember during the last few hours. Memories that ate me alive and I barely knew the people, barely cared.

I could only imagine how much pain it would cause me to remember the twenty (thirty? forty?) years of my life on earth. How many people I hurt. How much destruction I caused. How many regrets I piled up.

When coldness brushed against my hand, it took me a second to realize it was Ocean wrapping his fingers around mine. He didn’t have to nod. He didn’t have to speak.

We both understood. And we both jumped, choosing to be there, trapped in a stretch of nothingness without our memories, without any clue of what we’ve done, of what monsters we really were. 

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A love story via Google Pay!

You paid him
Sept 14, 2016


He paid you
Sept 15, 2016

I told you, you didn’t need to pay me!

You paid him
Sept 18, 2016

I’m a MODERN WOMAN, paying you for dinner

He paid you
Sept 20, 2016


You charged him
Oct 3, 2016


He charged you
Oct 15, 2016

ONE YEAR!!!!! 🎊 🎉🎊 🎉🎊 🎉🎊 🎉🎊 🎉

You paid him
Oct 16, 2017

Love you

You paid him
Oct 17, 2016

One year in and I guess I’m paying for my own food now 😇

You paid him
Oct 22, 2016

Love you!!!!

He paid you
Oct 24, 2016


He paid you
Oct 27, 2017


He charged you
Oct 30, 2016

Lol still making you pay for your own food 😘

He paid you
Nov 5, 2016

😍😍😍 Drinks! Fun!😍😍😍

You paid him
Nov 7, 2016

LOoOoOoooOove you

You charged him
Nov 11, 2016

Love me???

He paid you
Nov 15, 2016

ONE YEAR AND ONE MONTH !!!!!!!!! 🎊 🎉🎊 🎉🎊 🎉🎊 🎉🎊 🎉

He paid you
Nov 21, 2016

Cab to yours

You paid him
Nov 30, 2016

Yesterday’s breakfast, lunch, AND dinner (making me pay for everything now, huh?)

He charged you
Dec 11, 2016

Cab!!! To!!! Your!!! Apartment!!!! So!!!! Far!!!!! Away!!!!!!

He charged you
Dec 12, 2016

Dinner ❤️ 💛 💚 💙 💜

You paid him
Dec 18, 2016

Presents, Christmas, blah blah blah

He paid you
Dec 28, 2016

Officially homeless :/

He charged you
Dec 29, 2016

Cab to yours

You charged him
Dec 31, 2016


You paid him
Jan 7, 2017


He charged you
Jan 15, 2017


He paid you
Jan 22, 2017

UPS boxes ❤️

You charged him
Jan 22, 2017

MORE UPS boxes because you don’t throw anything away??

He paid you
Feb 1, 2017

Moving is haaaaaaard (and 💸💸💸)

You charged him
Feb 1, 2017

Half of internet/cable/wifi bills + half of my sandwich

He paid you
Feb 3, 2017

Half of a couch!!!!!!!!!!

He paid you
Feb, 10

Groceries, thank you ❤

You paid him
Feb 15, 2017

My own Valentine’s Day gift lol

He paid you
Feb 16, 2017

Gah, I was hungry and ate your food while you were at work, sorry 🙊

He paid you
Feb 17, 2017

Lost my credit card 😜

He paid you
Feb 17, 2017


You charged him
Feb 20, 2017

You’re lucky I like you

You charged him
Feb 21, 2017

Seriously. You’re lucky I like you.

He paid you
March 1, 2017

Lost my credit card AGAIN haha

He paid you
March 3, 2017

FUNemployment am I right

He paid you
March 10, 2017

Sorry, late half of rent

He paid you
March 17, 2017


He paid you
March 18, 2017


You charged him
March 18, 2017

Late internet/cable/wifi.

He paid you
March 31, 2017


He paid you
April 4, 2017

Love me pls?

He paid you
April 5, 2017


You charged him
April 9, 2017

……… 🔪

You charged him
April 15, 2017

Late rent.

He paid you
April 16, 2017


He paid you
April 16, 2017


You charged him
April 16, 2017


You charged him
April 18, 2017

Late internet/cable/wifi.

You charged him
April 18, 2017

Groceries you ate.

You charged him
April 18, 2017

Get 👏 a 👏 new 👏 credit 👏 card 👏

He paid you
April 21, 2017

I’m sorry

He paid you
April 23, 2017

Birthday!!!! (slightly belated)!!!

He paid you
May 3, 2017

👋 hi! Remember me?

He paid you
May 7, 2017


He paid you
June 30, 2017

UPS boxes

He paid you
June 30, 2017

More UPS boxes

You paid him
July 1, 2017

Half of the couch.

He paid you
July 14, 2017

Last month’s rent. Sorry it’s late.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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It’s late on a Friday night in February. I am in my apartment. A metallic sheen of silvery light ekes through the open living room window. I’m sitting on my couch, watching the light, listening to the sound of the city outside as it churns, exhales. It’s an orchestral sound, vaguely ominous, composed of traffic, foghorns, and contrails of fading conversation. It reminds me of an ocean, breathing. I sit and I listen. Shadows crawl along the walls. The T.V. is off. A copy of Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time lays closed on the floor. My open laptop glows ominously on the coffee table in front of me, like a portal into some kind of matrixical underworld. On the screen is an empty Word doc. The cursor blinks maddeningly.

I am alone.

I’ve lived in this city for 6 months. Aside from my coworkers, I still don’t know any one. Faces on the bus and at the gym have become familiar, and a handful of dates have resulted in mornings of momentary friendship, but for the most part I spend my free time sitting alone in my inadequately windowed apartment, attempting to read or write, failing in that effort, and trying instead to convince myself that my apartment does not feel like one of those drawers morticians slide dead people inside of: Dark, small, indistinguishable from the drawer next door.

I moved to the city to write for an online magazine, an event which meant I would be able to call myself a writer — like, a real writer — for the first time in my life. I was ecstatic. I found an apartment with a bay window that overlooked Lombard Street. I joined a gym located just a handful of blocks away. I arranged the furniture exactly as I wanted the furniture to be arranged. I did not anticipate that, 6 months after moving, I would still be lonely and friendless, but, to be honest, at the beginning, the prospect of being alone didn’t bother me. In fact, it excited me.

~Like one of those drawers morticians slide dead people inside of~

I am an introvert. I know this about myself. I enjoy being alone. Moreover — as is true of most introverts, I think — I romanticize the idea of being alone. Upon moving to the city, I imagined that it would say something about myself, being OK with being alone, as if an appreciation for solitude acts as some kind of evidence that one is stoic, and strong, and confident.

As is the case with most things one desires so solipsistically, however, once I obtained the solitude I sought, I found only disappointment, and sadness, and guilt, and anxiety. Which is to say that I found loneliness.

Being alone for any real length of time is romantic only in theory. In fact, all prolonged stretches of solitude — the kind that introverts like me impose upon themselves all the time, the kind that does not actually necessitate being physically alone — inevitably morph into loneliness.

For me, as the nights alone turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months, what happened was this: First, the silence of my apartment curdled into a sort of constant static. Next, to keep that static from getting louder, I started telling myself that it wasn’t my fault, what was happening to me — it wasn’t my fault that I hadn’t reached out to or interacted with any of the nearly one million other people who live here in this city or who ride the same bus as me or work out at my gym; it wasn’t my fault that my apartment felt like a morgue; it wasn’t my fault that I’d stopped texting people back and ventured to and from work via wordless Uber rides, and ordered all my dinners in. The problem was that I was isolated — both physically and in that ethereal way other people likely wouldn’t understand — and in that isolation, I was helpless.

It didn’t work; I couldn’t evade my complicity. In time I recognized this, that I was lonely, and that my loneliness was entirely self-inflicted, but by the time I did I couldn’t do anything about it. I felt weighed down by some kind of heavier gravity. I felt like a satellite that’d fallen out of orbit — slowly drifting away into darkness, further and further away from the place I used to be.
In time, my ability to write, like a muscle that I’d neglected, dissipated completely, vanishing into something elusive and vague, a tendril of thought, forgotten.

The screen of my laptop fades to grey, and dies. The sound of a passing motorcycle rips the room in two. In the darkness it sounds like a monster, gnarling.

This is one of the chief ironies of loneliness: For writers, especially, the kind of solitude which lends itself to loneliness is necessary, yet at the same time it’s totally and definitively noxious.

As James Baldwin once wrote: “One writes out of one thing only — one’s own experience. Everything depends on how relentlessly one forces from this experience the last drop, sweet or bitter, it can possibly give. This is the only real concern.”

Wherein lies the conundrum: How can you meaningfully articulate the experience of being alive if you yourself are only in tune with the broken clockwork of your own anxiety, the echo chamber of your own skull?

You can’t — any attempts at as much will be hollow, and disingenuous. And disingenuous is the worst thing a writer can be. Because without ingenuity, all you’re left with is cliche.

~A tendril of thought, forgotten~

This irony is, of course, in my case, rendered all the more guilt-inducing by a second, sort of sub-irony that I’m now all too aware of: If one-third of the people living in the city I live in, also, would profess to experiencing feelings of loneliness — as recent research into the epidemic of loneliness would suggest—it can be assumed that every one of those 300,000 lonely people are ultimately just as lonely as me. Which means that I am the opposite of isolated. Which means I don’t have any kind of excuse at all.

I’ve been telling myself this a lot, recently. That I don’t have an excuse. That I need to stop this. I tell myself again as I take a breath and close my computer for the night. I tell myself it’s time to go to bed and I’ll start over on making things better tomorrow. I lift my eyes. But it’s then that, with a prick of shock, I catch my reflection staring back at me in the blackness of the T.V. screen.

What I see is a person who looks gaunt and vaguely ghoulish, an outline of man I don’t recognize.

Through the open window, the sound of the city continues churning. 

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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I met 2 men in the desert and it changed my life!

My body was vibrating, each vein worked overtime to contain my boiling blood from bursting out. I laid on my back as I let the sensation take control of my body. My face was numb, and I couldn’t open my eyes. Just a little longer, just a little longer was all I could repeat as my mind contorted into different shades of colors. A wave of nausea hit as I watched the kaleidoscope take effect in my brain, then darkness followed.


I awoke to the sound of a motor running as my body gently vibrated against the seat that held my limp body. A warm breeze blew against my skin as I rubbed my eyes, one eyelid opened, then immediately shut; it was so bright out. I opened both eyes, now in a panic as I realized I didn’t know where I was. My eyes shot side to side, I was in the back of an old beat up truck.

It took me a second or two to adjust to the light as I rapidly blinked the crust away from my eyes. Cotton poked out of the seat between the rips and tears of the leather. Sweat made my hair stick to my neck as I rolled myself to a seated position. Two men sat in the front seat speaking in Spanish.

What were they saying, and where am I?

I pulled myself up straight to peek my eyes out of the window, nothing but dust and flat grounds surrounded us. I looked to the passenger’s seat to see a man with a black button up shirt and cowboy hat on. He was laughing and rambling on in Spanish to the driver. The driver had a blue jean button up shirt on with a red bandana tied around his neck.

I rubbed my eyes and tried to take a few deep breaths. I could feel my heart begin to race and my palms sweat as the reality of the situation sunk in; I must have been kidnapped. The truck puttered across the desert terrain as we drove closer to a small little shack, the kind that has one or two gas pumps and a convenient store attached.

The truck swerved into the parking lot and the men got out.

Now was my chance to get away, I looked to my left and then to my right, there was nothing in what seemed to be miles away. Where would I run? I would probably just be captured in a matter of minutes if I ran, and then what would they do to me for trying to escape? I sat and thought about what to do as the man in the cowboy hat filled the truck with gas.

The man with the cowboy hat hung the pump up, then proceeded towards a pay phone. I watched intently as he leaned against the phone booth with the black phone held between his shoulder and ear. The man with the bandana stood beside him, eyes locked on the truck. I had to slip out. Who knew if we would stop again? I unlatched the door and hit my feet to the dust. I ran as far as my legs would carry me into the desert heat. A trail of dust rose behind me, and I turned around to see if they were gaining speed on me.

What I saw shocked me.

They weren’t chasing me. They both stood in the same position as before, just watching me run off into the distance. Although it was hot and desolate, I kept running as far as I could.

I imagine that I passed out as some point, either from dehydration or exhaustion, and that’s when I woke up in the back of the truck once again.

We were back on the road. I tried to mutter a few words, maybe they knew English?

“Where are we going?”

The back of my throat was dry, and it hurt to talk, I must have been out for a long time. The men sat with their eyes straight ahead.

The truck drove faster until we were going at least 90 miles per hour on the lost desert road. Dust kicked up behind the truck for what seemed to be at least a mile. My fingers tapped the broken leather seat as my body tensed in anticipation. The only sound that accompanied the three of us was the sound of the tires beating up against the rocky road and the metal doors rattling against the wind.

Finally, the guy in the hat spoke up, in English, with an accent that rattled off his tongue.

“Do you remember how you got here?”

I scooched to the end of the seat. I had no clue how I got here. I assumed they must have drugged me and were testing me to see if I would be able to report anything to the police.

“No… Where are you taking me?”

Both men sat in silence. I was beginning to grow impatient, followed by an anger that needed to be released.Sponsored by MyGateA year of achievement and celebrations for MyGate! We’re proud to announce that we have been…SEE MORE

“This is the worst day! You are monsters! You hear me? Terrible, awful people!”

The man in the hat spoke once again, as calm as ever. “Is it a bad day for you or a good day for you?”

Spit flung off my lips as I screamed at him. “Did you not hear what I just said? Anyone in their right mind would say that it is a BAD day when you find yourself in the back of a truck with two strange men!”

The guy in the bandana started to chime in now. “You can either see the good in it or the bad in it.” He pointed his stubby finger to the clock on the dash of the truck. “It is 1:09 pm, and you think it is a bad day. Remember that, because that mindset is what got you here.”

I wasn’t amused by the mind games the men were trying to play with me. The fact that they didn’t chase me when I ran off made me realize the true depth of the situation I was in. I couldn’t escape. We were too far off the beaten path for me to survive the escape. The dehydration and desert sun would take me first.

I sat back in my seat and thought about the life I was missing out on as the truck putted along taking me farther away from my normal. My life should be called a series of misfortunate events. Out of all the bad luck in the world, why did it fall on my shoulders? What did I do wrong in life to deserve all this?

This was going to be my senior year of running track – varsity in fact. I was practically promised a scholarship from a prestigious school. Track was everything to me. Then, I tore my meniscus resulting in knee surgery. Of course, this would put me out for the training I needed to attain my record.

Then there was my boyfriend, Justin. We had been dating for a year in a half! That’s a long time for a high school relationship, and I truly thought he was going to be “the one.” He wasn’t the smartest, though. For your information, it is stupid to leave your snap maps on when you say you are at home studying. It didn’t take me long to track his truck down at the park to find him in the backseat with that girl from biology class… the girl who was prettier than me.

To top everything off, my parents grounded me for sneaking out that night. Couldn’t they understand why I snuck out? Couldn’t they understand that I already had enough of a punishment when I saw Justin with that girl?

Now, here I am. This was the worst summer I could ever ask for. I hated my life. Why does God make bad things happen to good people? Perhaps because there is no God at all! God wouldn’t let bad things happen to good people.

The minutes turned into hours as the old beat up truck rattled farther along the single road. The heat beating down on me through the window subsided as dusk crept over the hills. We had finally come up to a cut in the road with a small school bus sitting in front of it. The truck screeched to a halt, and both men turned around to face me.

“Do you think your boyfriend cheating on you was a good thing or bad thing?”

I felt my insides twist by the question, partially because the memory alone made me want to throw up, but also because that’s an odd thing for them to ask me. How did they know that he cheated on me? They must have been spying on me for a while before they decided to finally take me.

“That’s a stupid question. Of course, it’s a bad thing.”

The man in the cowboy had tilted his hat back and forth on his head and stared off into the desert as he spoke. “You are naïve. I can’t blame you for your shallow thinking, though. Everyone thinks the same way as you. If they were just patient and trusted the process, they would be able to see.”

“What the hell does that mean?! You know nothing! Cheating is wrong. Period. There is no excuse for it, ever!”

“The moral of cheating is wrong, but what happened to you was ultimately good.”

“You guys are sick. That’s all there is to it. What do you want with me anyhow?”

Both men continued to look off into the desert as they spoke to me, taking turns at answering my questions.

“To teach you. Give you one more shot.”

“One more shot at what?! You’ve taken my life away. You have KIDNAPPED me!”

“No. You have taken your own life away. You have kidnapped your own life, and at such a young age. We want to give you one more shot.”

I sat back in the seat, startled at their response. What were they talking about?

“Try to remember what you were doing before you came to us. You were very upset that night. Trust me, it will help to remember.”

I sat back and remembered hating my life. I started to remember the pain of everything that was thrown at me all at once. What had I done? I began to cry as I remembered unscrewing the pill bottle and popping each pill in my mouth and chucking it down my throat. The feeling of my face going numb, the distortion of colors and shapes, followed by blackness.

I choked out a response in between my sobs. “I…I killed myself.”

“Yes. That is how you ended up with us.”

“So, there is no heaven or hell…or God after all?”

“No, there is. We caught you before you went down south, as we call it.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Eternity is a long time to live down south. We try to catch as many as we can. Some don’t learn the lesson and chose to go down south. Others learn, very quickly, and return to Earth for their one last shot.”

“What are you trying to teach me?”

“That what happened to you was good, not bad. You see it’s simple. It’s all in how you look at the situation.”

“There’s nothing good about finding my boyfriend cheating on me. There was nothing good about me tearing my knee and needing surgery that would put me out of my scholarship. Those are two bad things that you won’t be able to convince me otherwise on.”

I saw the guy in the bandana grip the steering wheel of the truck. The man in the hat was no longer casually looking off into the distance. He was now on the edge of his seat with a stiff gate to his posture. I leaned forward to see what had made them change their stance, and then my blood froze.

Off in the desert was a black figure draped in a dark red robe. Long, pointy black horns protruded from the figures head, and it just stood in the distance, watching us. It had to be at least 10 feet tall.

“Is that a mirage?”

Both men kept their eyes locked on the thing for longer than what felt comfortable. Finally, one of them spoke up. “No. They don’t think you’ll change your mindset. They are getting ready to come for you. We don’t have too much longer.”

“Who is coming for me?! I’m not going anywhere with anyone!”

Both men turned to face me, more intent on talking over one another now. The black figure still stood in the distance, watching, always watching.

“Look, you weren’t meant to go to that prestigious school. That is why you tore your knee.”

“What are you talking about? Why would I not be meant to go to a top-rated school on a full ride?”

“You are meant to go to a small-town school that’s 30 minutes away from where your parents live. You’ll meet your best friend at that college. Her father will end up sharing the proper connections with you to end up at your dream job. Your dream job is where you’ll meet your future husband. He is such a great guy. You’ll see why it didn’t work out with Justin once you meet this guy. He is your soulmate.”

“Ok… so you’re saying Justin isn’t the one for me?”

“Yes. Blessings in disguise, as they say.”

“Why does it have to hurt so badly? Why can’t it be done in an easier way?”

“If you didn’t see Justin cheating on you for yourself, you would have never broken up with him and he would have kept dragging you along. You would have ended up following him to college which would have disrupted your life plan. This is the way it needed to be done.”

A tear slid down my cheek, and I wiped it away with my palm.

“It’s so painful, though.”

“Yes. Right now, it is, but pain is a good thing. We wouldn’t be able to appreciate joy without it. Pain is another blessing in disguise.”

Both men had their eyes fixed on the figure out in the desert. It looked like it was inching closer and closer to us.

“Ok. We need to be on our way. We don’t have much time left. There is an outfit for you to change into on the bus.”

Laying on one of the couches was a black romper with black flats. I could see the man in the cowboy hat glaring at the figure in the desert from the bus window, watching its every move. After a few seconds of stalling, the man yelled something in Spanish at the black figure. The figure started to growl. Frightened now, I quickly changed into the outfit.

My eyes danced around the bus, taking in all the details that surrounded me. There was a mirror hanging at the end.

I examined my new look in the mirror, and for a second, I felt beautiful. I quickly erased those thoughts as the reality of the immediate danger I was in hit me in the stomach like a pile of bricks. The sounds of moans and groans filled my ears followed by a foul smell. I peeked out the other side of the bus to find myself in a living nightmare. There were twelve different mangled creatures dragging themselves toward me. They looked like spiders with human hands at the end of each leg. On top of the body was a skull that moved as it were conscious; mouth open and groaning in pain.

The man in the cowboy hat proceeded up the steps of the bus, his boots clinking as he inched closer and closer to me.

“Time to go!”

We proceeded onward, we must have driven through the entire night because the last thing I remember seeing was the bus fade smaller and smaller into the dark night through the rear-view mirror. I awoke again in a frenzy, forgetting where I was when I noticed the black romper I had on and quickly remembered my unfortunate fate.

“Morning, girl. It’s a good day today. Huh?”

I shrugged in my seat. “It could be better. I’m dead, receiving a lesson from two men I don’t know.”

The man in the bandana shook his head, and we continued to drive. We finally looked to be reaching civilization. I recognized this area, this was the cemetery my grandmother was buried in. The old truck rattled along the old gravel road of the cemetery.