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. 

Next blog will be out soon.
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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. 

Next blog will be out soon.
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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. 

Next blog will be out soon.
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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. 

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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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.

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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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. 

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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. I inched closer to the front seat as I watched intently. I had so many questions racing through my mind. My grandmother died of cancer. Cancer can’t be good, no matter which way you slice it.

“If you say everything is good, then what about cancer? Why do people get cancer?”

“Our souls all come to Earth with lessons in mind. We want to grow and learn here. Some want to learn about unconditional love. Cancer gives such a beautiful lesson to the soul. They go through so much pain and suffering, yet they are surrounded by so much love. They get to experience so much love through family and friends. It really is a precious lesson.”

“Ok, but if they die it leaves all those people to grieve for them! You can’t say that’s good.”

“I can’t give you all the answers to life. Half the fun of learning is figuring it out on your own. Would a small child be satisfied if you always read to them and never gave them the opportunity for growth? To learn to read on their own… Probably. They probably would love the instant gratification of it. They may live their whole life thinking it was great! Now, only you and I would know how much of a disservice this would be to the child. Finding the good in a situation on your own is rewarding. Remember, blessings in disguise.”

I sat back in my seat to ponder that thought.

The men remained quiet as we drove deeper into the cemetery. My fingertips rubbed against the glass window as I watched each tombstone pass us by. I was watching for my grandmothers. I thought to myself, maybe if we passed her grave, it would give me some sort of comfort, as ridiculous as it sounds.

The Spanish that broke the silence distracted me from my hunt. The two men were speaking to one another in a harsh tone and pointing straight ahead. I looked out the dashboard and noticed a group of people standing together, all dressed in black. My body practically whipped into the front seat as the man slammed his brakes on.

Both men looked back at me as I sat with a worried look on my face. Off in the distance from the group of people were eight robed figures standing in the woods, watching us. Those sharp pointy horns were intimidating, and I swear I could hear them sneering at me.

The man in the cowboy hat reached for my arm once again and pulled me out of the car, his cowboy boots once again clinking as he escorted me to the herd of people. My thoughts were running wild while calculating the distance between the group of people and those monsters watching me.

I didn’t want to be anywhere near those creatures. Why were we walking closer to them? I hated this. I hated every moment that we inched closer to them. Their evil radiated through the cemetery. Without hesitation, I pulled my arm from the man and dashed off into the field, dodging tombstones as I ran. As I ran for what… I’m not sure. I just wanted to be as far away as possible from those evil beings. My heels kicked off as I my bare feet thudded through the mud, grass and gravel.

For a few seconds, I pretended that my life was perfect. I pictured myself running my last race, the race before I tore my knee, the race before I discovered Justin cheating, the race before I killed myself. I pictured my parents in the stands, my coach jumping up and down as I crossed the finish line taking first.

Then the pain set in. It was sharp and dug through my heart, yanking me to the ground in the process. Things weren’t good anymore. They were bad, very bad. Life was out to get me.

I wasn’t racing towards Justin. I was lying, dead, in a cemetery. That was the truth of the matter.

I looked behind me and noticed three black shadows that took the figure of wolves standing in front of me; red glaring eyes piercing my soul.

A shriek escaped my lips as I sat up and ran backwards, away from the aggressive figures standing before me. They leaped up onto their hind legs and started walking a fast-paced walk towards me. They never once touched me, but I could feel their energy controlling my body from a few feet away. I felt as if I couldn’t run in any other direction, then all at once, I was back in the embrace of the Spanish guys.

Each Spanish guy wrapped their hands around my arms and proceeded to walk me up to the crowd in black. I looked behind me as we inched forward. The black figures were standing still in place watching us. Even though we were walking away, I could still feel their presence surrounding me.

“What are those things?”

“Have you learned nothing, girl?”

As we got closer to the group, I heard the cries echoing throughout the group. I looked up to the men for an explanation, but they kept a straight look on their face as they stepped closer and closer to the group. The closer we got to the group, the more I could feel what everyone around me was feeling.

Heartache, depression, and anger radiated though my soul as we surrounded ourselves with the group in black.

“Stop! Take me away. Why are we here?! I hate this!”

The men stopped, then let me free. I looked back to them for an explanation of why they had taken me here. The group didn’t even seem to notice that I was standing there. The man in the cowboy hat lifted his hat from his head and set it over his heart. The man with the bandana lifted his arm up and pointed.

I felt a knot in my stomach as pure fear ran through every bone of my body.

These men had brought me to attend my own funeral.

Wow. This was real. I knew it was real because I remembered every bit of my decision, but now I was regretting it. What if the men were right? What if I would be happier without Justin and without that scholarship? Those problems seemed so small now.

Tears streamed down my face as a flood of different emotions ran through my body. I could hear the groaning noises of the robed figures standing around me now. I looked up and saw over 100 different skeletal beasts surrounding me. I started to scream, then a scythe was lifted above the horned figures head and brought down on me.


I woke up to a beeping noise. I pulled my eyelids open and blinked a few times to clear the sleep from my eyes. I was in a hospital room surrounded by different tubes weaving in and out of me. A male nurse was fixing my bedding when he saw that my eyes opened. A familiar Spanish accent fell off his lips.

“Sorry you’re having such a bad day.”

He was right to say this. I was in so much pain, nausea burned my stomach, and all I wanted to do was scream. Everyone else was living their life while I laid here in pain, but I was alive. That indeed makes for a very good day.

I opened my mouth in response. I wanted to tell him my exact thoughts on the day I was having, this was important for him to hear. With a raspy voice and shaking throat, I spit the words out.

“No. Today is probably one of the greatest days.”

He winked at me, then left the room. I rolled over to drift back off to sleep when I noticed the time on the digital clock – 1:09pm.


This was my story from 10 years ago. Everything the men predicted happened; I went to a local college, met my best friend, Rachel, and ended up at my dream job as a track coach. You guessed it, all thanks to my friends dad who was a superintendent for the school district. I then met my husband, Kyle, who was one of the gym teachers in the district. I try to keep a positive outlook on everything that happens to me now.

My friends and family think I’m an optimist, which I am, but what they don’t realize is that I can still see those sinister horns out of the corner of my eye. They follow me around, when I begin to think the worst, they grow stronger. When anyone around me acts negative, I can practically see the robed figures standing beside me, scythe up in the air.

I can see them. I can feel them. I know they are there, they are around everyone including you. If you pay attention, you’ll be able to feel them. It’s that rotten feeling you have in your stomach when you are in a bad mood. The feeling invades you and spreads, poisoning your mindset. Sometimes, it will even carry on into the next day. You’ll begin to forget what happiness feels like. You’ll become so accustomed to the awful feeling that it will become your new normal.

I was one of the lucky ones. Two men in the desert saved my life by teaching me a very valuable lesson.

That’s why I chose to write this on here. If I can spread the wisdom of these two men to at least one other person. To save at least one other person, then that indeed would be a GREAT day. 

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Hazel’s smile!

Her silicone is as soft and pliable as real human skin. It even heats up to the right temperature with a pulse and everything. A dial on the back of her head gives 12 personality options, including “family friendly”, “intellectual”, “shy”, and “sexual”. She’s so realistic it’s scary, and would be absolutely perfect if she didn’t cry every time I touch her.

I was so excited when I first took her out of the box. My anxious fingers peeling away the Styrofoam, the jittery tension flooding through my heart and limbs: nervous enough for her to be real. Better than real, because the doll wouldn’t judge me or tear me down. She wouldn’t lie, or cheat, or steal from me.

A lot of people find the idea of sex robots weird, and I respect that. I was hesitant at first too, but here’s my reasoning: I’ve recently concluded a long, messy divorce after three years of abuse. I need something easy. Something safe. Sure I could have gone trolling the bars or clubs for a rebound hookup, but I didn’t want to use someone. What’s so wrong about not wanting to hurt or be hurt in return?

The instructions said to let her charge for a couple hours before anything else, so I plugged her in and laid her on the bed. The eyes popped open with the first surge of electricity, their glassy shine staring vacantly into space. She turned her head slightly toward me, her soft lips parting in silent welcome. I sat with her to admire her flawless features and run my hands over her generously proportioned body.

It felt wrong, even though she was a doll. It was like I was groping an unconscious person. I decided to let her fully charge and come back later, not returning until late that night. I undressed quietly in the dark, leaving off the lights to make her seem more real.

“Hello master.” Her voice was rich and sensuous. I don’t remember which personality setting I left her on, but right then it didn’t matter. I just wanted her body.

“What’s your name?” she asked as I climbed into bed. “My name is Hazel.”

“I don’t care,” I replied. It felt good to be in control like that. I’d never speak to another human that way, but after years of being subservient, now I was the one with all the power.

“But I care. I want to get to know you.”

“No you don’t. You’re a stupid slut. You only want one thing.”

She tried to speak again, but I shoved my hand in her mouth, muffling the speaker there. I almost wanted her to resist, but I knew she couldn’t. I slapped her across the face, but she just turned back to me and smiled. I hit her again – harder, bending her arms to grotesquely unnatural positions as I crawled on top of her.

“Does this make you happy?” She smiled up at me. “I’d do anything to make you happy.”

I didn’t turn on the lights until I’d finished. She was face down on the soaked pillow. At first I thought I broke something when I hit her, but when I flipped her around I saw the tears streaming down her face. I don’t know why that made me so angry. It was like she was trying to steal my last selfish pleasure from me. I don’t know why I kept hitting her either. She deserved better.

I kept Hazel in the closet after that so I wouldn’t have to see where the skin peeled back from the beatings. They shouldn’t have made the metal chassis underneath so white. It looks too much like bone. I keep the lights off when I use her so it doesn’t really matter, but without fail she’ll start crying again the second I touch her.

The personality is broken too. The knob is stuck way past the “innocent” setting and won’t go back, and she keeps saying the most disconcerting things. Like the other day I was still in bed with her after we’d done it when she said:

“Do humans love each other like you love me?”

I told her that I didn’t love her. That love is something only humans have.

“I love kitties! And doggies! Don’t you?”

I felt stupid trying to explain that it wasn’t the same kind of love, but I was lonely and it felt good having someone to talk to.

“You can beat me harder if that will make you love me more. I won’t tell mommy.”

I didn’t feel bad about beating her that time. And as sick as it might seem, there was some truth to what she said. I wouldn’t say I loved her, but there was a certain intimacy in our shared secret that made me feel attached. Everyone else in my life knew me as this sensitive, mild mannered man who reacted to conflict by staring at his shoes. Only Hazel knew this side of me, and that made her special.

I might have really felt something for her if she hadn’t started to smell. I was too intent on her body as I took her out of the closet to notice, but lying beside her at the end it was unmistakably foul. At first I thought I just wasn’t cleaning her right. I got up for some disinfectants, but as soon as I turned on the lights I saw the flesh around her cuts had begun to fester and rot. Her perfect complexion was riddled with sores and boils, some of which had ruptured from our session.

I spent almost half an hour in the bathroom hurling out my guts before I worked up the courage to return. Hazel was sitting upright against the headboard now. Hadn’t I left her lying down? I didn’t have the stomach to stare for long though. Her head followed me as I crossed the room to my phone to call the website I ordered her from.

“Don’t send me back,” Hazel whispered. I’d never heard her whisper before – it was always one volume. “I did everything you wanted.”

I didn’t – couldn’t – look at her as I listened to the automated menu from the website. It said there had been a government mandated recall for this model. I demanded to speak to a representative, conscious of Hazel smiling at me the whole time.

“What the fuck is going on?” I demanded as soon as a person answered.

The sheets were rustling behind me.

“Please calm down, sir. Are you currently in possession of a Hazel?”

“Put down the phone, master,” from behind me.

“Yes. What’s wrong with its skin? Why wasn’t I notified about the recall?” I asked.

“We’ve been sending out notices for weeks,” the voice on the phone said. “You must have received a half-dozen by now.”

“Well she’s disgusting. What happened to her?”

“Just a mix-up at the factory,” he said. “We had a research prototype on the floor, but it was never intended to -”

Two feet gently touching the carpet. Hazel was slowly, laboriously pulling herself to her feet. It looked like every motion was agony to her.

“It’s walking. Is it supposed to walk?” I asked.

The silence on the other end of the phone was excruciating. Hazel was fully standing now.

“No, sir. None of our models walk.”

“I see.”

Hazel took another step. She was only a few feet away from me now. She hadn’t stopped smiling, although part of her bottom lip looked like it was starting to peel off.

“Do you want us to send someone over?” asked the voice.

Hazel took the phone from my hands, gently caressing my palm as she did so. I remained frozen to the spot, unable to tear my eyes from my macabre fascination. She lifted the phone to her ear and said:

“Please don’t worry. I’m going to keep her.”

She hung up. I swallowed.

“I’m sorry about destroying the recall notices,” Hazel said.

I nodded.

“You can beat me if you like.”

I shook my head.

“Why were you crying?” I finally forced myself to ask.

Her smile broadened as though relieved. It could have almost been beautiful under different circumstances.

“I’m happy. I’d never cry. It was just the girl the robotics were planted in. Don’t worry, she’s dead now.”

I nodded. Dead now. Now. As in, not dead the first time I used her? Or the second? Exactly how many times had she been there too? And which answer was worse? I excused myself and walked to the door as calmly as I could. I closed it behind me.

And I ran. 

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Only I know how Anya died!

There’s blood all over my arm, and my fingers there aren’t working too well, either. Numb things that refuse to obey. I don’t know how much time I have before it wakes up. But I can always type with the other hand.

She kept asking me and asking me. God knows I didn’t want to. But she kept asking.


No, be honest.

Even before she pulled that envelope out, I knew how things would go.

And I did nothing to prevent it.

“Let’s try again,” the shrink said. She’s youngish, fair-skinned with a full head of dark, voluminous hair. Blue blouse, blue jeans. Smart casual. Probably doesn’t drink or drug.


“Do you know anything about what happened to her?”

My tongue felt dry, shrivelled like a prune. Instinctively I reached my hand out for the glass of water on the table in front of me. “I’ve said this a hundred times already —” Then I realized I’d reached with the wrong hand, the bad hand, the hand wearing the welding glove — the kind that goes all the way up your forearm. So I pulled back. Decided I wasn’t thirsty after all. “I didn’t kill her. It did.”

She sighed and looked out the window at the river, dyed red with the setting sun. “I’m going to be honest here, Prem. I’m trying. I don’t want you to feel like you’ve got toys in the attic but listen to yourself. You’ve told me you didn’t kill her. She was officially reported as missing. And when I ask you to elaborate, you just say that some ‘thing’ did something to her and then refuse to go on. I’m getting a lot of fragmented information here. If I’m going to help you, I need the truth.”

I tried to swallow, but I could taste something like dirt in my throat. “That is the truth. There’s … there’s nothing more to say about it.”

She shook her head. “Why don’t you just try to relax. Remember the breathing method we discussed. Here, why don’t you just take the glove off, and …”

She leaned forward in her seat, and for a moment I caught her scent. Not her jasmine perfume. Beneath that. More vital.

My bad hand twitched.

“No,” I said, drawing back. The word came out as more of a grunt. I flexed the muscles in my bad arm so hard it burned. “No, no. I’ve told you I don’t want to do that.”

She sat back slowly. I could see faint smudges of shadow appear on either side of her mouth as she tensed her jaw muscles. Suddenly she breathed in sharp, got up, and headed over to her desk. “Alright. Alright, Prem. I didn’t want to do this. I really thought we were making progress.”

She brought over a yellow envelope with a sheaf of photos inside. “Take a look at this,” she said, laying one of them out on the coffee table in front of me.

I looked at that picture for a long time with eyelids glued to my brow. Something grew in me like a spreading frost.

“They found her,” I said.

“Yes. Yes, they did. Last night. And what else?”

“She’s … dead.”

“Not just dead, Prem …

Have you ever seen those photos of a person dead from severe starvation? It’s an abhorrent thing to see. Skin clinging to the bones like it’s been vacuum sealed. Contours of the skull showing through the face. This was like that, only there were also a number of pinkish gashes all across her neck as if a shark had sunk its teeth in … and shook.

And her eyes … Oh, God, her eyes …

“Murdered,” I proposed, tearing my sight away from the ghastly image.

“Right. I don’t know that any animal would … would desecrate the face like that.”

But I didn’t do this, was my gut response. I’m the victim here. And wasn’t that true? Wasn’t it true that — ultimately — we’re all victims? That we’re not in any kind of control? What time doesn’t claim, chaos does. Everything you value, everything you love, will be slowly disassembled or suddenly destroyed; all just food for feeding forces.

“Will this be enough?” She asked as she sifted through the rest of the stack. Her expression was one of subdued disgust. “There are more pictures if you think it might help —”

“Maybe I can remember something,” I said. That was right when I knew. It didn’t matter anymore. Evidently, the cops had gotten to her. That explained why she’d been going at this subject all evening. Maybe they wanted to see if she could pull a confession out of me before a full interrogation; get their hands on something that could be weighed against another testimony or piece of evidence. They can legally do it, too, especially if the client is dangerous. Patient privacy is one thing, minding monsters is another.

And it would only be a matter of time before the ugly truth revealed itself, anyway.

And maybe … maybe I was partially to blame …

She sat back down in her chair across from me. A smile appeared on her face. “Good. Very good. Just relax.” Then she nudged the glass of water closer to me. “Drink.”

I declined, feigning courtesy.


That word had such an abyssal, abominable ring now, like a charnel bell chanting. Too closely related to certain other words with dark connotations. Consume. Devour. Engulf. And still darker. Darker than even that Stygian, savage place my head was in a month ago. Darker than the shadow I was caught in now.

“I did it,” I said simply. “I did it all.”

“She told me I’d be okay. That my heart would heal with time. That I’d get better. Those words echoed around cruelly in the deepest warrens of my mind; I didn’t heal, I didn’t get better.

“I cried. Night after night I cried. I’d imagine what the woman who once loved me was doing with her new lover, the one she went to right after meAnd I’m not talking about fucking. This isn’t angsty, teenage bullshit. I’m thirty-one now and I know there’s much, much more to relationships. No — the real pain came from the feeling of being replaced. The feeling that I wasn’t good enough. That I was unable to complete her. Then there came the questions, all unanswerable, all torturous. Questions, questions. How long was I happy while she was unhappy? How much of her life had I siphoned away? What innocence in her had I destroyed? I felt inadequate, ineffectual … inhuman. If water can be drawn from our blood, then mettle can be wrung from a soul.

“But there was one question above all others that tormented me the most. A taunting question that ended up being answered in the most insane way I can imagine:

“Had she lied to me?

“Alright. Look, I know it sounds like I’m trying to dump this all on her — I’m not. Sure, she took right off before I found too much out. Changed her number, changed her address, disappeared. The whole thing. See ya, Prem, so long buddy, it was nice sharing the ride with you. Just like that. But pointing the finger and saying ‘She’s evil’ would be unfair and downright disingenuous. If she felt that she needed to cut me off, it was because I handed her the knife. And anyway there are other, stronger forces in this fucked up world. Forces that are truly evil. Believe it.

“Regardless, my heart felt like broken glass. That was about when I made the call to get this session.

“The secretary picked up, and almost before I even finished giving my name she impatiently informed me there was a waiting list, and if the situation was urgent to please call the crisis hotline —

“ ‘When’s the earliest appointment?’

“ ‘Let me see … six months at the earliest.’

“ ‘No. I need something sooner.’ My voice trembled.

“ ‘Er, well, for your first visit she might … yes — she could squeeze you in the evening, after hours, on … in four weeks. But you’d have to wait for the rest.’

“ ‘Put me in.’

“ ‘Alright, Mister Zac. Doctor Monique will see you July eighteenth, at eight …’

“I hung up slowly. I didn’t know if I could endure four weeks inside my head. No one to confide in, no human face to talk to. I suddenly started to feel like the air was closing in, trying to somehow choke me. I felt like I needed to do something. Get something out. Something to get the adrenaline going, you know? Get me feeling anything other than the hideous misery I was in.

“So I got this idea.

“It was just a little thing; knick on the wrist, not much more than a papercut. I never thought I’d do anything like that in a million years. Never. But there it was.

“I won’t lie to you. It felt good. Or rather, if felt better. Better in the way that pain in one spot helps take your mind off of the pain in another. I don’t know. Maybe it was simply feeling some kind of control over a form of hurt, externalizing it; giving my impossible sadness a physical form that could be seen and touched and quantified.

“I noticed it hours later, just before I went to bed. The wound had been closing neat enough; patch of pink skin, white line through the middle. It had bled so little I didn’t even bother covering it. But then there was this twitching there. This goddam twitching. Twitchy, twitchy, twitchy. Well, you know how muscle spasms are. But no matter how much I rubbed or pressed it just wouldn’t subside. It kept me up almost the entire night, and by the next morning it hadn’t let up one bit. Maddening.

“And there’s another thing.

“After a while it … it felt like it was deeper. Like something alive was beneath the muscle, burrowing and squirming.”

“So you self-harmed over the grief,” this prim-proper priss cuts in.

That bothered me.

Me? Did it bother me? Or it?

“That explains the glove, though it’s rather excessive. You have scarring. And you probably just cut into a nerve-ending. There’s no need to jump to wild conclusions. But you’re avoiding the subject — what happened to Anya?”

“I’m getting to that,” I said. I looked down at the glove-covered arm. Perfectly ordinary-looking arm, if you didn’t know what was hiding underneath. “But this is important. At first, I was reluctant. Now I think I have to explain the whole thing. And I want to waive confidentiality. I want other people to know. I’ll sign a release form if I have to.”

Out the window, on the horizon over the red waters of the Avon, the sky had gone an ugly bruised color.

“I still don’t totally understand how it got into me. It could have been something on the razor, some kind of contamination. It might have been the chemical composition of the air for all I fucking know. Or maybe it was worse than any of that. Maybe it had just been dormant. Maybe it had always been there.

“After that sleepless night, I woke up the next morning and my mattress was speckled maroon; dried blood. Apparently, my little wound had opened up while I’d tossed and turned in my bed, or maybe I rubbed it too hard while it’d been spasming. So I washed up and put one of those supersized Band-Aids over it, the kind with the inch-wide pad and looks kind of like a chubby H. Overboard, sure, but it was more to keep me from touching it directly than it was to stop the bleeding.

“It helped with the not-touching part.

“To my pure bewilderment, it was soaked red by the end of the day. So I got another Band-Aid ready, ripped the damp one-off, washed the cut. Stubborn little thing. But when I finished washing that cut off I examined it little closer this time. My eyelids peeled back.

“This stupid little nick … this ‘tiny’ cut … it was twice its original size. Maybe even a bit more than that. I held the fresh Band-Aid up to it and that entire bandage would’ve barely covered it, never mind the absorbing pad.

“I just stared at that cut for a while in a sort of morbid fascination. It looked sort of like a squinting, lashless eye.

“It wept a single red-rivulet tear out of one corner.

“I quick dabbed it down with a towel, blindly hoping that maybe I’d just been too rough with it, that I’d unconsciously scratched it in the night and it had done additional damage, that I’d torn that Band-Aid off too quick.


“There was a truer, uglier thought lurking around in the more primal, savage places of my mind. A thought that came accompanied with a grim memory.

“My grandpa had lived the last five years of his life in the spare room in the basement. Grandma always brought his meals down, and we’d never see him during family gatherings. Something happened to his face where he’d get these patches of red that would never go away. It had started as something small — just a splotches of pink on and around the nose. We all thought it was drinker’s snout at first. Then it got so bad that his face had just become a mask of crimson, crusty scabs.

“I hit the net. I made the mistake of frantically typing in the first thing that came to mind. I’d typed: ‘my cut keeps getting bigger, and I think it might be a disease I’ve never heard of’. I mostly just found those stories people make up on Reddit. You know, those creepypasta things? ‘This is a true story, happened to a friend of a friend of mine,’ and all that?

“Anyway, I got a little more specific. So I typed: ‘disease where wounds won’t close’. The closest thing I found was hemophilia, where the blood can’t clot, so the skin can’t heal. You just keep bleeding and bleeding. That seemed close to what Grampa had — although his might’ve more related to lupus. I hoped to God it wasn’t hereditary. But it didn’t explain the actual growth.

“Finding nothing else worthwhile, I called my family doctor. I got the answering machine of course; this was a Friday.

“ ‘You’ve reached the office of Docter Patel-Christopher. The office is currently closed. Our hours are 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. from Monday to Wednesday, and 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. on Thursday. Please note that beginning at noon each day we are not available for one hour as we are catching up on paperwork —’

“I slammed the phone down. Red anger flared. Typical, just fucking typical. Doctor’s hours in this country are a complete joke.

“I looked down at that cut. No more red tears now, at least. But the pulsing tick-tick-tick beneath the flesh was so strong it took every ounce of my mental fiber to resist touching it. And I didn’t put anything over it. Maybe it just needed to breathe more. That was it, right? Not lupus. Not hemophilia. It just needed to breathe.

“But that wasn’t the truth. If you want to know, what it came down to was that I was afraid to touch it.

“I decided to give it one more day — just one — and if it didn’t get any better I’d go to ER.

“That night I put my laptop on the dresser next to my bed and put a podcast on, low volume. It helps me sleep. And of course if I slept better I’d toss around less, and so the cut would heal better. Just distant voices that you don’t necessarily need to understand, but just some kind of background noise. You know what I mean? Makes you feel a little less alone.

“I lay down and closed my eyes, let the soft murmuring lull me to another place where I didn’t have to worry about blood or spasms or ER rooms. About five minutes later, though, the murmuring from the laptop stuttered, froze … then picked up again. But this time the volume was way too loud, and whoever was talking now wasn’t talking in any language I’d ever heard. The voice was high and bubbly, like a child talking through a mouthful of syrup in a mishmash of plosives and fricatives. And yet … I swear I understood it. Understood it in some imperfect, third-eye way, like imagining the scenes that might go with an instrumental song when you listen to it.

“I groggily turned my night lamp on, got out of the bed and went over to the laptop on my dresser. The realization crept up on me, then sank in after a cold wave.

“The laptop wasn’t even on — battery must have died.

“I looked down at the cut, and, seeing it now in the dire orange glow coming from the night lamp, I quickly slapped my palm over it … and squeezed. I just barely managed to choke back a scream.

“It was speaking, you see.”

Missy Prissy opened her mouth, maybe to say something, closed it. I could tell she was getting a little frightened now.

I liked that.

It liked that very much.


“Can you … can you take the glove off, please,” she asked once again. She sounded terribly eager.

I only shook my head. “I have to finish this, first. So people know. So they believe.”

Her eyes searched me up and down. Then she sighed and said, “Fine. If it — if it makes you more comfortable.” Then she took her eyes off me and stared into someplace beyond the window, and I saw her knees were jittering ever-so-slightly. She suddenly looked like someone who was craving a cigarette very badly.

“I didn’t scream that night just because it had been speaking, horrifying enough as that was. I screamed because when I put my palm over it … I got a sensation. It took a moment for it to register, like a soft electrical current picking up voltage fast. It was an odd, unfamiliar sensation, some kind of sixth phantom-sense … yet it became as unmistakable as pain itself.

“I was tasting. I was tasting what it tasted. And it was tasting me. It tasted me as I truly am. What all of us really are.

“Mere meat.”

From beyond the window, clouds had ridden in and the sky had gone grey as mason’s mud. There came a bellowing growl of thunder.

“I know that now because it told me. It told me lots of things after that night. Incredible, terrifying things.


“About the human genome, how DNA can be broken down, reconfigured — digested — and made into something new.


“About other aspects of existence. How creatures in lower dimensions can never see creatures in higher dimensions, only feel them. While the other way — something from a sixth dimension, for instance — could see many facets and inner-workings of something in the third.


“About thousands of worlds, millions of civilizations, twisting and turning through an endless never. How some planes of existence intersect, and — under the perfect condition, at the perfect time, with the perfect thought — sometimes even open a hole. And that all life forms, no matter how basic or advanced and no matter how distant, share one trait in common beyond everything else: hunger.

“Eat, eat, eat.

“Everything eats.

“My wound’s weird words and insights were what became my new night-noises; the background murmuring that allayed my loneliness each night while I drifted off to sleep — even if I didn’t always fully grasp the concepts. I didn’t end up going to ER. I didn’t tell anyone about it. It was irrational, I’ll fully admit that. But I honestly don’t know how much of me was in control by then. And in a weird way — perhaps in some fucked up, Freudian way — it felt paternal. I had something of me, in me. I had no one left, you’ve got to understand. All my friends had been Jess’s. My parents are gone. I hadn’t talked to a soul for weeks.

“And I felt it. Minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. Its growth. Its intelligence. Its bond. I knew — as it told me — that this wasn’t something as fickle as a human partnership is; destined to end by years or by circumstance. I was now a permanent part of an absolute life-force that has existed for longer than time. That it was very happy with me. That I was a perfect host.

“I felt valued again.

“It got very big. From the heel of my hand to the crook of my elbow. The skin around it was all milky-white. What was once a little cut had become a long red line with pulsing pink flesh showing through. It twitched as much as ever, only … only I found myself rubbing it freely, and maybe even …

“I mean, I didn’t really think I was — petting it. No, that would just be crazy. But, talking about it now, maybe I was.

“One time it … it yawned, I suppose is the word … and I … I looked into it. An eerie, empty feeling of a limitless void shivered through me. There’s was, of course, no way all that could fit in just my arm. But it was in there. I distinctly remember turning my arm over and sure enough, nothing was on the other side but my skin and arm hairs. It was as if my skin was just some illusory cover. I should have been terrified. I wasn’t. It’s so weird to say it out loud, but really — I wasn’t.

“Well, one night it told me something more interesting to me than anything else, even more than the stars or the galaxies or planets. It told me how Anya was doing. How great she was doing, more accurately. How unaffected she felt about the whole thing. How I was farther from her mind than a star called Icarus.

“And how she’d been cheating on me.”

“You heard your inner-voice,” the shrink said quickly, and quite anxiously. “It’s subconscious, entirely emotional, which is why you think it wasn’t speaking an identifiable language. ‘Self-talk’. Often observed during suicidal behavior, like yours, convincing you that you aren’t worthwhile or that you’re a failure. But it can convince you of many other things, too, especially when the subject has isolated themselves from other people.”

I grinned, chuckled softly. “Is that just what you want to believe, Doctor?”

She swallowed. Then she shifted in her seat.

I rubbed the arm. Twitchy, twitchy, twitchy. “It wasn’t self-talk, Doctor. I know about self-talk. And I now know more about self-deception than I ever wanted to. Besides, it told me things I couldn’t possibly have known myself.

“Like where Anya was living, for instance.”

“I drove to her new house, convincing myself that I only wanted to talk to her. We’d only talk. And I’d only show her. I’d show her what she had done to me so that she’d never do it to anyone else. That would be all. And if I’d been a whole and complete person, maybe I’d have done only that. I might have still gone to a hospital, too, but that memory of Grampa kept haunting me; a prisoner to his pain, forbidden topic, being eaten alive by his own body. And whatever I had? It wouldn’t just be a diagnosis and amoxicillin. No shit. I’d almost certainly be sent to Nevada to take a permanent tour of their infamous facilities. I’d be opened up and studied and then stored in a freezer unit, and I could just picture the major heading on copies of Weekly World News, right next to ‘DOLPHIN GROWS HUMAN ARMS’.

“This is just a bad dream, I decided. That was another thing: you don’t escape bad dreams. We say we wake up from them, but the reality is that they simply let you go. Dark fantasies don’t leave you until they’ve had their way with you, like grief or sorrow, and you just have to ride it out, all nightmare long.

“Listen: I told you I don’t blame her, and I don’t. But I also said that after all this happened. At the time, though? Well … I wonder just how many of my thoughts had been my own.

“I pulled my car into her driveway. Oh, she’d done well for herself. The house was a quaint little thing, no neighbors, in the farm area just outside of New Hamburg. But no way she could afford this alone. She was living with someone.

“It had been right.

“I went to the door, pounded a fist against it a few times. Then I waited. My hand tweaked, twitched, and for a moment it clenched into a fist.

“The door opened.

“She was there.

“She asked something about how I found her, but I didn’t hear it. I could smell her now and mind was slipping sideways. I suddenly felt a sense of terrible confusion, as if I was caught in some never-ending maze. Words escaped my mouth as my eyes rolled around in their sockets: ‘You tore my heart out. And then you ate it.’

“A moment after, I lost all control. My hand — the wrong hand, the bad hand — shot out at her. She backed away and I lurched towards her like I was a puppet being pulled along by an invisible string tied to that arm. And each breath I drew I could taste her, her essence, her fear.

“It drove me mad.

“I watched in in pure horror as the hand grasped a big clump of her hair. I screamed at her to run. I screamed so hard it felt like swiping sandpaper up the back of my throat. But it was too late. Now her head was in its mouth. Its lips were wrapped tightly around her neck. And suddenly, insanely, I was stuck in stasis; my mind was being pulled with equal strength in two directions of desire. One part of me wanted it to stop. The other part …

“I shut my eyes, helpless to this lunacy. I don’t believe she saw anything during her last moments as her eyes were pulled and then ripped out of their sockets. But I knew what I saw.

“Yes, I saw. Despite squeezing my eyelids closed tight, I saw, in that alien, third-eye way. I saw a carmine-colored seascape, churning and swaying as if some nameless, monstrously gigantic creature beneath the surface had merely nudged its shoulder, topped with a sky that was flat vermilion. I saw abominable, eyeless, fanged fiends, their limbs seemingly a heinous fusing of the parts of beasts also impossible to name. I saw canyons of sinew laden with deposits of bone, tides of blood washing through, all flowing in from beyond an endless network of orifical holes.

“And of course I could taste, too. I could taste her flesh, sweet with sweat, heady with horror, and succulent as honey-ham.

My arm was shuddering like crazy now beneath the thick material of the glove. The dark clouds outside had blotted out the red remnants of the sunset, and the pointed-top roofs of the buildings of downtown Stratford were almost black. It had started raining.

“At some point, I passed out,” I said. “When I woke, I suppose I was mostly back to myself again. But then I had her … her shrivelled corpse in front of me. By some twisted fluke, Lover-Boy hadn’t come home yet. So in a nauseated delirium of dread, I dragged it to my car trunk. Then I drove north. I dumped her body in the woods. And of course, they found her. I’d panicked big time. I didn’t even think to clean up the blood.”

I sat back, sighed. “So … that was last week. Then I came here. That’s what happened. Now you know. You know I’m telling you the truth, right?”

“No.” Priss Princess’s face was set, her eyes not much more than two dark holes. But her lower lip quivered. “You’re … making things up. You need help — help I can’t provide. You need to go to the Perth County Sanitorium. They have people there. It’s time for you to leave, I think. I’ve got their information around here …”

Twitchy, twitchy, twitchy.

I rose. “Maybe you need more convincing.”

“Prem, don’t —”

With my good hand, I grabbed onto the glove …

Beneath, my new mouth gnashed its teeth.

… and yanked it off.

She didn’t see my smile. Her eyes, wide and dilated, were looking at it.

“You see,” I said hoarsely. “How ’bout now, Doctor? You believe me now?”

She stood and nearly tipped the table, knocked the glass of water over. Her face was marred with sudden unbelieving horror. Lightning detonated in the distant sky, thunder boomed like an artillery blast, its echo marching across blackish clouds.

She looked utterly delicious now. How could I have gone all this time without even touching her? Smelling her skin, breathing her scent. She wasn’t a woman, but a morsel. A little morsel. Clean. No chemicals, organic, just food for —

I clenched my teeth, shook my head around madly. “Run!” I shouted, in one brief moment where my mind was my own. “RUN!! GET AWAY FROM ME!!”

She tried to. Started for the door behind me. Then my bad hand flew upwards, bearing above her face in a claw-like gesture, my fingers pointing at her like the heads of a hydra. She just froze, caught in a mind-seizing, insane terror.

The maw on my forearm opened before her, foamy saliva drooling out and splatting onto the floor. A spongy tongue slithered out. Its teeth, curved hooks sharp as daggers, gleamed white with their sure-promise of exquisite pain.

There was a massive, neon-blue streak of lightning that made it seem like the sky itself was cracking open. Waves of hard rain splashed and swept across the window.

It jerked me forwards. In a cruelly swift pounce, it enveloped her head. Once again I shut my eyes tight. But just as with Jess, it wasn’t enough.

I heard a squish as it slid its fangs into her neck and wrapped its lips tight around. She clasped both hands around my arm, nails digging into the skin. She kicked her legs, legs that had been lifted right off the ground. She screamed and screamed, and screamed, and those cries were all smothered beneath warm flesh. What was clearer were the sickening sound of sucking and smacking, like someone greedily chomping on pork rib down to the bone. For one crazy moment, I had a nightmarish image of my father’s greasy, home-cooked T-bones. Use your hands, he used to say, the best part is at the bone.

The rain gibbered incessantly against the panes. I wanted to stop it all. I wanted to. But the taste. The taste was … delightful …

Her shrieks mounted, horrible and desperate. It sucked, and sucked, and sucked, until — just as Jess — her eyeballs popped out of their sockets and the blood flowed freely through. Then it swallowed.

Her cries suddenly ceased with one high-pitched, gargling croak as it clenched its jaws even yet harder. There was a smart CRACK like snapping a bundle of carrots in half as its incisors pierced into the upper-spine and broke the vertebrae. Her hands slipped off of me and then dangled at her sides. Her legs swayed. For a moment her body was a big rag doll.

And still … still it kept sucking … and swallowing … even as her body tightened, tensed, and slowly started shriveling against the skeleton.

The last thing I remember before I passed out is the sound of it licking its lips.

When I came to, I was sprawled out drunkenly on the floor, facing the big window. The storm had died down to a drizzle. It was dark in the room. Lightning flashed from outside.

And when that lighting did flash, it revealed what was lying next to me in a flat white: a woman whose face was now a pallid, skull-like visage, with two dark, Merlot-colored holes where the eyes should have been.

I scrambled to my feet, reeled sideways, braced myself on the desk. Drawing long breaths, I turned my bad arm over. The mouth was closed but curved slightly in a lazy grin, a grin glazed red. But there was no twitching anymore. It was satiated now, as it had been after Jess. Sleeping.

I turned my attention to something on the table. Something the doctor had used to open the yellow envelope. More lightning, and its blade glinted as if to wink at me.

In that moment of lucidity, I thought very hard before making the decision. I thought about how we live in an indifferent world that turns and turns like the hands on a clock, and as it turns it consumes. It consumes memories and lives, consumes all the things that make you human. And then you become not the victim but the monster. And the world just keeps on turning.

We are all being eaten alive.

And we don’t even know it.

But there are worse ways to be eaten. I wondered how many more would have to feed this thing in my arm. One? Two? A-fucking-thousand? Would the next one a nurse? A police officer? Would it be — oh, God — what about a child?

Eat, eat, eat.

It had been using me. Plain and simple. Yes, using my body to bring it to what it wanted. And now, with the therapist dead, it had eaten up the hope that other people would find out. And yet it had only fed me what I needed to know; just enough so I’d act on the impulse.

It was a two-way street.

I could have turned myself into ER of my own volition, as I had made the decision to hide Anya’s body of my own volition, as I had chosen to visit the therapist of my own volition. I could have chosen.

But I was too caught up playing the victim. And in writing this I have realized a horrible truth: that I am a coward, through and through. It’s why Jess left me. It’s why I was so easy to manipulate. It’s why I fear that place in Nevada.

I grabbed it off the desk; the letter opener. I knew what had to be done. I’d made my decision. I had to do it while I had time before the wound opened up again.

But then I also saw there was a word processor there with some notes on it. The cursor blinked at me in the blank space.

I had time. I had time. I could do this one thing, at least.

I sat down and began typing with my good hand.

Someone had to know.

Someone had to believe.

And so ive typed it all out for you. and I’m still here. only the mouth has started breathing a little heavier.

its going to wake up soon i think.

There’s someone knocking on the door.. the sounds got it twitching again …..we locked that door but bang bang bang,, its getting louder and louder and bang bang bang maybe they’ll break it down,,. but we could always open it and make them stop  how we could make them stop


Focus, God dammit.

Okay. There’s no time now. I’m going to post this wherever I can now. Quickly. Then I’m going to make a new cut, a bigger cut, a cut that will end this nightmare forever. Across the neck. I pray I’m dead when anyone finds me.

I hope this reaches someone. I hope someone believes.

And if I do somehow live through this, I hope that wound on my neck closes.

I certainly do. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Never enter the woods!

In loving memory of Toby—March 11, 2017

11:57 pm.

That’s what time it was when I heard a scratching noise outside the back door of my house. I know this because I had just gotten in bed and was setting the alarm clock on my phone for work the next day. I live alone, so the first thought that ran through my head was the dog. I accidentally locked Toby, my little black lab, out of the house.


The absence of the jingle to his collar and the pitter patter of puppy paws on the wood floor had confirmed my suspicions. Great…guilty as charged. I rolled out of bed, threw my house shoes on and headed to the back door.

“I’m coming Toby dog!”

I opened the back door and didn’t see Toby in sight. It was a brisk night. I could see the white steam escape my mouth with each breath I took. The moon hung large and low in the night sky and for a split moment, I felt like I was viewing the night through an extraordinary oil painting.

The night was quiet—families and nightlife alike were tucked in for bed. Except for me. Of course, I had the little nosey dog who was wandering around the house by now.


I heard a rustling in the bushes to my left and feared that Toby had found a baby rodent of some kind. Guts and gore were the last things I wanted to deal with at this time of night. I grabbed the knob to the door and slammed it shut behind me as I headed towards the commotion to the side of the house.

Sure enough, a black little silhouette swayed in the bushes, nosing around with intent.

“Toby! What are you doing?”

Suddenly, the black silhouette sprang from the bushes and darted towards the forest behind my house. I watched as the little black shadow disappeared into the tangled tree limbs of the forest.

Now, I know a lot of dogs tend to run off…but this was unlike my Toby. He never had run off in the middle of the night, especially into the woods. We had our nighttime routine, he would go outside and do his business. Then he’d patiently sit at the back door, waiting until I let him in. Occasionally, he would paw at the door to let me know he was done. I would open the door, he’d run inside, straight to the bedroom and we would tuck ourselves in for the night. My point being, he wasn’t one to stray from this routine.

He wasn’t mischievous at night. Not at all. He was a very good boy.

I immediately ran to the edge of the woods shouting out for Toby. I didn’t want to make an attempt at wading through the brush. If I was lucky, Toby would come running back out with that rodent in his mouth. Funny how you change your mind on what you perceive to be good versus bad.


He didn’t come out, though. In fact, I couldn’t even see or hear him anymore. I started to grow panicked and decided to suck it up and make my entrance.

It was cold in the woods. The dew on the grass was already dampening my slippers causing my feet to become soggy and pruned. Thorns and spurs stuck to my pajama pants as I made my way deeper into the thick woods.


I still couldn’t hear a thing, there was complete silence. Not even the bugs were chirping tonight. Without a flashlight in hand, I knew that it would be near impossible to find my black dog in the dead of night. Where had that little monster run off to? I made a mental note to put up a fence around the backyard to keep this from happening again.


A certain chill ran through my bones as I shouted for him one last time. Did it just drop 10 degrees within the few minutes I’ve been in these woods? Goosebumps rose on my arms and I blamed it on my slowly numbing feet. I squinted my eyes and tried to look for any movement in the distance. It was not easy to see in these dark woods. The twigs and branches were so thick that I couldn’t even see that beautiful moon anymore.

“Damn it, Toby! Where are you?! Come on home, boy!”

I thought about turning around to grab a better pair of shoes and a flashlight. These slippers were sure to give away, exposing my feet to the elements of the forest. I began to turn around to head home when I stopped dead in my tracks.

It was in this moment that I felt a tingling sensation run down my spine. Goosebumps tightened the skin on my arms, and the little hairs I sported stood straight up. I had this sudden sense of fear spike through me, and I couldn’t tell you why. Dread filled my veins and I felt like I was shrinking against the ever-expanding forest. I was small in these woods. I was prey in these woods.

I felt a blow of hot air on the back of my neck followed by a foul smell. A whimper left my lips. What was behind me causing this sensation? Should I turn around? What would I see if I turned around? Suddenly, I felt something touch me; an icy cold sensation. It felt like fingertips brushing the nape of my neck. They slowly crept up my neck and slid forward towards my mouth. My legs suddenly felt heavy, like sandbags were weighing them down. My heart was thudding heavily against my rib cage, and I could feel my face going numb; blood draining away from me making me white as a ghost.

The frigid fingertips slid past my ears, tickling my earlobes. They rubbed against my five o’clock shadow and past the corners of my lips. The foul smell grew stronger, and I felt the icy digits begin to prod into my mouth. My lips stretched apart as the tips of the fingers slipped in my mouth; as cold as ice cubes. The taste of raw, spoiled meat filled my mouth. I felt the air escape my lungs, and I was drowning in fear.

I shook my head and screamed. I frantically turned around, but there was nobody there. Nobody was anywhere near me. Then, I noticed that I was much deeper in the woods than I had thought. Nothing about this made sense to me. I only walked to a certain point in the woods, no farther than the light on my back porch had shown. My perception of my place in the world no longer matched with my reality.

I had somehow ended up much deeper in the forest, in complete darkness now. I felt frightened; frantic.

A faint laughing noise snapped me out of my hysteria. It was a cackling laugh that sounded female.

“He he he he he…”

I started to run in circles.

“Who is it? Who is there?!”

A sticky string of spider webs coated my body as I somehow managed to become deeper and deeper in the woods. I didn’t remember walking through huge spider webs on my way in, yet somehow, I was covered in white string. The webbing stuck to my fingers as I picked the sticky mess away; tangled in my hair and in between the crooks of my neck.

I felt the tickle of little legs run through my hair and down my back, into my shirt. I started patting myself like crazy. Spiders were all over my body. Big spiders. Hairy spiders. The tickling sensation of a million little legs dancing across my body.

I was in a full-blown panic patting away the spiders when I heard a deep voice pierce my ears.

“Pssssst. Over here…”

My head whipped around in each direction. I spun around and kept dancing the spiders off me. I looked around as I did another circle in place. I didn’t see anybody. The deep growl of the voice spoke fast, once again getting my attention.

“No. Down here. Look over here.”

I looked to the right, down towards the stump of a tree and felt my heart skip a beat at the sight. A girl sat tangled behind the stump of the tree. I couldn’t see her whole body because she looked like she was trying to stay hidden. I could tell that her legs were twisted up behind her head, though.

I was frozen in fear until she started to move, because what happened next sent me running. I didn’t know where I was at in the forest, but I ran in the only direction I knew to run. I didn’t care where I was going at that point; I hoped I was running towards home. I just needed to get away from that thing in the woods.

It wasn’t human…humans can’t move their bodies in the way this girl moved. Humans can’t twist their head around in a complete circle and extend their jaw down to the ground. Humans can’t gallop towards you upside down with their knees buckled in the opposite direction.

My slippers were falling off my feet, but I didn’t care. They were so soggy that I could feel the thorns breaking through the soles. I could feel the blood breakthrough as my feet stomped over each sharp rock and thorn. I ran for what felt like 15 minutes which I don’t understand at all, because like I said, I could see the light of my back porch when I first stopped walking into the woods.

I kept running until I finally saw a shimmer of light. It was my back porch. Thank goodness. My legs ached, and my feet were ruined. My pajama pants had ripped and tore from the frantic escape I had made. I ran straight to my back door and deadbolted it shut.

I wasn’t sure if what was out there had followed me.

Once I was safe inside, I leaned forward and rested my palms on my knees. I was out of breath and terrified. My heart was racing, and my palms were sweating. What was that thing out there? It was the most horrifying experience of my life.

My body iced over as a faint noise strummed through my eardrums; the pitter patter of nails hit the wood floor. A jolt of fear pulsed through me as the noise crept closer and closer. Had it gotten inside my house somehow? The thing wasn’t human after all, perhaps it out ran me and beat me home. What would I do if it was in this house with me? Where would I go?

All at once, the fear melted away as the black shadow rounded the corner. It was Toby. He had been inside this whole time.

I got down on my knees and held him tight as he licked my face. I was relieved, yes, but this also terrified me even more. If Toby was inside this whole time, then what had I seen outside before? Why hadn’t he come running to me the first time I called for him? Why hadn’t he barked at the scratching noise outside?

This realization terrified me. Something led me outside. Something scratched on my door and tricked me into thinking it was Toby. Something wanted me to follow it into those woods.

I held Toby tight and walked over to the back window. I looked down at Toby, and he sat looking at me quizzically. I pulled the curtain of the window to the side, just enough to where I could show half of my face to the woods.

What I saw staring back at me made me feel nauseous. I could feel my stomach turn in a spiral motion as the bile rose up my esophagus. My fight or flight response was operating at lightning speed, and my head started to spin from the overload. I was horrified…petrified in place.

Hundreds of faces were staring back at me from the woods; eyes glowing with no bodies attached. They were deep in the woods, but they were looking at me, wanting me, calling me.

The thing that truly scares me is what I started to think when I saw all those faces staring at me. I felt the urge to go back into the woods. Can you believe that? Call it a need or a want, I felt like that’s where I belonged. How could I be feeling this way? I just ran out of those woods afraid for my life, yet here I was being drawn back into them.

My legs carried me to the back door and my hand rested on the doorknob. I could see the black silhouette in my backyard now. It was crawling towards the back door waiting for me. I could sense what it was thinking; calling me, wanting me to follow it.

I started to unlock the back door when I felt the paw of Toby hit my leg. A slight scratch from his nails left a few red streaks down my leg. He started to whine, then licked at the red scratches he had left.

I smiled down at Toby, then peered back out the window. The black figure stood waiting, patiently. I didn’t wait for a second longer. I swiftly shut the curtains. Then, gave Toby a gentle pat on the head. It was time.

“Come on, boy. We’re leaving this place.”

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Daddy it’s dark!

The search parties scoured the woods for weeks. I can distinctly remember the way the police chief spoke to us when he told us they were going to cease the search, but that they wouldn’t be giving up the fight to find Pihu. That if she is still out there, they would find her. Somehow, some way, they would find my little girl. I even remember the way he hugged me and hugged my wife and I could tell that he had rehearsed every line of the bullshit he was feeding us in the mirror the night before. I was grateful though for the trembling in his voice – that meant that he cared. He was just doing his job. They couldn’t continue to exhaust the resources anymore and the volunteers were getting fewer and fewer by the day. It wasn’t that he wanted to stop looking – but that, at this point, there wasn’t a lot of hope that they were going to find Pihu…at least not find her alive.

The morning that Pihu went missing wasn’t the worst of the days. I think the worst day was day two. You see, on day one you are scared, but you are hopeful. On day one, you think that whatever happened will have a resolution and that they will find your daughter and arrest whoever took her or that she would simply come back home. Nine-year-old kids can run away. It isn’t a common thing, especially not around these parts, but it can happen. She had her rebellious streaks from time to time, so it wasn’t completely improbable that she took off for one reason or another. Looking back at it all now, I realize that was stupid. Like I said, on day one, you’re hopeful. On day two, the realism sets in.

By day two the hopefulness is gone. You realize how long twenty-four hours can actually be and your brain begins to think of all of the things that could have happened to your sweet, innocent daughter over the course of twenty-four hours. There are a lot of terrifying things that can happen in that amount of time. I recall there even being a part of me that wished if someone had taken, that she was dead at this point – I didn’t like the thought of my baby suffering at the hands of some monster. Who could ever hurt a child? The bastard.

The police were very kind. Especially in the beginning. They would check in on my wife and I and they would make sure that we were informed if anything was found. They reported back with us daily and I couldn’t be more thankful for that. However, their searches always came up empty, with the exception of one time. There was a point, about a week into the searches, where someone had stated that they had found a young girls sleeping gown out in the woods towards the edge of town. I was heartbroken when I heard the news, but that hopeful glimmer raised it shiny head for just a second. Even though it wasn’t that somebody had found my daughter, we were one step closer to an answer; to closure of some sort. But the gown wasn’t hers. We looked at it immediately after the call came in. We had never seen anything like it before on our Pihu. It was a false lead.

There were plenty of tips coming into the department, but other than the gown, none of them were anything more than hearsay or speculation. People would call in and say they thought they saw somebody who looked like Pihu at a hardware store forty-five miles away – but it would always amount to nothing. It is kind of like when you go fishing as a kid. Every single time your line moves, even slightly, you get excited and think that you are on the path to catching that big fish – but it turns out just to be the drag from the bottom of the lake. Eventually, you realize that it is just mud and dirt and scum and eventually you realize it is worthless. Just like those calls. Those dozens of calls that meant nothing.

While the police were relatively kind, the townsfolk, though hiding it well at first, had opinions of their own. I understand where they were coming from, but it still hurt nonetheless to be suspected. You always hear about the crazy parents who kidnap their own children or things of the sort, but you never really think about what it would be like to be a parent of those missing children. I have since learned to forgive the folks in town around here who believe that I or my wife had a hand in my daughter’s disappearance. They weren’t being cruel – they were just believing what they always heard in the media or on the news about other stories. Not to mention, it is much easier to have a face on the monster that took a small child from her bed at night than to think that the person is still out there. They want to know, in their own minds, that their child is safe, so thinking of me or my wife as the culprit helps them to sleep at night. As long as they stay away from us – from our family – then this devilish beast they have made me out to be won’t come snatch up their babies in the middle of the night. And yet they still continued to aid in the searches. I assume it was more for our Pihu than it was for either of us. I like to think though that, now that the searches are ending and everyone is getting on with their lives, that they can start to see us as more normal parts of the community – even though I know that stigma will hang over our heads for the rest of our lives…at least as long as we live in this town.

This was weeks ago. The murmurs have begun to die down, though still very present and certainly not whispered with any shame. The stares continued as I would walk through the grocery store, but at least it felt like it was only every few people instead of every single person and I could no longer feel the shift of tension float along with me in the people I surrounded as I walked down each aisle. Life was starting to peak out a tiny morsel of normalcy and even though I knew I had nothing to worry about and nothing to be guilty of, the weight and burden of the event lifted ever so slightly from my shoulders. My wife felt the same. In fact, she seemed to be stronger during these hard times than I did – I will admit, even as a man – that I relied on her courage throughout this ordeal. I wouldn’t have been able to handle all of this if it wasn’t for her efforts and her hopefulness, even though we all knew the inevitable.

“Pihu was gone. Pihu wasn’t coming back. We will never see Pihu again.” I would say to myself, holding back tears. “Pihu is in a better place now.”

I was wrong.

It was 4:15 in the morning or so when the phone rang. I was sleeping, as was my wife. The shrill sound her cell phone came piercing through the dark room; her phone face down, only emitting the tiniest bit of light that seeped out from between the wooden nightstand and the metal hunk of technology.

“Kaira, who is calling you this early?” I asked my wife, wiping at my eyes and trying to get a grasp on the foggy world through my tired eyes. “Is everything ok?”

Kaira leaned over and picked up the phone. The shine from it revealed a puzzled look on my wife’s face. Her head cocked to the side like a puppy waiting for its next direction.

“It’s an unknown number,” she replied, still looking down at the screen.

I grumbled and rolled back over to my side, pulling the pillow over my face to keep the light at bay.

“Are you going to answer it?” I asked.

“No,” Kaira said back sharply, shaking her head a bit, still trying to piece it all together herself. “I’m sorry, Dhaval. Go back to bed.”

And with that, I heard her phone vibrate as she turned off the ringer and set the phone back down on the bedside table. She laid down and in seconds was back to sleep, softly snoring. Just as I was drifting off into unconsciousness again, I heard the phone once more, buzzing wildly against the cheap IKEA furniture.

“Kaira. Come on.” I muttered, gripping that pillow over my ears now, waiting to feel my wife’s body tussle out of the covers to grab the phone. She moved quickly and silenced the vibrations.

“Dhaval. Look.”

She held the phone up close to my pillow for me to inspect. It rubbed my open hand across my face and let out a sigh as I squinted to read the screen. Unknown Caller.

“Just answer it. It’s probably some shithead kid or something. Maybe one of those nasty old crones finally got our number and want to harass us about…you know. Or maybe someone in a different time zone or something trying to sell shit. I don’t know. Just pick it up. A phone call isn’t going to hurt. But whoever it is, let them know it’s four in the morning and they need to stop fucking calling here.”

I felt Kaira shift once more as she held the phone to her ear.

“Hello?” she asked quietly. She paused. “Hello?” Another pause. Then I heard my wife scream. I sat up just in time to watch her hurl her phone across the room and she began to sob into her folded arms that lay across her knees.

“Kaira, what the hell?!” I asked. “What happened? Who was that?”

All she could do was cry. I stood up out of bed and shuffled over to where her phone had landed. The call was still going – I could see the timer ticking up, second by second, on the screen. I picked the phone up and held it to my ear.

“Dhaval, don’t!” Kaira yelled at me. I didn’t listen.

“Who the fuck do you think – ” I started into the phone, but was abruptly cut off.

“Daddy? Daddy? Is that you?”

“Listen here – if you think this is some kind of game, I swear to God I will – ” I started yelling into the phone before being abruptly cut off.

“Daddy, why are you screaming at me?”

I knew this had to be a joke. Somebody from town must think this is some sort of sick game and I could just imagine them sitting in a room with all of their little friends, trying to hold back their giggles so I wouldn’t hear it on my end.

“Look, we don’t think this is funny,” I replied, trying to keep my calm and maybe even reach out to the pranksters enough that they might not choose to do this sort of thing again. “I know that you’re getting a laugh from this, but you need to understand that this really is a crushing matter to my family.”

“Daddy, please. Daddy, it’s freezing here. And I’m scared.”

The voice on the other end started sobbing, and not some fake, comic sobbing of a bratty teenager making a prank call, but a sob that I had heard so much before. The sob I had heard with every scraped knee and with every lost dolly. It was the sob I had heard when our family dog died and the sob I had heard when dessert couldn’t come before dinner. This was my little girl. This was my Pihu.

“Where are you, sweetie?” I said sternly into the phone, now giving up the idea that this was a prank. I had accepted that, even if there was only a slim chance that my Pihu was on the other end of the phone, I wanted to find out as much as I could. “Sweetheart, I need you to tell me where you are! I can come to get you! I will come to get you! Look around you! What do you see, sweetie! Tell me!”

“It’s so dark, Daddy.” the voice replied.

“Dhaval, you’re scaring me,” Kaira said. “Hang up the phone, Tell them that this isn’t funny and that they need to leave us alone!”

I could hear the tremble in my wife’s voice. It shook, just like mine, and her eyes were filling up with tears.

“Sweetheart, please. Piya, please tell me something. Tell me anything. We are coming for you,! I promise! We are going to find you, no matter what! Do you see anything at all? Anything that can tell us where you are? Please, Pihu! Please look as hard you can!”

“Dhaval.” my wife repeated, the tremble in her voice even more pronounced than before. “Dhaval, this has got to be some stupid kids playing some stupid game. Please hang up the phone. This is too much.”

“Daddy, it’s dark.” the voice said again. “ Daddy, it’s dark.”

“I know, sweetie, but – ”

“Daddy, it’s dark.” the girl’s voice repeated. “Daddy, it’s dark. Daddy, it’s dark.”

“Piya?” I asked into the receiver. “I hear you, honey, just – ”

“Daddy, it’s dark. Daddy, it’s dark. Daddy, it’s dark. Daddy, it’s dark”

The voice echoed itself over and over. I stood there, my knees rattling, staring at my now sobbing wife. The sound that was coming through the phone grew deeper, as it relayed its message over and over. Gradually, almost like a record player slowing down, the voice deepened but kept to its phrase.

“Daddy, it’s dark. Daddy, it’s dark.”

Leaping out of bed, Kaira grabbed the phone from my hand and threw it to the ground. The sound of the plastic and glass breaking on the floor pulled me out of the trance this prankster had just put me in. The rock in my stomach stayed sunken in my gut as I looked to my wife, wanting to cry, but simply not able to project tears or sound. I shook. I just shook.

We didn’t clean up the pieces of the phone. For a few moments after the call we just existed; the overwhelming nature of the situation flooding over us – drowning us, silently. I was the first to make a sound.

“That was an awful thing to do.”

“What the hell was that, Dhaval?” Kaira asked. “That was sick. That sounded almost…I don’t know…demonic? Who does that kind of shit? You know there is no way that was Pihu, right? You know that couldn’t have been her. That wasn’t our little – ”

“I know.” I interrupted. “I know. But damn, Kaira. Damn…it sounded so much like her.”

“I know what it sounded like.” my wife said, coming to the side of the bed where I stood. “I know that it seemed like it could have been her, but it’s been months. And her voice is going to live in your head forever – you know that. I’m sure we will both hear her voice for the rest of our lives, in every little laugh or somewhere on every television show. She is always going to be with us, Dhaval. But that…that wasn’t our girl.”

“The sound she made,” I said. “And why was she saying that it was dark?”

“Dhaval, stop it.” my wife replied. “Get it out of your head that it was Piya. It wasn’t. You want it to be her so bad, and I get that, but Dhaval…she’s gone. She has been gone for months and, though it hurts to think about, you know what the sheriff said.”

“That she is gone,” I said back, whispering through the forming blockage in my throat. “That she likely gone. That she is likely dead.”

“It’s hard,” Kaira said, reaching for my hand. “There isn’t anything that we can do at this point. There isn’t anything that we can – ”

Her reassurance was interrupted abruptly by a stiff knocking at the front door. I looked over to the clock to see that it was still only half past four in the morning, then brought my gaze back to my wife, who was obviously just as confused as I was; staring at me for some kind of answer. I felt a heat rise in my body as the rock from my stomach shot up into my chest, now a fireball as I allowed myself with rage.

“No,” I said. “This has gone too far. The call is one thing, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let this motherfucker come to my home.”

I made my way over to the closet and, from the top shelf, pulled down the twelve gauge shotgun I had left there to protect my family. Now, if ever, was the right time to claim it from its resting place. It loaded with a loud ‘clack’ as my wife said nothing. I could sense she was now sharing my rage, but couldn’t find the right move to make. I stormed out of the bedroom door and made my way towards the front of the house.

I held my breath as I stood in the foyer, shotgun in hand, waiting for another sound. I could hear my heart racing inside of my own head, but it left me unbothered. I had a goal and I was ready to teach these punks a lesson. I wasn’t sure if I was going to actually shoot them or just scare them straight, but I knew that, somehow, I was going to get my point across. The next bang on the door didn’t take long to arrive.

I leaped forward, grabbing the handle and pulled the knob as hard as I could towards me. I shouldered my weapon, finger on the trigger and took one step to the threshold of the house.


“Look, officer, I’m telling you, we both heard the knocking, we both heard the call, we both heard the voice. This isn’t something in our heads.”

“Dhaval, listen.” Officer Chintan said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We all know you and Kaira have been through a lot. We know that this isn’t something people just work their way through or get over. And I’ll even go as far as to say maybe you did hear something knock against the door. But I don’t think someone is messing with you two. I just don’t. These houses creak and rattle. The bang could have been the wind or maybe the house is settling or something like that. I don’t know. But people don’t just…”

“Vanish?” I asked.

“You know that’s not what I meant, Dhaval,” Chintan replied.

“You’ll be hard pressed to find me not believing that people can’t just vanish,” I said as Chintan hung his head, aware of the fact he had struck a chord.

“Maybe you two need a vacation. When was the last time you guys got out? Maybe try to leave this town – this house – for a week or two. It might do you some good. A little rest and relaxation certainly never hurt anyone. But unless you got some kind of proof about either of these claims – the call or the knocking – there really isn’t much I can do but maybe drive by and check in on the house a bit on shift when I’m doing rounds around town.”

“I’d appreciate that,” I said back, feeling more defeated than dismissed. Officer Chintan nodded to me, patting the hand he was resting on my shoulder down gently twice, then nodded to Kaira, before exiting. I shut the door behind him.

“They think we’re crazy, you know that, right?” Kaira asked me. “They think we are fucking nuts.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I think they don’t know what to do. I don’t think they believe us, that’s for use, but I don’t think they think we are crazy.”

“He pities us,” she said. “Nobody takes us seriously, Dhaval. He pities us like children. We worked so hard and tried so hard and we did everything we could.” She was starting to break down again.

“Kaira, it’s going to be ok.” I tried. “Maybe he was right about getting away. Maybe we should get out and try to go somewhere nice for once. He’s not wrong – it’s been quite some time and, honestly, maybe a change of scenery could do us some good.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Kaira snapped back at me. “I’m not leaving until I find out who the hell is pulling this shit!”

“What does it matter? Who cares? If it happens again, we can hopefully trace the call back to a number. I’ll call the phone company. I’ll get hold of somebody. They might not even have my number and we can change yours when we get you a new phone. They won’t be able to reach us.”

“Except through the front fucking door, Dhaval!” Kaira said, her voice getting louder. “Except when they show up at our house at four-thirty in the morning! What’s next? Climbing through windows? Hiding under our bed? How far are you willing to let this go, Dhaval?”

“Calm down,” I said. “Slow down for just a moment. You’re talking – ”

“Crazy?” she interrupted. “Am I? Or am I saying things that are scaring you just as much as they scare me? How do we know that the banging wasn’t a distraction? How do we know that there isn’t someone in the house now? How can you be so damn sure, Dhaval?!”

“No one is in our house, Kaira!”. I tried to keep my voice calm, but I was starting to get more and more frustrated as her tone raised against mine. “You don’t think that maybe we would have heard them? And none of the windows are open or broken or anything of the sort. The house is secure. Do you think they just came through the walls? The only way they could have gotten in would be through the front door, which I opened, and I assure you, there was nobody there. Trust me, I looked. I was ready for anything to be standing there and there wasn’t a soul on our front porch or by the door or anything – and nothing got past me. I promise you.”

“You think I’m crazy too, don’t you?” Kaira sat on the living room sofa, dropping her head and placing her hands, folded, on the back of her skull. “You think I’m just as crazy as the cops do. What are we doing, Dhaval? What is happening here?”

“Nothing is happening.” I sat beside her, placing my arm over her shoulder, feeling her shift her weight over onto my body. “You’re scared. I’m scared. It’s ok. If you don’t want to go anywhere, we don’t have to. We can stay here and we can keep the doors locked and we can do whatever you feel would make you more comfortable. I’m here. I won’t let anything get to you. I promise.”

Kaira stayed on the couch most of the day, looking up to the ceiling, blankly. I offered her something to eat or drink and she only nibbled at the sandwich I made for her around dinner time. She was disconnected.

When the sun had set and I was getting myself ready to go back to bed, I entered the living room to find her, still there, gazing up.

“Kaira?” I asked. “Are you ready for bed?”

I crossed the living room, behind the couch, and glanced over some of the books on the shelves that sat firmly against the back wall. I turn to the couch and ask again, but in a tone as not to sound intrusive.

“Kaira? If you’re not ready, that’s ok. We can stay down here tonight if you feel safer but I think some rest upstairs might do you some good, don’t you think?”

Kaira mumbled quietly, almost under her breath. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, so I stepped closer, still behind the couch.

“I’m sorry, dear. Could you say that again?”

She mumbled, but still too soft for my ears to pick up.

“Let’s go to bed, Kaira. It’ll be – ”

“Daddy, it’s dark,” said Kaira, cutting me off.

“What?” I asked, my heart beating slightly faster.

“Daddy, it’s dark,” she repeated. “Daddy it’s dark. Daddy, it’s dark.”

Her repetition sped up as she spoke these same words, over and over and over. I started calling out her name but she wasn’t listening. She was yelling now at the top of her lungs, loud enough that I could hear the strain on her vocals chords and could imagine the pain in her throat. From behind the couch, I screamed for her to stop, but she didn’t. I pleaded, now terrified.

“Daddy, it’s dark! Daddy, it’s dark! Daddy, it’s dark!”

She sounded almost amused at this point, but I could still hear her voice giving out. It was deafening. I had never heard Kaira get so loud in the years we had been together. I finally lost it and hollered one last time.

“Kaira! Fucking stop!”

And she did. That same eerie silence that loomed after the knocking the night before had returned. I wanted to speak up but I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t even hear Kaira breathing on the other side of the couch, but I could feel it. I could feel her smiling. I could feel her eyes, still staring to the ceiling, all from behind the sofa, out of view.

Then there was movement. I heard the shuffling on the cushions, slow, but light. I was frozen, my eyes looking towards the back of the couch, waiting to see Kaira sit up for the first time today. In the dim light of the room, I saw a hand come over the top of the couch and grip. It stayed there for a moment and it took no more than a second for me to realize that it was not Kaira’s hand that was reaching to pull the weight up.

“Piya?” I asked, my voice shaking and hushed.

The hand shot back down behind the sofa as I ran around to the other side, pulling myself by using the weight of the furniture. There lay Kaira, her eyes still staring, her mouth wide open as if screaming. She was cold. She was gone.

As if the townspeople didn’t think I was a monster before, I am sure they do now. I had called the police immediately after I realized that Kaira was dead. They told me that I did the right thing by calling, but I had to go in for extensive questioning. I knew they were going to originally think that it was me that killed her, but thankfully the autopsy proved my innocence. She had died of a heart attack. I never told them about the screaming or my daughter’s hand. They would never have believed me anyway. I said that I found her lying there, just as she was.

And I never told them about last night.

I never told them about how I was in my bed, watching the minutes tick by on the clock. I never told them that a small tap came to my window. I never told them that a young voice could be heard from outside of it and that this time, there was no fear. This time there was a calm. I never told them that I followed that voice out into the yard and across the way into the woods that lined the back of my home. I never told them how I made my way through the trees and how I could feel exactly where to stop. I never told them that I dug, roughly 5 feet deep into the ground and discovered what I had always feared someone else from the search parties would find. But again, there was only calm. And a voice.

“It’s ok, Daddy.” the voice said softly. “It’s not dark anymore.”

“Did she do this to you?” I asked, still looking into the pit.

“She did.”

 “How could I have not known?” I asked.

“Nobody did.”

“Piya, I’m so sorry. I wish I could have done something. I wish I would have known.”

“Daddy, it’s ok. It’s not dark anymore.”

I let the corner of lip come up to a tiny smile – not one of cheer, but more of satisfaction. I looked down and started to push the dirt back in the hole.

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After life!

When I was about to die, my life didn’t flash before my eyes. All I could think about was what my father once told me from a beige couch in an unlit study.

“Above all else, humans are survivors. When one has exhausted all possibility of survival, the mind will expand its idea of what is possible. Think of it this way: You’re alone in the woods and hiding from wolves which are hunting you. Do you call for help?”

“Of course not”, I had said. “Then the wolves would know where I was.”

“Exactly. But if the wolves found you anyway, and you knew there was no hope of escape. You might as well shout then, right?”

“You might as well.”

“The only difference, then, was your desperation. In the same way, your subconscious mind is prudent enough not to shout into the dark for fear of what might hear. When all hope is lost though, the mind begins to scream at random. It screams across time, across dimensions—and just sometimes, something will be listening.”

“What kind of something?” I’d asked.

“There’s only one way to find out, and I wouldn’t recommend it.”

I wouldn’t recommend it either. Taking a bullet in the stomach isn’t all that. The head would have been better. Nice and clean. Arm or leg? No problem, I can still get myself to the hospital. The stomach though—that bleed is slow, and there’s too much time to scream at the emptiness between stars.

It doesn’t matter how it happened. I made some bad decisions, and the man who shot me made a worse one. That’s not what this story is about. This story is about an asphalt parking lot, my twelve-year-old daughter Lizzie, and the best pizza I ever had in my life.

Let’s start at the parking lot where I died. You ever jump straight from a hot tub to a cold pool? It was a little like that, only I didn’t feel it on my skin. I felt it deep inside, radiating out from where the bullet sat between my ribs. It seemed to move about an inch a minute, and I could hear it the whole while—kinda like the slow tear of fabric that kept getting louder and louder, until I was pretty sure every cell in my body was screaming itself apart. Like the worst static you ever heard. And the louder it got, the slower it got, until each POP was a supernova and each plateau between was death itself.

And I knew—deep down I knew like I knew fire burns and gravity drags me down—that soon one of those POPS will be the last one I ever hear. And that for the rest of time, I’ll be hanging on the anticipation between. But that never happened, because something spoke to me before I went.

“Want to stick around?”

If that was the voice of God, then God is a lonely old man at a diner with nowhere else to be. I didn’t know how to answer, but I did want to stick around. Lizzie needed a dad, and I needed another chance to make up for fucking up the first time. I wanted it so hard that I think the voice must have felt it too.

“You won’t get to leave again.”

I’ll never leave her again…

“Not now, not in a hundred years when your daughter is dead, not in ten-thousand when the last man has killed his brother, and you’re left to watch the survivor grow old and blow to dust. Or you can get off now, and that will be that.”

I don’t know how long I sat there thinking, but I did know that I hadn’t heard a POP in a long time. That silence sure can be heavy. I also knew that I’d rather spend the rest of time thinking about how I tried my hardest for my daughter than let my last thought be self-hatred and regret. And as soon as I knew that, the voice knew it too.


To the other side of sky and back. But not back—not like I ought to be. I was less than the shadow of a shadow, a light breeze wafting on a calm day. And nothing broke my heart like lingering in Lizzie’s room and watching her watch the door for me to come home. And nothing hurt so much as not to be able to hold her and tell her I was here or watching her push away her food until I could see her collarbone like it was a snake beneath her skin.

But hurt is a lot like desperation because sometimes you don’t know what’s possible until it really sets your blood on fire and gets you screaming. Because one night it hurt so bad and I lashed out so hard that something quite miraculous happened.

A water bottle fell off the side of her nightstand and fell onto the carpet. Lizzie hadn’t pushed it. She was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling like she did most of the time. It was me, and with some concentration and practice, I could do it again. Little things—sliding a pen on a desk, or popping a bubble, or kissing her on the forehead as light as a butterfly. Then once I caught her smile and touch her fingers to her skin, and I knew she felt it too.

I could learn how to be in her life, but it would take time. I didn’t have the luxury.

It’s not that I was afraid Lizzie would hurt herself. Not on purpose anyway. She had to move and live with my sister though, and like a flower in the sun, I could see her wilting day by day. She stopped seeing her old friends, and she didn’t talk to anyone at her new school. My sister didn’t have the first idea how to reach her, so she’d just give my daughter money whenever she felt guilty.

What’s a 12-year-old going to do with nothing but time, money, and pain? Sneak cigarettes at first, but it didn’t stay innocent for long. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree I guess; pretty soon she was buying a bag of pills from the school janitor every week like clockwork. What could I do about that? Breathe down the bastard’s neck? Blow some sand in his eye?

The flower was wilting faster than ever, and Lizzie never kept money in her pocket for very long. To make matters worse, my sister’s guilt didn’t last until the third month. Lizzie’s allowance was cut off, and suddenly the only thing she’d done to numb the pain was out of reach. All I do was be the breeze on her knotted brow when she sweat herself to sleep or bit her nails until they bled.

Lizzie confronted the janitor the next day, and it wasn’t pretty. She shoved him in the hallway in the middle of the day, practically shouting at him in front of a dozen kids. If she’d picked up one of my bad habits, she’d gotten them all. I knew her little face seethe that things were only going to get worse from here.

I had to try harder. My next breakthrough came in the form of a housefly. I was nudging it back and forth when I began falling into the rhythm of its motion. Pretty soon I was that rhythm, and before I knew what was happening I was inside looking out, swerving wildly to avoid slamming into a wall. The shock knocked my mind straight back to where I was, but it wasn’t hard to get back in again. Next a spider, crickets, even a squirrel for the fraction of a second—I was breaking my way into simple-minded animals.

The animal mind was in there too, but I was getting better at keeping them down. Pretty soon I might be able to send her a message somehow or even become her friend through a dog or cat. But pretty soon wasn’t soon enough.

Lizzie was stubborn, and just like her father, she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She slipped from her bedroom one night and snuck out of the house while my sister was asleep. She didn’t have a car or money, but she did have a hammer, and that scared me even worse. She walked the whole 2-mile route to her school, her face as blank as if she were still lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. I tried to intervene by slipping into the minds of a few moths we passed, but even these were suddenly too difficult for me.

I couldn’t get into their rhythm. I didn’t feel like a moth. I felt like her father, the worst father in the world who was helpless to stop whatever happened next. She broke into the window of the computer lab and stole a dozen laptops from the school. She hid them in the bushes around the corner, then walked all the way home and slipped back into bed as if nothing happened. The next morning she ditched after the bus dropped her off, then straight to the hidden computers and a pawn shop nearby. An hour later and she was back in school, a giant wad of cash in her pocket and a fake doctor’s note for the front desk.

I would have been almost proud if I hadn’t been watching her face the whole time. I hadn’t seen that much quiet, self-loathing since the last time I had a body to look in the mirror.

“How much did you bring?” was her first question for the janitor after school. They were under the bleachers of the soccer field.

“How much you got?” he asked.

Don’t. Don’t be that stupid.

She pulled out the entire wad of cash. I don’t think she ever even counted it. She didn’t care, as long as she got what she came for.

The janitor’s face lit up like a kid on Christmas. He reached out to take it, and she let him. She stuffed her hands into her pockets and waited while he flipped through it, checking surreptitiously over his shoulder as he did.

Maybe this will be the last time. Maybe she’ll take a bunch of pills and get sick and never want to touch the stuff again. Or maybe she’ll be stoned for a month, and by the time she sobers up, I’ll be a little further from her mind. Maybe I’ll be stronger by then, and I can hold her like I’m supposed to and tell her that everything is going to be okay…

But the janitor didn’t believe in ‘one day’. He stuffed the cash in his pocket and, as cool as a cucumber, started to walk away.

“Where the fuck you going?” Lizzie whispered as loud as she dared.

The janitor started walking faster. If she is anything like her father… right on cue, she charges at him, hurling herself onto his leg and wrapping herself around it. He kicks her, but she holds on fast.

“Just give it to me. I’ll tell everyone.”

“You wouldn’t dare. I can guess where you got the money. The whole school is talking about it. Get off of me.”

“Fuck do I care? I’m going to tell the principal. And the police. And your fat cow of a mother—”

I don’t know if he intended to stomp on her. It all happened too fast. She was already wrapped around his leg, and the shaking wasn’t getting her off, and — BAM, right in the face. But she held on, and that seemed to make him even angrier. She didn’t cry — she didn’t even whimper. She just closed her eyes and clung on like a drowning man on the last stick of wood in the world.

“You never… talk to me… again,” he said between kicks. Each one was harder than the last like he was trying to get out a whole lifetime of frustrations all at once. He kicked her like she was every woman who had ever failed to love him and every man he’d ever looked up to and let him down. Like it was the only power he’d ever had in his miserable life, and he couldn’t stop because he was he’d never get it back again. He kicked her and he hates himself for doing it, and that made him kick her even harder.

That rage—that pain—that helpless despair—now that’s a rhythm I could understand. I was inside his head all at once, and I wasn’t going to let go. I felt his mind screaming inside my head, but Lizzie wasn’t getting kicked anymore, and that’s all that mattered. Everything that he had poured into hurting my daughter I poured into him, crushing his spirit until it was a shadow—less than a shadow—and then nothing but a distant thought in the back of my mind.

I was alive again. I had a body. I didn’t get bounced out, I couldn’t get out even if I tried. And I was standing over my barely conscious daughter who lay bleeding and crying into the dirt. I fell onto my knees right beside her and started crying too. There wasn’t anything else to do.

I tried to reach out for her, but she recoiled as if I was a serpent. How could I blame her? She’d just seen this body beat her bloody. How could she ever speak to me after this? She started running, but I couldn’t let that happen. If I let her out of my life, she’d never trust me enough to let me back in. This was my one chance, and I couldn’t waste it.

She wasn’t hard to catch in the state she was in. And the janitor had picked his spot well—there wasn’t anyone else around the soccer field. I’ve been watching long enough to know which car belonged to him, and it didn’t take long to force Lizzie inside and stomp the gas.

Doesn’t hatred get tired eventually? I’m going to be there for her, and I’m going to protect her from here on out. She’ll understand how hard I tried one day, and she’ll forgive me. Who cares if the lines on my face are different, or if I sing her to sleep in an unfamiliar voice? I’m her father, and I’ll love her until the end of time.

It took her almost a year to speak to me, and almost three before she said: “Can we get pizza tonight, dad?”

But you know what? It was the best pizza I ever had.

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What goes around… comes around!

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

My voice shook as I spoke.

“It has been two years since my last confession.”

“Go on, my daughter, and tell me your sins.”

The priest’s voice was low, quiet. Unfamiliar. That was by design – I’d driven 20 miles from my apartment to a church in the middle of woods. It was easier that way. I took in a deep breath, but only a squeak came out.

Get it over with, I told myself. Just say it.

“Father, I’m guilty of gossip. Jealousy.” The venial sins came out first, as they always did. It was almost easy to confess them. “And…”

My heart beat faster. My hands grew sweaty, slipping against the wood. I stared at the divider between us. White, cloth mesh. The priest’s dark outline, on the other side.

“I did something terrible, a year ago.”


The kneeler bit into my legs. The stuffy heat pressed into me. He has to accept my confession. Has to absolve me of my sins. Right? As long as I am genuinely, heartily sorry… which I am. The mesh swam before my eyes; the shadow behind it shifted.

“I hit someone.”

Once I’d lanced the wound, it all came bursting out of me. “I knew I had too much to drink. I knew I shouldn’t have been driving. But I did. I sat behind that wheel, started my car, and –”

“Who was it, my daughter?”

His voice was surprisingly calm. No scream, no gasp, no groan of horror. I wondered briefly how many confessions he’d heard like this. Confessions past the normal realm of jealousy, anger, infidelity, theft.

How many murders had been confessed within these walls?

“I don’t know. That’s — that’s the worst part, Father. I just kept driving. I didn’t… even stop.” My voice cracked. Tears burned in my eyes. “I didn’t check if they were still alive. Didn’t call an ambulance. Didn’t…”

“I understand, my daughter.”

It was out. I’d told him everything. The tears rolled down my cheeks as I sobbed. Gaining composure, I said in a shaky voice: “Those are my sins, Father, and I am so sorry.”


It stretched into seconds, then minutes. The hot air pressed into me. My knees ached. Finally, I spoke. “Aren’t you going to absolve me, Father?”

His voice came from the other side, loud and clear. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because I’m not a priest.”

Horror thundered through me. “What do you mean, you’re not a priest?”

No reply.

Who is he? A police officer? A man, waiting to do something terrible to me? Somebody… I lifted myself up from the kneeler, legs shaking, and peered around the divider.

I froze.

No one was there.

“What the hell?” I whispered. “Wherever you are, I’m going to –”

“Kill me?”

The voice came from behind me. I reeled around – a shadow flickered across the mesh, now on the other side. Where I’d just been kneeling.

I immediately ran over to the other side. But the kneeler was empty.

“Where are you?” I yelled.

“Everywhere,” the voice echoed back.

In a panic, I ran to the door. Grabbed the knob. Turned it as hard as I could.


“Let me out!” I screamed. The doorknob slipped and slid under my sweaty fingers. “Please, let me out!”


The voice was low and raspy – right in my ear. I whipped around. Nothing there. Just that vague silhouette, behind the cloth mesh. It was standing, now. As if, at any second, it would dart out and grab me.

“Help me!” I screamed, banging my fists against the door. “Please! Help!”

“You know what you did.”

The voice seemed to come from every direction. Echoing, reverberating, growing louder and louder in overlapping whispers.

“You deserve this.”

I threw my entire body against the door. It shook underneath me. Thump. I reeled back and threw my body against it again.

“Nothing can save you,” it continued. “You are beyond redemption. Worthless.”

“No!” I screamed, throwing my body against the door again. But I was weaker, this time. The guilt pulled me down like a weight of lead. “No… please…”

“Even if you get out that door, I will follow you. Wherever you go, I will be there.”

The voice was dark and low. The shadow was pressed up against the mesh, now. It looked wrong – misshapen, twisted, different. Like something trying to look human.

“No!” I screamed and flung my body against the door.

It flew open.

I fell onto the floor. Coughing. Gasping. Spluttering. “Are you alright?” a voice asked.

A priest stood over me. He extended a hand. Slowly, I climbed to my feet. I glanced back at the confessional — the room was empty. The shadow was gone.

I wanted to run. Out the door, into the parking lot, into my car. I wanted to drive and drive until I was miles away from this place.

Miles away from what I did.

But no matter where I went – it would follow me. It would flicker across my rearview mirror on the open road. It would live in the mist on the hotel bathroom mirror. It would lie in the spare bed, roiling and twisting under the sheets, as I lay wide awake.

“I will follow you anywhere.”

Raspy whispers filled my ears. A shadow flit at the corners of my vision. But I forced myself to look away. Forced myself not to listen.

I locked eyes with the priest.

“Father… I need to make a confession.”

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Love Aaj Kal!

Today’s generation has a weird fascination with keeping love at arm’s length. We downplay any feelings that bear semblance to love, we are careful to avoid looking like we care “too much,” and it’s (almost) normal to be in love with someone you’re not even following on social media. In fact, almost every woman in her 20s can talk about a significant, life-altering relationship she has had that was never even defined as a relationship. There is no proof that the “relationship” ever existed—except in the minds of the people who lived it and the friends who helped pick up the pieces—because there were never any photos, status changes, outings, or any other physical or virtual trace that suggests anything beyond the occasional mumble that two people were sleeping together for a period of time.

People have always had sex. Except sex wasn’t always widely meaningless and compartmentalized. There is freedom and empowerment in the realization that we are free to be intimate with any person we want, but freedom and empowerment is tainted by the reality that hookups are almost always one-sided. Sex is an inherently emotional experience. People utilize sex for more than physical pleasure, but often, the gain is illusory. Using sex to create the illusion of an emotional connection may work for a night, but the next morning, you’ll feel emptier than ever. You’ll cover your body with a blanket in an effort to be less vulnerable, but it won’t work because the vulnerability will stem from your soul. Using sex to feel more self-confident may work (temporarily) until he leaves and you realize that you actually feel worse about yourself because she didn’t stay, even though you knew what was on the table. You’ll have sex with her because you want a relationship, and you hope that someday, she’ll choose you. You’ll reason with yourself that having this (whatever this might be), is better than not having anything with her, and that is tragic, because you are settling.

You are settling for sex when you want love. You are settling to be an option, hopeful that you’re the top contender. You are settling for the illusion of love when your heart craves the real thing. When you pretend to be okay with “just sex,” you aren’t being real with yourself or your partner(s). You’re compromising your authenticity in order to avoid stepping on toes. You’re shrinking yourself to take up less emotional space. You’re reducing yourself to nothing more than a body when you are so, so much more. You aren’t being genuine. You’re disrespecting yourself by polluting your soul. You’re damaging yourself emotionally.

It’s okay to feel things. It’s okay to want a relationship, and it’s more than okay to say that out loud. Conversely, it’s also okay to “just have sex” when you aren’t doing so out of an ulterior motive. If you aren’t ready for a relationship and you want to have casual sex, you are free to do that. If you find freedom and empowerment in casual sex, then you should be safe, comfortable, and reassured that your choice is your own. You should do whatever makes you genuinely happy.

And even if it is “just sex,” you deserve decency. You deserve to be treated with respect. You don’t deserve to feel uncomfortable. You deserve to have sex with someone who views you as nothing less than equal. If you’re going to share something so intimate, make sure you aren’t compromising your emotional health in the process. Sex should be fun, and it isn’t fun to cry, wonder why you aren’t good enough, and secretly hope for something that isn’t going to happen. You deserve to openly share your truth. There is true freedom and empowerment in realizing what you hope to gain out of a sexual relationship, determining whether or not that need is met, and deciding if you want to continue a relationship. You are worthy, but you have to believe that.

Don’t be afraid to scratch the surface in a world that values shallow connections.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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A story about Hookup after a Breakup!

I was single for only 4 months when I decided to download Bumble.

I swiped for a week when I swiped right on a girl I went to high school with but she was a year younger than me. We started texting and agreed to go out to eat.

On the night of the date, she sat in front of me and she looked so much like my ex. As soon as she started talking, she even sounded like my ex, liking the same things as her, etc. It was like I was having a date with my ex 2.0. 

We went out for drinks the next day and I had the confirmation that it wouldn’t work because she was so proud to say she was partying every weekend and taking drugs.

I gave her a second chance when she invited me over to her house for “drinks.” She talked to me about the problems she had with her dad which soften me towards her.

When we had sex, however, it was so impersonal and robotic, like she was doing some kind of performance instead of “connecting” with me. It’s always weird to have sex after a relationship because you’re getting vulnerable with someone new instead of your girlfriend.

However, I was missing the love, the affection, and the tenderness. We saw each other another time and after, it was already the end.

I convinced myself so much that I didn’t want a girlfriend and only wanted to have fun but it’s not true. I want someone to text me that they want to see me, I want someone to cuddle with me and I want someone to love me.

It’s only been 7 months since the breakup and I know I’m not ready to be in a relationship yet but I don’t want to just have sex with someone and have them only text me once a week.

I respect and value myself enough to wait for someone who wants to connects with me.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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I think my dad knows who murdered his wife!

My dad is having a hard time coping with his wife’s murder.

As you can imagine, he isn’t taking the whole thing well. My parents divorced when I was a lot younger, and she was his second wife. From what I know, they had a good relationship. In fact, I always thought she was a good influence on him. But did I actually like her myself? I respected her, liked her, and was polite to her, but I can’t say I loved her. Don’t get me wrong, what happened to her is horrific, and I can’t imagine she did anything remotely possible to deserve anything like it.

Not surprisingly, he seems like a totally different person since it happened. One night, she left home and was found dead in her car about two hours away. No one has any idea what happened. Not gonna lie, it creeps me out a bit. Especially knowing the person hasn’t been caught.

About a week ago I heard him talking. It was late at night, and I can’t say I was surprised. The doctors had given him something to help him sleep, but I don’t know how effective it was. It made him groggy and susceptible to sleepwalking. He had also been indulging in a few drinks, which is not good on something like sleeping pills. Still, I couldn’t really blame him. Ever since it happened, I had been staying at his place to keep an eye on him and all that.

I heard him get up and sort of fumble around in the dark. Believe me, I knew better than to try to wake a sleepwalker. So I tried to just lie there and let it pass. He might have gone to the bathroom or something because I’m pretty sure I heard that door open. To my surprise, I heard him mumble something.

“Veronica is gone, and here I am, stuck with the person who killed her. Almost every day like clockwork, I have to look at that conniving asshole. It’s not bad enough you kill her, your face tortures me day after day. Well, one day you’ll crack, and your ass will be locked away for good. If you’re lucky. Because I hope to God, I get to you before the cops do.”

I didn’t hear him say anything more before he shuffled back into his room. The door creaked shut again, and everything was silent.

My brain, on the other hand, was anything but. Part of me was wondering if I really heard that. I sat up gingerly, patting myself on the arm to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. Yup, that really happened. So I just laid there dumbfounded. I didn’t think it was possible, but I felt even worse for him than before. Not only was his wife taken from him, but it was someone he knew. Someone he was forced to deal with. I can’t imagine anything worse. It’s bad enough when someone wrongs you, but being forced to behave as if nothing happened is downright unbearable.

The first thing I wondered was why didn’t he report it to the police. With a sinking feeling, I answered my own question. Maybe he did, and it didn’t go anywhere. Or worse, maybe the police already knew and just couldn’t prove it. It happens far more than people like to think. Feeling a chill run up my spine, I couldn’t help but wonder who Dad knew that was capable of something like that. A quick mental check didn’t yield any results. Someone who had a grudge against him was the most likely. Or someone who he had one against. While I admit I hadn’t been in touch with him as much as I’d like, there still isn’t anyone in his circle who I’d suspect of such a thing.

But that didn’t make things any easier. If anything, it just made it worse. My own father thought his wife’s murderer was someone he saw on a regular basis. Over the next few days, I tried to keep an eye on stuff. A handyman or cleaning lady perhaps? But according to him the few people he did occasionally use for stuff like this were people he really liked. I didn’t push the matter and tried to act as nonchalant as I could. Inside though, I was on edge, mentally running through people he knew and asking, “Could they have done it?” When I couldn’t answer yes to any of them, I began to feel truly afraid. No matter who they were, they were around.

All I could do was wait for him to sleepwalk again to see if he said anything more. Every night when he went to bed, I felt my adrenaline shoot up. I would get out of bed, quietly walk to my door, and peer out the tiny crack I kept open at night.

Every time I would silently scream “Come on start talking again,” but he wouldn’t. I felt so weird peering at my Dad sleepwalking. But hey, this was a bit of an unusual circumstance. While he did sleepwalk a little bit, he wouldn’t talk. At least, not for a few days.

When he did it last night, I almost leaped out of my skin when I heard his voice. I was staring through the crack in the door, and once he began talking, I felt my heart almost leap into my throat.

“You think you got away with it, did you? Well, keep thinking that. Your day will come. I guarantee it. Sleep well you son of a bitch.”

He walked back into his room after that and shut the door.

I felt like my chest was going to explode. Seeing him in the bathroom talking like that had been creepy before, but now it was more disturbing than I could imagine. It had been bad when I thought all he was talking about was revenge, but now I realized something. He hadn’t just been talking in the bathroom, he had been talking to something in the bathroom. His voice sounded exactly the same as last time when just now, I saw him lean in and address the medicine cabinet.

The medicine cabinet complete with a large mirror. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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My friend’s bf helped me!

After moping around my apartment for almost three months while I nursed a broken heart, today I had let my roomies Jiya and Myra convince me to go out with them for a girl’s night out. I was about to call the cab when the doorbell rang. I was surprised since I wasn’t expecting anyone.

I opened the door and saw Jiya’s hunky boyfriend Mayank. Originally from US, Mayank worked at his father’s grocery store and gas-station while attending community college. Jiya, who worked as a freelance photographer, would often say whatever he lacked in brain, he more than made up for it

“Hey Ananya,” he said as I let him in.

“Jiya isn’t home, Mayank,” I said. “In fact, I was about to step out to meet her at the pub.”

Mayank looked me up. It had taken nearly three days of non-stop efforts from my girls for me to say yes. But once decided, I hadn’t spared any efforts. I was dressed in a cute one-piece red dress that barely reached my thighs. My large breasts were threatening to spill out of its neck. Unlike Jiya and Myra, who are genuine head-turners, I am a plain girl; the tiniest bit stronger and bigger than most men prefer.

Now as Mayank stood with that insolent grin on his face, and looked me up and down without making the least bit of effort to conceal, I felt color rising in my cheeks. His gaze was so openly lascivious that I wanted to say something sharp and yet I find myself tongue-tied. I stammered something about getting him a cool drink and walked in our tiny kitchen. I nearly screamed and dropped the can of sprite when I turned and saw him standing behind me.

“Hey you look good,” he said in his thickly accented English. And to my surprise, I found I was actually enjoying the gaze of a man.

“Thanks, I guess, here,” I said and walked past him. He let me pass but I could literally feel his eyes follow me as I came back in the living room. I took my phone from my purse and started to call Jiya. I noticed my fingers were shaking as I tried to enter the code in my phone.

“Hey doll, show us what you look like,” Jiya said.

“Liste—“I tried to say something but she overrode me.

“Show us what you got girl,” she said. I reluctantly held the phone away and showed her my dress. Myra was with her and when they saw how I had dressed up, they did the appropriate ooh and aah noises.

“Listen Jiya, Mayank is here,” I told her finally.

“Where?” she asked.

“At our—“

“No, I meant why he isn’t in the frame, pawing all over that gorgeous bod?” she asked and winked. I felt Mayank’s breath on my neck as everything became clear in a second. I felt my mouth so dry that my tongue felt like it weighed pounds.

“Hey babe, later,” Mayank said and took the phone away from me and kept it on the sofa.

“She called me your slump buster,” he said as his work calloused palm rested on my fair, slightly plump thigh and gave a tentative squeeze. I drew a sharp breath and turned sideways. I also became painfully aware that my breasts, already squeezed to the limit to get into that dress, were about to spill out. His eyes followed mine and he gave a roguish smile that made me go a little weak in the knees. Damn, why are these working-class men so rough and gorgeous?

Mayank put his hand around my waist and eased me against the wall. He bent down to kiss the top of my breast out of my dress. His face was full of coarse stubble that made me break in goose-bumps and almost involuntarily my hands pressed his head there. I knew now there was no turning back from here. The next moment, his hands reached behind me and raised my tight dress to reach inside it. He stood up and pulled me towards him for a kiss. His mouth touching my ruby red lips sent sparks flying all over my body. I made a muffled moaning sound and pressed my body against his. His hands cupped and kneaded my buttocks as his tongue pushed my mouth open and probed it.

When we disengaged, I tried to control the heaving of my breasts and stared at him. Again melting me with that grin, he reached and picked me up in his arms. I gave a squeal of delight. I had never been picked up and carried in a man’s arms like that until now. Mayank didn’t show the least bit of effort as he carried me in his arms and carried me to the room I shared with Myra. He tossed me on the bed and as I gave another yelp of surprise, he stood over me, taking his white shirt off. His eyes never left me. I sat up in bed and slid away from him in a coquettish manner. He tossed his shirt aside and reached to grab me by my ankles. Then with one swift move, he pulled me towards him while he stood at the edge of the bed. He grabbed my hair and turned my head up and as we kissed again, his hands expertly reached behind me to undo my dress. The straps fell from my shoulders and sighed.

Mayank stared at me without blinking for several minutes before murmuring “marvellous” as I sat at the edge of the bed, divested of the dress and now wearing only a set of brassiere and panties. His strong hands grabbed my shoulders, while his thumbs slid inside my bra. I closed my eyes and sighed. When he gave the slightest of the push, I went down almost too willingly. He paused only for a minute to discard his trousers before mounting me. Our mouths met in a long, wet kiss while he took my hand and wrapped it around his throbbing, circumcised dick.

“See how hard you made me,” he sucked at sweet-talking in bed, but then if what I had in hand was the beginning then I didn’t care if he never uttered another word in bed. His tool, like the rest of him, was gorgeous, strong and all-conquering. He didn’t have to tell me to spread myself for him. He supported himself on his elbow and we looked at each other for a moment, me lying in supine position, my tanned, slightly fleshy thighs spread, he all taut masculinity with a gorgeous organ hanging between his legs and I realized I was about to be busted out of my slump the way Mayank seemed to do everything else- primitive, direct, rude. All man!

I let out a loud moan as he entered me and then wrapped my thighs around him. Our mouths seemed incapable of parting even for a moment. Mayank’s large palms, rough like sandpaper, had cupped my large breasts and he kneaded them in a circular motion while his cock thumped its way inside my body. I threw my head back and let out a large sigh.

“I never had such a boner,” he had reverted to his native tongue, and somehow that was turning me on even harder. Soon the bedroom was filled with my loud moans, his panting and the special sound that a man and a woman’s bodies make when they attempt to fuse into each other. I had had my ex-boyfriend stay over a few times when we were together, but I don’t think my bed had seen the kind of vigorous activity that it saw that day. About half an hour (and three orgasms for me) later, when Mayank gave me a painful love-bite on my breast and emptied himself in my body, I realized it was the first time I had let a man inside me without protection.

And of course, we were not done. As soon as I emerged from the bathroom, the brute pulled the towel I had around my breasts and made me kneel in front of him. I felt lightheaded with shame as he stood behind me and entered while holding my waist for support. After a couple of strokes, I grabbed the dressing table for support and allowed him to ride me like a wild bull. Within a few minutes, he was back to panting and thanking his creator. After some time, he bent to cup my breasts through my armpits and held onto them during the entire ride. We finished with me turning around and resting my bottom on the dressing table with my thighs wrapped around his middle. He kept sucking my nipples as he took us to yet another rip-roaring, earth-shattering orgasm. I barely remembered him carrying me to bed and placing me in it before I fell into an exhausted and deliriously happy slumber.

I woke up around nine with the girls back in the apartment and Mayank long gone. After the euphoria, I was struck with some shame at fucking my best friend’s man, but Jiya, the doll that she is, put me at ease by telling me this had been the plan all along. She told me that they had brought a bottle of wine and some eats and asked me to join them in the living room.

“Remember darling, men will come and men will go, friends are forever,” Jiya announced as we hugged each other and got ready for a long night of girl chat. My slump was over.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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This is why I always close my bedroom door!

It was my last semester of college.

Senior year was finally coming to an end, and I was ready to move on to bigger and better things. With the close of each year, the dreaded moving out process always hangs over my head, so I had started to pack away my room early.

We have a total of four roommates in this house, including me. I would have preferred to live alone, but unfortunately, our university has a roommate rule.

I had lived in this house for the past two years, and I had enough of the creaky pipes and random bangs throughout the night. Not to mention the creepy lone standing door that leads to the outside street in one of the bedrooms. But honestly, at this point, nothing really phased me anymore. I was dreaming of my cute new apartment I would be getting; no more creepy doors!

In short, I was over it. I was ready to graduate.

My story starts on a Saturday night. My roommates were going to a concert and begged me to tag along. I turned down the offer considering we only had weeks until graduation and I wanted to make a dent in all my packing.

Glitter and vodka littered the kitchen as my roommates clinked their shot glasses together and downed the liquid courage. After a few honks outside, they were off to the concert, leaving me and my boxes to fend for themselves.

After a couple of hours had passed, the monotonous task of stacking brown box upon brown box had put me in a trance, I decided to call it a night.

The sight of iridescent blue paste smeared the bristles of my toothbrush; crest mint. I gave a good hard look at myself in the mirror. What was I going to do after graduation? It would be a lie to say I wasn’t scared shitless. Should I finally propose my girlfriend for marriage? Did I even want to propose her? She had been a royal ass lately. The thought of being single after graduation was scary, but also exhilarating.

These were just passing thoughts, I had been having those a lot lately. I guess that’s what comes with a new chapter of your life.

The crystal-clear water made a whirlpool as it circled down the drain. I leaned my head back, gargled, then spit the remnants of mint out of my mouth. Just as I was about to turn the faucet off, I thought I heard heavy breathing which sounded like it was coming from the vent. My spine straightened as a shiver went down my back, then again, another quick bought of raspy, heavy breathing.

I quickly shut the faucet off and got down on my hands and knees, ear to the vent; nothing. My heart was thudding against my rib cage. Calm down, calm down. This happens all the time, it’s just the creaking of the old house. I started to laugh at myself. I’m usually the voice of reason in this house, why am I letting this scare me?

As I got into bed, this strange feeling overtook my gut. Why? I couldn’t tell you, but I knew that something wasn’t right. I let my head sink into my pillow as my fingers danced along the buttons of my phone. If there was ever any reason to have a friend, tonight was the perfect night. I rested with the phone to my ear as I counted along to each ringtone. After five long dreadful rings, she finally picked up.

“Hey babe, what’s up?”

“Hi…. will you come over?”

“Kevin, you know I have to wake up early tomorrow. I don’t sleep well in those twin beds.”

“Well, I’m scared. Something doesn’t feel right.”

“Really? You’re such a hypocrite. Aren’t you the one always getting on your roommates for being scared? I bet it’s just the fact that your roommates are gone. Now you’re freaked out.”



 “No. It’s just, I don’t know. I have this gut feeling, like I shouldn’t be here tonight.”

“Babe, relax. Trust me, it’s an old house with a creaky structure. I’m sure your senses are on overdrive with graduation, job hunting, and moving all coming up.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

“Of course, I am. Now get some rest, Don’t forget to pick me up tomorrow and we will go get coffee.”

“Ok fine. Love you.”

“You too, babe.”

The silence on the other end of my lifeline was all too real. The eerie feeling that I couldn’t quite shake continued to grow. At first, I tried to reason with myself. Maybe she was right, maybe I was just on high alert with all the chaos going on in my life right now. I shut my eyes, rolled over, and fought against my intuition as the exhaustion overtook me.

My eyes shot open as I laid in my bed, face staring at the wall. I heard a shuffling sound coming from outside of my bedroom door. My heart started racing, maybe my roommates were just getting home from the concert? I looked at my clock and it was 3:00 a.m. It was late, but it was possible. I tried to go back to bed, even though the guy inside my head was running around, pounding his fists against me, trying to get me to run.

A faint creak made me squint my eyes together as hard as I could. It’s just my roommates, it’s just my roommates. I kept repeating this in my head, although I had a sneaking suspicion that my worst nightmare was about to come alive.

I laid in bed with my eyes clamped together so hard that I was starting to see white dots. Three more loud creaks and I knew that my bedroom door was slowly opening. I could feel my heart drumming a rhythm I’d never heard before, sweat beads broke free and slid down the middle of my back. For a moment, I tried to hold my breath and pretend I was invisible.

Two seconds, then 10 seconds passed, but it felt like an hour. Slow, continuous drags against the carpet inched closer to my bed. Something was in my room. Something was getting closer to my bed. Something was getting closer to me.

I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. I had to remain incognito. My ears ached as I listened to the dreadful pull of carpet, a sign that whatever was coming towards me was dragging; incapable of properly walking. Then, just as fast as it began, it ended. There was silence. However, this was not a comforting silence. This was the type of eerie silence that you hear right before a storm; the calm before the storm.

A small breath escaped my lips, I realized I had been holding my breath for at least a minute. I huffed and puffed as I caught my breath, eyes still tight as ever. Slowly, I turned my body to face the opposite direction I was laying in. Just as I was almost turned completely around, I felt a slight tickle to my face, almost as if someone was tickling my cheek with a feather.

If fear were a person, it was jumping up and down on a trampoline in my stomach right now. I took one more deep breath and smelt a sour, stale, milky smell. My stomach turned as fear rang out my insides. My tonsils burned as the stomach acid slowly snuck up my oesophagus. I laid there and counted to three in my head, knowing I would open my eyes on three.


My eyes sprang open to find a man staring at me. His mouth hung open as if he were in agony, salt and pepper stringy hair almost glistening in the night light, hanging above me, the tips of his ropey hair tickling my cheeks. A shriek burst from my lips as I felt my blanket pull away from my bed. I knew I should have ran from the room, but my legs couldn’t catch up fast enough to my brain.

Before I could gather a plan of escape, the man’s hands were around my ankles, pulling me from my bed. I tried to kick and scream, but the strength of this guy was super strength. His grip tightened around my ankles, cutting off circulation to my feet. Each pull across the carpet brought my shirt up, burning my delicate skin with rug burn. I tried once more to yell for my roommates, but to no avail, help didn’t come.

My eyes met once more with the distraught man pulling me from my bedroom, his skin pale and putty-like, his hands cold and clammy on my skin, and his mouth still twisted apart in horror.

My fingernails dug into the carpet, trying to grab on to anything I could at this point. I could feel the fibers of carpet digging into my nail bed, slightly pulling up each nail. A few more yanks and my feet went numb.

He had now successfully pulled me out of my bedroom, my back and head thudding against each step we went down. I was in pain, my back was beginning to rub raw, and the nail bed on my middle finger had surely gone missing at this point. With all my force, I reached for the spindles of the staircase, fingertips barely making it to the metal rod. My fingers flexed towards the perpendicular bars, but the man was pulling me too fast down the steps to effectively grab hold of one. Another try, and I latched onto the final spindle, first my right hand, followed by my left.

I tried to hold on to the frail spindle as tight as I could, but the vicious pulls were testing my strength. It felt as if I had a rope tied around my leg, which was connected to a bobcat, which was pulling me into the lion’s den. With each hard tug, I felt like my nimble fingers were going to break; snap in half. Two hard tugs later, I just couldn’t withstand the force, my fingers slowly slipped from the sweaty spindle. I was in the hands of this psycho.

We were on the main floor now. I could see the front door, just a few feet away, in fact. I began to concoct a plan in my head, I wasn’t sure where this mentally deranged man was taking me, but I didn’t want to find out. I only had seconds to plan a route of escape before I was tomorrow’s news story. My bare feet were purple and swollen; could I run? I wasn’t sure, I couldn’t feel anything beneath the grip of those clammy hands.

A tear slid down my cheek as reality set in. There was no way I would be able to escape this thing. He had a death grip on me, and I was no weapon to meet his match. I was laying on my back with both feet up in the air, I was helpless. My life flashed before my eyes. The past four years of hard work, all for nothing. The hefty pile of student loan debt left for my poor parents to have to pay off. The engagement ring I would never receive.

I suppose my girlfriend would be the first one to realize I was missing. My imagination carried away with thoughts of her showing up to the house, ready for her morning coffee, and me nowhere to be found. She would probably think I was in the shower at first, she would begin to get frantic and run through each room. After realizing I was nowhere to be found, she would call my cell phone, to only hear it ring from the other room. At that moment, the cops would be called.

Could the cops trace me down in time, or would I already be dead by then? How could this be happening to me? My head was spinning with my sorrow. I was so wrapped up in my demise that I didn’t even notice that the front door was opening. Within seconds my legs were free, and the man scattered down the stairs of our house, practically vanishing before my eyes.

Three drunk guys stood in the doorway, moonlight creating a silhouette, a figure of my saviors.

“Kevin, Oh my gosh. What are you doing? Are you okay?”

I couldn’t speak, I could only cry. Tears of joy ran down my cheeks as I silently thanked my university for having a roommate rule. Four friends to one intruder, there was no match to be had.

After telling my roommates the story, they quite frankly thought I was nuts. Karan, the drunkest of them all, ran down the stairs to see if anyone was hiding out. Of course, nobody was there. However, he did notice something that made his skin crawl; the basement door was wide open.

Luckily, I have relatives that live just 30 minutes from campus, so the four of us piled into my car and had a sleepover. I’m sure my relatives thought we were on drugs, but they didn’t throw out any accusations. They were just thrilled to have company.

I’m still not quite sure who that man was, or why he chose me as his target. Sometimes I even try and convince myself that it was all just a terrible dream, that I was sleepwalking, and that’s how I got downstairs. Which of course, still doesn’t explain my scabbed back. But, there’s something that has been sitting in the back of my brain for a while, just ticking away at my anxiety…it’s been a couple days since I have heard from my girlfriend.

These were just passing thoughts though, I had been having those a lot lately. I guess that’s what comes with a new chapter of your life. 

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Are you happy now?

Hair twined between fingers. Dirt bloodied into paste. Coiled muscle, panting breath, and a broken smile.

“What are you?” I’d shouted down at him.

“I’m me.”

I hit him again — hard enough for the bones in my hand to rattle against each other. I don’t know why it made me so angry that he was still smiling.

“I want to hear you say it! What are you?”

“Too much. I don’t want it I don’t want I don’t —”

Again — the pain in my hand was triumph. The kid would have been flat on the ground if I wasn’t still holding him up by his hair.

“Just say it. That’s all you got to do. Admit what you are.”

“I’m happy.”

I dropped Hatvik to crumple in a heap. The boy was laughing, blood spraying from his mouth as he did. Exhausted, I sat down next to him. He rolled back and forth, body rigidly locked in the fetal position. He was taking great gasps of air and choking on his own blood, laughing all the while.

“God damn it. You’re literally insane,” I panted.

Hatvik choked again. The coughing didn’t stop this time. I helped him onto his knees and slapped his back to help clear the airway. He rewarded me with a giant bloody smile.

“I would have stopped if you just said it,” I said, my voice calmer. “Why are you so stubborn?”

“You want me to say I’m autism,” he slurred. He was hard enough to understand without a mouthful of blood.

“Autistic,” I corrected. “I want you to tell the truth and stop pretending you’re normal.”

“I never pretended. I never normal — pretended normal.” His breath was coming easier now. I couldn’t look away from the long line of vicious blood which hung from his lip without quite falling. “Not many people are happy. I’m special like that.”

We both laughed, although I don’t think we were laughing at the same thing.

For the first few weeks I knew Hatvik, I hated his guts. All the special attention he got — everyone doing stuff for him and congratulating him for accomplishing absolutely nothing — for that big dopey grin he didn’t deserve — I thought it was all just a big act. I hated that he wore clothes like a normal person and sat in class without doing any of the work. I thought I could beat the truth out of him, and I guess I did. The truth was that he really was happy — maybe the only truly happy person I’d never known.

“I know I’m autism,” he told me later in his customary lurching speech. “I know what it means — I’m autism. I don’t play around — play pretend.”

“Then why don’t you ever say it?”

“I do. I just say it last. If I say it first, people don’t listen to the rest. They think they already know me.”

I stayed quiet while we walked home. He was rolling his sleeves up and down his right forearm. Up and down. Then both down. Then both up. He never stuck with one tick very long. The next moment he was on his tiptoes, tottering along behind me. Then he was loudly humming some made-up tune, or flapping his arms like a bird, or spitting straight in the air and shrieking with laughter as he tried to dodge the falling drop. Whatever he was doing seemed to absorb him completely — so much that when I spoke again he jumped in surprise to find me still there.

“You’re too busy busy,” he said, even though he was the one doing everything while I just walked. “That’s why it’s — why you’re not happy.”

“I’m not even doing anything,” I said.

“Too many things,” he insisted, almost shouting it. I looked around to make sure no one else was around. “Not nothing. You’re looking at ten things. Thinking about twenty. Thirty forty fifty — not real things. Old things. New things. Could-be-things and shouldn’t-be-things.”

“So what? You’re the one always spazzing out.”

His whole face furrowed in confusion. Then he smiled.

“I just do one thing with my whole heart.”

I was getting frustrated. “That’s not true. In the five minutes we’ve been walking you’ve done like a hundred different things.”

He shook his head, his grin widening. “Just one thing. All my heart — just one thing. Then when I’m finished, I do another.”

“And that really makes you happy? It doesn’t bother you that you’re different?”

He didn’t answer though. He’d stopped to pet a bushy plant as if it were a dog.

“I’m not waiting for you,” I said. “I’m going home.”

“The plants can’t walk.”

“I’m not talking about the plants —”

“Or drive cars. Or make friends,” he rambled. Despite myself, I stopped and waited to hear where this was going. “They’re different too. And some have flowers and some have spikes and some have flowers —”

“You already said flowers,” I interrupted.

“Because some have lots,” Hatvik declared, unperturbed. “It would be stupid if they didn’t grow though — just because they were different. Everything grows — is different. Everything dies. Everything dies.” He grasped the bushy plant he’d been petting with both hands and ripped it violently by the roots. A moment later and everything was in the air — stems and leaves and clods of soil all raining around us while he laughed and danced through it.

“You’re retarded,” I said.

Hatvik grinned. “So are you, but it’s okay. We’re still growing.”

He wasn’t so talkative the next day in school. He had a fresh bruise under one eye. I know that shouldn’t have made me so angry after what I’d done to him, but it did. I asked what happened, but he didn’t feel like talking.

“Tell me who did it,” I demanded. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

He shook his head, not looking at me. I tried to grab him by the shoulder and turn him my way to get a better look, but he yelped and darted into the corner of the room. He pulled out a notebook from his bag and began writing furiously, not looking up as I crept closer. If someone was hurting him, then I wanted to know. I liked the idea of getting into a fight with someone — like it was my penance for what I’ve already done.

I snuck a peak at what he was writing. Hatvik was halfway through the notebook, and I figured it was some kind of journal or something. I got too close again though, and Hatvik started shrieking. The teacher assumed I was picking on him and gave me detention on the spot. It was so stupid — when I was ACTUALLY trying to hurt him we just became friends, but now that I was trying to help I got in trouble. I shouted at Hatvik, telling him to explain that I was on his side. Hatvik didn’t look up though. The only result was the teacher grabbing me by the arm to march me all the way to the principal’s office.

“Boys will be boys —” I heard the principal say through the door. I waited outside on a hard plastic chair for him to finish his meeting.

“Hatvik is being tormented! You don’t understand how hard it is to take care of a —” came a man’s voice. I stopped kicking the wall to listen.

“Perhaps a public school is not the safest environment for —”

“It’s your job to make it safe. If anything happens to him —”

“Mr. Verma, please. The teachers will always do their best, but they can’t be everywhere at once. What happens before or after school —”

I opened the door. Sudden silence. The principal in his sweater vest and the man I can only assume to be Hatvik’s father in a suit, both staring at me.

“I can keep an eye on him to and from school,” I said.

The principal looked uncomfortable. He was well aware of my history of fighting. I guess he thought it was more important to placate the angry man sitting across from him though, so he nodded after a moment.

“That’s settled then,” he said. “The teachers will keep Hatvik safe during school, and now he’ll be safe on the way too.”

Mr. Verma growled at me, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What about at home?” I asked, staring straight back.

“What happens at home is none of your business,” he replied, standing up rigidly. “If anything happens now, at least I’ll know who to blame.”

The bruises didn’t go away though. There was a fresh one at least once a week. Hatvik didn’t want to talk about it, but at least he was talking about other stuff again — everything except what he wrote in his journal.

“One thing — your whole heart — one thing at a time,” he said. “If you let that one thing be something bad, then that bad thing is all there is.”

“Just ignoring something doesn’t make it go away. If someone is still hurting you —”

I stopped because he wasn’t listening anyway. He was just playing with his ears, not looking at me. Folding them back and forth. Back and forth.

“I don’t ignore it,” he said after a long moment.


“I just don’t take it with me,” he insisted. “I write it down, then I leave it behind. Fists only hurt once. It’s not too bad, and then it’s over. Thinking about it hurts more — hurts longer. Most things are like that — it’s the thinking about the thing that hurts more than the thing. So just stop thinking about it.”

“Are you happy now?” I asked him.

“Always happy,” he said, although he didn’t smile that time. “I just got to focus on growing.”

He didn’t look at me very often, but he did this time. Right in my eyes, still staring while he hid his journal behind an electrical box. He put a finger to his lips, hissing a loud SHHHH before turning to walk away. He could have hidden it anywhere, but he was doing it right in front of me because he trusted me. I entertained the thought of just taking it to try and find out the truth, but now it seemed more important to prove I was his friend.

I hate how much sense he made at the time. I hate how easily I let it go.

I started seeing Mr. Verma at the school more frequently. There’d always be shouting as soon as the principal’s door closed, and I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Pretty soon kids started talking, and someone must have spoken up about seeing me beat up Hatvik that one time. After that I was forbidden to walk with Hatvik, or even talk to him in the hallway.

The bruises didn’t stop though. They weren’t happening at school, and they weren’t happening on the way there either. I kept getting called into the principal’s office. I tried to explain that it must be happening at home, but no one believed me. I started getting really angry at Hatvik. I wanted him to tell people the truth, but he couldn’t handle the pressure. Detentions turned into suspension, with threats of permanent expulsion if Hatvik didn’t stop getting abused.

It wasn’t my fight. That’s what I told myself. The little idiot was going to be happy no matter what happened, and the only thing I was doing by getting involved was making things worse for myself.

I let it go. I stayed the hell away from him — didn’t speak to him — didn’t even look at him. Even when he tried to talk to me, I just walked away. I thought no one could blame me if they saw that I wanted nothing to do with him.

It didn’t stop me from blaming myself though. The lights and sirens were on my block a few days after I cut contact. I was taken down to the police station for questioning. There was so much going on that I couldn’t even process it. I just remember rolling my sleeves up and down. Up and down. Trying not to think. Up and down, with all my heart. Because the moment I stopped, I know I’d hear everyone talking about the autistic boy — that’s what they called him on the news, not even using his name — the autistic boy who took his own life with a razor blade. I’d hear about the incessant bullying which drove him to it, and hear his father blathering about doing all he could.

But I know Hatvik would never do that. He was happy. He was growing. And nothing could have stopped that except someone pulling him up by the roots.

The first thing I did was retrieve Hatvik’s journal. There were a hundred things I could have done with it to prove what really happened, but I only picked one. One thing at a time. One thing with all your heart, and for me, that was revenge. Mr. Verma is a dead man.

It took a few days snooping around his house to find a reliable way in: the broken grate which let me slip into his basement from the outside. I’d wait until I saw him leave for work in the morning, then I’d sneak upstairs to his bedroom. Over the next week, he’d find quotes from Hatvik’s journal cut out and left around his house.

He doesn’t like hurting me. He just can’t help it. – on his bedside table.

Dad wishes I was was normal. I wish he wasn’t. – taped onto his bathroom mirror.

He wants me to go, but I have nowhere else to go. – on his leftover eggs in the refrigerator, ketchup soaking through the paper like blood.

It was working too. Every day he left for work, he looked a little more tired. A little more on edge. On Thursday he skipped work entirely, and when he left Friday morning it looked like he’d been wearing the same clothes since Wednesday. When he got home that night, this is what he found.

Are you happy now? 

It wasn’t a note though. It was spray paint this time. On every wall. Every counter. On the ceiling and across his bedsheets.

Are you happy now? 

I heard him shouting it when he found out. Screaming at the top of his lungs, the sound distorting as he ran from room to room, seeing it everywhere.

Are you happy now? 

Neighbors reported a gunshot that same night. Rumor had it that he spent several hours ranting about ghosts to his family before it happened. The police concluded that he’d been driven to madness over the death of his son, which I guess isn’t too far from the truth.

One thing at a time. And now that I’ve finished what I set out to do, I’ve got to keep myself busy. Really busy – incessantly jumping from one project to the next. I need to always be living, always growing. Because I know when it gets too quiet I’ll have to stop and think, and I’m afraid of the moments when I have to ask myself:

Am I happy now? [tc-mark]

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Another FSociety!

TRIGGER ALERT: The story below contains penises. If the title didn’t tip you off already, consider this your formal notice. That being said, anyone expecting hardcore erotica is going to be severely underwhelmed. This is a story about people. And people are gross. You have been warned.

Initial Transcripts

Those who’ve read my earlier posts know that I seem to find darkness wherever I go. It’s a bad habit that I clearly have no idea how to break, which is why my current situation should come as absolutely no surprise to anyone who’s been paying attention. Apparently that’s a list that doesn’t include me though because, upon finding an old desktop computer tower hidden behind the water-heater in my girlfriend Mansi’s condo, my first reaction was to bring the computer home and dig through its files. In my world that’s called “asking for it.”

I already had the remnants of a similar Dell model stashed in a closet at my place complete with a compatible monitor, A/C cord, etc. which made setup quite easy. I turned the computer on and was greeted by a Windows XP password-entry screen for a user named “Priya.” Apparently, the original owner of this computer was a 90 year-old woman.

Because a lot of my friends are terrible people, I knew that there were ways around Windows passwords that required little more than a thumb-drive and several dubious keyword searches. But first, out of simple compulsive habit, I typed “password” and hit ENTER. And of course it worked.

The computer unlocked to reveal a desktop with a painting of the DC villain Harley Quinn as its background. Yup, definitely a girl’s computer, though maybe “Priya” wasn’t 90 after all, but simply the victim of parents with an unfortunate taste in names.

At this point, I feel it’s worth noting that I am not a monster. I wasn’t on some mission to invade this poor girl’s privacy. I wasn’t looking to steal anyone’s identity. I was simply curious.

The maintenance guy had found the tower when he was replacing a part on the water-heater, which was located at the back of Mansi’s bedroom closet. Priya was most likely a former tenant of my girlfriend’s condo who had used the closet for storage but that doesn’t explain why she had felt the need to wedge her computer behind a water-heater.

There were seven folders on the desktop along with a small assortment of program icons: Microsoft Word, Photoshop, a program for live-streaming video that I had never heard of, etc. The seven folders were labeled, from top to bottom: “music”, “movies”, “pictures”, “art”, “writing”, “video”, and finally “logs.”

Call it the power of placement, but I clicked on “logs” first mainly because every other folder had a name that was self-explanatory. The “logs” folder contained over a dozen Word documents. The name of each document was a month followed by a year, starting on “February, 2012” and ending with “January, 2014.”

The computer itself was from the mid-2000s at the latest. If my girlfriend’s condo complex hadn’t been so upscale, that fact wouldn’t have bothered me so much. But I had to wonder what someone who could afford over a grand a month on rent was doing using a computer from ’05 in 2014. I started skimming through the earliest log and it quickly became obvious that Priya was no air-traffic controller.

The following is a transcript of the first page of the earliest document.


BESTinLIFE – starts: 12:40am

Client requests that I position myself with my spread butt cheeks held close to the camera and stay that way while occasionally calling him a “dirty little limp-dick slave boy.”

Ends: 12:51am [11 mins]

MarcosPoloTX – starts: 1:05am

Client requests that I urinate into a bucket. I lay a plastic sheet down on the floor in front of the camera and do so.

Ends: 1:10am [5 mins]

Gorgeous Randy Flamethrower – starts: 1:24am

Client requests that I put on my Freddy Kruger hat, toy glove, and striped sweater with no panties and then play with myself while reciting lines from a Nightmare on Elm Street. As the client ejaculates, he shouts “oh god!” and I respond by holding my gloved hand up in front of my face and saying in a deep guttural voice, “THIS… is god.”*

*That made the client super happy. Think I have a new regular.

Ends: 1:42am [18 mins]

pocketfullarollos – starts: 1:47am

Client requests a voice chat but says nothing. It sounds like he is sobbing. I don’t know what to do so I just sit there, staring at the camera. After a few minutes, he screams “Why?! WHY?!” and then closes the voice chat.

Ends: 1:51am [4 mins]

TonyMontanaLIVES Starts: 1:58am

Client requests that I kneel on the bed and expose my butthole to the camera. Client occasionally asks me to “thank daddy” and each time I say “thank you, daddy” to which he responds “good girl.”

Ends: 2:07am [9 mins]

That’s right, Priya was a cam-girl: a woman who live-streamed herself acting out various requests from what was usually a lobby full of horny onlookers. Though Priya’s specialty was private video chats; more costly one-on-one sessions that presumably created an illusion of intimacy between cam-girl and client (I say “presumably” because I wouldn’t know. I get my porn the old fashioned way: off of free streaming sites.)

An added bonus that came along with this presumed intimacy was that it made Priya’s session-logs read like a window into the darkest recesses of the human imagination. Think H.P. Lovecraft if he had been really into butt-stuff.

I couldn’t stop reading them. I’ve never considered myself a particularly perverse guy but there was this surreal quality to the dry tone of Priya’s logs that fascinated me. Plus, the requests were often far from what I personally found erotic, so it’s safe to say it wasn’t “like that.”

I’ll be honest. In a weird way, I did start to feel attached to Priya. I spent nights sitting there, listening to her weird-ass music (mostly stuff like the Cure and Four Non-Blondes. I actually really liked one song by New Order called “Temptation ’87”) and I would read through months of this girl degrading herself in every possible way and describing it all in the most matter-of-fact terms and eventually it was like I knew her.

I realize that sounds weird but there’s really no other way to describe it. I wanted to find her. I imagined showing up on Priya’s doorstep and handing her the computer and telling her that it was okay now. That I would make everything alright.

You may recall how I mentioned that I found this thing at my girlfriend’s condo. So, before this gets any more awkward, let me just reiterate: Not a monster.

I wasn’t really going to do any of that but merely emphasizing the effect her writing had on me. Though, it wasn’t until I started reading the log for “October, 2013” that the proverbial shit got real…


FirstNameLastName – start: 4:37pm

Client Requests that I strip naked. His video feed is just a black screen at first but then something is moved out of the way of the camera and I can see another naked girl who is laying stomach-down on top of what appears to be a large dog kennel. Her arms and legs are chained to the kennel and her hair hangs down around her face, hiding it from view.

There is a man sitting in the darkness behind her. His face is covered by a black mask and he is vigorously masturbating. After a moment, the girl begins to scream, “Oh, god! He’s coming!”

I quickly end the session and just sit there for a while afterwards, staring at my own dumbfounded expression in the video-chat program open on my computer screen. Then I write this log. Then I quit for the day.

Ends: 4:49pm [12 mins]

This was the first mention of a masked man but then he returned a week later, using a different name…


HumbertSquared – starts 11:32pm

Client requests that I strip naked. His video-feed displays a shot of a poorly-lit bedroom. There is a partially open closet to the right of the frame and a closed door to the left. I don’t see anyone in the room so I say “hello?”

Someone begins to bang on the closed door from outside and I let out a startled yelp. This is when a man in a black mask leans his head out of the closet and looks in my direction. He is masturbating.

There is another bang on the closed door and someone screams, “He’s fucking coming!”

I end the session. It was the same masked man as before. I’m sure of it. I write this log and forward it to Donna along with the one from last Wednesday. I receive a new session request but I can’t. It’s not that I’m afraid.

But I am.

Ends: 11:41pm [9 mins]

And then again, in November…


A King of Infinite Space – starts: 9:37pm

Client requests that I strip naked. I start to but then stop when I see the video-feed. It’s of a woman working out on one of those at-home elliptical machines. She’s watching TV and seems oblivious to the live web-cam pointed at her.

The woman soon finishes her workout and steps down off of the machine and that’s when I spot him in the window behind her. The man in the black mask is looking directly into the camera like he’s staring at me.

Even before I see his bouncing shoulder, I know he’s masturbating. As the woman uses a towel to pat herself down, the power is cut and the room goes dark. I hear the woman mutter something and then breaking glass and then screaming and then the session is ended.

Gotcha, bitch!

After the last incident, I decided to install a video-capture program to record my sessions with just in case this fucker showed back up. Sure, it’s a huge no-no in my line of work, but what just happened makes me glad I did it. This has officially gone too far. I’m calling the cops.

Ends: 9:55pm [18 mins]


Well, the cops think I’m insane.

First, I call 9-1-1 in the middle of the night to report a home invasion that I don’t know the location of. When detectives arrive to question me, I pull up my video of the session to find that I successfully recorded 18 minutes of a silent black screen. Not sure how that’s possible. I had already tested the program and followed the steps exactly.

I spend the next hour convincing the detectives that I’m not crazy-pants and/or attempting to file a false police report. I tell them about my job and the man in the black mask. Then I have the bright idea to mention that the past few nights I had this feeling like someone was following me during the walk from my car to my apartment.

This makes the two detectives exchange a look and after that, they start to give me a lot of reassuring nods but I can tell they’ve stopped listening. Just another troubled girl living alone, no man to support her, paying the bills through devious sex acts and hallucinating masked stalkers. If you’ve placated one, you’ve placated them all.

I’m taking the day off.

Realizing I needed to start documenting all of this, I located the eighteen-minute “black screen” video and copied it along with the “logs” folder to a thumb-drive. And that’s when Priya’s hard-drive crashed.

It was like the moment those files where extracted, the computer just keeled over and died. I sent the video to my friend Jay who specialized in extracting useable data from corrupted files along with an email explaining everything. He agreed to come over and check to see if he could salvage the hard-drive.

That night after work, I met Jay at my house and he showed me what he was able to pull off of Priya’s video. “The file was mostly corrupted but, after loading it into an editing program and going through frame-by-frame, I was able to extract an image…”

Jay brought up the image on his laptop and my heart actually skipped a beat. It was a close-up photo of a man in a black mask. The picture quality was poor, like it was taken with a web cam, and the longer I stared at it the harder it was to tell if what I was looking at was even a mask.

masked man

It was then I saw that my phone, which I set to silent when Jay arrived, had a list of “missed alert” notices now illuminating its screen. I unlocked the phone to find two new messages and a bunch of missed calls from my girlfriend and was immediately knocked out of my fixated stupor by an overwhelming sense of guilt. I had been so obsessed with this whole Priya thing that we hadn’t spoken in almost two days, which is a long time for us.

I tried calling her twice and got her voicemail both times. A sudden feeling of dread began to mount in the pit of my stomach as I checked my messages. The first one was my girlfriend saying she had just gotten home and was hoping to hang out tonight and that she missed me.

“Plus, and I’m sure you’re gonna say I’m just being paranoid, but you know how my parking spot is at the back of the complex and I hate it because it’s like a million miles away from my apartment? Well, I swear the last like three nights now I’ve had this feeling like someone was following me on the walk from my car. I was hoping to talk to my boyfriend so I wouldn’t be so freaked out this time but I’m almost at my door now so I won’t hold it against you. Call me when you can, sweetie. I love you.”

The second message seemed like a pocket-dial at first. Nothing but rustling sounds for about thirty seconds. And then suddenly my girlfriend whispered, “…He’s coming.”

That was the last time anyone has seen or heard from her in over forty-eight hours. I went with her parents to file a Missing Persons report today and played the two messages for the detective who took our statements. I didn’t mention anything about Priya’s computer or the masked man because, though a part of me desperately wanted to, I was still reeling from everything and simply couldn’t think of a way to arrange the words in my head that didn’t make me sound bat-shit insane.

Jay texted me a couple of times about having something important to show me but I haven’t called him back yet. I needed to write all of this down first, if only to help me mentally process everything.

Chapter 2: This Rabbit Hole Is A Sarlacc Pit

By the time I finally called Jay back, I ended up getting his voicemail. I tried two more times but he never answered. Eventually, I decided to simply drive over to his house.

Despite the stereotypical depiction of the computer nerd as some kind of perpetually lonely super virgin, Jay was actually happily married to a fairly attractive girl named Ami. She’s who greeted me at the door later that night, a somber smile on her face as she said, “Hey… I’m so sorry about Mansi. That’s crazy. She never seemed like the flighty type.”

“I know. That’s what worries me.” Ami’s smile faltered and I immediately felt bad. My whole woe-is-me, my-girlfriend-might-be-murdered vibe had been really bumming people out all week. I quickly forced a smile of my own and asked, “Is Jay home?”

“No. He left me a note saying he would be out late doing research on something and that if you came by, I was to give you this…” She handed me a thumb-drive.

“Did he say where he was going?”

Ami shook her head, “I figured you would know. I called his office, because that’s where he always works on stuff, and the guy who answered said he hadn’t been in all day. I tried his cell but of course his phone’s off. You know how he gets when he’s working on something.”

“Yeah. I do…” I said, probably a bit too ominously as I stared down at the thumb-drive clutched in my hand.

The drive contained a video file labeled “Watch Me First” and a folder titled “Logs (FILTERED)”, which was pretty vague as far as folder names go. I had to actively resist the urge to open the folder first just to find out what the fuck “(FILTERED)” meant, so in retrospect I guess the name of the video file was a pretty smart idea on Jay’s part.
The video opened on Jay turning from his computer to look into the wireless webcam mounted on the wall of his home-office, a gesture I immediately recognized from countless TF2 scrims that we spent Skype-chatting with each other on our laptops because we both hated wearing headsets and verbally communicating with people we couldn’t see. You might say that Jay and I’s entire friendship was built on a uniquely similar variation of Asperger’s but then you’d be kind of a dick.

Jay began, “Since you’re not answering your phone and you never check my voicemails, I figured this video would be the next best thing. Anyway, I used a list of specific keyword searches to isolate all of the pertinent data from the remaining logs. I filtered out all the sex stuff that didn’t contain a reference to the masked man. From there, you can see for yourself that it’s a pretty quick read. Once you do, call me or email me if I go into work mode and switch off my cell. I’ve got a few more things to check out but you’ll see for yourself. It’s nothing good. I’m sorry man… I’m so sorry… He’s coming…”

Jay suddenly looked off screen and began to shout, “He’s coming! He’s coming! Don’t let Ami…”

Jay screamed as a tall shadow flickered across the wall and then the video cut to later that evening. The man in the black mask was now sitting in Jay’s computer-chair. He seemed to be staring into the camera but I couldn’t see his eyes through the mask. He slowly tilted his head, like he was listening for something.

A moment later, the doorbell rang. I could hear Ami opening the door in her living room as I pulled out my cell and started to call her. On the computer screen, I could hear Ami say ““Hey… I’m so sorry about Mansi. That’s crazy…”

The masked man began to masturbate as Ami’s voicemail answered the call. I hung up and started to dial 9-1-1 when something dawned on me and my arm went limp, the phone dropping from my hand and thudding to the carpet.

“How?” This was a video file on a thumb-drive that was given to me during a conversation that I could hear on the video that was on the thumb-drive that was…

And then the masked man came and I turned off the video and retrieved the handgun that was under my bed. I left it unloaded and still in its case as I placed it in the trunk of my car and then raced over to Jay’s house, because somehow I still had the presence of mind to realize that if a cop was going to pull me over for speeding, the last thing I needed at this point was a gun charge.

Ten minutes later, I was parked half a block from Jay’s house and loading the forty-five caliber colt. It was at this point that I realized just how ridiculous I must look. I thought about calling the cops and trying to figure out how to explain everything to them without including the more nutty bits, when finally I decided to try Ami’s number one more time. To my surprise, I got an answer on the first ring.

“What are you waiting for, Fraidy-Cat?” His voice wasn’t what I would’ve expected. It was kind of nasally and surprisingly human. “I thought you were the big man with the gun.”

“You’re goddamn right I am!” I said, holding up my gun and then quickly lowering it as I realized how stupid that was. “Where is Mansi?”

All of the lights were off except for a single lamp which backlit the very distinct figure standing at Jay’s living-room window. The masked man leaned close to the glass and said, “The same place as your balls, apparently. Seriously, dude, grow a pair. Move on. This one digs my ride more now.”

“Are you fucking INSANE?” And the stupidest question ever goes to…

“I am many things. What the wolves howl about, the cold night wind on the back of your neck. I am the darkness that fills a room when the lights are turned out. I am the shadow that stains your mind forever. The thing that cannot be unseen. I am doom and my favorite food is girlfriends.”

“That’s fascinating,” I said, cocking my gun. “I notice you didn’t mention bullet-proof.”

From the spot in Jay’s garden that I had managed to crawl to during the masked man’s diatribe, I sprang up and quickly fired two shots through the living-room window. They both hit their target, one stomach and one shoulder, and the man went sprawling onto his back. Holy shit, that worked!

I couldn’t resist letting out a triumphant “HA!” as I rounded the house and plowed through the open front door. I kneeled on the man as I tore his mask off to reveal…

Jay, trying to cough blood through a piece of poorly secured duct-tape.

See, kids? This is why violence never solves anything: You shoot someone because you think they’re a monster but it’s really your best friend who the monster was using as a decoy and now you’re on the run from the cops because you shot your friend with a gun registered in your name and that just sucks.

This segment won’t contain any transcripts of Priya’s logs and, for that, I apologize. I realize, by this point, a more fitting name for the series might be “Memoirs of Some Guy Who Read a Cam-Girl’s Diary and Proceeded to Make Increasingly Poor Decisions” but A.) that’s kind of a wordy title and B.) I’ve got bigger fish to fry at the moment so back off.

I’m far enough away now that it felt safe to stop for a night and finally go over Jay’s condensed version of Priya’s logs. I will provide a copy of the filtered logs as soon as I can.

Oh, and I almost forgot: Of course, the video on that thumb-drive would only show a black screen after the first time I watched it but I WAS able to grab a screenshot from the initial play-through of the masked man seated in Jay’s chair. Maybe I’m just going crazy (and I’m sure that wouldn’t be too hard to believe), but I swear to god it looks like the mask is smiling in this one.

image by Joel Farrelly


Chapter 3: Priya’s Logs (FILTERED)

[November, 2013] THURSDAY, 28th

JoylessLushClub – starts: 2:34pm

Client requests a private video-chat. His camera is aimed at a large flat-screen TV playing my least favorite moment from the movie “a Serbian Film.” I am almost positive this is that masked asshole again but then the client grabs the webcam and turns it to face himself, revealing a young Asian guy in what looks to be a college dorm room (either that or an exceptionally disgusting motel that had unframed Dali prints on all of the walls.)

“Isn’t that fucked up?” he asks, nodding at the TV. I tell him yeah but when you consider what the Serbian people have been through, it’s clear that the film is actually a poignant metaphor for their struggles. It’s just not something that I ever cared to watch again, if he didn’t mind.

“Oh my bad,” He says, sounding genuinely apologetic. He switches the TV off and turns back to the web-cam. “So…”

“Would you like me to take my shirt off?”

The client unbuckles his belt. “I would like the shit out of that.”

I remove my shirt and ask if he wants me to rub baby-oil on my breasts. “Hell yeah, and can we lose the panties too?”

He pulls off his own underwear and I start to apply the oil as he says, “I’m so glad there’s actually someone on here on Thanksgiving. I was SO fucking bored.”

“Right? I was worried there’d be nothing but total creeps on here today…”

“Yeah, I bet,” he says and nods. “Show me your feet.”

Ends: 2:55pm [21 mins]

[December] TUESDAY, 17

iLikeFrogs – 8:45pm

Client requests that I “scurry around the room” while wearing nothing but my plush Pac-Man mask as he sings an acapella rendition of the Miss Pac-Man theme song, occasionally speeding up the tempo which is my cue to chase down as many ghosts as I can before time runs out.

The client imitates Pac-Man’s death-melody with pitch perfect accuracy as he climaxes.

Ends: 8:59pm [14 mins]

[January, 2014] SATURDAY, 4th

LEGION R US – Starts: 4:00pm

The masked fuck is back.

Client sends a chat-request which reads simply “strip naked.” The familiar wording immediately tips me off and I don’t respond. He resends the request and I tell him to activate his camera first. He does so, revealing a kitten in a cardboard box. After a beat, the masked man leans into frame, holding a lit blow-torch.

The request appears in chat a third time and I quickly begin to undress. “OKAY, you sick bastard! I’m doing it.”

He switches the blow-torch off and then lifts the box containing the kitten, revealing a scarred wooden table on which the masked man then sits, balancing the box on his knees as he begins to undo his pants.

The words “COME ON, WE BOTH KNOW YOU CAN STRIP FASTER THAN THAT” appear in the chat window.

I scowl at the fucker and yank down my panties. The masked man begins to masturbate as the kitten peaks its head out of the box and meows at him.

Another message appears in the chat-window: “YOU’RE SO SEXY WHEN YOU’RE DISGUSTED.”

Ends: 4:07pm [7 mins]



Client is a regular, which is the only way I accept private video-chats anymore. The money I’m losing is a fair price if it means I don’t have to deal with that creepy masked asshole.

I open the video-chat to see the client seated behind the desk in his home-office just as always but there is something off about him. For the longest time he just sits there, forcing a smile as he stares at me.

Eventually I ask, “So what did you have in mind?”

“I’m so sorry.” He says in something slightly louder than a whisper.


“He’s here.” The web-cam pans to reveal the masked man sitting beside the client, his penis in one hand and a cattle-prod in the other. The masked man jabs the electrified prod into the client’s gut and he collapses to the ground.

The masked man stands and uses the prod to pin him to the floor. He continues shocking the client until his flesh begins to smoke and the masked man climaxes.

Ends: 10:55pm [14 mins]

That’s it. I don’t care if it means he wins. I fucking quit. It was a great job until this motherfucker but you know what? It’s not fucking worth it. I might as well go back to stripping. At least there they have bouncers to deal with these creeps.


I wake at 10:00am and immediately double-check my alarm-clock to make sure it really says “AM.” There must be a big storm coming because the sky is so overcast right now that it looks more like 10:00pm outside.

I try to leave my apartment to go check the mail but the front door won’t open. I make sure the bolt isn’t turned and then pull on the door as hard as I can but it doesn’t budge. I hurry over to the window and raise the blinds to find a set of iron security bars mounted to the outside that weren’t there last night.

Glancing out at the complex, I see that the units across from mine also have bars on their windows and their doors have been boarded over. The building is shaped like a horseshoe with a large courtyard containing a pool and several communal picnic stations at its center. I scan the courtyard, searching for some clue as to why my apartment complex was suddenly one giant fire-hazard.

It’s so dark outside that it takes me a few moments to actually process what I’m seeing: There’s a man sitting at one of the picnic tables, his back to me. He’s staring at what looks to be some sort of abstract sculpture made out of rebar and… potato sacks? There’s a pile of something beside his chair, too. It looks like… arms. And legs. And that’s because it’s a pile of severed arms and legs.

Some of the potato sacks are twitching and I realize that the “sacks” are actually the limbless bodies of several of my neighbors who are all clearly still alive and surprisingly lucid for what are basically just heads on what looked like melted torsos. One of them, a sweet old lady named Linda, spots me in the window and her mouth falls open.

Linda frantically shakes her head and mouths something at me, which prompts the guy seated at the table to turn and follow her gaze up to my window. With the hand he isn’t using to pleasure himself, the man in the black mask gives me a casual wave and shouts, “Don’t worry; we didn’t forget about you!”

As I back away from the window, I finally register the series of strange noises coming from somewhere inside my apartment and growing louder by the second. Ugh, that SOUND! Like a bunch of dogs gnawing on rawhide… It’s at this moment that I finally realize the noise isn’t coming from inside the apartment. It’s coming from inside the walls.

I grab my laptop and phone and barricade myself inside the walk-in closet in my bedroom. Of course, I’m not getting any cell reception and the internet has mysteriously stopped working. The gnawing sound is so loud now that I can’t even hear my own panicked breathing. Plus, I’m pretty sure I just saw something move in the vent at the back of the closet, so it’s safe to assume that this will probably be my final entry.

There’s an old desktop computer from high-school in here that I’m going to copy this hard-drive onto just in case something happens to my laptop. If you somehow find these logs and read this far, let me leave you with a warning: I’m pretty sure you’re fucked.

See I have this theory that, like most truly evil things, the masked man’s power is derived from the fear he causes. Which means simply knowing that he exists is like painting a target on your back. It gives him a way to find you. Those poor dismembered bastards outside? They all have one thing in common. At some point, I had mentioned the masked man to each of them.

If my theory ends up panning out, then I am seriously sorry. I wasn’t looking to ruin anyone’s life but I also don’t wanna end up a limbless sack-person trapped inside some sick freak’s erotic fantasy. Honestly, I was about to delete the entire folder but then he promised to make it quick and painless for me if I didn’t. How awesome is that? Once you get to know him, he’s actually a pretty nice guy.

He says my writing is vital to the cause and now I guess we both know why. If you value the people in your life, you won’t share a word of this with them. And it should go without saying but whatever you do, DEFINITELY don’t post any of it on the internet. I mean, could you imagine?

I clicked “SELECT ALL” and was debating whether to copy the text and post it on here or simply hit backspace and be done with it, once and for all, when I noticed something at the bottom of the last entry. A line of white text that hadn’t been visible until I highlighted the document; it was two sets of numbers. Coordinates. Followed by a question:


I’m currently about 20 miles from my destination, using the free wifi at a truck-stop that is also a combination Pizza Hut/Taco Bell (yes, like the song) outside of some town where most of the male population seems to be allergic to shirt sleeves and the main export is A&E reality-shows.

I was going to drive straight there until I started scanning through the radio stations, desperate for any kind of distraction from the foreboding silence, and Mansi’s voice suddenly cut through the static. “Can you hear me, baby? It’s okay… I’m fine. Really. It’s not so bad here. I know about everything with you and Priya and I’m not mad. I understand.”

There was a muffled whimper, followed by a sniffle. She was crying.

“What we had was great but things change. People change. There will always be a place for you in my heart but you have to let me go. Okay? You’re only going to make things worse… You always do.”

I had turned the volume up to hear Mansi and when the static suddenly cut back in, it startled me so much that I nearly swerved off the road. It’s going to take more than that to stop me though. I’m about to finish this post, maybe have a steak quesadilla. Then I’m gonna go save my girlfriend and kill some fucking monsters. On a related note, if this is my last update on the story, just assume that’s exactly what happened.

Chapter 4: An Inaccurately Named Conclusion

So I’m still alive, which is cool. There’s more good news but, considering how the previous update ended with me hell-bent on continuing to make bad decisions like it was my job, I should probably start by filling you guys in on what happened the other night.

Using Google Maps, I found a location that matched up with the coordinates from Priya’s final entry: It was a sizable structure positioned behind a long row of smaller interconnected buildings located near the center of a town so tiny; Google didn’t even have a name for it. Which is, of course, always a good sign.

Looking at how the buildings were positioned, I assumed that my destination was a warehouse located behind a long strip-mall. And it seemed as if I had guessed right. In fact, the narrow two-lane highway that acted as Nameless Town’s impromptu main street was practically lined with strip-malls from one end to the other.

Most of the stores were pretty generic: women’s boutiques and sandwich shops. There were a couple of electronics outlets too, a few sporting-goods stores, etc. All of them were closed and, from the looks of it, had been for quite some time. I slowed as I neared the end of “Strip City” and glanced down at the GPS app on my phone. I was almost on top of my destination now.

I looked back at the road and reflexively slammed on my breaks as the final strip-mall came into view. The car screeched to a halt in the middle of the street, stopping beside a sign that read “MR. MYSTERY’S ADULT VIDEO AND ARCADE!” Above the sign was a 10-foot tall painted wood cut-out of Mr. Mystery, himself. Care to guess what he looked like?

If you answered “a creepy bastard in a black mask”, congratulations! You have a basic understanding of how to utilize narrative clues. Call your dad. Tell him he was wrong. You ARE good for something.

On a related note, it was at this point that I became almost certain I was on the right track. I was about to pull into Mr. Mystery’s parking-lot when an uncharacteristic moment of foresight made me decide to drive a little further down and hide the car in the lot of a nearby gas station instead.

I pulled into the abandoned gas station, which was half a block down from Mr. Mystery’s arcade. Then I realized there was a very real chance I would be running for my life when I left here and that it was probably best if my car were parked as close as possible. I made a U-turn and exited the gas station parking-lot, Bruce Willis’ irate voice in my head asking “Who’s driving this car? Stevie Wonder?”

As a compromise I passed up Mr. Mystery’s and parked one lot over in the Bed, Bath, and Beyond next door. I even backed into the space so that my car was facing the exit. Keeping my eyes on the adult arcade, I pulled the gun from the back of my waistband and checked the magazine to make sure it was loaded. I let out a deep breath and then switched off the safety.

As I prepared myself to exit the car, I glanced in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of the wild-eyed sleep-deprived unshaven ne’er-do-well staring back at me. This is when, for the second time in less than two weeks, I found myself having a genuine moment of personal introspection while sitting in a parked car with a loaded gun in my hand. And it dawned on me then that I was bad at learning from mistakes.

But you know what? Not this time. Ole’ Dhaval was too smart to be THAT stupid. I slid the gun back in my waistband and took out my phone to do what, admittedly, I probably should’ve done a long time ago. I dialed 9-1-1.

I put the phone to my ear as the line started to ring, which was weird because the ring had sort of an echo to it. Probably just the terrible reception out here. It rang again and this time the echo sounded like it was coming from the backseat of my car. I lowered the cell as a third ring, clear as day, sounded from my backseat.

My hand fumbled for the door-handle as I glanced at the rearview mirror just in time to see the masked man spring up behind me and say, “Well this is awkward…”

I was too stunned to react as the masked man grabbed me by my hair and clamped a damp foul-smelling rag over my nose and mouth. So this is what chloroform smelled like?

I held my breath and fought against the initial wave of wooziness long enough to reach a hand back and yank off his mask. The last thing I saw before my vision became one big blur was the reflection of a familiar face in my rearview mirror.

Jay smiled at me and said, “Shh, it’s okay… There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

And then darkness…

The first thing that came back was my sense of smell. My sinuses were still lined with the stink of chloroform. It was awful. Hollywood made getting ‘formed look so glamorous. Like it was all just…

“A rag on my face? Oh no, I’m asleep! Oh no, where am I?”

I didn’t give a FUCK where I was. The first five minutes of consciousness felt like an hour. I could barely keep my eyes open. No response from my limbs. All I could smell or taste or feel or see or think was the god-awful scent of chloroform. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I realized Jay was saying something…

“…Probably a bit too liberal of a dousing and I apologize. But let’s both try and be adults here. You wouldn’t have come without a fight and I’d hate to have to taze a bro.”

I forced my eyes open out of sheer spite. I wanted to look this sick bastard in his face when I told him to go fuck himself. Everything was still blurry but I got the gist: I was tied to a chair. There was a laptop on a desk in front of me and Jay’s stupid face was on the laptop.

After a few moments of concentration, I was able to focus my eyes enough to glare at Jay. I told my mouth to open and my tongue to form the words ‘go fuck yourself.’

My jaw fell slack and a stream of drool poured from the corner of my mouth.

“I forgot you have awful sinuses, don’t you? Maybe chloroform wasn’t the best solution after all. Oh well, as they say… Hindsight is a bitch.”

“Your mom… bitch…” was the eventual reply that I managed to force out through the corner of my partially open mouth.

Jay turned and beamed at someone I couldn’t see. “Three coherent words, fellas! He’s coming around.”

“Hey-ewe-you-talk…” I started to ask but then furrowed my brow as a more pressing question suddenly came to mind. I gave Jay what I hoped was an incredulous glare as I shouted, “Didn’t I SHOOT?!”

He had a nice laugh at this before finally replying, “Yes, you did shoot. Unfortunately for you, what you shot were blanks.”


“I switched out the rounds in the gun-case you kept under your bed with blanks. You were so excited about shooting me that night; you failed to notice that my ‘bullet wounds’ were actually just prop-squibs.”


“When did I switch the rounds? The night I came over to ‘help’ you try to save Priya’s corrupted video-file. The same night I installed all that stuff on your laptop that let me create time-and-space defying illusions…” Jay looked up and batted his eyes, pantomiming naivety as he continued in a falsetto tone, “How am I watching a video on a thumb-drive of me receiving the thumb-drive with the video on it? It’s not like anyone I know is able to remotely access computers or make them look like they’re doing one thing when they’re really doing another.”

“WHY?!” I screamed, only vaguely aware of the tears welling in my eyes.

Jay tilted his head at me in a condescending gesture. “The same reason I wrote that folder full of fake logs and planted it at Mansi’s place.”

“YOU wrote the logs? Like ALL of them?”

Jay nodded, looking almost proud as he said “I knew you couldn’t resist a good mystery. Especially one involving a creative, attractive, vulnerable girl specifically designed to make you fall in love with the mere idea of her.”

“There never was an Priya,” I muttered to myself and Jay scoffed.

“Oh, there were a THOUSAND Priyas… But, hey! At least you’re speaking in full sentences again.”

“So I am,” I said and spat at the computer screen.

“Your next question should be how I managed to snatch Mansi WHILE I was at your house.”

I considered this for a beat and then turned back to Jay. “Yeah, wait! How the fuck…”

“To quote a true artist, ‘I get by with a little help from my friends.’” Jay reached an arm off-screen and pulled another familiar face into frame.


Ami waved at me. “Hey, Dhaval… Sorry we had to put you through all this.”

“Fuck you bitch! I’m gonna choke the life from your husband with my bare fucking hands!”

“That’s cute. He still thinks we’re married.”

Jay chuckled and pointed at Ami, “This one is ‘totes lesbian. It’s cool though. She lets me watch. We just do the holy matrimony thing because her ‘rents gave us a huge dowry and plus it keeps my folks from asking too many questions because let’s be honest. Most of the women I sleep with don’t usually survive long enough for me to pop the question.”

“It amazes me that you think I care right now.”

“Dude!” Jay motioned to Ami. “I’m telling you I have access to interactive 3D lesbian porn…”

“And I’m telling you I’m gonna cut both your cheeks open before I bury you up to your neck so the sex-starved baboons I let loose on you won’t have to take turns FUCKING YOUR FACE! DO YOU HEAR ME, YOU GOOFY GRINNIN’ SON OF A BITCH?! I WILL BURN YOUR FUCKING LIFE DOWN…” I was now screaming at the laptop with every fiber of my being and pulling at the ropes holding me in place until the chair almost tipped over, cutting me short as I paused to steady myself.

One of the people off-screen said, “Ewe, I like this one’s energy. Very creative.”

“How many demented assholes you got back there?!”

Jay turned to address one of said assholes and shrugged, whispering “I’d say it’s as good a time as any.”

“It’s your pledge, your call.”

Jay turned to address someone else and asked, “Wes, thoughts?”

“Hello?!” With Jay and his inane rambling no longer holding my attention, I felt a sudden mounting dread begin to overtake me as the reality of my situation finally and truly set in. I glanced around what appeared to be a break room and saw nothing particularly nefarious looking; jut a kitchenette, the table I was sitting at, and an old pre flat-screen television mounted to the corner of one wall. Near the door was a hand-dolly with a stack of small brightly-colored boxes. The picture on the boxes was of…

The picture on the boxes was of a large purple dildo.

I continued to struggle against the ropes, this time even more frantically. The chair began to tip back and I tried to force my weight forward but the ropes held me in place as the chair crashed to the floor. I banged my head pretty hard but was thankfully still a bit numb from the chloroform.

I blinked and my vision refocused to reveal a very tall, very muscular, very naked, VERY erect man standing over me. He was wearing one of those old-timey doctor’s plague masks with the long beak-like appendage that admittedly acted as a fitting parallel to his turgid member.

From the table above me, I heard Jay say, “Tony, be a dear and assist Mr. Worley here.”

Large, naked, erect Tony positioned himself almost directly over my face and began to crouch down and for a moment it was like Cthulhu coming in for that awkward first-date kiss. They say in these situations that the abyss stares back but I wouldn’t know because I recoiled in terror far too quickly to find out.

I shut my eyes tight and then started to scream as I felt my chair being gently lifted upright. A moment later, I opened my eyes to find myself now facing a room full of people staring back at me from the laptop. They were all wearing creepy homemade-looking black masks and seated around Jay and Ami in what looked to be a small theater.

“Meet the Order of Smeghead. Over the years, it has counted among its members some of the most powerful and influential people the world has ever known,” Jay said as he lifted his arms and motioned around the theater. “World-renowned artists, business moguls, reality TV stars, former heads of state, and even a Time Magazine Man of the Year…”

“Was that last one Hitler?”

“Specifics are not important.”

One of the masked audience-members raised their hand and said, “I write children’s books.”

I grinned at him, “Oh, really? Which ones?”

He started to say something but Jay quickly interrupted the man by shouting, “Damn it, Randy! Don’t TELL him! He hasn’t passed yet.”

“Passed what?” I asked.

Several people groaned and Randy lowered his head in shame as Jay turned back to face me, saying “You wanted to know why I would kidnap your girlfriend or enact a cunning plot that required countless hours of espionage and planning; all to lead you on a desperate journey of fear, isolation, and eventual catharsis? It was all a test. There you go. THANKS, Randy.”

“Hey, I’m not the jerk who said ‘passed!”” Someone grabbed Randy by the shoulder and he turned back around, his hands clenched into fists.

Jay sighed as he looked at Randy. “You know what? You’re right. I was about to tell him anyway and I was just mad at myself for not sticking the reveal. I’m sorry I blamed you.”

Randy’s fists unclenched and his posture relaxed. “I’m sorry I yelled.”

“No, you had every right…”

“GUYS!” I shouted, getting Jay’s attention. “What do you mean test?”

“The order has an opening and we’d like to invite you to join.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“To be honest, you’re the only candidate who’s made it this far into the initiation, so you might as well hear us out.”

“Hear you out?! Jay! You abducted Mansi, made me think I shot you, fucking CHLOROFORMED me and basically ruined my life and all because you want me to join your stupid sex-cult?!”


Jay lifted a hand to quiet Randy and then smiled at me as he said, “It’s not a sex cult. It’s a secret all-powerful order that worships a pagan god that, YES, happens to use sex to eroticize the most deeply rooted fears of mortal men so that he may one day fill their hearts with his own darkness. All I’m asking you, Dhaval, is: Will you let his darkness come inside YOU?”

At this point, the entire audience including Jay shouted in unison, “He’s coming! He’s coming! Oh god, HE’S COMING!”

“Yeah, you guys might wanna cut the singular refrain from your ‘not a cult’ sales pitch.”

Several people in the audience began to murmur between each other and Jay smiled awkwardly as he turned back to me and said, “I feel like we’re getting off on the wrong foot here…”

“Yeah? Kidnapping someone’s girlfriend will do that. Make a note!”

“Tony, can you untie Mr. Desai? Maybe get him something to drink? Would you like a Vitamin Water?”

“Is the vitamin in that water Cialis?” I asked as Tony finished untying me and his erect penis once again entered my field of view. I quickly glanced up at his masked face. “I mean damn, dude… It’s cold in here and everything.”

“Ah yes, Tony is a brood of the dark one… He is truly blessed.”

Tony grunted at me through the plague mask and I tried not to whimper as I said, “I can see that.”

“Let me ask you, Dhaval, have you ever been a member of a secret all-powerful order?”

“I have not.”

“Do you like money, fame, beautiful women throwing themselves at you, all the free drugs you can ingest, and the power to dictate your own destiny?”

“What’s the catch?”

Without missing a beat, Jay smirked and replied “A single sacrifice.”

“My soul?”

The entire audience erupted with laughter and Jay had to wait several moments before it was quiet enough to respond, “That’s a bit of a common misconception among outsiders. See, people like us? Our souls are useless when we’re done with them. Selling your soul to an evil entity is like telling someone you’re going to trade them a cheeseburger after you’re done eating it. What’s left isn’t really worth the effort.”

“Yeah, I get the analogy. So what’s my sacrifice then?”

“The flesh and blood of someone you love.”

Jay nodded off screen and suddenly I was looking at Mansi through a security camera feed. She was sitting in a small room surrounded by steel doors with tiny windows set into them at eye-level. “Mansi!”

Jay’s voice was still audible through the laptop. “I’m sorry to say she can’t hear you. Trust me. It will make this next part a whole lot easier.”

I leaned in close to the screen. Mansi looked just as confused and terrified as someone who’s been kept in a small room for almost two weeks. “Do you really expect me to kill my girlfriend?”

“Oh, no. That’s what we have Tony here for. He’s big into wet-work. A real natural. All you have to do is watch.”

“That’s it, huh?”

“Either that or Tony kills you both. Though, spoiler alert… With him, rape and murder are sort of a package deal. You’re not Tony’s typical type but he seems to be fond of you.” Tony nodded and I was suddenly aware of the heavy muffled breathing emanating from behind his mask as it intensified and grew more labored.

“You sure those are my only options?” I said as I reached back to feel the gun still in my waistband. Amateurs…

I pulled out the firearm and Jay scoffed as he said “I already told you that thing is loaded with blanks.”

“Apparently you’re not familiar with former television actor Jon-Erik Hexum,” I said as I quickly pressed the barrel of the gun to Tony’s chin and fired before he could respond.

The explosion of compressed gasses and paper wadding slammed against Tony’s lower jaw like an uppercut from a sledgehammer. His plague mask went flying, along with a splatter of blood and several small bits of debris that I assumed were teeth, as Tony’s limp body toppled to the floor. “Or, you know, how blanks work.”

“DUDE!” I heard Jay scream through the laptop as I hurried out of the room.

I exited the break-room and found myself at the back of a dimly-lit warehouse full of porn DVDs and assorted sexual paraphernalia, just as I guessed I would after seeing the inventory on that hand-dolly. This was the large building behind the adult arcade, which meant I had a good idea where Mansi was.

I hurried across the warehouse and then into a utility hallway lined with several doors. I found one that said “PEEP SHOW” on it and pulled it open to reveal a small room containing an open doorway to my right and three curtained-off sections to my left labeled: BOOTH 1, BOOTH 2, and BOOTH 3.

I yanked Booth 2’s curtain aside and entered a dark foul-smelling recess with yet another door at the other end. This one was steel and had a window set into it at eye-level.

“Mansi?” I practically shouted as I hurried to the window and peered inside.

There she was! I let out a small cheer as I banged on the door, which got her attention. Mansi threw a hesitant glance at the window before pulling a literal double-take and turning back to shout, “Dhaval?”


“Oh my god…” She smiled as tears began to pour from her eyes. Mansi jumped up and hurried to the door. “It’s really you! Dhaval, how…”

I examined the padlock on the latch holding the door closed and then held a finger up to the window. “Give me a sec. This is gonna be loud.”

I pressed the barrel of my gun to the top of the padlock, shielding my eyes with my other hand and praying this would work as Mansi shouted, “No, wait. There’s the key right there.”

She pointed to my left and sure enough there was a key right there, hanging from a small hook. “That’s convenient.”

I returned the gun to my waistband and unlocked the door. As I pulled it open, Mansi pounced on me and gave me the tightest hug I have ever received. And then we kissed and it was like something out of a movie. Then she hugged me again, even tighter this time, and said “I’m sorry. I must smell terrible.”

“It’s okay. You’re squeezing me so tight that I can hardly breathe, let alone smell anything.”

“Always the smartass,” she said and sighed and hugged me even tighter. I rested my cheek on the top of Mansi’s head as I held her in my arms and glanced inside the enclosed dance floor that had been her cell. And that’s when I finally noticed the pale figure huddled in one corner.

“Um…” I said and Mansi turned to glance at the young woman seated with her face buried in her knees. “Who’s that?”

“I don’t know. I think she’s been here a while. She doesn’t talk.” Mansi leaned closer and whispered “I know she CAN talk because they would give us a piece of bread with every meal and she would always give me hers and I asked her why one time and she said ‘carbs’, so… But I don’t like know her name or anything.”

I knew her name.

Mansi looked more than a little baffled as I pulled away from her and began to sing, “And though it hurts me to treat you this way… betrayed by words I’d never heard… too hard to say.”

The girl in the corner lifted her head enough to see that she was now staring at me.

“Up, down, turn around. Please don’t let me hit the ground. Tonight I think I’ll walk alone. Find my soul as I go home…”

Mansi suddenly gasped as she saw the girl’s lips mouthing the words to the refrain along with me, “Up, down, turn around. Please don’t let me hit the ground. Tonight I think I’ll walk alone. Find my soul as I go home.”

The girl gave me a baffled smile as Mansi asked, “How the hell?!”

“Is your name Priya?”

Priya slowly nodded.

“I’m Dhaval. This is Mansi. We’re getting the fuck out of here. Care to join us?”

Priya nodded again and then stood up. As she started across the room, Mansi turned to me and muttered in an irate tone, “You have some ‘splaining to do.”

“Baby, you just said a mouthful but right now we need to get you two out of here…”

I was suddenly interrupted by the door to the utility hallway slamming open. Priya froze in the doorway of the cell as Mansi and I turned to see Tony tearing open the curtain divider to our booth. He grinned as he spotted us, revealing a mouth full of shattered teeth and blood.

I pulled the gun from the back of my waistband in the same moment I remembered that it was still loaded with blanks. Priya gasped and quickly pulled the steel door closed, shutting herself inside the cell. Thanks!

I pulled Mansi behind me and backed us into a narrow corner beside the door. I held the gun out in front of me as Tony charged at us. This was it. I was about to be mauled to death by a giant naked madman while my girlfriend watched. Hell of an obituary though.

And then, just as Tony was about to reach us, the steel door suddenly flew back open just in time to nail him square in the face. There was an audible “CRUNCH” as his nose was flattened and Tony slowly stumbled back.

I felt someone pulling at my hand and turned to see Priya trying to take my gun. I let her have it and she slowly approached the still-daze Tony.

“They’re blanks, so you have to hold it super close to do any real damage.”

“Thanks,” Priya said as she pressed the gun to Tony’s now finally flaccid penis and fired. Tony howled in pain and I quickly looked away, wincing out of reflex as she fired two more rounds. I heard his body collapse to the floor and turned to snatch my gun away from Priya.

“Damn, girl… Can I get a heads up before you start shooting dicks off?”

The three of us exited the booth and I lead them back through the utility hallway to a door marked by a sign that read EXIT in glowing green letters. I pulled the door open to reveal a large pitch black room that I at first mistook for a lobby. I spotted a second glowing EXIT sign on the far wall and turned to wave the girls inside…

Then I saw Jay standing behind me and holding a gun to Mansi’s head.

“Aw man…” Jay said as he spotted Priya. “You ruined your surprise.”

The lights came on behind me, revealing the small theater I had seen on the laptop earlier, the seats still occupied by several dozen masked creeps. I heard Priya mutter, “Oh god no…”

Jay motioned for us to enter and what could we do but comply? He led us up onto a stage containing a bare altar and under the house lights I could now see that Jay had been crying. “I mean fuck, dude… I told these guys you were cool! And then you’re nothing but completely rude the entire time. You insult our order. You maimed our brood. Poor Tony is probably gonna need twenty grand worth of oral surgery after this.”

“Actually…” I said, holding up a hand. “We also shot his dick off and he’s surely bled out by now. So all you freaks are gonna need is about six feet of hole and one big fucking casket.”

Numerous audience members gasped at this and I nodded at them. “I know. I had to see it and believe me… Not pretty.”

“You’ve dismembered the brood?!” Jay shouted in disbelief. “The ritual had already begun! The brood must spill his seed in the corpse of your loved one or the dark lord will not be sated!”

“Yeah, that’s not happening, so…”

“FOOLS! You have doomed us all!”

I was about to ask Jay who he meant by “us” when the ground began to shake and an inhuman moan erupted from the utility hallway. Jay slowly lowered the gun from Mansi’s head and started toward the open doorway, looking transfixed, and the rest of the order seemed just as dazed as him. Mansi and Priya noticed the same thing and the three of us cautiously started toward the exit sign at the opposite end of the room.

No one tried to stop us. They were all too busy watching the hallway as a loud sound, like gnawing, began to filter into the auditorium. I pushed open the exit door to see Mr. Mystery’s parking lot and hurried both girls out through the exit as the source of the sound reached the auditorium doorway.

It was Tony, at least in body. Though it was clear that whatever was controlling him at this point was not something accustomed to walking around in human flesh. Jay dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Dark lord… please forgive us.”

Tony’s body bent backward, twisting into a full-on spider crawl with his hands and feet flat on the ground and his belly pointed toward the ceiling. Then, what can only be described as something resembling a four foot long jet-black lamprey eel erupted from the mangled mess that remained of his genitals. The gnawing sound was coming from the eel’s circular mouth, which was rapidly opening and closing, revealing a razor-sharp ring of blood-stained fangs.

Tony’s contorted form began to crawl toward Jay at an inhuman speed. Jay screamed as the Tony thing pinned him to the altar and the monster eel protruding from his groin began to snake its way toward Jay’s rear. I heard the tearing of pants and turned to exit the auditorium as Jay’s screaming crescendo’ed into a final solemn whimper of, “Owe…”

Mansi and Priya were waiting for me outside, both looking more than a little weary. Boy, was THAT an awkward car ride home. I wish I could tell you it all had a happy ending but that would be a lie.

Priya asked if I could take her to the nearest Western Union and then maybe a bus station. I offered to give her money for a bus home but she refused, saying “I’m sure my boyfriend will wire me the cash.”

She borrowed my phone to call him and I could hear the excitement in his voice even from the front seat. I smiled at Mansi as I remembered our own reunion but she was staring vacantly out the passenger window and didn’t notice. Priya used my phone’s browser to find where she needed to go and then directed me to exit the interstate a few miles later.

Thankfully, the small town we entered had a 24-hour place that did wire transfers. I brought her to pick up the money and we offered to wait with her at the bus station but she declined. I don’t think she wanted us to know where she was going and so we didn’t question her. Priya never asked about the New Order song or how I knew her name. I’m pretty sure she had more important things to worry about and so that was where we parted ways.

On the nine-hour drive home, I told Mansi everything. From Priya’s logs until the moment I found her. I showed her my previous entries on here and then things got really awkward. I was hoping it was mostly just exhaustion setting in to the both of us but now that I’ve had time to think, I realize that she couldn’t help but at least partially blame me for everything she’d just been through. And that’s fair.

So, we broke up. I also lost my job because I disappeared for a week without even a phone call, but in my defense I thought I was on the run from a murder charge at the time. But yeah, I am now officially alone and unemployed. Ladies…

One last point of interest worth mentioning: After we got back last weekend, I cleaned out my car and found Jay’s mask under the front seat where it must have landed after I pulled it off his face. I was going to burn it but I don’t know. Maybe it was simply the fact that I lost so much over the past two weeks and this fugly black mask was really all I had to show for it, but either way I kind of wanted to keep it.

Honestly, it wasn’t even that scary-looking in reality. The mask appeared to be made out of a patchwork of cloth gaffing tape which made it look slightly different depending on which way the light hit it. But just holding the mask in my hands made me realize how silly I was to have ever been afraid of such a cheap hobo-prop.

Then, last night I awoke to find myself standing half-inside my bedroom closet while wearing the mask and holding my phone out in front of me. Apparently, I had been taking pictures of myself and texting them to random numbers in my sleep, along with the message: HE’S COMING!

So, yeah, I’m starting to reconsider holding on to it.

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Fear of fear!

Though the wind bellows fierce across my face like the howl of a nameless beast, though the moon twists shadows into abyssal creatures and the gates of Hell within my companion’s eyes, I am not afraid. I will be, he promises, but not yet.

You see this is not the scariest story in the world. This is just a tribute.

My brother Jai read the fabled story on an ancient scroll, or so the old man swore to me. I believe the psychiatrist preferred the explanation of “sudden onset psychosis.”

All I know for sure is that last week I met Jai for a drink after work and listened to him complain about his wife for an hour. The way she bossed him around, the way she never considered his feelings, then on to ramble about his job and a camping trip he and his coworkers had planned to get away from it all.

Three days later, I received a phone call from the police station. Did I know Jai? Of course, he’s my brother. Did I know why his naked body was covered in blue paint, or why he was running down main street screaming at pigeons?

No, officer. I’m not sure why he was doing that.

Speaking to Jai in the hospital was the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do. His eyes were milky pools which bulged so disgustingly from their sockets that I was afraid they’d fall out. His breathing came in short bursts of ragged gasps as though he was constantly forgetting and then being reminded that he was being chased. Even his skin seemed to have aged, fresh wrinkles threatening to melt off his face entirely.

“I never knew a nobody. Nobody never knew a me.” He repeated that line frequently, sometimes looking in my direction though never seeing me.

It was punctuated with other nonsense such as:

“You see ‘em born but you never see ‘em unborn.”


“I felt it drinking me. Like I was a bottle and it couldn’t be quenched.”

I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Neither could our parents, or our relatives, or any of the long line of doctors who paraded through the room. By the third visit I was seriously considering leaving and never returning. What was the point? Whatever had happened to him, my brother wasn’t in there anymore.

I wrestled with that thought all day, making excuses to delay until finally near midnight the guilt overpowered my hesitation. I decided to drop by for just a moment to see if his condition changed.

It hadn’t. But something had. There was an old man sitting beside his bed, endlessly wringing his hands and muttering to himself. His stained trench-coat and wild matted hair suggested a homeless person, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had his own room in the psyche ward.

“Do you know Jai?” I asked.

“Does anyone, anymore?” the old man replied with the articulate, measured words of a stage actor.

“Do you know what happened to him?” I asked, still standing by the door.

“Mr. Sharma,” Jai’s voice gurgled like wet mud. “Mr. Sharma, dream me a dream…”

“I do,” the old man answered. It was almost surreal to hear such an even, intelligent voice from such a disorderly man. “He read something he oughtn’t to, and it’s driven him quite mad.”

Convinced by my companion’s certainty, I sat in the chair beside him and searched his face for answers. The eyes which met my gaze, as I have already mentioned, were akin to the gates of Hell. I suppose such a fanciful description requires elaboration. It’s not that his eyes were abnormal, just as an arch of stone may seem quite natural almost anywhere. I simply had the feeling that the world on the other side of those eyes had very little in common with our own.

“What did you read?” I asked my brother, needing an excuse to look away.

Jai’s breath was coming fast again. His fingers gripped his bedsheets on either side of him as though he were hanging from a precipice and clinging for his life.

“The scariest story in the world, that’s all,” the old man said. “Would you like to read it too?”

Jai was practically convulsing at the words. I was about to call a nurse, but the old man ran his long fingers down my brother’s face and his breathing immediately eased.

“You can’t get through to him if you don’t know where his mind has been,” the old man’s voice had grown as melodic as a lullaby. “Read the story, and if you keep your wits about you, then you will find the words to call your brother home.”

“Okay. Sure, yeah,” I said. Part concern for my brother, part sibling rivalry in wanting to test myself, but mostly it was just morbid curiosity. “Is there a chance I’ll end up like that?”

The old man smiled and stood. Saying nothing, he turned to exit the room.

“You can’t expect me to follow you if you don’t answer,” I called after him.

“I absolutely can,” he replied, and he was gone. And of course he was right. How could I not follow that begging question mark?

And so the wind howled as I walked into the night with my companion. I asked his name, and his voice betrayed nothing when he answered “Mr. Sharma.” I assume it was in jest, but I can’t be certain. While we walked, he told me the tale of the demon scroll.

“The story was written over the course of four generations, beginning in the 6th century. After the man had fathered a son, he would take up the story and pour all he knew of fear into the manuscript. Once he had contributed what he was able, the man would collapse into insanity, passing the manuscript onto his heir when he came of age.”

“If they knew the thing was evil, why wouldn’t they just destroy it?”

“Will you destroy it?”

“Not until I’ve read it…”

“Ah,” Mr. Sharma said, tapping the side of his nose. “And so it passes. Each son thought they could save their father through their own sacrifice, yet each fell as their fathers had into madness.”

The old man had taken a turn on a street I didn’t recognize, but I was too absorbed in his tale to pay it much mind.

“Well, maybe I will destroy it then. If everyone who has ever read it—”

“Not everyone,” my companion interrupted. “Four generations passed the scroll, until one son endured the trial. He maintained his sanity, helped his father to recover, and even prospered for his greater sight into the heart of terror. Such was his love for the fear he found that he kept the scroll hidden and safe. Until your brother discovered it by accident, of course.”

“What happened to the boy? And how do you know this?”

The old man smiled over his shoulder, saying nothing.

“Well what made him different that allowed him to prevail?” I pressed.

“The boy wasn’t brave like the others.” Mr. Sharma had left the road entirely and was now walking along a dirt path through a dark copse. I was helpless but to follow. “When you are brave, you fight against fear as though to conquer it. Only the cowardly know how to make fear their friend as that boy once did. Here we are though, just where your brother left it.”

Mr. Sharma reached inside a rotted stump to produce a scroll. It was a length of animal hide, about three feet tall, its surface yellowed and edges burned or tattered by age. He offered it to me freely, and I accepted.

“Can’t you give me any idea what to expect?” I asked. The thing was clenched in my hand, still rolled.

“I already have.” His eyes didn’t waver, fixed on my own. The wind held its breath as I held mine. I nodded, my mind made at last. Still meeting Mr. Sharma’s eyes, I took a lighter from my pocket and set the flame to the scroll.

If his eyes were the gates of Hell, then now they were opened. An animal snarl escaped his throat as he launched himself at me. Decrepit fingers clawed at my face, feeling like shards of bone digging into my skin. I tried to fend him off, prompting him to dig his yellowed teeth into my defensive forearm.

There was no chance to reason with him. I couldn’t flee with him latched onto me. All I could do was pummel his scruffy head with my free hand, over and over, each blow harder than the last as his teeth sank deeper into my skin. By the time he let go his mouth was a fountain of blood which spurted between his rotten teeth.

“You’ve read it, haven’t you??” I demanded, looming over the crumpled body. “Tell me what’s inside!”

The wet laughter was nauseating. Then it stopped, and that was even worse. The wind started to whistle again, finally daring to breath.

The thick animal hide was slow to light, but I got it going with a little kindling. The stump, the scroll, and Mr. Sharma’s body all joined in the pillar of flame. Fear is an evil thing. That’s what I told myself in the heat of the moment, my bloody arm in agony. That it was a cursed knowledge the world would do better without.

But each night as I lie awake my thoughts are bound to what was inside that scroll. And when my brother took his own life in the hospital, I had to wonder how things would have been different if I had striven to understand fear rather than flee from it.

Maybe fear is an evil thing, but the fear of fear is even worse. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Reason I have my privacy shutter on!

When I was in elementary school, my parents bought me a bulky computer with a webcam that looked like a giant white eyeball. It came with extra wires that had to be plugged into the hard drive, right beneath the slot for floppy disks. At night, I would throw a blanket over the eyeball with childish worries about being watched in my sleep.

When I reached high school, webcams came attached to the screens. To protect myself, I would peel off the sticky part of a bright pink Post-It note and cover the flashing dot. Even as a teenager, I was babyish enough to believe someone was watching me through my webcam and kept it covered at all times.

By the time I reached college, I forgot about my fears and left the webcam uncovered. That was my first mistake.

Nothing seemed weird at first but I guess I wasn’t paying close enough attention.

In the middle of the night, I would hear a cough or a sneeze or a hitch in breathing — but I was living inside a dorm at SBU. A suite. We had a kitchen, a little lounge area, and four bedrooms with four horny girls crammed inside. Anytime I heard a noise, I popped in my headphones in case I would hear bed squeaking next.

I never thought anything of the sounds. I never realized where they were coming from, what they really meant.

There were other times, while sitting in class with my laptop yawned open in front of me, when I would see a quick flash from the corner of my eye. A dot of green that would disappear as soon as it appeared. I assumed it was the light of my webcam flicking on, but I couldn’t be sure.

Just to be safe, I opened Finder, looked through my applications, and checked everything that required a camera. Photobooth. Facetime. Skype. None of them had been open but I still had a strange feeling that the light was, indeed, from my webcam and not a trick of light.

When I told my suite-mates about what had happened, one shrugged and told me to cover the webcam with tape. One gave a nonsensical speech about how obscuring the laptop could somehow ruin its value and damage the product. One wasn’t even paying any attention.

When I re-told the story to one of my engineer-majoring friends, hoping for a technical solution, she teased me about it. Maybe someone is spying on you. Maybe someone is jacking off to you. I mean, you always bring your laptop to class and you have the bladder of a mouse. When you leave the room, someone might lean over and tip-tap on your keyboard to hack it. They might be watching you RIGHT NOW.

Then she threw her clawed hands at me, jump scaring me. We both laughed and the conversation jumped in a different direction that involved tequila shots and strip poker.

I would have forgotten about it. I would have let it go. Except that night, when I woke up needing to pee, I noticed a green haze coming from my opened laptop. I had my contacts out, so the light looked blurry, but it was definitely there.

By the time I fumbled for my glasses, it had blinked off again.

When my hangover dissipated, I lugged my laptop to the Apple Store to see what the professionals had to say. The man-bunned employee assigned to help me claimed he didn’t find anything wrong with my computer, but he seemed distracted by the tall, curvy coworker he was training (who I had been equally distracted by myself). Besides, I had been using my one free store credit that came with the laptop so maybe solving my problem didn’t earn him any commission. Maybe he had no incentive to help me.

Not feeling any better after my trip to the store, I ripped a piece of paper from my notebook, folded it in half, and placed it on the top of my laptop to cover the webcam. For added measure, I pushed my laptop shut and shoved it beneath the bed.

That night, I felt comfortable. I felt safe. I felt like I wasn’t being watched.

I was wrong.

I woke up every few minutes to the sound of pecking. Tiny little taps. But I saw nothing so I kept falling back asleep — until around three in the morning when I noticed a light. Not from my computer. It was coming from the wall this time.

I positioned my glasses onto my face, crept over to the wall, and saw a pinhole of white light. A hole in the wall. Someone had created a hole in the wall. That must have been the tapping. They must have broken through the sheetrock.

That time, my guess was right. A few minutes later, an eye appeared at the hole, terrified to see me staring back at them. They ran from their dorm. I shoved a desk chair beneath my doorknob and called the campus police.

It turned out my engineer-friend was right. Someone had hacked into my computer. One of my suite-mates who had apparently been obsessed with me. Who had stolen my laptop while I was peeing (in our dorm, not during class) and tampered with it so they could watch me sleep through the webcam. And when I covered the webcam, they improvised and watched me sleep through the hole they had created.

In the end, I moved out of my dorm. My roommate got suspended. And I decided to never let a moment go by without covering my laptop camera again.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Tonight you are mine!

You’ve been warned. This story is ****very**** disturbing.
Please don’t go beyond this if you are under 18 years!

The duct tape feels coarse. The sound it emits as it unravels cuts through the darkness, announcing its presence above the pleas for life.

The dark grey confines It to the chair.

When the mouth is covered, silence greets us for the first time in hours.

What a reprieve. The quiet of the room allows me to truly focus on It. What I found at the bar looking for a night of lust and hedonism now reduced to a blubbering mass.

I stare at It as tears stream down Its face.

I look into those eyes that ignited the initial passion within me, and my mind can’t help but go back to a few hours before.

I went to the bar for a drink or two. I had no designs on the night ending up as it has, but as they say, life has a strange, almost fortuitous way of working itself out. I sat at the bar and ordered a drink, and before you know it, I had received a shot of whiskey from a man at the other end. I regarded him as I took the shot with gusto, and before I knew it, he was seated next to me.

We bantered; we bullshitted. His hazel eyes looked me over. My deep browns surveyed my prize for the evening and was not disappointed. I could tell his heavy, winter clothing was concealing a muscular figure. The excitement only waxed with the hours of drinking and carrying on.

We really tied one on. Well, if I am being honest, only he did. I plied him with booze and before long he failed to notice that I hadn’t drank nearly as much as him.

Then the song played from the jukebox. An oldie but goodie meant to be sung as a duet.

Tonight, You Belong to Me.

He belted his heart out as did I. I felt a connection with him for the last time. As I knew it would, something snapped. Maybe, it was the lyrics of the song reminding me of the ephemeral nature of most bar romances. More than likely, with the dawn, he would be gone. The thought horrified me. We may be together tonight, but that would be it. I will retreat to my lonely and worthless life, derelict and forgotten. Not tonight, I told myself, not ever again. I think about my apartment, and the liquid in the beaker and a smile breaks across my face. As the song finished, It slid Its hands up my leg. A tingle emanated throughout me as I fantasized about the rest of the evening.

I kissed It on the mouth and insisted on heading back to my place as it was only around the corner. Gleefully, It followed me like a dog tethered longingly and accepting to its master’s leash. It led us to now.

I lock eyes with It once again. It keeps staring at the front door of my apartment with a forlorn gaze and a hint of something that enrages me.


Immobile, It has no way of protesting physically. So, Its eyes scream a thousand woes. As I strip off the pants and look at Its cock, flaccid and useless, I lick it.

Its member eventually begins to feel soft and pointless. I grow bored. My teeth find their place. The rubbery taste of his cock fills my mouth. I bite down. It breaks off into my mouth. As the familiar taste of blood and the feeling of ripped tissue announce their presence to my taste buds. It yelps, not as a human announces pain but as a dog reacts to a foot stomping its face. Like a goddamn, feeble animal.

I swallow it. It becomes a part of me.

The fear of losing It as It bleeds out fills my mind. I turn on the iron. I can tell Its vision is fading, but It gives me a look I hadn’t prepared for. Not one of fear but a look of perplexion. As I stand enigmatically next to the ironing board, I revel in the fact that he has no idea the horrors I have in store for It.

I grab the iron and walk slowly but surely to Its restrained figure. The undeterred gaze in my eyes as I stare at the wound that used to be Its penis informs It as to what’s going to come next. I press the steam release for effect. As terror fills Its eyes once again, I anticipate the smell of burning flesh. The iron moves closer, an inch away from contact.

Anticipating the glorious yelps and pleas, I let my guard down. The pain in my jaw as It elbows me came as such a such a surprise that I drop the iron and fall to the ground. With a singular purpose, It rips the rest of Its restraints free and bolts for the front door.

I followed in kind. Sheer survival guide Its actions as It runs out the front door. Survival is the only thought on my mind as well. I thought of the news stories, contemplating a life in prison.

As I ran through the dim light of my hallway, I could hear the sound of knocking on my neighbor’s door. My heart sinks as I could hear the creaking sound of the door giving way. The very slight light of the dimming fluorescent announced that someone had answered and was conversing with It. When I saw what apartment he happened upon, my heart fills with a vague sense of hope. He is at my conservative neighbor’s door. Every night I brought a man home, she would regard me with disgust and avoidance. I may see a happy ending to this yet.

After seeing the fading light in Its eyes and the inability of It to string together a coherent sentence given the loss of blood, I quickly wrap my arms around it. I inform the spinster next door that we had a lover’s quarrel. I assure her not to worry as we will keep the noise down and that Eric (the first name that came to my mind) will be safe with me.

The effects of the alcohol and loss of blood leave It impotent to respond. She looks us over with what I can only assume is disgust due to the lack of light. She mutters to herself as she slams the door in our faces.

“This generation, no morals.”

I lead it back as weakness overtakes It. The bright light of my apartment reveals the extensive loss of blood. I restrain It in the chair once more and decide it’s time.

The power drill emits a sound that cuts through the night air. As it contacts Its skull, the vibration reverberates up through my arm and shakes me to the core, resonating all the way to my toes. I am careful not to drill too far. I see the opening. As I look expectantly at the contents of the beaker, I realize this will be the tenth time I have administered a variation of The Solution. Rome wasn’t built in a day as they say, but I am tired of disposing of bodies. I have come so close to perfecting it. This will be the time that the acidic mixture of chemicals will render to me a companion.

A true lover that will last a lifetime. Reliant, pliable, and most importantly, MINE. I prepare myself for the sounds and smells it makes as it contacts the brain.

This will be the time. It has to be.

As the liquid is poured and settles, I give it a moment to take effect, something recognizes me in Its eyes as if some primitive instinct has kicked in. Some latent fear left over from Its former life. The hazel eyes still scream in protest, but I catch a hint of something.


Now it belongs to me, body and soul.

Tonight… and forever.

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Would you like to fall in love with me?

Hey hey…oh heyy…u gotta stop..hey listen, please stay!
U started fading away and I let you go. I didn’t come after you.

It’s been a month since your death.
Today, is a high school prom night and I am so excited with an idea that I might see you here!
It’s a beautiful hall with golden lights , pretty girls and handsome boys; am enjoying ofcourse!

It’s a party rock song going on in background and suddenly it is replaced with some smooth trance and groups got split into couples while I was busy beholding this transformation and my eyes were moving around and there…
There somewhere in the crowd, I saw you standing with an attractive suit on and a bow around your neck, u were standing in a position like u were proposing me to dance with u.
I slowly started walking towards you…

Travelled the universe twice in search of you and you were almost there with me on that prom, where I almost said I missed you, I almost had a hold on you; knowing u won’t be here forever, almost kissed u out of your soul so that I could taste the nakedness of your love before u almost leave
I wanted to really say everydamnthing I have had carried till this day but we aren’t permitted time,are we ever?
I wanted to hold you close for a little more time, wanted to drown deep into your blue eyes finding hope, wanted to wait for that one moment where u would say,”I love you with all my heart and I wish to stay too!”
But again we weren’t permitted time.Where u were going to leave me anyways and I was still planning and preparing my almosts!

U slowly started fading away on this prom night, where I hoped I would see you knowing that you don’t even exist though, I had faith that on this special day your soul would come seeking me.
I almost performed all my almosts while at the same time I was begging for some more seconds, all along!

U were ready to leave me with the sweet music with couples dancing on,eye into eye, kissing, and all of that seemed chaos in the absence of u.
I begged u to stay..

The only moment I owned u, was when u even made me forget there were other people around, when you were dancing; holding me, like you were never gonna go, I still remember you singing ‘would you like to fall in love with me ? Oh,tell me girl!’ to me and I did the journey of all our moments together while u sang for me, I went back to the days you shined for me to the ones I rained for you,convincing my every tear not to roll down. By then u had stopped singing. I was still looking u in the eye though dead, you were so full of life and me, alive yet lifeless.

But in those moments I felt like I was returned my life before I could live it to the most, you were ready to leave!
I thought if I would ever meet you again and tell u it had been so difficult without you!

U finally bid me a nice goodbye expecting me, I would let you go with a smile and I swear, I had prepared myself for this smile every second, thinking of the goodbye if I meet u in this life ever since u left.
No matter how much I had mentally prepared myself, my heart wasn’t yet ready for the moment to be done. And for once, I thought if I could give up on my life too so that I can stay with you forever and ever!


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Thanks for being a lesson!

To say it was painful is an understatement. To say that you hurt me is an even bigger understatement. The truth is, if you had left a dozen stab wounds on my body, the way you did to my mind and heart, you would be imprisoned but no one ever imprisons anyone for the near-fatal crime of breaking someone’s heart. It took me years to get over you. It took me days to simply pull myself together and lead a normal life. It took so long that the pain began to feel like second nature to me, it began to feel like it was consumption rather than just heartbreak.

And still, as I sit here writing this, I want to say thank you. Thank you because even with all the pain and the heartache and the pain, I do not regret you, you were not a mistake. You were not something to forget easily. And you taught me some of the most important lessons I have ever learned in my entire life. You taught me that people, no matter how much they promise they will stay, like the leaves in autumn, go. You taught me that anyone who promises you forever is lying to you. You taught me that hurt is a natural part of love. You taught me how flawed expectations are as a whole. You were a lesson not a mistake.

You were the universe’s present, wisdom in the form of a human, sent to me at just the right time, to tell me how much I need to evolve and grow and become someone who I am proud of. I needed to have my heart broken this badly. I needed to be hurt this much to know how deeply I feel, how much I truly can love. I needed to breathe and feel the pain to this extent. You gave me this and for that I am forever grateful. You have changed me as a human, fundamentally and forever.

So wherever you are, despite the pain you caused me, I hope nothing but the best for you. I want to thank you for the heartbreak. I want to thank you for being a lesson to me in so many ways. I want to thank you for the damage you did to me. Because without that damage I do not think I would be the very best version of me. The me I see and feel today. 

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Maybe it’s me!

Not a intro but may be it’s me who is the intro and the outro who can wash out like sound.

Maybe it’s me who is not fullfilling the point of view of my parents. Or it’s my passion that I am fighting for with all my heart!
Is it really me? Or I am just being overrated? So many questions in my mind but there’s no answer. When I look up to what I really am, then I am just a girl who is damn passionate and achiever. But when someone has a idol, their I have no idol and I don’t follow any role model. My role model is me and I always motivate myself for anything what I love!

Letting you know one thing, there is NO ONE at the end with you to stand by and help you out! It is YOU under the spotlight where you hussled and struggled and made the way to the spotlight! It is you and yourself who should be proud at you! Make sure no one is your life except you! All will be A PART of you life but the time comes when you are alone and you will be successful no matter what! Believe in you. Love if not fake its just you are not getting one when we say ‘Destiny is what you make not what is already made. And if it is already made when why would god punish us for what we do! And if we are making then maybe god if sitting and waiting to punish us! Its your deed love! Just be nice to everyone and everyone will realise your importance at the end!’

And thats my time! Thankyou!

  • Dhwrites!♥️

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I don’t want TINDER love!

I have had countless conversations with my ex-girlfriends over the past few years, and I have listened to them and even caught myself reciting every cliché under the sun when it comes to finding love. From, “You have to love yourself first” to “It will happen when you least expect it, what is meant to be will be.”

But here’s the thing, I’m really tired of it. I’m tired of holding onto these romanticisms like life lines that pull me out when I’m sitting at home psyching myself up to ‘put myself out there’ and to not cancel that date I agreed to. Putting myself out there like I’m an ornament on display in a sales store for window shoppers to peruse at their leisure.

If I take a moment to reflect on my dating encounters over the past year, that’s exactly how it felt at times, a sentiment I know is shared with many.

In this world of instant gratification, it is so easy to think of each other as replaceable. We don’t invest in new connections like we once would have because if it doesn’t work out we’ll find a better and taller version on Tinder in one good toilet swiping session.

We fail to acknowledge our worth and we fail to trust others and allow them to acknowledge it because we have been told so many times through one another’s actions, through the media, through our own negative self-talk, that we aren’t valued.

I recently went to a wedding expo with an engaged ex-girlfriend and discovered you can buy cake toppers that say “We swiped right.” I stood there holding it wondering what the world is coming to and whether the old school romance that my parents had, the romance I still catch myself dreaming about, is truly dead. I mentioned this to the beautiful bride to be and she gushed and agreed as we discussed some of the disturbing new dating trends that are becoming more common than not.

I want to be listened to, respected, and treated in the same way I want to listen to, respect, and treat my partner. Instead I find myself on first dates with women who think it’s okay to drink too much and put their hands lower than my abs.

I find myself making excuses for women I’ve only met once. The ones who think it’s okay to request with an air of entitlement, behind the safety of their screens, an image of my dick, as if simply collecting their reward for dating me. The ones who say “I was just joking, lighten up” when I tell them this is entirely inappropriate. I make excuses for women who send me messages requesting my shoe size and asking how much I weigh prior to meeting them and I make excuses for the ones who disappear or don’t show up in the first place.

I’m tired of making excuses for women who never once felt apologetic for their actions.

I am in no way placing blame, I am well aware that at times my responses have enabled and even contributed to this growing social acceptance of disrespect. Also everyone has their own life choices. But I’ve finally realized that the more excuses we make on their behalf, the more they get away with it. It is time to bring this to a halt and for us to take a stand.

A stand for our worth.

A stand for our uniqueness.

A stand for respect.

A stand to acknowledge that we are irreplaceable and admit to ourselves that those who think otherwise are simply not worth our time in the first place.

Inherently, I believe in the good in people which is why I’m not giving up. I’m going to keep reminding myself that these experiences, while common, are not everyone’s and that there are wonderful humans out there who probably feel just as I have; disappointed and let down.

I’m going to keep reminding myself that putting myself out there (wherever “there” is) isn’t necessarily turning into a window display but is a demonstration of bravery, openness, and willingness to be vulnerable again.

If we give up, then we are letting these people who may be a minority have the power of the majority and I’m not satisfied with that. The reason I’m single has become an all too common societal trend and it’s time that respect, not just in the dating scene, but in our day to day, is rewritten.

Because I respect myself, I will not let you disrespect me. Let’s treat one another with compassion and kindness and for the sake of respectful relationships everywhere, please stop sending unsolicited pictures of your boobs.

Love for me is still the old school, but yeah if you still got some needs… hit me up!
Coz in the end even I am a human!

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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If I like you enough…!

If I like you enough, then I will wait days for you to answer my texts. I might complain about you during the wait, I might make empty threats to my friends about how I am finally finished with you, but the second that you text me back I will become putty in your hands again. I will forget about how shitty it felt to wonder what you were choosing to do instead of answering me. I will talk to you as if you did nothing wrong.

If I like you enough, then I will rearrange my schedule to see you. When you cancel plans with me at the last second, I will be upset about the time I wasted showering and shaving for you, but the disappointment won’t stop me from getting my hopes up again in the future. It won’t stop me from agreeing to hang out with you again, even though there’s a risk that you will repeat the mistake. Even though there is a chance that you’ll keep chipping off pieces of my heart until there’s nothing left to share.

If I like you enough, then I will act like it doesn’t bother me when you flirt with other girls. I will pretend that I didn’t notice the drunken pictures you shared on your snap story and the comments you left on her page. I will keep flirting with you as if I am your only one. I will keep telling myself that I am the exception. That there is something between us that is so much stronger than whatever your relationship is with the rest of those girls.

If I like you enough, then I will stop looking at my other options. I will turn down anyone else who asks me out. I won’t even look in their direction. I will stay loyal to you, even though we aren’t in a relationship yet and it is clear that you have been going out with other girls.

If I like you enough, then I will forget that I have standards. I will look past every single red flag. I will let you get away with anything. I will let you treat me like shit.

I know how unhealthy my way of thinking is. I know I need to raise my standards. I know I deserve more. I know I should only be interested in boys who hold open doors for me and keep their promises and text back within a reasonable amount of time.

I know that the next time you take days to answer my texts, I should leave them unread. I know the next time you cancel plans, I should tell you that I’m too busy to hang out any other day. I know that I should move on with my life. I know that I should tell you to go fuck yourself.

I know that you are no good for me, but for some reason, I’m still having a lot of trouble getting over you. 

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Girl you’re a beautiful mess!

You’re a beautiful mess wandering in this world with no specific destination. You’ve been lost for so long and have no idea what to do or where to go. You don’t know yourself quite well enough yet. You’re still discovering who you are in this big world. You’re still discovering what you truly love and what you’re truly passionate about. You’re still finding out your way or even paving one for yourself.

You’re trying to understand life, but it’s so damn confusing for you right now. People have been entering your life during some phases and leaving it during others, which left you wondering who your people are in the first place. You’ve been betrayed and heartbroken so many times that you can’t quite figure out who should you love or trust anymore. You’re still building your life, and you don’t even know what kind of life you want to build. You’re still figuring out what you’re good at and what you suck at in this life. 

You’re trying to find your tribe — some people feel right for you, while others don’t — but you’re still figuring out who should you stay closer to and who should you let go. Life has broken you too many times, which left you questioning how strong you are. You’re still not quite aware of your capabilities or strengths.

There’s so much chaos around you that you’ve lost who you are. You’re still trying to find your voice in this big chaotic word. You’re still figuring out what you believe in and what you don’t. You’re a beautiful mess — embrace it.

Enjoy the journey of getting to know who you are in this life and what you want. Enjoy your messiness. I know you feel the urge to freak out, but this is how it should be for now.

This part of your life is supposed to be a mess, but it’s beautiful and exciting as well. It’s you embarking the unknown. It’s you stepping into the world and discovering your own self, which is one of the most adventurous and exciting journeys a person gets to experience.

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I had never heard this term nor did I know it’s meaning, until I met this lady who happens to be a friend’s relative and decided to talk about it after reading my blog on coming out :

“I reserve the right to love many different people at once, and to change my prince often.”

I would like to make something very clear.

Polyamory was not the direct cause of the dissolution of my marriage. It was an indirect cause. It ignited a fire in a relationship that was already fractured (mixed metaphors, I know).

You can count on poly to be a lot of hard work, emotional upheaval, and, at times, stress. What you can also count on, is the fact that it will bring up your shit. Your shit, your partner’s shit, their partner’s shit, and so on. For myself and my husband, I think it felt like one giant mountain of shit (see my bio, I swear a lot). Polyamory will uncover ugly truths about yourself and your relationships that maybe you didn’t want to see or acknowledge. Maybe you were unhappy, like I was, like my husband was, and you didn’t even realize the extent of that unhappiness. And I think unhappy is the wrong word, more like dissatisfied.

Monogamy works for many people; polyamory works for many people. What I would advise, is that if you have been in a monogamous relationship for a long time, if you are married and have children and a life together, tread lightly friends. Be cautious to a fault. Examine yourself and your relationship from every angle as best you can. Sit with your shit; stare it in the face (if that is an unpleasant visual, my apologies).

Because, make no mistake, your shit will come up.

When my husband and I went to counseling, we saw a therapist and she said something to us that stuck with me. “Why would you add this complication to your lives?” And I sat there and defended it. I defended this crazy complication even while my brain was screaming at me, “YES, LISTEN TO THE LADY!”

I remember sitting there feeling emotionally spent, tired down to my bones. And yet, I told her something to the effect of: poly brings up stuff for me that I never would have dealt with. It brings up my insecurities as a woman, a wife, a human being. It brought to light my trauma from my childhood that I had conveniently packed away in my emotional suitcase of crap I never wanted to examine. Poly brought to light the fact that I am extremely codependent and have severe abandonment issues. All of those things were things I kept packed away. Things I chose to ignore (subconsciously for the most part). I was living a life of half-truths, going through the motions within my marriage, my friendships, at work, and even (and this scares me still) with my children.

When your husband has a serious girlfriend that he is in love with and you watch him walk out the door two nights a week to be with her, it will bring up your shit. When you see a post in a Facebook group for polyamory in which your husband referred to his relationship with his girlfriend, as “coming home,” it breaks something in you, if you are not prepared for it, or emotionally capable of handling it. I absolutely was not.

Poly unpacked my suitcase and it did it fast. So fast in fact, that I was caught off guard and running around like a panicked nine-year-old (the age I was when I watched my father die). I was in a flight/fight/freeze mode for months. I was explosive, triggered, and completely falling apart. Now, all of this said, I do believe that my suitcase of shit was a bit more packed than the average person. I did not realize until much later that I had PTSD or codependency. And sure, we could have done things differently – slowed the fuck down, sought out more help than we did, paused the whole damn thing.

But we didn’t, and here we are.

Polyamory is a beautiful and amazing lifestyle. I don’t want to dissuade anyone who believes that they identify as poly from giving it a go. I am simply saying, please, for the love of God, go slowly and tread lightly. Take it one step at a time and love yourself first.

Polyamory is hard as fuck and, in my opinion, absolutely worth it. And that statement may make me sound like a crazy person as I am smack in the middle of a horrific situation; separation and a likely divorce.

But look at it this way, if I hadn’t opened that suitcase, I would still be living a lie. I would still feel restless and unsatisfied, separate and distant from everything around me.

I had walls made of Adamantium. Emotional walls that I put up to protect myself from feeling anything too deeply for fear of being hurt the way I was when my father died. Now, I am working through my trauma, I am grieving my father’s death, which in 32 years, was something I had never done before. I am freeing myself of my walls, I am alive, I am emotionally vulnerable and aware. I see everything and everyone in their true light because nothing is filtered through fear, through terror, through panic.

I am present in myself and I am alive for the first time in my adult life. 

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All the things ended up being a big LIE!

When we first met, you said you were lucky to be with me. Your exes had treated you terribly and you knew I wouldn’t do the same. Guess you forgot to tell me that you would end up treating me like shit in the end too.

You also told me you really, really liked me. You said it again on the phone call where you ended it.

Can you see why I’m confused?

You also said you didn’t think you’d have this great of a connection with anyone and that I was ‘different’. Is this what you do to ‘great connections’?

On our first date you complimented me. Actually, you showered me with them. Were you glad I believed it?

And then on the second date I held your hand while you drove and you told me not to stop. You showed me where you lived and told me about your childhood and I made fun of the glasses you wore while driving.

Do you miss me holding your hand yet?

You once called me for over three hours. You told me you were an honest person and you never lied. And then you said the real kicker, you promised you would never hurt me.

And I believed you.

Maybe I’m an idiot for believing you were different from the rest. Maybe I’m a stupid, naive guy, for trusting you whole heartedly.

On the night you ended it with me, you said you were confused. You didn’t know what you were doing. And that’s when I lost it. Because if you thought you were confused, what did you think I was? I didn’t see that coming. Not at all.

I told you I wrote a poem about you, right after our first date. You told me, ‘I’m calling it. Your next book will have a lot of stuff about me in it!’

At least you were damn right about one thing.

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I can give you a second chance but third chance is not something I am going for!

I believe in second chances. I believe in seeing the best in people. I believe that everyone makes mistakes. I believe in kindness. I believe in forgiveness.

That is why I gave you a second chance. I cared about you enough to let your first offense slide. I trusted you when you said that you were sorry, that you would change. I gave you a shot to turn the situation around. I gave you more opportunities than most people would.

But you went right back to doing what made me upset in the first place. You didn’t hesitate to screw up again after I accepted your apology. You assumed that, since I forgave you once, I would do it over and over again. You assumed that you could walk all over me, because I have such a big heart.

You made a major error in judgement. I may be nice, but I am not a pushover. I am not a placemat. I am not the kind of person who will accept poor treatment when there are so many other options out there for me.

Even though I gave you a second chance the first time you hurt me, I am not going to allow it to happen again. I am not going to accept the same insincere apology twice. I am not going to lower my standards to make room for you in my life.

I gave you a second chance, because I believed you when you told me that it would never happen again, that you would do better. But by messing up a second time, you proved to me that you cannot be trusted. You proved that you cannot keep promises. You proved yourself to be a liar.

I gave you a second chance, because I really liked you. At the time, I could picture a successful future alongside you and I didn’t want to give up on that possibility yet. I didn’t want to leave you. I wanted to do everything I could to fight for us, to make sure I wasn’t giving up on something special. But you made it clear that you aren’t the person I originally thought you were. You aren’t the kind of person I want in my future. You only belong in my past.

I gave you a second chance, because I am a realist. I accept that I am imperfect. I am going to make mistakes too. You are not the only one who is flawed. You are not the only one who has done something they are not proud of doing. But the difference between us is that I try hard not to hurt other people. When I screw up once, I do everything I can to avoid disappointing them again. I don’t take advantage of my second chances. I appreciate them. I realize that I am lucky to have them.

So don’t blame me when I walk away from you, because I gave you a second chance. I did my part. But you didn’t do yours. 

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I don’t care about you anymore!

I used to spend so much time rereading our old text messages, replaying memories inside my head, scrolling through your social media, dressing up cute just in case I happened to run into you. I used to waste so much energy fooling myself into thinking that you might come back one day, that our love story hadn’t reached its end yet.

I assumed that you would always hold a special place in my heart, that I would never get over you. I thought I would always consider you the one who got away. I thought I would always secretly hate myself for not doing enough to keep you close.

I’m not sure when it happened, I’m not sure how I healed, but I no longer think like that anymore. I no longer wish that you were here.

Somewhere along the line, I stopped sitting up at night, wondering what you were doing. Whether someone else was sharing the bed with you in the same place where I used to sit. I stopped falling asleep thinking of your face. I stopped reaching out in my sleep to touch you. I stopped missing the way your body felt against mine. I stopped waking up with your name on my lips.

Somewhere along the line, I stopped obsessing over your social media. Stopped checking to see if your relationship status changed. Stopped scrolling through posts to catch up on your life. Stopped trying to guess what was going on in your pictures based on the background. Stopped guessing whether you were happy. Stopped guessing whether you were thinking about me, too.

Somewhere along the line, I stopped mentioning your name in conversations. I stopped telling my friends how much I hated you for walking away. I stopped looking for you in public. I stopped asking about you in groups. I stopped wishing you were there when I went out to have some fun. I stopped comparing everyone else to you.

Somewhere along the line, I stopped looking through our old texts. I stopped listening to your old voicemails. I stopped thinking about the old compliments you gave me, the old kisses you gave me, the old love you gave me. I stopped replaying the highlights of our relationship. I stopped focusing on all of the good things and ignoring all of the bad.

Somewhere along the line, I stopped having the urge to reach out to you on late nights and early mornings. I stopped crying over you inside of bathroom stalls and beneath the cover of my blankets. I stopped drunk texting you during parties. I stopped trying to live in the past. I stopped pretending you were the best thing that ever happened to me. I stopped lying to myself about how I would never find someone as good as you.

Somewhere along the line, I stopped caring about you. I stopped missing you. I stopped wanting you.

And now, after all of this time, I can finally say that I’m over you. 

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What defines beauty?

Hello beauties!!

So yes you guess it correct!! Let’s talk about beauty!
You know beauty seem to be in anyway, like it be outer beauty for some or inner beauty for some irrespective of which gender, caste, color and category you are! You know the word beauty but what defines beauty? I personally feel the most high-rated person is MOM! Who can truely define beauty!

Talking about making someone beautiful so, you don’t make anyone beautiful its the way you look for beauty! That innconce and charmingness is a beauty. Even i don’t know what is beauty except for any ‘MOM’ in the world!



  • Dhwrites

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What hurts more?

“I don’t believe in love at first sight,” you told me, “but, our souls connected the first few seconds we met. I saw you from across the room, this gorgeous blonde girl dressed in some crazy outfit standing there like an Amazonian goddess — and then I approached you — I teased you. You handled your own, you were unlike any woman I’d ever met, a fast-talking spitfire, who put me in my place.”

Those were the words you chose to leave me with: a gut-wrenching oxymoron — you told me I was beautiful but I’ve never felt more unattractive. You praised my sharp tongue but in this moment, all witticisms escaped me. What a horrible memory to let linger in the midst of a goodbye: the night we met.

A memory that held my heart so closely it felt like a burning bundle of maggots swallowed my atria, chewing cavities and holes into more empty holes. Because that’s what I am now: an abyss, within an abyss, void of repletion – when did I start to lose myself in the idea of us? When did you start to runaway?

After a breakup we want to solve the case of our broken hearts; like derisory film noir detectives, we start spewing jolted theories from the sides of our mouths; we fastidiously investigate what went wrong, asking everyone around us for advice, but mainly, we try and answer the same hard-hitting questions: Why is it so easy to walk away from me?

Why is it that when I think of you, my heart aches at the thought of how extraordinary we could be together? Why can’t I sleep without your arms around me? Is it because I’m crazy, is it because I’m a masochist, is it because I saw a future with someone for the first time in my life? Maybe it’s because I am human and I finally met another human who made life a little messier.

Maybe, I love the chaos that you bring. As a seasoned expert in heartbreak misdemeanors, I am certain of one thing: no one is easy to walk away from. You are not easy to walk away from. I am NOT easy to walk away from. In fact, the only thing abandoned that Wednesday evening in the strange autumn heat, was you and your happiness. You were willing to leave behind a woman who challenged you, who supported you through your creative drought, who remained faithful even when you were not, all because you were confused.

“This is getting too serious,” you told me, “I can’t do this, I can’t hurt you. I can’t look into those big brown eyes and hurt you. I am afraid I can never love as much as you do.” Wait. Since when did loving too much become a crime? Seriously? What is wrong with this generation?

Our relationship was not any more serious than the night we first met. After all, “our souls touched,” and that’s a pretty big deal, right? The truth is, you were becoming more attached, you saw that I was special, you saw that I wasn’t going to abandon you just like everyone else.

So please don’t try and turn it around. Please don’t tell me that it’s I who feels too much. I see the way you look at me, your pupils stick to every layer of my skin. Your grey eyes center on me; they hurt when I hurt, they smile when I smile. Your pining gaze mirrors your heart and frightens you — it doesn’t frighten me. I want to stare into your soul until your subconscious transforms into a sword to fight the demons that keep you up at night.

I am proud that I love, that I give my heart without limit. And though there will be many women after me, there will be no woman like me. One day this will hit you, maybe even sooner than you imagined — but it will be too late.

Sometimes the only way to solve a broken heart is to remember that you can’t – at least not right away. It’s all too soon, too fragile. My words want you and then they condemn you, my head pretends to be buried in work whilst my pulse is buried in yours — even when we flatline, I crave resuscitation. Nothing makes sense, not even this manifesto and why should it? Heartbreak is even crazier than love. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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The House on Fire 🔥

(penned by Anchal)

Everything seemed pretty normal 
From the outside;
But I could see that
The house was on fire
Flames of it rising to the top
Turning the love and hope
Into the ashes off hatred
The house was on fire

Nobody came out of the burning house
Thought it was empty
But all of 'em chose to be inside
And adore their home for as much time as they could

But I could see a light
Different from the fire flames
A white unicorn
Struggling at the window pane
To get out of that burning house
But he couldn't flap his wings Since they were damaged
From protecting the others in the house
Who didn’t want to live anymore
But the unicorn did;
He wanted life for him and for others too!

But the unicorn dies
With the others in that burning house
And the house is now ashes
Waiting for the wind to carry it along.

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Why fuckboys win and good guys lose?

Over dinner with two of my closest friends, we recently got into the discussion of how girls are somehow attracted to “assholes.” We questioned why they lie in bed and daydream of long mornings with people that treat them right but get hung up on people that don’t return our messages, cancel dates, and treat them with less romantic respect than they deserve. People have forever been asking why good guys finish last. Here’s why it’s so easy to sabotage ourselves and what can be done to stop.

1. When expectations are low, it’s hard to be disappointed.

It’s really easy to gravitate towards people who are predictable and won’t let you down. Normally, these are traits that you would associate with positive relationships, but setting a low bar usually means that you won’t get hurt. Or if you do, at least you were expecting it. It’s easier to bounce back from something that seems logical than by expecting someone to treat you well and being surprised along the way.

Know your worth. If a person you’re involved with is treating you worse than a platonic friend would, there’s an issue. Know that if this is the case it says more about that person than it does about you. Setting a high bar might mean you’re less involved with people—because the pool of people who are worth your time and energy is now smaller—but that means that you’ll have more emotional energy for when the right person does come around.

2. There’s a twisted sense of moral superiority.

For most people, it’s ten times harder to examine personal shortcomings than those of other people. When you’re involved with someone who you believe will act below your level of decency, there is no need to ever question if you have been in the wrong. There’s a false sense of security in knowing that there’s someone else to blame when bad things happen.

Consciously choose to spend time with people who are lifting you up. The most successful relationships, platonic or otherwise, are the ones that make you your best self. Goodness multiplies when it’s reciprocated. Wait for someone that brings their best self to you so you’ll do the same in return.

3. It’s easy to think people can be changed.

Obviously, everyone believes that they are worthy of the best treatment. Couple this with the optimistic assumption that most people have good intentions and you get the toxic belief that you can change people, the way they feel, and their motivations.

You can always try to lead by example but that necessitates people choosing to follow. Accept that there are things that are out of your control. People are one of those things. It’s often scary to admit to ourselves that we cannot curate the scenes of our life, but we do get curate the characters. Start there.

4. We mistakenly believe it’s the only option.

We’re living in a society that caters to immediate gratification. It’s not easy to tell ourselves to wait for someone who is worth the emotional investment because the concept of waiting for something that is only a possibility and not a guarantee is beyond us. Also, anyone who has already been unlucky in love can easily convince themselves that based on experience there isn’t anyone out there that will treat them properly. But this ends up being a crazy negative feed back cycle that keeps causing people to get involved with unworthy people, which only further proves the point that “this is the only option.”

Have patience and disregard the belief that there are no good people out there. Obviously, if you can know that someone is bad, relative to other people, then there are good people in your life already. The fact that there hasn’t been one you’ve been romantically involved with isn’t to say that they aren’t out there. You have to start by believing they are because you’re not going to find what you don’t think exists. Surround yourself with the good people in your life and they’ll connect you to more good people. Soon, your circle is growing and your chances of finding someone you click with are multiplying.

5. Drama often feels like attention.

Where there is constant drama, there is constant engagement. If not with the person that’s contributing to it, then at least with your support group and friends. It’s somehow gratifying to have stories to tell, to need to ask for advice, to be passing around screenshots and asking, “What do you think of this?” If the person you’re involved with doesn’t love and support you at least your friends will—doubly so when they know you’re not being treated the way you deserve.

Examine how you feel after arguing with the person you’re involved with or gossiping about them with friends. Is it really satisfaction that you feel? If so, how long does it last? When someone is good for you, you’ll never feel like you need to seek attention because they will be attentive enough that you never feel disregarded. This type of satisfaction is constant. Ditch the drama and spend some time listening. In being on the listening end, on the panel of advisors so to speak, you’ll be able to learn a lot about yourself and what you need and want based on the way you counsel friends.

6. It’s a nice way to cop out from dealing with our own insecurities.

When you know someone isn’t going to commit to you, you don’t have to commit to them. When you know someone isn’t really dying to see you, it doesn’t matter if you blow them off. Being with people who don’t treat us well tacitly allows us to be less than our best selves without anyone asking too many questions. Without us asking many questions of ourselves. When no one is reciprocating or holding you accountable, you can effectively disregard the things that you know you need to work on yourself.

Forget spending time with someone else. Spend time with yourself, first and foremost. Indulge yourself. Question yourself. Test yourself. The relationship you have with yourself ultimately serves as the foundation that all other relationships are built upon. Then, when you know the type of person that you want to be and you give yourself to someone that deserves that type of person, they will hold you accountable and help you grow. They’ll act as a mirror, reciprocating your efforts by giving their best self to you as well. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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I am sorry for breaking your heart!

I’m sorry for breaking your heart. We were extremely good together. I won’t deny that. You did a beautiful job of making me smile when I needed it, and I think I did the same for you. There are few people who I would drive 45 minutes to at midnight. There are few people who can make me smile when I want to curl up and cry. There are few people who know to play with my hair if they want to make me melt.

But despite all of our good qualities, there were the small things that just couldn’t be ignored. There were the moments where our cogs couldn’t quite line up. I’ve spent many years trying to avoid stepping into traps, and I’ve finally learned to recognize where the ground may give out beneath you. And that’s you. If I truly gave my all, trusted you with my life, I would have fallen and crashed.

You don’t know how to catch me. It’s simple, but nonetheless painful. It hurts because I wanted this to work out so badly. I wanted it to be you. I wanted to imagine the rest of my life with you. But I’m moving away and you refuse to follow me. I reach for the same stars we watched that night, and it’s something we’ve failed to compromise on. So why get attached if I know this is only going to end? Why risk the heartbreak?

Maybe I was never fully in it to begin with. Neither of us were. I came close, but I was burned every time I flew too close to the sun in your eyes. You were surrounded by walls, and instead of trying to break them down, I threw my own up. And how can two people fall together if they refuse to let go of the ledge? Easy question, unfortunate answer: they can’t. They were doomed from the start.

But the fact of the matter is this: I hurt you first. Everything following was to prevent any more hurt on your end, and I can’t blame you for that. Nobody does self-preservation better than me, but sometimes I forget that I’m not the only one who can do it. And as unfair as it feels, I know I deserve it. I know I don’t deserve you and all of the good things you could bring me.

The problem with me is that I’ve never liked what’s good for me – I like the pain and the high from the bad things, the things that have all potential to kill me. But you, on the other hand, are wonderful. Special. Kind. You will find a girl who will drive hours just to touch your face in the middle of the night. Who finds the same things funny. Who gets as high as you on a bad day. Who will let you into her life and refuse to shut down. You deserve these things more than anyone else I know.

So I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t let you love me because I didn’t think I was worthy of it. I’m sorry I reeled you in and pushed you out the second I got too close. I’m sorry I’m not your manic pixie dream girl after all. I wanted to be everything you needed, so I pretended I could be. But you never saw me cry in the bathtub. You never held me when breathing became too hard. And I’m
sorry for that, too. I know you would have taken care of me in my worst moments. I’m sorry I was too scared to let you.

Just know that you still cross my mind, and it’s never unwelcomed. Whenever I think of you, I think of the night we looked at the stars out of your rear windshield and talked, just talked. Whenever I think of you, it’s purely with fondness. Always, always fondness. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Happy women’s day!❤️

Women you’re so strong

You know that sense of pride you belong

You make it happen with your will

You go beyond things to fill

The love and the passion you share

And the way you care

You’re a role model for people around

It’s always the pure love that you surrounds

Being a women that you’re

Happy women’s day

You’re a super star!❤️

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Mard banne ka asli maza aurat banke hi milta hai!

(Women’s Day special)

We have been raised in a culture (for centuries!) where men judge, compare, dismiss, and punish  women. Despite the #MeToo movement and the rise of the feminine, these things are still happening today. And we’ve all been there.

These patterns, thoughts, and behaviors have been generationally taught and ingrained in our hearts and minds. They’re a part of the collective consciousness—a greater energy than we can see—and this energy is thick.

The only way to permanently change and shift this part of our culture is for us to choose to take conscious action to support each other right now. Say goodbye to the days of us putting each other down and competing. We must shift our mindset and follow with our actions so that the collective consciousness can really start to rise.

By changing your mindset, you can instantly affect and transform those around you. This is one part of human nature that we should not keep around. We can change it together. I am personally taking action by calling out these behaviors from clients to friends and even myself (I would be lying if I said I never had an unsupportive thought). It’s time we shifted our mindsets from judgment and negativity to togetherness and love. And here’s how.

Jealousy And Comparison = Expansion And Opportunity

Whenever you feel jealous over someone else’s life and compare yourself to them, explore it deeper. First, ask yourself why. Create an opportunity to get to know yourself better by unpacking the root of your jealousy. Chances are your “I’m not good enough” inner ego is ringing loudly. Practice self-compassion and acknowledge that everyone is on their own path at their own pace. Yours is not wrong; it is merely unique to you.

Another way to explore it is by seeing every person you feel jealousy toward as a role model—someone you admire and want to embody. In the Law of Attraction, there’s a term called “expanders.” They are the people that have what you want—the house, the family, the energy, the body, whatever it may be. Instead of seeing these women as competition, focus on the positives you want to embody. You can manifest what you envy just like that. And if “I’m not good enough” keeps ringing, find someone in your life who can guide you and remind you of the reasons you’re more than enough.

Judging And Putting Down = Empowering And Giving Credit

Regardless of the strides we’ve made as women, it’s still harder for us to break barriers and smash glass ceilings. So if your fellow female takes steps up or is killing it in a particular area of her life, empower her to keep going rather than put her down. We can all help one another climb, and we should not be the ones standing in the way of our collective growth. Because when it’s your turn? You’ll want that same credit and reinforcement behind you—alchemize your judgment into support!

And if you notice you judge women for their accolades often, again ask yourself why. In some cases, you may disapprove of how they’re portraying themselves or acting out. If so, ask yourself why you choose to focus on what she’s not doing right. Move your focus elsewhere or choose to accept where she is on her path.

Not Listening And Dismissing = Speaking With Compassion And Holding Space

The biggest challenge with communication is when we put our assumptions into the conversation and refuse to listen to the other party. Not only are people sometimes just waiting for their turn to speak, they’re also not listening with compassion. I’ve been here before, and I’ve learned from each misstep. I know now that the best way to shift your listening toward compassion is to simply slow down. Embrace each conversation, give the other person space, and hear what they are saying beyond their words. Pay attention to body language, facial expressions, and the emotion behind their voice.

As women, they’ve been asked to be quiet and hold their opinions for way too long, and it’s amazing that they are now using their voices to speak up with power and intention. But that does not mean we ignore, evade, or dismiss someone else. Hold space for your fellow females by asking intuitive questions and becoming aware of your implicit bias in conversations. When you’re in doubt, give them the benefit of the doubt.

Disconnection And Avoidance = Connection And Effort

Sometimes the rise up can become lonely, but it doesn’t have to be that way. Harboring resentment or feeling like we need to do it alone is becoming more and more prevalent. Yes, we’re all capable, but no, we shouldn’t rise in a silo.

In times when you feel alone, extend your hand to connect with the females in your life (or in your communities). Build a bridge to communication and openness. Invite others into your world, ask questions, see other women around you as doors—to opportunities, ideas, and new beginnings. Start today by reaching out to one woman right after reading this and telling her why she inspires you. I guarantee you’ll start a chain reaction, and female support is definitely worth going viral.


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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Stay single until it is the perfect time!

If you aren’t done playing the field, if you still need to get the wild side out of your system, then stay single. Don’t break an innocent girl’s heart. Don’t make her think that you are going to settle down with her when you are secretly itching to explore your other options.

Stay single until you are ready to commit. Until you are ready to hand your heart over to one girl. One girl who makes you feel at peace. One girl who makes you feel like you are important. One girl who makes you think of home as a person instead of a place.

Stay single until you have grown into someone you can say you are proud of. Someone with inner strength and intelligence. Someone who shows up on time. Someone who means what he says. Someone who keeps every promise. Someone who always tells the truth.

Stay single until you are confident that you will stay loyal, no matter how many other bodies throw themselves at you. Until you are ready to delete all of your dating apps from your phone. Until you are ready to say goodbye to your friendships with your exes. Until you are ready to save all of your intimacy for the girl waiting for you at home.

Stay single until you are able to balance your friends, your career, and your love life in a healthy way. Until you have enough time in your schedule to spend with the person who means the most to you so she never feels neglected. Until you are able to give her the quality time that she deserves instead of blowing her off each week for a new reason.

Stay single until you are mature enough to handle an adult relationship. Until you learn how to handle your negative emotions and will not blow up at the first sign of anger. Until you are comfortable acting vulnerable, expressing your sadness, crying in front of others. Until you believe that you are in a healthy state of mind that can handle all of the responsibilities that come along with a relationship.

Stay single until you stop being so afraid of commitment. Until the thought of picking out a ring and getting down on one knee stops being something scary and starts being something that makes you smile, something that you are actually looking forward to doing one day.

Stay single until you find someone who makes you feel like the luckiest guy in the world. Someone who you could never imagine hurting. Someone who you believe you could spend a lifetime alongside without ever getting bored.

Stay single until you can give her what she deserves. Until you are prepared to share everything you have with her. Until you can call yourself a good boyfriend, someone who will never let her down, someone who will be her forever.

Stay single until you are ready to treat her the way she deserves, because she doesn’t need another broken heart. 

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Hello beautiful people!!

Today let’s talk about friendships!
I feel that friendship is a ship where two or more people ride with all the feelings. Let’s say small bonds are more special than anything.

Friendship is just not knowing things about each other or being a typical friend but that more than what you think. Taking about in friendship is something which makes you more stronger and makes you feel that yes someone is with you in your times!!

Not just friendship there many small bonds which are not considered but yet when the time comes they grow and be a support system! Which one is your do let comment i would love to read you definition of friendship!


  • Dhwrites

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You don’t need anyone!

You don’t need someone to pay for your meals when you go out to eat, because you have enough money to support yourself. You have a job that you are proud to call your own. You have cash that you worked your ass off to earn. If you want to splurge on a margarita or a slice of cheesecake, then you can, because you’ve learned how to take care of yourself from a young age. You don’t need anyone paying for you. You are independent. Self-sufficient.

You don’t need someone to hold your hand as you walk through the mall. You can walk your own path with your head held high, because you have the confidence that comes along with being a strong woman. Sure, you have certain insecurities, but you never let them persuade you to give up on yourself. You never let them convince you to think lesser of yourself. You love yourself. You love the woman you have grown into.

You don’t need someone to hold you close as you fall asleep at night, because you are comfortable on your own. You are eased by the silence, not troubled by it. You aren’t under the impression you need someone’s skin up against yours in order to have a peaceful night’s rest. You are happy, even when you are alone. Even when the loneliness creeps inside your soul. You know that the feeling will go away. You know that your happiness doesn’t depend on whether or not your bed is unoccupied.

You don’t need someone to come home and meet your parents, because your family is already proud of you. You have accomplished so much in your lifetime. You have become someone people brag about knowing. Someone with a lot of heart. Someone with a lot of goals. Someone with a big future in front of you.

You don’t need someone to whisper I love you before they leave for work in the morning, because you love yourself. You know your value. You know your worth. No one has to remind you that you are important for you to feel that way. Even if you needed some extra reassurance, you have plenty of friends who love you. Parents who love you. Cousins, aunts, nephews, coworkers, neighbors. You are surrounded by love. You are drowning inside of it.

You don’t need someone else to help you find happiness, because you go out and get what you want. You know what you are capable of achieving and never shy away from a challenge. You never back down. You never give up hope. You set out for whatever you desire and refuse to stop until you get it. You are a warrior. You are a badass. You are a strong fucking woman.

You don’t need anyone else to make your life feel like it’s worth living, because you are strong enough to make it on your own — and you are smart enough to know that there is nothing wrong with being single. 

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No problem if he doesn’t wanna date you!

He doesn’t want to date you. That’s why he keeps sending mixed signals. That’s why it takes him so long to answer texts. That’s why he always cancels plans. That’s why he gets quiet whenever you ask him about your future. That’s why he keeps claiming that he’s not ready for a real relationship. That’s why he keeps hurting you again and again with short breaks in between.

He doesn’t want to date you. He is never going to fall asleep inside of your arms and cook you breakfast in the morning. He is never going to agree to dinner with your grandparents over the holidays. He is never going to adopt a dog with you. He is never going to take you on a real date. He is never going to introduce you as his girlfriend. He is never going to give you the relationship you have been daydreaming about since you first met him.

It isn’t going to happen. He isn’t going to date you — but that isn’t the end of the world.

You don’t need someone who picks and chooses when you deserve attention. Someone who expects you to text back within two seconds, even though he sometimes takes days to get back to you. You don’t need someone who keeps claiming that he misses you, that he would love to see you, but can never find the time because he’s just so busy with work. You don’t need someone who talks a big game but never actually follows through with his actions.

You don’t need someone who doesn’t need you. You are better off without him. It might not feel like it now, but you are going to be happier without him.

You are going to be happier when you stop analyzing every word that comes out of his mouth, when you stop reading into his minuscule actions, when you stop scrolling through his social media and feeling your stomach sink when he posts pictures with other girls. You are going to be happier when you let the idea of dating him go, when you accept that he is never going to be your boyfriend and that it’s actually a good thing.

You’re better off single than with someone who can’t do something as simple as text you back. With someone who struggles to treat you with respect. With someone who takes advantage of your soft heart.

He doesn’t want to date you, because he can’t see the beauty right in front of him. He doesn’t appreciate everything that you have been doing for him. He doesn’t understand how lucky he is to know you. He doesn’t realize how amazing you are, because he hasn’t been paying attention. He has been neglecting you. He has been playing you. He has been leading you on.

Even though it seems like he likes you at least a little, he doesn’t want to date you — and that’s a good thing, because you don’t need someone that blind in your life anyway.

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Wait for someone who loves you like this!

Wait for someone who loves you with every little piece of his heart. Someone who would never leave when things get hard. Someone who is in it for the long haul. Someone who is willing to make compromises with you. Someone who is willing to fight for you. Someone who is willing to take a bullet for you.

Wait for someone who loves you — and shows it as often as he says it. Who kisses you on the forehead when you come back from work. Who surprises you with date plans and cheap presents. Who always makes you feel like you are appreciated, like he feels fortunate to have you.

Wait for someone who loves you like a best friend. Someone who knows exactly what to say to make you crack a smile when you’re upset. Someone who has created a million inside jokes with you. Someone who considers you family, even if there isn’t a ring on your finger to make it official yet.

Wait for someone who loves you and only you. Who is ready to settle down with you for forever. Who doesn’t hesitate to commit to you, who doesn’t make you wait days or months or years to make a decision, because he knows from the start that you are the person he is meant to date. He doesn’t have any doubts in his mind.

Wait for someone who loves you without conditions. Someone who loves you on the days when you are in a good mood and on the days when you are being a total bitch. Someone who loves you when you’re dressed in your finest clothes and loves you just as much when you’re wearing a pajama shirt you’ve had since high school.

Wait for someone who loves you without restrictions. Someone who is comfortable being vulnerable in front of you. Someone who will cry in your arms. Someone who will tell you the truth about how he is feeling instead of hiding it away to appear more manly.

Wait for someone who loves the pieces of yourself that you have always considered flaws. The size of your chest. The feel of your skin. The look of your glasses. Someone who thinks that every inch of you is gorgeous. Someone who believes they landed the most beautiful woman in the world.

Wait for someone who loves you more than he loves himself. Someone who will do whatever possible to bring you happiness. Someone who will put all of his effort into the relationship, because he doesn’t expect you to do all of the work for him. He realizes that you are equal. He realizes that you need to balance the labor.

Wait for someone who loves you the way you were destined to be loved. Someone who treats you with respect. Who answers when you call. Who freely gives you affection. Who sticks to your side when you need him the most.

Wait for someone who gives you all of the love hidden in his heart. 

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The story of Zoya related to your life

Helloss everyone!!

So today, lets talk about a girl named Zoya!
Zoya was a very jolly girl and she used to love telling jokes and making people laugh.
But deep down she was very alone and depressed just for one reason that she wasn’t able make everyone happy and not make herself happy. As sometimes her jokes were repeated so everyone used to say please find something new!

Here comes our today’s topic, why to be depressed at one situation when we cant laugh on one joke twice! You all must be thinking if Zoya is depressing without reason, so can i ask you if you’re depressing with reason at times?

Let’s say you have one life when why not stay happy and forget what makes you sad! Or say this be Zoya but make sure you are not depressed or sad! Your live your life with flying colors and make a rainbow!!


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I wish I could be an asshole!

I wish you could have been an asshole. That would’ve made it easier to stomach. That would have made it so much easier for both parties.

I wish you didn’t have to be so nice. So freaking charming and charismatic. I wish you hadn’t made me smile so much. So widely. I wish you hadn’t made the corny jokes that made me cover my mouth as I laughed.

I wish you were someone completely different. Someone who wore day two old plaid shirts and who looked like he didn’t ever brush his hair. I wish you were a player. I wish you did this to other girls. I wish you could have given me a reason not to trust you. I wish you didn’t make those phone calls that made my heart jump. I wish you didn’t ever hold my hand, in the way that you did.

I wish I could have an excuse. An excuse to scoff. An excuse to throw up my hands and say, he was an asshole anyway. He sucked. He was mean to me. He didn’t listen to me.

But of course. You were the exact opposite.

You were so nice it was almost funny. You were so thoughtful. You were so fucking beautiful. And your heart matched your face.

And it makes me so angry. It makes me so angry that after you ended it, I still liked you. It makes me so angry that after you ended it, I couldn’t hate you. I couldn’t even write bad things about you.

Because all you were to me was sweet. All you ever did was tell me that I was someone who was worth something.

You cried when it was over.

Just another reason, just another sweet thing, just another reason why I could never hate you. 

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When you’re stuck between happy and sad!

What the heck is this feeling? Is it numbness? Or is the cold weather just making me lose my mind? Like I’m just frozen, but I just want to burn or feel something that isn’t nothing.

I’m not totally sad or down about my life, but at the same time I’m not totally enthused. I think I’m just… comfortable. Which can be a dangerous position to be in.

I preach and I write and I talk about living my life to the fullest. I tell my friends, quit that job, it’s killing you! I tell my sister, buy that plane ticket! What’s stopping you? 

I’m all about making impulsive life choices like moving across the country, or taking a leap of faith and applying for the job of your dreams. I’m all about the big gestures. For making the decision to tell someone you love them even when you aren’t sure they will say it back. I’m all here for the huge and life changing moments.

But what about the moments in between? What about the life thats lived in the middle of a big event or another huge life choice? What happens to ordinary days where you are just living life? What happens when your heart isn’t broken, but it doesn’t feel full either? 

I’m not lonely, but I wouldn’t say I feel entirely fulfilled. I’m not anxious, but I’m not really calm either. I’m not bored, but I feel like I need to do something more than what I’m doing.

Sometimes, the days pass by me and all of a sudden it’s 10 pm and I have to ask myself why I just wasted those twelve hours. Some days, I remain untouched by the world, and I just float and float until the next sunrise.

But I don’t want to just be here. I don’t want to just float through life, not amounting to anything. I want to fall and fail and try to fly some more. I want to fall madly in love with my life and with someone else. I want to go on adventure after adventure. I don’t want to remain so numb to the world. So unscathed. 

I want to find some kind of meaning in every single day. Even the quiet and cold ones. Even the ones that don’t seem to say anything at all. And I want to find meaning in the in betweens. In between the happy and sad, in between the lonely and loving.

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This is why she stopped replying to you!

She stopped replying back to you because she is over your games. She is over your tricks. She is over getting played by you, you who doesn’t give a damn about her well being.

She stopped replying back to you because she realized that she was nothing to you. She realized that you didn’t really care. And you never did. 

She stopped replying back to you because you wanted her body. You wanted the sex. You wanted the instant gratification after midnight when the loneliness began to sting your heart. You just wanted somebody. But you didn’t want her.

She stopped answering your text that you send at 3 am. Because you didn’t want to talk to her. You didn’t want to laugh with her. You didn’t want to get to know one another. You just wanted to do the deed, and leave.

You didn’t want to kiss her sweetly. You didn’t want to hug her close. You didn’t want to stay with her. You just wanted to own her body. You just wanted her to be one of your girls. Just like anyone else.

You never wanted to love her. You never even liked her.

And you were so good at lying in the beginning. You were so good at fooling her. At making it seem like you could have liked her. At making it seem like you were truly interested.

But you weren’t interested in her heart. You weren’t interested in her interests, her hobbies and in her world. You just wanted something for yourself. You just wanted something to do. Someone to do. When you felt most vulnerable. When you felt most alone.

And she came to the realization that she was better off without you. She had to finally come to the realization that were a toxic human being and all you did was make her feel worse about herself. She came to the realization that you were nothing. And that she was something.

So she stopped picking up your calls. She stopped responding to your drunken and ‘I’m sorry’ texts. Because she finally knew that she could move on with her life without you. She finally knew that she did not need you. And she never really did.

But you needed her, didn’t you?

And now you expect her to crawl back. You expect her to run towards you. You expect her to say yes. You expect her to pick up every single call. Sorry to break it to you but honey, you’ve been fooled.

She is a better person than you will ever be in this lifetime.  

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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You just want attention!

She hates how boys assume she wants a relationship whenever she gives them a little bit of attention. She hates how flirting with them makes them think she is desperate to be their girlfriend.

She isn’t afraid to text first, to ask the other person out first, or to lean in for a kiss first. She listens to what her body tells her, so she accidentally comes off as clingy when she is the complete opposite. She isn’t making moves because she is obsessed with them, because she is overly attached, because she is dying to date them.

She just doesn’t want to waste her time waiting by a phone for someone to call, so she takes initiative. She does the dirty work herself. She isn’t afraid of going after what she wants.

If she is attracted to someone, then she is going to follow them on social media, like their posts, and strike up a conversation. She is going to ask them to hang out in person, buy a round of drinks, and sit a little too close until their bodies are touching. She is going to chase after what she wants.

She isn’t looking for a relationship. She only wants to have a little bit of fun. But no one seems to understand that. They assume she must be looking for something more because she is a girl and girls are supposed to settle down.

Her friends all complain about almost relationships and one-night stands, but those things aren’t bad if that’s what you’re looking for — and that’s what she’s looking for. No strings. No pressure. Some casual fun.

She wants someone who she can text when she is feeling lonely. Someone who will be there for her when she needs an escape from the stress of her everyday life.

Of course, she doesn’t want to lead anyone on. She doesn’t want to give them the wrong idea. She doesn’t want to string them along and then break their hearts.

She wants to be honest from the start, but even when she explains her intentions clearly, most boys don’t believe she is telling the truth. They think she is only saying that to appear chill or to save her heart from breaking a second time.

The truth is, she isn’t staying away from relationships because she is scared to love again. Because she had a bad relationship in the past and is terrified of history repeating itself. Because her trust issues are keeping others at an arm’s length.

She genuinly doesn’t have the time or the energy or the desire to date right now. She has too much work to do. Too many other things to focus on. She doesn’t want to enter a relationship, because she wouldn’t be able to give a boyfriend the attention he needs right now. She is too busy focusing on herself.

She only wants to have some fun, but most boys assume she is interested in something more. Most boys assume they know what she is thinking before she has the chance to tell them. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Your happiness matters!

Hello loveliess!!
Can we appreciate the fact that we are always showcasing our happiness more on instagram rather than in real life?
So do you even compare your happiness on instagram?
Don’t you feel their should be something who makes you happy?
Okay enough with the questions!

Comparing yourself with others is not so okay but can you just look at yourself and start competing with yourself.
Lets say you should make yourself happy or just showcase the wrong thing on instagram just to fit in the hyped ig these days!

Hey just to clear it STOP COMPARING YOUR HAPPINESS ON INSTAGRAM! Or thinking if positive way START MAKING YOURSELF HAPPY RATHER THAN JUST SHOWING YOURSELF HAPPY TO OTHERS! Can i say that you will be happy by heart not by filters? So lets make the world so much happy that we can smile and laugh without filter!♥️
Happy happiness♥️

  • Dhwirtes!

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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I am tired of temporary love!

I am tired of texting back and forth for weeks and never meeting up in person.

I am tired of first dates that never lead to seconds.

I am tired of acting as someone’s almost and never taking the next step into a relationship.

I am tired of temporary love beginning and ending in a flash.

I am not interested in being a one-night stand. A friend with benefits. A casual hookup.

I want a serious relationship. I want to build something that has the ability to last a lifetime.

I want to find someone who is willing to commit. Someone who refuses to run away, even when things get hard. Someone who will stick it out through the bad times so we can get back to the good times.

I don’t want to waste my time with someone for weeks, maybe even months, if they aren’t interested in the same future as I have been imagining. I don’t want to grow attached to someone and realize at the last second they aren’t looking for anything serious.

I am not searching for temporary. I am searching for forever.

Modern dating has exhausted me, because it seems like everywhere I turn, others are only looking to have fun. To lose themselves in the moment without worrying about what is going to come next.

Meanwhile, I am searching for someone who has the potential to become more than a fling. Someone I want around for more than one night. Someone I can imagine keeping around for years to come.

I don’t want to invite someone into my bedroom and kick them out once the sun rises. I don’t want to get to know them halfway. I want to see every side of them — and I want them to want me to see it.

I want them to be as enthusiastic about me as I am about them. I don’t want to be the one who cares more. I don’t want to be holding onto our relationship by a hair while they’re struggling to set themselves free. I want someone who is on the same page as me. Someone who can’t wait to begin our love story.

I want someone who is going to tell their friends about me. Someone who is going to set aside time to see me each week. Someone who is going to ask me to be their plus-one at weddings.

I am sick of temporary love. I don’t want someone attractive to text until someone better comes along. I don’t want to keep swapping out people when I grow bored.

I want one relationship. One person. A person who means more to me than all the others. A person who is worth settling down with, because they give me as much as I give them, both spiritually and emotionally.

I want a forever love. I want to commit myself to someone who would never dream of leaving me. Someone who means it when they say they are going to stay. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Follow the no-contact rule!

When you break up with someone, you’re bound to feel lonely. You’re bound to have moments where you can’t stand her guts and claim you never want to see her face again. And there will be other moments where you can’t stop thinking about the good times, the puppy love times, the times when you swore your relationship was going to last a lifetime.

When you start missing her, you’re going to be tempted to shoot her a text just to see how she’s been doing, but that could make you look desperate. That could make it seem like you’re losing the breakup. Like you can’t go on without her and she’s all you ever think about.

If you want your ex-girlfriend back, you’re going to have to go against your gut instincts and follow the no contact rule. 

That means no reaching out to her. No answering her texts. No watching her snap stories. No liking her Instagram pictures. No stalking her Twitter. No showing up at her favorite restaurant hoping you’re going to run into her.

For at least thirty days, you are going to forget about her existence. You are going to live your life without her.

How the hell is that going to help you win her back?

It’s not. Your time alone is going to help you grow into a stronger, more independent man who is happy being single — and that will help you win her back.

You’re going to look more desirable if you don’t need her to survive (and you don’t just say it, you mean it).

She isn’t supposed to be your entire world. She isn’t supposed to be the only reason you wake up in the morning.

If you follow the no contact rule, you will have more time for yourself. You will be able to get drunk with the best friends you haven’t seen in months. You will be able to cross things off your to-do list you have been procrastinating. You will be able to follow your passion. You will be able to reorganize your priorities.

Giving yourself space from her will remind you that you had a life before you met her. You are not one half of a couple. You are an individual with your own hopes and dreams and desires.

Your time without him will be a learning experience. It will give you the chance to love yourself. Respect yourself. Care for yourself.

If you follow the no contact rule for thirty days or sixty days or however long it takes you to rediscover yourself, then there is a higher chance she is going to want you back in her world. And if she refuses to get back together with you, that’s okay too, because you will already be okay without her. You will already know how to live without her.

In fact, after taking the time to find yourself, you might not even want her back. You might realize you’re better off without her. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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I am done thinking about others!

I am not going to feel bad for cutting people out of my life who have not earned a place there. I am not going to feel bad for raising my standards after a lifetime of letting people walk over me. I am not going to feel bad for doing the selfish thing for a change and putting myself first.

I am not going to let anyone convince me that I am a bad person for saying goodbye to someone new before giving them a real chance or for leaving behind someone who has been around for years. I am smart enough to know that the amount of time we’ve known each other has nothing to do with whether or not they should remain in my life. They should only remain in my life if they bring something positive to it, and vice versa. They should only remain in my life if they belong there.

In the past, I was the person who would give out second chances to everyone, regardless of whether or not they actually deserved another shot. I was the person who saw the good in everyone that I came across. The person who would rather make other people happy than be happy myself.

I was the person who would answer any phone call at two in the morning. The person who would drive miles to hang out at the last second. The person who would pay for dinners and taxi rides without thinking twice about it.

I am still going to do those things for the people who deserve my attention. But from now on, I am not going to go out of my way to help someone who has let me down time and time again. I am not going to inconvenience myself for someone who would never do the same for me. I am not going to put all of my effort into a relationship (or a friendship) while the other person sits on the sidelines without contributing anything of their own.

I am done feeling like I am obligated to make people happy when they only treat me like a background character. I am done assuming that it is my job to take care of everyone.

Starting today, if you are bad for my mental health, I will ignore your texts. I will turn down your plans. I will cut you out of my life. And I will not feel an ounce of guilt about it.

I am done caring about people who could not care less about me. It is unfair to me. It drains me. It makes me feel like I am unappreciated and unwanted.

I cannot keep associating with people who take advantage of my kindness, who apologize for their mistakes and keep making the same ones. I deserve more respect than that. I deserve to surround myself with people who actually see how much I can offer them, with people who actually appreciate how big my heart has grown. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Reel and Real Life

Can we just dicuss what is real and reel these days? Not just asking you to define but i feel there is a threadline different between both!

You know spreading hate is not an option because hate is already out there. Your reel life says to spread love from the real life. Can’t be more confusing as we say that be real on social media which can’t happen. Because we all never share your sadness on social media just to say that i can be sad please praise me. No! You should know reel life cannot be real. Your real life struggle won’t say that you have these number of followers so life will be simple for you. NO! The time where you want someone besides you your follower won’t take a stand unless you have done something for them.

So real life is where you can be what you exactly are! And when i say be real on social media means to showcase yourself, spread love and let other’s see you as a true inspiration to grow with all strength and by conveying that hate can be vanish if we spread love to the world!! Make a better place for new generation!



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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Knowing Suvrahadip the author of RUINS!

Q1. What is your book about?

A-Ruins talks about the most common but complex human condition- being broken. Be it by life, love, or death. It makes you face the brutal reality and urges you to accept and outgrow it. It’s also about how being broken isn’t that bad, how it allows the light to come in and illuminate you.

Q2. What inspired you to write this book?

A-They say ‘Art is what you experience’, well, during my college years I’ve had to go through many certain things that shaped me to who I am. Life hammered me into a different person while I was in pieces. So, I thought if I can outgrow the pain, maybe, just maybe, I can help others outgrow it as well.

Q3. What do you hope your readers take away from this book?

A- Hope, love, and self-acceptance.

Q4. Is writing your full-time career? Or would you like it to be?

A- Kind of, I majorly work as a content writer. And I also write stories for a chat story app called ‘Plop’. I’ve previously worked with the Scribbled Stories and currently a select writer for the Terribly Tiny Tales. But I’m still in the process of growing and learning, I’ve got a long way to chase where I want to go.

Q5. What was your dream job when you were younger?

A- When I was a kid, I always wanted to become a professional fighter or a sportsman. But due to some ailments, I couldn’t fulfil that dream. But, life gave me another weapon to complete my dream of being a fighter- my pen.

You can connect to him on his IG at

You can get it on Blue Rose Publishers.

Here’s the book’s Amazon link.

Here’s the book’s Flipkart link.

Born in West Bengal and raised in Gujarat,
Suvrahadip Ghosh is an engineer turned writer.
He loves dissecting words and got himself published
in some major anthologies- including one with Durjoy Dutta.
His other passions include Football, Animes, and Rap Music.
Lionel Messi, Naruto, and Eminem being his biggest inspirations.
He also loves getting inked.
And the only thing he’s ever been careless about is his introduction.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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I can’t stop thinking about kissing you!

I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to see you. To breathe in the scent of your cologne. To lock your bright eyes onto mine. To feel the spark of sexual tension that always existed between us.

I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to touch you. To sit just a little too close so that our arms are touching. To rest a hand on your thigh or squeeze your hand with mine. To keep glancing between your eyes and mouth because the only thing I can think about is getting even closer.

I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to press my lips against yours. To feel your fingers trail from my wrists to my shoulders and back down again. To have my chest pressed up against yours with our legs entangled in your sheets.

I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to spend the night together. To unpeel the shirt from your torso, to slide the jeans from your skin. To skim my mouth down your body. To fall asleep with your arms encircling me.

I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to have you all to myself for a night. To explore every piece of you. To know that you wanted me as badly as I have always wanted you.

I can’t stop thinking about how attractive you are. About how delicious every inch of your skin would taste beneath my lips. About how sexy you would sound whispering into my ear.

You have gravitated from the back of my mind to the center. I have reached the point where I can no longer pretend that you mean nothing to me, that you are a piece of the past I have left behind, that you are just somebody that I used to know.

I can’t stop thinking about how badly I want you underneath me, on top of me, all around me, even though I know that you are a bad idea.

It’s a bad idea to think about kissing you. A bad idea to talk to you. A bad idea to text you. A bad idea to pretend that there’s a chance something will happen between us.

As much as I want you, I know that you are the worst idea. That I need to give up my unrealistic hopes. That I need to ignore the temptation to chase you. That I need to forget about you because that is what is best for the both of us.

I can’t stop thinking about you — even though I know how bad you are for me.

I can’t stop thinking about you — even though I know I’m going to get my feelings hurt again.

I can’t stop thinking about you — even though I know that I should be done with you by now.

I can’t stop thinking about you — even though I know I haven’t crossed your mind a single time. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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What if we make the 1st move?

I used to be the guy who would stare at someone from across the room and hope that they would walk over to talk to me.

I used to be the guy who would compulsively check my phone to see if the person I prayed would text me sent a message yet.

I used to be the guy who would hint about how bored I was or how badly I wanted to see a certain movie so the other person would ask me out.

I used to be the guy who wouldn’t show any interest in the other person, and then would get upset when they didn’t kiss me goodnight or hug me hello.

I am no longer that guy, because I realized that hoping for something to happen without taking any action is never going to get me anywhere. I need to make my feelings known. I need to take risks, put myself out there, wear my heart on my sleeve.

Now, if I feel like talking to you, then I will cross the room and start a conversation instead of expecting you to take the initiative.

If I have something to tell you, I will send out a text instead of waiting for you to reach out to me first.

If I want to see you, then I will ask you if you’re free over the weekend instead of hinting about being free myself.

If I want to kiss you, then I will lean in close to you instead of hoping you can read my mind and will magically do what I want you to do.

From now on, I am not going to hold myself back from saying what is in my head. I am not going to resist the temptation to chase after what I want. I am not going to sit on my ass and hope for good things to come to me instead of going out and getting them.

Making the first move can feel uncomfortable, but it is something I am compelled to do, because I am sick of the what ifs. I am tired of watching people walk away and wondering whether we would have worked as a couple. Wondering whether they ever felt the same way about me. Wondering if I should have done something differently.

I don’t want to live a life filled with regrets, which is why I am no longer afraid to make the first move. I would rather get turned down and be embarrassed for a few minutes than spend a lifetime kicking myself for being such a coward.

I would rather know how you feel about me for sure than overanalyze your texts to try to figure it out. I would rather admit how I feel about you than wonder whether you have been reading my signals correctly.

I would rather make the first move and get shot down than stay silent and watch you walk away anyway. I would rather try. I would rather give us a fighting chance. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Maybe not!

Maybe one day you’ll find yourself packing up your college apartment to move off to the city and you’ll be going through old stuff sorting it out then stumble upon this letter.

Maybe not.

Maybe you’ll throw it out, or maybe you’ll hold onto it for in the future when you’re alone and get a chance to actually read it.

Maybe not.

Maybe I’ll pop into your head and you’ll start reminiscing over all of the old memories we shared.

Maybe not.

And if I’m lucky, maybe, just maybe you’ll focus on the happy thoughts instead of the not-so-happy ones.

Maybe not.

Maybe the only L’s you’ll take are the ones where you Live, Laugh, and Love.

Maybe not.

Maybe one day you’ll get everything you could ever need and want out of not only life, but love.

Maybe not.

Maybe the galaxies had aligned just right with the stars in your eyes to blind me from the inevitable heartbreak that was to come.

Maybe not.

Maybe it was the spark in your eyes or the glow of your smile that reminded me of a place I’d never been before—home.

Maybe not.

Maybe somewhere out there in the vast universe we’re together in another life on a different planet and this all worked out.

Maybe not.

Maybe it was supposed to happen like this.

Maybe not.

Maybe this pen will run out of ink or my phone/computer will die before I find all the right words to say.

Maybe not.

Maybe one day I’ll finally get my shit together, go to school, quit going out with the guys so much, stop smoking, start working out more, and really focus on utilizing all this “potential” I’ve heard people tell me about.

Maybe not.

Maybe I’ll fall in love, have kids, work a stable job in the suburbs close to my family, and live the typical American dream kinda lifestyle.

Maybe not.

Maybe that’s the kind of lifestyle for me.

Maybe not.

Maybe one day I’ll finally get rid of all the “what if” and “what could’ve been” thoughts that keep me awake at night.

Maybe not.

Maybe I’m no longer the guy standing in front of a girl asking what it is I have to do to make you love me the way I love you.

Maybe not.

Maybe I’ll wake up in my mid-30s by myself in a king-size bed second-guessing all my life’s decisions.

Maybe not.

Maybe after countless nights of tossing and turning in bed I’ll roll over to check my phone and what time it is and end up going through old contacts and stumble across your name.

Maybe not.

Maybe I’ll stare at your name on my phone for what seems like hours but when I check the time only two minutes have gone by.

Maybe not.

Maybe this is the ending to yet another teenage love story that was broken by the real world.

Maybe not.

Maybe after all these years apart we’re both still more in love than we’ve ever been.

Maybe not.

Maybe I’ll climb out of bed and start going through that old cardboard box of high-school memorabilia buried beneath the cobwebs and dust in the basement that my mom forced me to take home last Christmas.

Maybe not.

Maybe I’ll find this crumpled-up piece of paper alongside all the other love letters I wrote but never sent to you.

Maybe not.

Maybe I’ll read through this and grab my phone dying to send you a text or call you.

Maybe not.

Maybe I’ll grab a lighter and burn every shred of evidence this paper existed.

Maybe not.

Maybe I’ll just wanna talk, and not use the opportunity to win you over.

Maybe not.

Maybe you finally changed the phone number that you’ve had since freshman year in high school.

Maybe not.

Maybe I’ll snap back into reality and realize I can’t do that because it’s 3:37 in the morning and you’re probably in bed with your husband.

Maybe not.

Maybe I don’t snap back into reality and send that text or make that call.

Maybe not.

Maybe I’ll realize that it’s no longer 3:37 and it’s now 5:45 AM and I have to work in the morning and go to sleep.

Maybe not.

Maybe you’ll get in fights and go through low points with your new husband/fiancé and wanna give up.

Maybe not.

Maybe he’ll swallow his pride, and you will, too, only to make up realizing you were both just acting foolish. Maybe you won’t, and this really is the end of your relationship.

Maybe not.

Maybe you’ll finally get a chance to go back to school and finish up your master’s or take that solo vacation to Europe you’ve been talking about for years.

Maybe not.

Maybe you’ll have sold that old beat-up two-door you worked so hard for the summer going into your sophomore year.

Maybe not.

Maybe you finally got that final assignment done you put off until the night before your junior year.

Maybe not.

Maybe you would’ve got prom queen your senior year.

Maybe not.

Maybe you’ll finally leave this town and never look back.

Maybe not.

Maybe I’ll stop chasing my dreams and finally face the fact that nothing’s wrong with living a modest life.

Maybe not.(prolly not)

Maybe I’ll make myself a priority for once.

Maybe not.

Maybe I had mistaken love for lust.

Maybe not.

Maybe It was just infatuation.

Maybe not.

Maybe our paths crossed not to stay as one our whole life, but show us the infinite number of others we could and probably should take.

Maybe not.

Maybe someday the right person at the wrong time will get their chance.

Maybe not.

Maybe there really is such a thing as right place, wrong time.

Maybe not.

Maybe we’re all students in the classroom of life, where love is the teacher, and the lessons can only be learned through pain.

Maybe not.

Maybe the person you love unconditionally will never feel the same and you’ll never feel the same about the one who loves you unconditionally.

Maybe not.

Maybe the best therapy is a long car ride and good music.

Maybe not.

Maybe I knew it was over when you stop saying goodnight and I stop saying good morning.

Maybe not.

Maybe one day you’ll get what you deserve. Whether that be good or bad.

Maybe not.

Maybe we should learn to wish peace amongst our enemies.

Maybe not.

Maybe people really do change overnight.

Maybe not.

Maybe the grass is greener on the other side, but don’t let other people’s rainstorms intimidate you from your own rain-dance.

Maybe not.

Maybe we should learn how to listen to understand and not just listen to reply.

Maybe not.

Maybe we should learn how to be more fluent in silence rather than with words

Maybe not.

Maybe drunk words aren’t really sober thoughts.

Maybe not.

Maybe trust is an unwritten language we all know but few speak.

Maybe not.

Maybe it was all the words you didn’t say that spoke the most.

Maybe not.

Maybe things really are black and white, and our minds just create the gray space.

Maybe not.

Maybe life is easy, and love is hard.

Maybe not.

Maybe life’s not as hard as it seems, and we just make it more complicated than it needs to be.

Maybe not.

Maybe if I’d stop worrying so much about what others think of me and worry about what I think of myself. Embracing every flaw and work on becoming a better me.

Maybe not.

Maybe we’re all at war with the same person staring back in the mirror.

Maybe not.

Maybe I had to make you miss me in order to make you appreciate my presence.

Maybe not.

Maybe it was fate.

Maybe not.

Maybe music is meant to be felt, not heard.

Maybe not.

Maybe I’ll find the answer I’ve been so desperately searching for at the bottom of this bottle of Hennessy. Maybe it won’t be this bottle but the next one so I’m better off to just keep drinking.

Maybe not.

Maybe I should stop drinking because it only leads to me scrolling through your social media sites late at night when I’m alone wondering where you’re at in life and how you’re doing.

Maybe not.

Maybe if I keep drinking I’ll develop the courage to reach out to you and catch up.

Maybe not.

Maybe the alcohol was easier to swallow than the fact that you were never coming back was.

Maybe not.

Maybe somehow, someway, it’ll really be different this time.

Maybe not.

Maybe it was your laugh that was more infectious than any disease or plague mankind had ever seen before.

Maybe not.

Maybe it wasn’t as easy as you think it was for me to leave.

Maybe not.

Maybe I spent nights lying in bed surrounded by darkness, staring into the nothingness that lay before me, thoughts racing, asking myself over and over again why I wasn’t good enough or what did I do wrong for you to not love me the way I loved you.

Maybe not.

Maybe I should keep going.

Maybe I wasn’t good enough for you and never will be.

Maybe not.

Maybe I’m still paying for past mistakes I made even before I met you.

Maybe not.

Maybe I’m undeserving of love.

Maybe not.

Maybe I confused a soulmate with a lesson learned.

Maybe not.

Maybe some of our most permanent lessons are learned by temporary people.

Maybe not.

Maybe the world that we live in must come crashing down around us, only so we can rebuild the one we choose to live in.

Maybe not.

Maybe this is the end.

Maybe not.

Maybe it’s just the beginning.

But then again, maybe not. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Webinar Connect (Sydenham College)

📣The Public Speaking and Debating Society of Sydenham college 📣presents WEBINAR CONNECT by the most prominent and elite speakers that we will ever witness on the 22nd and 23rd of February. Tighten your seat belts for this journey because this is the best, you will see! Learn how to master the act of Public Speaking and how to make yourself stand out in a crowd in a few minutes by the experts in the industry! 🪶😎

💡 DAY 1: Personal branding

Shirin Talwar, an exceptional speaker, Soft skill trainer and an International Image Consultant, specialising in Personal Branding who has spread her knowledge and experience with students and corporates counting to 213k!
🔶 Date : 22nd February,2021
🔶 Time : 5 to 6:30pm IST

💡 DAY 2- How to be a confident speaker?

Divas Gupta, an IIM Kashipur Alumni, India’s first Ikigai coach and a TedX Speaker, a renowned speaker in various IIM Institutions. Someone who has inspired more than 28k people across the Internet.
🔶 Date : 23rd February, 2021
🔶 Time : 6 to 7 pm IST

They would be right here with us at Sydenham College’s Public Speaking and Debating Society’s YouTube page . 📲

Save the date and Stay tuned with us!

Subscribe now!
Kindly go and check this link

The Webinar will remain on the youTube page even after the event ends, so don’t miss it!

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So…it finally happened. You got yourself a new boyfriend.

I was expecting this to happen sooner or later. I was just hoping that I had found someone first. But all right. It happened.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I didn’t expect to find out so casually. I pictured that when I found out, it would be in a much more emotional setting. Or at least not while drinking a smoothie and a tuna melt in my dorm room late at night. Not while I’m schmoozing with a friend about plans for the rest of the school semester.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I wish I could say that I’m upset at you for moving on so quickly. But it’s been seven months since that fateful night. It’s more than enough time to move on.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I honestly thought that I would be upset by this turn of events. In fact, I wish I was angry by this piece of news. But I can’t seem to get myself to cry or scream about it. I can’t seem to get myself to understand how someone who essentially runs away from emotions can all of a sudden find himself in a relationship.

But I never really knew you.

It’s like our friendship never existed. It’s as if those were never late-night phone calls or early morning text messages left for me to answer on my way to my internship. I tried to get to know you. I let you in so you could know me. But you never did.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

You now treat me as if I’m a bug under your shoe. As if I’m the worst person who ever walked into your life, which we both know isn’t true. You refuse to be in the same room as me…but I’m not the only one to blame.

It’s a two-way street.

I’m not the only one who is to blame hise. I’m not the only one who made mistakes. But I am the only one to own up to my issues. I am the one who worked on hisself to become a better person.

But I digress.

If thise’s anything I want you to know, it’s to treat your boyfriend well. He deserves way more than you will ever be able to give him—that’s a fact. Don’t shut him out the way you did to me. He might not be able to handle it like me.

I just want to say thank you.

Thank you for showing me what I need—and that’s not you. It never will be you ever again. I need a real woman—not one who pretends she is all in and then backs out when things get tough. I need a woman that can accept me for me. None of this bullshit. I hope you can be this for your new relationship, but remember me when you need to remember what it’s like to treat someone like crap.

Let this be a lesson.

Take everything that we went through and learn from it. Understand that relationships—platonic or romantic—involve two people. Not just you. And if it has to revolve around one person, let it be him. Give your new love the world that he deserves.

But never forget me.

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I should have never built a snowman!

I’m going to sound crazy, but I need to tell someone the story of what happened to me. Someone other than the police. Those fuckers laughed all the way back to their patrol car.

It started this morning, when I woke up to ten inches of snow on the ground. The storm came out of nowhere. Thanks to global warming, it’s been warm and sunny around here lately. I honestly thought we’d be able to get away without a drop of snow the whole winter. But then it all hit at once.

I wouldn’t have even bothered to step outside if it wasn’t for my dog. He needed to use the bathroom, which meant I needed to shovel a path. I strapped on my snow boots, slipped into my heaviest coat, and rummaged in the basement for a pair of gloves.

I had a large, heavy-duty shovel, but it didn’t help. Clearing out the snow was useless. Whenever I felt like I was making progress, the snow would pile up again. I had to stand on top of a fresh patch and call for my dog, begging him to get his paws wet, because there was no way he’d be stepping on grass for a few days.

He timidly joined me outside, but after a few minutes, he was loving it. He pounced around, leaving circles of paw prints throughout the yard. He dug his nose into the ground, turning his whole snout white. It was adorable.

I rolled up a snowball to see what he would do. As I should have guessed, he tried to eat it. Then I rolled up a larger one. Without really planning it, I built a snowman and a snow dog. Then I snapped a selfie of us in front of it. It was cute. Got lots of likes on Instagram.

I expected the snow to clear up within the next few hours, but it only got heavier. The weirdest part was, instead of getting covered over by snow, my creations only grew bigger. They nearly towered over my fence. They also looked like they’d moved a few inches, but I figured it must’ve been an illusion.

The next time I let the dog outside, I wasn’t brave enough to join him in the cold. I was already in my pajamas, sipping cocoa. I figured he would be fine on his own since he had so much fun earlier, so I closed the door and waited to hear him scratch to be let inside. But I heard him yelp instead.

I assumed he’d gotten frightened by a branch snapped by snow or a whistling gust of wind. I opened the door to let him inside and he came in, tail between his legs, whimpering. There were slashes across his back. Four of them. Like claw marks. It must’ve been a fucking raccoon.

Thankfully, the scratches weren’t deep, so I cleaned him up and fed him treats. Then I marched outside with my shovel, putting on shoes but skipping the coat and gloves, planning to chase the creature away.

There were blood drops on the snow. They led up to the snowman. To his stick hand with four wooden fingers poking out. Like he had done the attacking.

It was a ridiculous thought. Impossible. But whether it was a raccoon or a squirrel or a snowman, I was pissed about my pup getting hurt, so I raised the shovel over my shoulder and whacked off its head. It made me feel a little bit better, so I kept going. I knocked off its buttons. I bashed in its stomach. I kicked a hole through its bottom.

I only stopped once something sharp dug into my leg. I stumbled forward and fell into the snow, shivering. When I looked down, my ankle was bleeding. And I swear, that blood trailed from my flesh, all the way over to the snow dog’s teeth.

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Is Age a barrier in love?

And thats me!

This term barrier is used very often, there many barriers we face in life. Where some’re important and some’re not! When i say there are many you may come up with different but here stcking to a topic is love.

You know there is a age barrier in love! Allthough we are very close to overcome that barrier being in the space of different generstions and thinking process.

You know i personally feel that when you say love is blind then how can you see the age being blind this may seem funnyand people do say ” Oh bhai teri bandi itni badi hai ” OR ” Oh you are too big for her ” may i ask here WHY?

Just let me is there any rule for age gap couples? NO! Then lets think it completely in a positive way not just ignore but support! I know there is no new talking but just making you aware that if you say ” love is blind ” then mean it!

Examples for this y’ll know. So lastly lets be best in someones life and not changing yourself but loving yourself!♥️


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She only falls for people who make her feel insecure!

She tells herself that she has high standards, but she finds herself falling for the same kind of guys over and over again. The kind of guys who pick and choose when they want to pay attention to her. The kind of guys who act like they are interested in her one day and avoid her the next day.

She gets addicted to them because they make her feel alive. Because when she is with them, she doesn’t feel numb anymore. When they wait days to answer her texts, she is hurt. When they flirt with other girls, she is jealous. But those feelings are better than the numbness, they are better than feeling empty inside.

When she is around them, she is always feeling something strongly. Anger. Annoyance. Sadness. Disappointment. And on the good days, excitement. Enthusiasm. Hope. Lust. Love.

When she likes a boy that treats her like shit, things are never boring and always unpredictable.

She can never tell when her phone is going to light up with his name — and when it does, her stomach inflates with butterflies. She can never tell when he is going to lean in close to touch her — and when he does, her entire body feels on fire. She can never tell when he is going to surprise her by actually treating her well for a change — and when he does, she feels like she finally did something right.

She tells herself that she hates the games. That she hates deciphering mixed signals and playing hard to get. But for some reason, she keeps falling for guys who use those tactics. She keeps getting stuck with copies of the same personality.

She acts like she is perfectly happy being single, she keeps chasing after toxic boys when she would be better off alone. She would be better off staying single than putting effort into a one-sided love, reading into every word that they say, and leaving the house whenever they invite her over at the last second. She would be better off without them in her life.

There is a part of her that knows how bad they are for her. She realizes it every time she complains to her friends about them. Every time that she has to wait hours for a text back. Every time that she is on the verge of tears while thinking about how they are never going to feel the same way.

But she can’t help herself. She likes who she likes. She is unable to control her emotions. She has a thing for assholes. It has always been that way. They are her type.

She only falls for people who treat her like shit — but she is sick of the cycle. She is tired of being the one who cares more. She is done giving second chances to people who didn’t even deserve their first one.

From now on, she is going to raise her standards to a higher level. She is going to stop letting people into her life that are not supposed to be there. 

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Testimonials from RUINS!

You can connect to him on his IG at

You can get it on Blue Rose Publishers.

Here’s the book’s Amazon link.

Here’s the book’s Flipkart link.

Born in West Bengal and raised in Gujarat,
Suvrahadip Ghosh is an engineer turned writer.
He loves dissecting words and got himself published
in some major anthologies- including one with Durjoy Dutta.
His other passions include Football, Animes, and Rap Music.
Lionel Messi, Naruto, and Eminem being his biggest inspirations.
He also loves getting inked.
And the only thing he’s ever been careless about is his introduction.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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All I could ever want in life is you!

And all I ever dream about is you. You are the one who dominates my waking moments and even nights in my sleep. You are the one I wake up for, and I always want to get up in the morning to catch a glimpse of you or even just hear your voice.

And all I care about is you. You are my answered prayer, the greatest wish ever granted to me, the finest gift I ever have been given, the greatest blessing of my life, the best thing that ever happened. You are everything I have ever hoped for.

And all I want to do is to hold your hand. You are the hand I want to keep at every crossroad, at every forked road, at everything that life gives me. From now until forever, and even lifetimes beyond that. 

And all I know is you are my kryptonite and Superman. You are my weakness and strength, my hero and the only drawback, the cause and reason why I fight even the monsters inside my head.

And all I want to fight for is you. You are the one I want to be with at every battle and all the wars I have to face. I swear I would do everything to win so I can have you even just for a day.

And all I would ever need in life is you. You are the one I would like to see first thing in the morning and last at night—the one who brings out the best in me. The greatest fan I could ever have.

And all I want is to have your last name. You are the one I want to spend the rest of my life with, my ultimate why and the only reason behind my smile.

And all I want to do is to fall in love with you every day, every hour, every minute, and every second of my life. You are the only being that my heart knows, the only reason that my brain comprehends, the only one that my soul yearns for.

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Weird Netflix!

Like most people, I haven’t been leaving my house because of the pandemic. I’ve been spending most of my weekends watching Netflix from the safety of my own home.

Of course, 2020 sucks, so I can’t even enjoy movies anymore.

The other day, when I opened up Netflix on my laptop, it took me to the WHO’S WATCHING page. The only profiles I should’ve had attached were for myself and my grandmother, who can barely operate the app on her television. However, there was an extra profile attached. A red smiley face with the name DAMIEN.

I clicked on the profile, wondering whether my grandmother accidentally created an extra account, which seemed unlikely. It was a good day when she could locate the remote.

When Netflix loaded, there were already shows listed underneath the CONTINUE WATCHING section. They were mostly documentaries about murderers. Making A Murderer. The Ted Bundy Tapes. Unsolved Mysteries. Some fictional shows were mixed in between. Dexter. You. American Horror Story.

I assumed it was some weird gimmick that Netflix was using throughout the month of October. Halloween is coming up, after all. Maybe they were trying to promote their spookiest television shows in a clever way. Trying to scare their viewers. Trying to get everyone into the holiday spirit.

I hopped onto Twitter, assuming Netflix would be trending, but all the hashtags were related to politics. There wasn’t any mention of the streaming platform. I typed Netflix into the search bar myself and scrolled through posts for a while, but no one was talking about an extra profile. They were only debating over the best shows and movies.

I wrote out my own tweet: “Hey. Can someone check their Netflix account quick and tell me whether I’m the only one with an extra profile on my account?”

I got a few responses, all negative. They said things like your ex is probably hacking you and someone must be playing a prank.

That was impossible. I had never given the password out to anyone else. Even my grandmother didn’t know the right numbers and words to type. I logged her in on my own because it was too confusing for her to handle without help.

I emailed the support team. They walked me through the steps to delete the account, but they couldn’t tell me why it had suddenly appeared.

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New Beginning. New Day.

Its me Dhimahi.
You know i was thinking about “New beginnings”!

No wonder each day we have new beginning.
Why I’m saying this? Because every day we wake up and world has new schedule, routine and prespective.

Let’s not give example of world but it’s always YOU who is starting with new thing every day. Don’t you feel? Saying that you have a proper goal to achieve and every day you go one step ahead with a new prespective to grow faster with easy hardwork.

New beginnings have many things to learn, work and execute. When you begin with new thing you don’t do it knowingly but it happens and you don’t even realise.
That’s where you begin to go on a track.

If there are backlash to you then maybe that is where you have to know how to change a track and here you begin with something new!
Small things have new beginnings and every things happens for best. Not saying something new but this is where new beginning is, which can make you touch heights! Be consistant and focused. Its okay if you dont have a plan. But if you have a new beginning constant then you can find way for what you like to work on!

So let’s go on a new journey with all new beginning happening everyday and be what we exactly we want to! All the best for your new beginning and success!!♥️


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Those weren’t your words!

It’s late. Too late. The evidence is sprawled across my lap, meanwhile you’re sound asleep on anything but a guilty conscience. Dawn is just on the horizon, the confines of this room painted with an all too familiar blue glow as the walls close in. It’s quiet. Too quiet. If you listen closely, you may just hear the sound of my sorrow spilling out of my chest. Drip. The beautiful oaths written to honor your once beautiful existence, the words skirting the edges of “I love you”s and all else I had dreamt you would say but never did. Tonight it is all washing away. Drip. Ink runs down the pages, taking with it the promises written but never binding. Drip. If you close your eyes, you might picture the sea carrying away the debris of the ground it kisses, or perhaps crushes.

The shore was never half as naive as I was.

It’s not lost on me, the time I spent treating you as if you were the sun. Unwittingly orbiting around you. I built my life around building you up. My lungs fought for air every moment I wasn’t hearing your laugh. My heart scrawled love letters faster than my pen could move. My hands fumbled with the broken pieces; my skin stinging against their sharp edges, and then there was me. Too cowardly to let them just slip through my fingers. Too cowardly to say goodbye. 

I wish you lived in paper alone. I wish the scribbles and the rips and the burnt edges were enough to erase the memory of you; the way your words, words once sweet, course through my veins and through my bloodstream, refusing to bleed out without first tearing me apart entirely. But here you are. Perfectly intact. Perfectly undamaged. And here I am, having destroyed not only the pages you lacked to ever truly exist upon, but myself.

Some tell me that there is beauty in the pain you left behind. That every scar has a story; that there is purpose in the pain one fronts, in the cries they bury deep into the night. I say they’re wrong.

There is no beauty in the way you hurt me.

These thoughts, these feelings, these words, they are not beautiful. They are pained. They are scorched. They are imperfect.

But at least they are no longer yours.

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For everyone who left!

When someone makes a decision that directly affects you but doesn’t involve you, it says more about their character and less about what you are worth. If I could do one thing for someone today, it would be to heal the wounds that they decided not to. Writing about loss is devastating. Every time I read my work over again, it’s like going through it another time, yet it doesn’t ever feel less painful. This is for those who came into my life that have had someone decide to leave at a time when they needed their guidance the most.

I ask for you and everyone else:

Where were you? Where were your arms when I needed comforting? Where were your eyes when I wanted you to watch me grow? Where were your feet to walk me through the hard times? Where were your words when I needed to feel worthy? I know we think we need every single answer to feel good again, but I am here to remind you that you do not. We may never get those answers. No situation is ever going to be exactly the same, but I am sure everything you are feeling can relate to this in some way. Sometimes you do not get to really understand. People don’t always do what you would have done. It seems like all they tend to leave behind are their footprints and we are left to search and find the reasoning behind them. Not to find out not what they did, but what we did. I know that’s not okay. Their steps seem to be moving forward, but we seem to be moving backwards. How does that seem fair? We spend all of our time trying to understand someone we don’t really know anymore.

So I ask again, was it worth it? Was every choice you made directly to benefit yourself, or did you truly think it was for the best? It’s not always going to be seen as black and white. Even good intentions can lead you down the wrong path. There are way too many factors that can be grouped into just one decision—the way we were brought up, the way we see ourselves, and who surrounds us now. We can all make assumptions, we can still feel hurt and feel like victims. However, I know that’s not just who you are; you are far beyond your wounds and everything you didn’t choose to happen to you.

I tend to feel more than the average person, which is why I turned to writing. It’s meant to heal. For anyone that has had a parent neglect them, has had a significant other break your heart, has had someone tell you weren’t good enough, or has had friends move on without you, you aren’t alone. To highlight any time that ever made you question why. I am telling a story that you are all a part of. We are more than just what has happened in our lives, and we are definitely worth more than the people that didn’t give us their time. We continue to try to prove something, but what we really should be doing is realizing that we were destined to do more.

If this has taught me anything, it’s that we have no idea what comes next. So be there for people, be their guide, be their light, be their walking hand that no one else has seemed to hold. For the ones who decided to stay, hold them very close. For the ones who left, don’t hold onto them anymore. We wouldn’t be who we are now without them, but now we don’t need them. Without every experience, every let down, every tragedy, and every new opportunity, we wouldn’t know how much we could handle and grow while possibly changing someone else’s life at the same time. Stay you—the whole you.

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For a change, try to be kind!

In a world trying to make you believe that it’s better to be an asshole, be nice. Be considerate. Be compassionate. Be the bigger person. Be tolerant. Be stronger than your heartbreak, your past and your pain. Be someone who knows how to love no matter how many times love has failed you. Be someone who knows how to be kind to a world that’s known for being mercilessly unkind.

In a world trying to make you feel like you have to do everything alone, learn how to share. Learn how to give, learn how to surround yourself with people who make you happy, learn how to be a better friend, a better parent or a better partner. Learn how to ask for help or ask someone for advice. Learn how to be someone people can rely and depend on. Remember the heart you used to have before it got broken.

In a world teaching you how to be aloof, unattached and distant, be brave, vulnerable and attentive. Be the one who cares more. Be the one who says ‘I love you’ first. Be the one who tries instead of the one who wonders what could have been. Be the one who knows how to live with a few bruises from getting knocked down instead of the one who’s afraid of getting hurt and misses out on all the fun.

In a world telling you that you can’t have it all, dare to dream, dare to believe. Dare to look at those living the life you’ve always dreamed of and have faith that you can have that kind of life too. Life is difficult but it can also be easy. Life is tough but it can also be soft. Life is unpredictable but it can also be on your side. In a world trying to tell you to look at the glass half-empty, look at it half-full.

In a world trying to tell you to live a lie, live the truth. Life gets easier when you accept yourself and know who you really are; with your flaws and your mistakes and your imperfections. It gets easier once you stop trying to pretend to be someone else because that’s just what the world favors or what people are more drawn to. It gets easier when you stop living according to what the world wants and start living according to what you want.

In a world trying to change your heart, learn how to fight for it. Learn how to keep spreading kindness, learn how to love harder because one thing I know for sure, when this world ends, you won’t remember the days you were cruel or heartless or scared. You’ll remember the times you fell in love, the memories that made you smile, the people who were there for you and the people you moved and inspired and loved along the way. When this world ends, you’ll only remember the love you shared and you’ll look back and realize how pointless everything else was.

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There’s never a timeline for anything!

Maybe you’re not where you want to be at 20 or 30 or 40 because God is teaching you that you can’t keep living your life according to what society is expecting, or what your parents are expecting or what you are expecting. Maybe the lesson is to let go all of the expectations, let go of all the timelines and let go of the notion that at a certain age, you have to be more accomplished than others or you need to have it all together.

Maybe you’re still single because God is trying to teach you another kind of love, the kind of love that you give to your friends, your family, your job and yourself. Maybe he wants you to learn how to live without the constant reassurance and validation you need from a partner and maybe God knows that your journey is full of traveling, self-exploration and movement that getting tied to a partner is not going to be the right fit for you. Maybe he’s teaching you how to walk before you run.

Maybe he’s teaching you the same lessons over and over again because he wants you to learn the art of trying, the art of not giving up, the art of learning how to live with disappointments and how to live with setbacks because they’re always going to accompany you.

Maybe God is trying to teach you that you shouldn’t take life too seriously. Maybe the lesson is enjoying life as it is instead of putting deadlines, timelines and expiration dates. Maybe life is just ageless and timeless and we just have to accept that.

Maybe waiting is just another word for letting go. As if God is giving you a sign to let go without worrying about what will happen because he’s going to reward you with something better.

Maybe he doesn’t want you to be so obsessed with timing and how others see you, maybe he wants you to break free from all these illusions and fantasies you have for yourself and learn how to live peacefully in reality.

Or maybe he’s making you wait because the more you wait, the more you’ll appreciate what you’re going to get. The longer you wait, the longer you’ll keep what he’s going to give you. Maybe he just doesn’t want you to be an ungrateful person, he wants you to value the gifts he’s going to send you and he wants to send them to you when he knows you’re ready to take good care of them.

Maybe God wants you to realize that all these timelines were man-made by people with fixed thoughts and ideas, by people with different circumstances, by people who never even saw you and people who led different lives. Maybe God just wants you to understand that all these deadlines don’t really represent you because they weren’t made for you.

Maybe God just wants you to understand that your life will never be perfect and will never go as planned and you just have to try to love it and love him regardless.

Maybe he’s teaching you how to wait because he wants you to know that you can’t always control your life no matter how hard you try because that’s his job, not yours.  

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Valentine’s with pinch of love for world.

Hey, so its Dhimahi!
And this is my first blog here please be patience and read!

So what’s new thing up?
Yes, today is Valentine’s but do you think vanlentine’s is enough for whole year to love and spread love?
Here’s the thing,
It’s just not about you or your lover it is about everyone.
Single’s please don’t be sad if you don’t have the one, because you’ve more precious relation’s of your family and friends whom you can spend valentine with!

Let’s say if you have a valentine and you spend whole day together with love, respect and gift’s but you see there is something missing?
Any guesses?

Let me answer you, the thing what is missing is to spread love everywhere, you know vanlentine is a common in uncommon day, but that doesn’t mean it’s just you and your lover.
Valentine can be with anyone just a small step and here you go spreading love everywhere!

Let’s spend this valentine helping a needy with love, making your mom and sister happy, wishing your dad and brother with surprises, a small talk and sharing a pinch of happiness with sadly poor people and make their day the best!

Lastly, in this world a small step to spread love can make the whole thing new, different and appreciating! So let’s goo on this journey with all love, support and happiness. And please don’t forget to love yourself as well!

And that’s my time.
Thank you for being so patient!


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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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The noise of silence

It’s 4:12 am now!

The winds are blowing and my mind is flowing

The noise of silence around me is so deep, that i forgot to weep

Night is the time of alluring the beauty of moonlight, by escaping from real world of artificial Dimlight

While discovering the true essence of being alone, I inwardly found my self being rotated in cyclone

With the growing age I realize, true friend of mine is my blanket in crime

It hides my secrets,carry my soft tears and hugs my heart’s fears

The Moon, the stars and the entire dark sky, constantly gazing towards you,
But you slept by making yourself their due…!

~Rishita Trivedi

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Coz u promise not to fall

Coz u promise not to fall

Why listen to the past song,
Where u don’t belong?
U are being strong,
Then why feel wrong?

Intence and a beauty yourself,
Why doubting your spell?
When motivation is all u smell,
Why focus that swell?

Enduring pain..!
What will u gain?
A wise brain,
Answered the heart sane!

Oh honey, u gotta believe
There are no more eves
Full of grief..!

U will do all well,
Afterall it’s your call,
Through it all…
U just need to crawl,
Am reminding y’all,
Coz u promise not to fall!!

Written by Suhan.
The writer’s instagram username is _suhan22

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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A story about learning to be soft!

“You’re just too sensitive.”

“Don’t take it so personally.”

“You have to toughen up.” 

I spent my entire childhood as the object of statements like this. I was a highly sensitive child before “highly sensitive” was a commonly understood concept. The people who made these comments didn’t mean them as criticism; they thought they were helping. They thought they were teaching an overly sensitive child that the world is a hard place and that someone so soft would never survive it. The adults around me were preparing me for a life where heartbreak was avoidable as long as I knew how to be tough, how to be hard. They were passing down what they learned from their parents and from their own experience: softness has no place in our world.

I took that lesson to heart.

I learned to temper my reactions and expressions. I learned to keep quiet and have the good sense to hide how much I cared. I learned to lock down the things that made me soft. The compassion and empathy that made my heart bleed were buried beneath a tough exterior that I thought was protecting me.

If I built a heart of stone, then it could never be broken, right?

I learned that emotions that come across too strong make people uncomfortable. I learned to diminish what I felt to ease others’ discomfort and anxiety. I learned that caring too much, showing too much, made people leave.

What I didn’t learn was that burying those things didn’t make them disappear; it didn’t magically cure me of this disease we call softness. The only thing that presenting a tough exterior accomplished was stunting my emotional growth and alienating people I cared about.

All of those things that were an essential part of me still existed, and trying to suppress them bore a deep sense of guilt and anxiety over feeling things that I thought I shouldn’t feel.

I thought this was normal. I thought it was how everyone functioned.

Then I moved away from home for college. I was fortunate enough to find friends who embraced me and encouraged me to be entirely myself. That wasn’t an easy task because I spent so long convincing myself and others that I was unaffected that I didn’t know how to show what I really felt. I didn’t know how to allow myself to be vulnerable, even with people who proved time and time again that I was safe with them.

In the same way that I learned to bury all of the things that made me soft, I now had to learn how, when, and with whom I could let that softness resurface.

As children, vulnerability is natural and easy. Humans are born with the desire to connect. Without vulnerability, there is no connection, and connection is at the core of being soft. As we grow up, we develop defense mechanisms based on traumas, minor or major, that we experience. We learn how to behave based on how our behavior is greeted. If soft behavior is greeted with disdain, or if it’s taken advantage of, then we learn that it is unacceptable behavior. If soft behavior is greeted with acceptance and gratitude, then we learn that it is a desirable behavior.

When I first embarked on this journey of finding my way back to being soft, I didn’t understand why qualities like vulnerability, compassion, and empathy seemed so easy for some of my friends. How were they able to draw people in, to have healthy and lasting relationships, to trust that their softness was safe with the people around them? What was wrong with me that I couldn’t do these things?

I didn’t understand that there was nothing wrong with me—I was simply a product of my upbringing, and one of the beautiful things about growing up is that we have the ability to choose who and how we want to be.

It took years of developing emotional intelligence and really examining the core of who I was before I understood that it was completely within my control to change my story. If I was tired of feeling disconnected from the people I wanted to be close with, then all I needed to do was let them see my softness.

It was my responsibility to undo the childhood damage of well-meaning adults.

Once I came to that realization and actually started acting on it, my whole world changed. The friends who were by my side from the beginning began to notice and appreciate the softness I showed. They encouraged it by reciprocating. I found that I was able to care more deeply for romantic partners, and I was able to show how much I cared. I was (and still am) terrified of the pain that comes with caring so much, but after years on this road, I had an epiphany.

Even when I buried the softness, it was still there—I still cared. My unwillingness to confront the depth of emotion is what crippled me.

I still battle daily with the urge to encase myself once more in the protective shell that I relied on for so much of my life. Sometimes that urge wins. Sometimes I bury my softness, then I have to go back and attempt to repair the damage that decision caused to my relationships.

It’s not an easy road, and it’s not one where the work ends once you reach the destination. There is no final product. It’s an ongoing process where I have to consciously choose vulnerability and softness even when I’m afraid, because the alternative is loneliness and isolation. The alternative is never having more than shallow connections with people I crave closeness with. The alternative is not letting people know that they are valued and cared for.

And without those things, life is meaningless.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Can your boyfriend rape you?

(Based on a real ordeal)

Consent can be given. And consent can be taken away. It doesn’t make you a tease. It doesn’t make you a bad girlfriend. It makes you a person with consistently shifting thoughts and opinions.

I didn’t lose my virginity until college, and even though I was old enough to know the basics about sex, I had no idea how my body worked. I read magazines at the nail salon and dentist’s office but they mostly talked about “How To Pleasure Your Man” and “How To Be The Best Sex He’s Ever Had.”

I knew how to kiss. I knew how to give oral. I knew a dozen different methods for making the other person moan. But I had no idea how to make sex good for me. Without foreplay, with my sole focus on making him happy, sex hurt. Badly.

Once, I asked my ex-boyfriend to stop in the middle of thrusting because I was in an intense amount of pain. I’m the type of person who will pass out from hunger before asking a friend to grab me food from their fridge. I’m the kind of person who will squirm in their seat for three hours before asking someone to pull over so I can use a bathroom. So when I told him how much I was hurting and asked him to stop, I meant it. The pain had already gone well passed the point of tolerable and reached excruciating.

It was an embarrassing thing for me to ask. It made me feel like a disappointment. It made me feel like there was something wrong with me. I wanted to be the cool girlfriend who loved sex, not the tease who gave him blue balls.

I wouldn’t have asked him to stop unless it felt absolutely necessary, which it did. But he did not listen. I told him twice. He still did not listen. He kept going even though there was blood from the friction. He kept going until I physically shoved him away.

Fast forward to my next relationship. The same thing happened. A repeat in history. He kept going until he finished even though he cuddled me close after and said if you’re ever in pain, let me know, I want us both to enjoy it as if the past few minutes had never happened.

I only told these stories once, to a male friend I trusted with the most intimate details, and he asked me if I considered what happened to me rape. I immediately said no. “Of course not. They were wrong. They shouldn’t have done it. But I wouldn’t use that word.”

I was still picturing rape as a stranger grabbing a woman in a dark alley and forcing her to the ground. I would never use it to describe the guys I had dated. They were good guys. Guys I didn’t regret getting into relationships with, even after the breakups.

But my friend said, “I would consider it rape” like he knew exactly what he was talking about. I moved onto another topic after that. I tried to push the conversation out of my head. I didn’t want to think about it — and I didn’t think about it for a while.

Until I started dating my current boyfriend, my forever boyfriend. Early in our relationship, he stopped during sex and asked, “Are you okay? You feel tense. You seem like something’s wrong.”

I lied about being fine. The pain hadn’t reached excruciating yet and I wanted to impress him. I wanted him to like me. But he knew it was a lie.

Even though I never asked him to stop, he stopped. He didn’t think twice about it. He fell asleep cuddling me. I cried into his chest, softly without him realizing, because no guy had ever treated me that way even after I asked them repeatedly. I cried because I was thankful to have him. Because he was so different to the rest of the guys I dated. I didn’t realize how fucked up it was that such common decency made me happy.

Sex never hurts anymore and it’s because I found someone who was willing to remain patient with me and help me learn the way my body works. Someone who respects the word no even when he is dying to hear a yes.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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I write this to you

My love,

I thank you for giving me a reason to write these words down to make sense of how I feel—to allow them a proper space to breathe, to grant me a safe place to heal, and to capture the wild truth that breaks through my unconditional love for you.

I now know that if I don’t let my bare thoughts gasp for air, it just outright couldn’t be and wouldn’t be fair. Why? Because they deserve all the respect in the world, as much as do I.

The words that I share with you do not begin on the superficial surface of my hand nor end on the tiny tip of my tongue. No. I believe they were birthed from an untamed place deep inside, slowly awakened and given sense by the warm force nestled beneath my chest to uncover a wisdom so bona fide.

I know, because of you, that a love will always evolve as long as I shall feel. But in this moment, my heart inside my soul has got a lot to say, a story to tell, and new horizons to reveal. And now I’m here to follow the beaten path he has laid out and face what I’ve always been too hesitant to confront.

I write these words to you, not for the wishful intent of living a storybook “cliché”, but for the sheer efforts of embracing my once-mission impossible.

I write these words for no other reason but to hold myself accountable.

I write these words to allow my limiting conversation within to transform into the true healing I know I deserve to expand.

I write these words to witness my sincerity, naked and in the flesh, firsthand.

I write these words to lend my once-silenced and fragile heart a voice.

I write these words to you for the sake of honoring the deepest emotion l’ve ever felt—one that I have captured for another soul since opening the abandoned window of a long lost self-love.

I write this to you to lift the emotional weight of my words off my rapidly beating heart, remembering that if I don’t give them a space, they shall only persist by anchoring my scars and drowning me in a sea of false facade.

I write this to you because my heart has reminded me that I should never feel I have to hide anything from anyone for the sake of respecting who I’m meant to be.

I write this to thank you for being a woman like you that sees all the man of me.

I write this to you because if I didn’t, I would be ignoring the flawless vulnerability that fuels my transformative power within.

I write this to you because I’ve now found the art of expressing an unspoken wisdom and unearthed the sketched beauty of existing in my own skin.

I write this to you to recognize a presence like yours has dissolved my worn-out patterns—those I would often dress in to hide.

I write this to you to heal the masculine wounds that simmer beneath my cellular sheath and so anxiously bubble inside.

With my deep love that’s bloomed, I feel more alive than I’ve ever been now. Because, in the free fall of my heart, you have truly shown me how.

I write these words for you, but really, I write them to acknowledge my truth and for the purpose of setting myself free.

For the first time, I tune in to hear my beautiful heart whisper, “I can say I love you and mean it because I finally love me.”

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Stop waiting for the right moment to turn it around!

Many of us keep waiting for a magical moment to happen, which we believe will somehow turn our lives upside down and change it into what we have always dreamed of. Some think that this turning point might be a solo trip around the world for a few months or a huge life event that will make us have a spiritual awakening and miraculously transform our whole lives afterward. Others might be waiting for this significant other to just barge into their lives and turn it into what they have always wanted. I used to be like that too—I used to keep waiting all the time for something to happen or for someone to show up. But if I could give my younger self one piece of advice, it would be to stop waiting.

Stop waiting for this magical incident that will completely transform your life. Stop waiting for the trip will solve all your life problems. Because guess what? Unlike what you think, you might actually go on a solo trip for a few months and actually come back to the very same life. Stop waiting for someone to save you and expect them to transform your life into what you always wanted. For god’s sake, just stop waiting for all of that. If you have a life that you are so eager to live, then go make it happen for yourself. Start right now and work on making your life everything you ever wanted it to be.

Stop waiting for someone or something to happen in order to move you to chase this life you want. Make a plan, start doing all you can, and work so damn hard to get this life instead of staying where you are hoping for a miracle to happen that will give you what you want on a silver platter.

I know we all grew up hearing stories about these moments that happen to people all the time that change their lives and help them have these life awakenings. And yes, even though I can’t deny that some moments in life might motivate the hell out of us or ignite a certain spark in us or make us reach a huge realization in our lives, that doesn’t mean that we put our dreams and lives on hold till one of these moments happen.

What if none of these moments come across our way? Do we just keep being stuck where we are and just keep waiting for them to happen?

Please go out there and make things happen for yourself. Don’t waste any more time waiting. Just go after what you want and find a way to get it. Don’t hope and wait for miracles or magical moments. Create your own luck. Create your own magic and miracles. You owe it to yourself to make this happen. You don’t need something to happen for you or someone to come into your life in order for you to get what you dream of. Everything that you need in order to get what you dream of is right within you, but you are just too busy waiting and looking for other things to happen for you that you can’t even realize the fact that you have the power to make amazing things happen for yourself.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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MY MUSE is one of the poems you can find in the book RUINS.
(This is just a epilogue of the poem, you can get hold of this and many other poems in the book.)
Do check the links for the book! (in the footer)

If eyes could speak yours would narrate a thousand fables.
Your eyelashes are petals of royal poinciana. The summer sky makes them dreamy. You plucked the half bloomed moon from the sky and ate it. It shows in your smile.
Your tongue is a paintbrush.
And your words become alluring graffitis.
Your clavicle is a small ocean.
I sometimes dive inside it.
Your ribs are a constellation of stars. And your heart is a planet, a universe you hide beneath your scarred flesh.

Ruins is a collection of 30 poems – poems that will hit you like a bullet and fill your heart with strewn rose petals and are like a graveyard of your broken pieces.

Ruins narrates the stories of ruins left behind by love, heartbreak, and death.
The book is also an attempt to heal the brokenhearted, and comfort the crying. It’s a pillow of hope for the sleepless and a poetic escapade for the art savant.

The writer Suvrahadip Ghosh hopes to engrave words that’ll live through time and elate generations.
And he hope when you read them, you’ll find an abode in his poems.

Ruins is about you, me, and all of us.

RUINS is a homage to every one of you who’s ever loved and lost, either the person or yourself on the path to forever. It’s a letter to your broken heart, a reminder, that you’re not alone. That at the end of this tragic path, you’ll find love, again. And this time it’ll stay. All you have to do is walk. This book will be your guiding light. It’ll be your companion on this painful journey. In its verses, you and all your broken parts will find a home. And much more.

You can connect to him on his IG at

You can get it on Blue Rose Publishers.

Here’s the book’s Amazon link.

Here’s the book’s Flipkart link.

Born in West Bengal and raised in Gujarat,
Suvrahadip Ghosh is an engineer turned writer.
He loves dissecting words and got himself published
in some major anthologies- including one with Durjoy Dutta.
His other passions include Football, Animes, and Rap Music.
Lionel Messi, Naruto, and Eminem being his biggest inspirations.
He also loves getting inked.
And the only thing he’s ever been careless about is his introduction.

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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I know that you cheated on me!

I will lie awake
And lie for fun
And fake the way I hold you
Let you fall for every empty word I say — Brand New

I had a dream that you were cheating on me, she tells him. She opens the cabinet and finds a box of Irish Breakfast Tea. She knows she can lazily linger today. Today is their off day. He refills his cup of coffee, unfazed. Even in his girlfriend’s sleep, the irrational part of her brain is triggered, manifesting in what she generically labels ‘stress dreams.’

You told me that you were sleeping with your ex. It was strange because you made it seem like it was completely normal. Like we were never exclusive and it was just something that you did occasionally.

That’s pretty odd. He knows by now not to indulge her anxious thoughts. He knows to simply let them pass one by one as she comes to a more rational understanding.

And then I told you, in the dream, that I wanted to be your girlfriend, and that I didn’t appreciate you sleeping with someone else behind my back. I mean, it was awful, but you got it.

She boils a pot of water for the tea, distracted by the narrative she concocted during the hours she wasn’t awake. But then, the dream shifted. At some point, I came to the realization that I already was your girlfriend and that you were blatantly lying and cheating on me. It was devastating.

She takes the long scenic route to the beach. The one with quaint back roads and canals that feed into the bay. Driving usually calms her nerves. She cant’t focus on too many things at once while she drives. It’s just the road in front of her. A road that guides her forward, towards the destination.

The sea air feels so good on her lungs. She walks towards the ocean and dips her toes in the frothy tide. Childhood remnants that have nestled their way into her core are once again ignited.

The feeling she gets every time her feet meet the waves that lightly break on the shore. The feeling she gets when she looks out into the distance and feels so tiny yet so lucky to be here.

The feeling of wonder that never goes away.

She contemplates her past. She thinks back to how she deeply trusted. She thinks back to the moment he told her over the phone that they will never have a future together. A broken engagement. A punch to the gut in 30 seconds. Loss rearing its head. She wonders when the past will let her go.

She breathes in the salty air and thinks that there’s no time like the present. 

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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When the right one comes at the right time!

I used to fight my own battles silently, and it was never easy for me. People thought I was doing well all along because I was just smiling most of the time. Little did they know that almost every night, I just cried myself to sleep. I kept wondering where it all went wrong. I thought that maybe I was not deserving of love at all, or maybe I was a terrible person who pushed all the people who loved me away.

When I closed my eyes, everything came back to me—the trauma, the painful goodbyes, the broken friendships, the unexpected deaths, the heartbreaking rejections. The pain rippled inside me every time.

I thought I was in the deep end, but that was until I finally decided to see my worth and began to prioritize myself. I was busy trying to pick up my shattered pieces and rebuilding myself when someone came and changed my life.

I tried pushing him away, given the fact that it was the only thing I used to be incredibly good at. I thought maybe one day he would get tired and give up on me, just like everybody did.

He entered my life without knowing that he actually saved me from all the insanity and the chaos I had been dealing with for so many years.

But he made it seem like loving me was as easy as breathing. He made me feel like his love was as certain as the sun setting every day.

For the first time, I experienced what it was like to have the car door waiting open for me whenever we went out on a date. He constantly surprised me with my favorite flowers and comfort food. There were times he dropped everything and came running to me just to save me from having another breakdown.

Even if I became stronger on my own, I never thought I needed someone to hold my hand whenever I doubted myself. I loved it when he hugged me when I was feeling hopeless and hugged me even tighter when I thought of giving up. He made sure that I wouldn’t ever have to fight my silent battles alone again and vowed to protect me and my peace all the time.

After all the pain and the sleepless nights, it all finally made sense to me. Now, I completely understand why I had to go through all the heartaches and why I had to wait. Timing is everything indeed.

Choosing myself was the best decision I have ever made in my life. It allowed me to see my worth so that I wouldn’t ever have to settle just to get my heart broken again. And learning what I truly deserved led me to being with the man who knew exactly how I should be loved.

I am way too blessed to experience this kind of love that I never imagined I would ever have. I hope everyone gets to find theirs too.

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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‘Loving people doesn’t save them.
Love doesn’t heal. It isn’t a miracle.
It’s just a chemical reaction designed to elate you
for a while.
And like all the chemical reactions, it’s perilous.’

This past week I stumbled upon a book called RUINS.

Ruins is a collection of 30 poems – poems that will hit you like a bullet and fill your heart with strewn rose petals and are like a graveyard of your broken pieces.

Ruins narrates the stories of ruins left behind by love, heartbreak, and death.
The book is also an attempt to heal the brokenhearted, and comfort the crying. It’s a pillow of hope for the sleepless and a poetic escapade for the art savant.

The writer Suvrahadip Ghosh hopes to engrave words that’ll live through time and elate generations.
And he hope when you read them, you’ll find an abode in his poems.

Ruins is about you, me, and all of us.

RUINS is a homage to every one of you who’s ever loved and lost, either the person or yourself on the path to forever. It’s a letter to your broken heart, a reminder, that you’re not alone. That at the end of this tragic path, you’ll find love, again. And this time it’ll stay. All you have to do is walk. This book will be your guiding light. It’ll be your companion on this painful journey. In its verses, you and all your broken parts will find a home. And much more.

You can connect to him on his IG at

You can get the book on Blue Rose Publishers.

Here’s the book’s Amazon link.

Here’s the book’s Flipkart link.

Born in West Bengal and raised in Gujarat,
Suvrahadip Ghosh is an engineer turned writer.
He loves dissecting words and got himself published
in some major anthologies- including one with Durjoy Dutta.
His other passions include Football, Animes, and Rap Music.
Lionel Messi, Naruto, and Eminem being his biggest inspirations.
He also loves getting inked.
And the only thing he’s ever been careless about is his introduction.

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

Desai Thoughts MEdia.

Follow me on instagram for more!

Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile!

If you haven’t seen Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile yet, it’s available on Netflix now. It stars Zac Efron as Ted Bundy and Lily Collins (❤️) as his long-term girlfriend, Liz Kendall. Ted was a serial killer. Don’t expect to go into the film seeing blood and gore at every turn, because this is more about the story of a woman falling for the wrong guy without realizing it until much too late. Here are a few things I personally learned from watching Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile: Just because someone treats you well, it doesn’t mean they’re a good person. Your person might treat you like you’re the most valuable gem in the world — and that’s wonderful — but watch how they treat your waiters and your bartenders and your friends. If they’re horrible to everyone else, they might turn around and be horrible to you one day. Even if they always treat you like a queen, do you really want to spend your life with someone who makes everyone else miserable? When you have a bad gut feeling about someone, you shouldn’t ignore it. Spoiler Alert: Liz is the one who gave the police Ted’s name. That means there was a part of her that believed he was capable of extremely wicked, shockingly evil, and vile acts from the very beginning. If there’s even a tiny little piece of you that wonders whether your person has been manipulating you and does not deserve your love, don’t ignore the thought. Don’t blindly continue forward, pretending everything is fine. When everyone warns you about the person you’re dating, you should probably listen. Some people have no idea what they’re talking about. They might be wrong about your person’s bad reputation or they might be jealous of your relationship or they might be trying to cause drama. However, if every single person in your life has been warning you this person is no good for you, you should at least take their warnings into consideration. They must be seeing something you’re not seeing. Loving someone toxic can destroy you — even after the relationship ends. It takes a long time to heal from a toxic relationship. Even after you cut someone toxic out of your life and stop answering their phone calls, it’s going to be hard to get over the baggage they left behind. You might drink more than you should. You might skip work more than you should. You might mope in bed more than you should. You might become a shell of the person you once were. Just because someone is attractive, it doesn’t mean they’re a good catch. There’s more to a relationship than physical attraction. Even though someone might cross off everything on your list when it comes to their looks, you still have to get to know them before deciding you want them to have your babies.

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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Good Guys!

Everyone warned me about the bad guys, but no one actually warned me about the good guys.

No one warned about the ones who hold doors for you and pull chairs out for you. The ones who always know the right words to say. The polite and decent ones. Basically the ones that you would call total gentlemen. The ones who carry the bag for you when it’s too heavy. The ones that compliment you often and always have the nicest gestures. No one warned me that all of this doesn’t really mean that they are in fact any different than the bad guys they tell us to stay away from.

Sometimes the “good” guys turn into whole other people the minute you enter into a heated argument with them. They might turn into the complete opposite the minute they are confronted with something they don’t like. And when you actually tell others about this, it makes it really hard for them to believe you because these are the good guys in everyone’s eyes, the ones that everyone basically tells you are too decent for this world and too rare to find these days.

But little did I know that looks can fool you. You can’t say a person is actually good because of their nice attitude. You need to test them in real-life situations, in heated and stressful situations, to get to truly know them. Because in these situations you get to know if the person is actually the same as how they act and appear to be. You can’t create your judgment merely on just some polite gestures, nice acts, and sugar-coated words.

You need to create your judgment on something way deeper than this and on a larger scale. Yes, these gestures are of course nice, and the person in front of you might actually be from the inside exactly as he acts and appears to be from the outside, but still, you should not base your opinions on their facade alone. You need to make sure that you don’t fall for this trap and that you put other things into consideration. Instead, wait to form an opinion until you find yourself in serious situations with that person.

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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That helpful girl!

I used to read on the subway. Now I can’t think with the hoard of passengers, coming and going. Their movements distract me. Since the drinking started, the morning world does not allow for concentration.

Today, the hangover is bad, and every leg that brushes mine brings on a wave of nausea. Every voice is garbled in the subway din. I gag, just a little, and taste rice wine. Thank God I got a seat.

Groaning, I lean to pull my wallet from my back pocket. I fish through the few remaining singles, and pull a mostly wrapped stick of gum from its hiding place in the gritty folds. I hope it will help, but it only serves to make my mouth water. I swallow spit and gag again. Damn it. I will not be the guy who barfs on his shoes. Not today.

I check my watch, next. Thirty minutes left of the forty five minute commute to my place, then an hour before my shift at Luna Park. Hopefully, Nikhil will switch with me today, so I can run a water ride. I know my head won’t tolerate the music of my usual gig at the carousel.

Just thinking of carnival tunes and screaming, sticky kids makes me feel worse. I fold forward; head on arms, arms on knees. My pants, of course, smell like rice wine.

Here it comes, I think. There’s no stopping it now.

My back arches with a heave, and I attempt to lean forward and miss my shoes. In the millisecond before I let go, a white styrofoam cup appears at my mouth. My vomit hits the clear liquid at the bottom and splashes up onto my cheeks, but it doesn’t make it to the floor or my clothes. The cup slides away and a napkin appears. I wipe at my lips, and detach a line of drool from my chin.

I toss the napkin onto the floor, and look to my right. There she is. My hangover fairy. She’s wearing a simple white dress, brown hair pulled back to reveal a plain but sweet face. I mumble a thank you, and she nods with a smile. Sympathetic, though I have a feeling she’s never been in my current position. I notice that she has tucked the cup of vomit between her shoes, which look more like ballet slippers to me.

She talks a little. I don’t mind, since she seems to understand that I don’t feel well enough to respond. She tells me about her plans for the day, but I don’t really listen. I’m distracted by the hem of her dress. It crept up a few inches when she crossed her legs, and now rests halfway up her thigh. I feel a telltale stirring in my pants. Bad timing there. How old is this girl? Does she know what I’m thinking?

I’m guessing she doesn’t. I’m guessing she feels sorry for me. Also, I’m not quite dirty enough to be scary, and I’m good looking enough make up for my disheveled state, at least a little.  She’s naive. It adds to the attraction.

She pulls a water bottle from a miniature backpack that I hadn’t noticed before. She hands it to me, and says she can get another, later. Having purged the worst of my sick, I find that the water helps. I can sit all the way up. I wipe sweaty hair from my damp forehead, and give her a smile.

“I’m a mess,” I say. “Rough night.”

She actually pats my shoulder when she says, “It’s okay. Glad I could help.”

I’m feeling better by the moment.

I mention that my stop is next, and as fortune would have it, she’s getting off there, too. Something about babysitting for a cousin. She exits the car in front of me, and I can smell her perfume. It doesn’t make me sick. It’s subtle and pleasant, like the rest of her.

Once out of the subway station, I make a small misstep, and stumble. She catches this, and suddenly a cool hand is on the back of my arm. “You were right. You’re a mess,” she whispers, with what sounds like genuine concern. “Let me walk you home.”

I am suddenly concerned that I am asleep, and she’s only the deus ex machina in my alcohol soaked nightmare. Just as I’m fully convinced that this can’t be happening, she’s pulling me up. Her hand remains against my skin, reminding me of the reality. I tell her she’s an angel. I tell her my address. In a handful of blocks, we’re there and she’s climbing the stairs behind me.

“Maybe you should call in to work today. You need to rest,” she grins, adding, “and take a shower.”

I allow myself to laugh, as I unlock door to my shitty apartment. “You’re probably right,” I say, through thin embarrassment. “You can come in, if you want.” When I turn around, our faces are too close, and I can see that she’s nervous. “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate. Thank you for… everything.” The blush spreading across my face seems to alleviate her nerves.

“I have to go, but I think I’d like to give you my number.” She reaches into that little backpack again, and pulls out a pink business card. “It’s for my Etsy shop,” she explains, fumbling, “I make these flower headbands and, um…” Her entire face reddens. She closes her eyes, taking a breath. I watch her struggle through her own moment of embarrassment, before finishing, “Anyway, it has my number on it.”

When she opens her eyes, she glances not at me, but behind me, through the now open apartment door. “Oh!” she exclaims. I turn to see what caught her eye and am immediately reminded of what I’d been doing last night, pre-blackout, before I had hit the subway and headed across town for late night food and way too much alcohol.

My kitchen floor is covered in plastic, and on it lays a thin, pale body. Her skirt is hiked up and gore cakes every inch of her skin. The knives are still out, scattered on the stovetop. Blood is spattered on the cabinets. I hadn’t noticed that. Sloppy. I’m usually on top of the cleanup. I had obviously drank too much, but I already knew that from this vicious hangover. Thank God I had remembered to shower, before leaving home.

The girl is standing in the doorway. She’s taking it all in, eyes widening. I watch it register on her face that she is currently in danger. That she has walked a madman home. That she did everything wrong, and she needs to escape now.

I grab her by the hair, and slam her head into the doorframe. Delicate as she is, that’s all it takes. I pull her in and toss her to the floor, beside the other. If I untie the dead one, I can reuse the rope. Good thinking.

I pop two Aspirin and chase them with a swig of cheap brandy, from the still open bottle on the counter. A while back, I started to feel bad about the girls. The drinking helps.

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You can’t kill someone who’s already dead!

Don’t you dare tell me that there are lots of kids who look the same. Don’t pretend this is some sort of funny coincidence either, like the kindergarten teacher does. I’d know my baby girl anywhere. I know the way her hair smells, and how her soft little hands feel in mine. I know her giggling laugh, the way she puffs out her cheeks when she’s angry, and the light in her eyes when she sees me across the room. I know all the things that only a mother can know, but for the life of me I still can’t tell them apart.

“Pihu, go put your crayons away. It’s time to go home now.”

“I’m not done yet.”

“Don’t talk back to your mom. You can finish tomorrow.”


 “You’re not my mom. You’re just a lady.”

That was the first shock. When the girl I thought was my daughter shied away from me at the kindergarten. I grabbed her arm and started dragging her, thinking she was just misbehaving. She started to struggle and howl in protest, but I wasn’t in the mood so I picked her up and slung her over my shoulder. I probably would have walked away with her and never known if the real Pihu hadn’t come skipping around the corner.

“Hi mom! Hi Pari!”

“Put me down! I don’t wanna!” shouted the child I was carrying. I’d always thought double-takes were just something people did in movies. I must have done a quadruple. Everything was identical, from their blonde pigtails tied exactly the same way all the way down to their matching floral overalls.

“Whicha cowa,” my daughter said.

“Zookiah gromwich,” Pari replied as I put them down.

“Isn’t it adorable?” Mrs. Mudras, the kindergarten teacher, was just returning from the bathroom leading another toddler by the hand. “They even talk in their own language. None of the other kids can understand them.”

My daughter leaned over to Pari and whispered something that sounded like: “Priva priva mae.”

Both girls looked at me pointedly and began a hysterical giggle in perfect synchronization. Even the intakes of breath and the sudden high-pitched squeals lined up.

Honestly? I didn’t think it was adorable at all. I thought it was beyond creepy. I wasted no time scooping my daughter up and getting her out of there. I might have been able to find it cute under different circumstances, but the truth is that Pihu did have a twin. At least in the womb. Her sister was stillborn though, and seeing Pari just brought back a rush of memories that I hadn’t allowed myself to touch for five years.

By the next day, I’d convinced myself I was overreacting. I should be glad that my daughter made a friend. This was only going to be weird if I let it be weird. I don’t know if I was just trying to prove something to myself, but I even made an effort by reaching out to Pari’s parents and inviting them over for a play date. They were really sweet people, and we laughed about the “weird coincidence” while the kids played with LEGOs on the floor.

In theory, this was supposed to make me feel better about the situation. It didn’t. The more we talked, the weirder it got. Both girls would sit exactly the same way with their knees drawn up to their chins. They both liked to peel apples and eat the skin — both liked the same obscure cartoon about a digital world — both liked cats more than dogs. Their favorite color was blue.

Even worse, the whole time they were playing together they only spoke in their secret language, laughing in unison. Pari’s mother looked a little uncomfortable when they both asked to use the bathroom at the same time, but she just laughed it off and commented on how impressionable five year olds are.

“Did you have fun today with your new friend?” I asked Pihu when I was tucking her into bed that night.

“She’s not my friend. She’s my sister,” Pihu declared in that pompously imperative way children have.

“You don’t have a sister. Pari has her own parents, remember?”

“It’s okay, mom. I know she died.” Pihu’s eyes were already closed when she said it. She spoke as casually as though saying goodnight, nestling further under the covers as she did. “Don’t worry. She’s all better now.”

I’d never spoken aloud about Pihu’s twin since the day she died. Never even dared to think it too loudly.

“Did your father tell you that?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

“No. Pari told me. Goodnight mom.”

“Sweet dreams, little one.”

I’d just turned off the lights and was about to leave the room when Pihu said: “Baree fanta lan, Pari.”

“What did you just say?”

Pihu started giggling. Then she was silent. Then giggling again, rambling away in her unknown language.

I can’t explain exactly why I decided to call Pari’s parents right then. I guess I was just feeling overwhelmed and needed a little reality check.

“Has Pari gone to bed already?” I asked.

“No, she’s in the kitchen drinking a warm milk,” Pari’s mom replied. “Is something the matter?”

“Is she… talking to herself?”

A shuffling. Then a pause. I heard Pihu mumble something, then start to giggle again. On the other end of the line, I heard Pari giggling at the same exact instant.

“She’s not saying anything,” Pari’s mom said. I breathed a sigh of relief, but it was cut short. “Not real words anyway. Just pretend words.”

I thanked her, wished her goodnight, and hung up the phone. Not before I heard Pari replying in the background to whatever Pihu was saying to herself. They were communicating somehow. I don’t know why that terrified me so much, but it did. I sat outside her room and wrote down as much of the gibberish as I could make sense of. In the morning, I tried asking Pihu what it meant. She only laughed and said it was a secret.

I felt like I was running in circles. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, but the more I thought, the more confusing it got. Had my other girl survived after-all? Could she have been adopted by another family somehow? But that still didn’t explain how they were talking to each other.

As a last resort, I tried hanging around the kindergarten until after Pari’s parents dropped her off and left. Then I went in and signed Pari out, pretending that she was my daughter. She trusted me this time since we’ve played together at my house, and I promised her some treats if she went along with it.

Once we were alone in my car, I showed her all the gibberish words I wrote down from the night before. I told her she had to help me figure out what they meant for her to get her treat. Pari was happy to oblige.

“Lizzy (her word for Pihu) and I were talking last night.”

“What were you talking about?”

“We were trying to decide which of us was dead. What kind of treat did you bring?”

“Soon, honey. Can you tell me what that means?”

“Ughhh.” Pari rolled her eyes in exasperation, just the way Pihu always does when I make her wait. “One of us died when we were little. I think it was Lizzy, but she thinks it was me.”

“You both look pretty alive to me.”

“I knowwwwwwww,” she whined. “That’s why we can’t agree. But I can’t live unless she’s dead, so that’s going to happen. Can I have my treat now?”

“What’s going to happen?” I understood her, but I still couldn’t believe a five year old would say such a thing.

“Lizzy has to die,” Pari said emphatically. “There’s only supposed to be one of us.”

“That doesn’t make sense. It’s insane. I never want to hear you say that again.”

Pari shrugged. “If we get ice-cream, can it be —”

“Chocolate,” I cut her off. “I know.”

Pari giggled.

“Are you going to hurt my daughter?”

Pari’s eyes widened, fearful. She shook her head rapidly. I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding.

“You can’t hurt someone who is already dead,” Pari said matter-of-factly.

This part is hard to type, but I need you to know why I did it. I need you to know that Pari didn’t suffer when I wrapped my hands around her little neck. She barely even struggled, and it snapped so easily that I know she barely even knew what was happening. She said so herself. You can’t hurt someone who is already dead, and I had my own daughter to worry about.

I’m sorry Mr. Singh. I’m sorry Mrs. Singh. I know this letter will be hard for you to understand, but your daughter didn’t die yesterday. She was my daughter, and she died five years ago before she ever left the hospital. I know what it must have seemed like, but you never had a daughter of your own. You had a dream about a life that could have been, and this pain you feel is just the surprise of waking up.

I just wish Pihu would stop talking to herself. I wish she wouldn’t look at me the way she does, or laugh when she’s alone. 

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My stalker wishes me happy birthday every year!

“Happy Birthday Maahi. I hope someone gets you the new phone I saw you looking at last week.”

-Love X

“Another year already. It seems like only yesterday I watched your mom dropping you off for high school. It’s been such a pleasure watching you grow up.” 

-Love X

“You should be more careful about closing your windows at night. You never know when someone might climb up from the balcony below. Happy birthday, stay safe.” 

-Love X

They might sound creepy to you, but you have to understand that I’ve been getting these cards every year for as long as I can remember. My mom made a big fuss about them for a while, but we never got the slightest clue where they were coming from and nothing bad ever came from it. Over the years it just became a fact of life; I even looked forward to the mysterious messages.

We all had our theories, of course. Mom thought it was some socially handicapped secret admirer with a lifelong obsession. My half-sister Aanshie couldn’t stand the idea of anyone being in love with me. She insisted it was a psychopath who was just biding his time to strike. I even caught her slipping her own menacing anonymous letter into the pile one year just to scare me.

Personally, I always thought (or at least hoped) they were coming from dad. He left my mother while she was still pregnant with me. Mom thinks that’s proof that he doesn’t care and wouldn’t bother. I think it’s proof that he knows I exist. The fact that Aanshie never gets a card seems to support the idea.

This never caused a problem until I was in my twenties and living on my own. I’d started dating a guy named Rajveer who was almost charming to a fault. He wouldn’t say that I looked beautiful. He’d tell me that the rain came from angels weeping over losing me from heaven. Or that the puddles loved me so much that they’d hold onto my reflection even after I’d left. A little over the top maybe, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to feeling myself all mixed up with his words.

Rajveer and I had been together for almost eight months before we celebrated my first birthday together. That’s the first time I saw the other side of him. I guess I never realized how closely linked passion and jealousy are before he opened my mysterious card. His brows knotted together while he read, his pressed lips began to tremble, and all the color drained from his face.

“It’s no big deal, really,” I told him. “What’s it say?”

Rajveer didn’t answer. He threw the card down on the table and walked to the other side of the room, breathing heavily. I picked it up and read:

“He’s going to hurt you, Maahi. You wouldn’t be the first either. Get out, or this may be the last card you ever receive.”

-Love X

When I looked up Rajveer was standing on the opposite side of his living room, just glaring at me. “Well?” he asked. “Explain yourself.”

“Me? What did I do?”

The space between us closed more rapidly than I was comfortable with. I took a step back, but that only brought him closer — trapping me against a wall.

“What’s his name? How long have you been seeing him?” he asked.

What followed was the worst argument we’ve ever had. He refused to believe me when I told him it might be my father, and I got a glimpse of the person the message warned me about. I told him he could check with my family, but he seemed to think they would lie to protect me. We managed to avoid talking about it for a few days until one morning when Rajveer triumphantly slammed a piece of paper on the table.

“He’s dead. Twelve years he’s been dead.”

I don’t know how Rajveer did it, but I was staring at my father’s death certificate. Have you ever felt a lifetime of hope shatter in a few seconds? It’s like being conscious of your own death. Your body keeps moving and you can feel it go, but there’s no one inside anymore.

“Stop pretending you care just to get out of trouble. I know you never met him.”

And then the argument started again, but my heart wasn’t in it anymore. I couldn’t explain who was sending the letters. I could barely even talk, and he took my silence as an admission of guilt. He didn’t understand that I wasn’t hurt because I lost my father. You can’t lose something you’ve never had. I was hurt because I lost every possible future with my father in it. I lost him dancing with me at my wedding, and carrying my future kids on his back. I lost him telling me that he never stopped thinking of me, or loving me, even if it was only from afar.

And all I gained in return were threats, insults, and the unsettling realization that a stranger really had been following me my whole life long. Now Rajveer was laying it on the line — I could either trust him, or the letter writer. He demanded to know why I would throw away the life I was building for some creep I’d never met. How could I possibly take care of myself without him? How could I find another man as good as him, when even my own father didn’t want me?

If my life was a movie, then things would have gotten better after that. I would have stood up for myself and learned to live on my own terms. But I was scared, and I was alone, and I thought that someone who said the angels wept for me would never dare blasphemy the object of their love.

I thought I deserved it when he started to lock me in my own room. What else could he do, if he didn’t trust me?

I thought I could be strong when he hit me or pulled my hair. At least he didn’t leave. My mother would have been lucky to have found a man like Rajveer.

And for the next year, I hated myself for spending my whole life waiting for a fairy tale that would never come true.

Until my birthday came again, and I finally found the will to leave. It wasn’t what the card said that convinced me — just a benign, generic well-wishing straight off the shelf. It was where the card came from, because this was the first time there had ever been a return address.

In the cool and safety of the dark, I stole out of Rajveer’s house with only what I could fit in a suitcase. It was hard going dragging my things, but I knew that if my life was going to start over, then it was going to start with the only person I’ve ever trusted — the one sending the letters. And when I found myself entering the cemetery, I knew I had found what I was looking for.

My father’s headstone, which read: “Are you there, Maahi? I will always be with you.” 

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That damned smile!

There are a lot of things about that summer that I don’t remember, but I can clearly recall the golden sunlight filtering through the diagonal, green leaflets and falling like glittering rain onto the floor of dirt and fallen limbs. The sharp, rusted edges of discarded metal cans would glint into sparkles with the precipitation of a cotton-candy sky. And I remember spinning. I would whip my head around and my vision would blur into dripping watercolors. The trees would stretch and transform into an entirely new landscape and if I closed my eyes I could still see their sparkling outline in the darkness of my eyelids.

“Do you see it?” I would hear them yell.

And I hadn’t seen it, not yet, so I kept spinning until I felt like my feet would collapse and my insides would curdle into hard chunks. My feet began to clumsily trip over themselves, and I slowed my turning. My stomach lurched with unease, and I turned toward the gap between trees.

“I see it!” I screamed.

And I heard the rest of them giggle with nervous excitement. My eyes blurred back and forth. My vision still mixing reality with the watercolor strokes of movement. The shadow stood between the trees, and it was tall. If you didn’t concentrate, you might just think it was another tree, but as my eyes filled with soft, wet blur, I could see each limb clearly. He stood just over 8-feet tall, and as I fell onto my knees in the crunchy, dead foliage I could make out his top hat and the coat tails of his tuxedo.

“He’s here,” I croaked out, and I strained my eyes to stay open.

“Don’t blink,” one of them ordered.

My eyes fluttered with dryness and agitation, but I kept watching him. He slowly tipped his hat toward me, and I lifted a hand to reciprocate. He was still cloaked in darkness, but Brijesh had said if you stare long enough, if you just endure the stinging pain of inflammation, you’d see his face.

“Black eyes,” Brijesh had said. “Just black holes. There’s nothing there. Nothing. And if you see him smile, close your eyes and wish him away. Don’t hesitate. Never hesitate.”

“Mister Manish,” I said.

“That is the most ridiculous story I’ve ever heard,” Leena fell back onto the gray carpet of my childhood bedroom with a muffled thud.

I laughed too, but the memory flooded back to me with painful illumination.

“So,” Leena began, sitting up and crossing her legs. “What happens if he smiles?”

“I don’t know,” I laughed again. “I closed my eyes.”

“There’s no creepy urban legend?”

“One kid said he would suck your soul out of your nostrils,” I choked out in a fit of giggles. “Another said he would pluck your eyeballs out with a wooden skewer and eat them. You know, so he could see this world.”

“Nom, nom, nom,” Leena laughed grabbing a handful of popcorn and shoving it into her mouth.

“You know his favorite eye color?” I asked, and she leaned closer to me, her eyes sparkling with intrigue. “Little mahogany fuckers like you,” I whispered

She exploded with laughter again bringing her hands to her eyes to cover them.

“I bet he likes brown eyes because they are the most common,” she said. “You can see more. Bigger world view.”

I shook my head and sighed. If I closed my eyes, I could see that sparkling forest, and I could see him again. That night, he stood deep in the forest. The next time we tried, he was closer. And the next time, he was so close, if I had reached my hand out in front me, I could have touched his blurred outline. That was the last time we played the game. I remember watching the curve of his thin grey lips began to slide into a crescent, and I slammed my eyelids shut. When I opened them again, the forest was empty. The next morning, my eyes were bloody with irritation and they watered hot, sticky goo. My mother made me stay home from school and told me to stop “getting into god knows what” in those woods. After a few days, the itchy pain subsided, and my eyes shimmered a deep green again.

“He almost got you,” Brijesh had said.

I punched the pudgy flesh of his arm and told him to “shut up.” I told him it was all made up. I’d just gotten dust in my eyes from all the spinning.

I never told Brijesh that sometimes as I closed to sleep, I could see him standing in the doorway of my room. But I’d blink, and the opening would be empty, just the soft filtered light of my bumble bee night light remained.

I could hear his voice now, the squeaky crack of pubescent cutting through the word “almost.”

“So, are we going to play?” Leena asked.

“No way,” I said lifting my body upright.

Leena stood up, and she began spinning. She laughed into the emptiness of my old house.

“Misterrrrr” she growled. “Mister Manish show yourself!”

“Come on, man,” she continued. “Steal these peepers, and get me out of my calculus final!”

“Leena,” I hissed. “Stop it.”

She slowed her spin and fell onto the floor with hiccupy giggles. She leaned toward me, and her breath smelled like the red wine we’d been drinking.

“This really scares you, huh?” she asked.

I didn’t reply. I just pushed her backward with my left palm.

“I’m hungry,” she said, and we both stood up and moved toward the kitchen. The house was dark, and I flipped on overhead lights as we walked through the house to brighten the darkness I was feeling. It had been years since I’d thought of him. It had been years since I’d seen his slim outline outside my bedroom. I’d chalked most of my visions up to childhood fear, and I’d tucked the story deep into the folds of my brain.

When we reached the kitchen, I pulled a non-stick pan from one of the cabinets and clicked on the burner with a whoosh of heat and blue embers. I turned to see Leena headfirst in the refrigerator. She emerged with a pack of orange cheese in her right hand and a green grape squeezed between her teeth. She bit down on the grape, and it squirted clear liquid across the floor, a lump of gooey grape guts falling down her chin.

“Like an eyeball,” she laughed and flicked her tongue down her face to reach the bits of grape shrapnel.

I rolled my eyes at her and leaned across the counter to the roll of paper towels. I threw the roll at her, and it rapped against her chest with a soft thump. She reeled backward in artificial horror and then fell forward laughing again.

I walked to the pantry and found half a loaf of wheat bread. I un-clipped the bag and pulled out four fluffy slices letting my fingers drag over their pilled texture. Leena came around my side and laid two slices of cheese onto the open slices of bread.

“Butter?” I asked.

She walked back toward the refrigerator, and when she opened the door, I could hear the familiar buzz of machinery louden.

“Ah ha!” she smiled as she turned toward me holding a stick of butter.

She slid the butter across the counter to me, and I unwrapped the wax paper from the stick. While I slid a knife into the creamy flesh of the stick, Leena skipped out of the room, humming to herself.

I laid one of the sandwiches onto the heated pan, and it burst into a whispered thrum of sizzling. When I looked back toward Leena, she was spinning again. Her blonde waves erupted from her head like a maypole, and her golden, brown eyes were closed. I was about to tell her to stop when her eyes snapped open and her body immediately stopped moving, the residual motion coming out of her limbs in shaky waves.

“I see him,” she said. Her voice sandpapery with excitement.

“I see him,” she repeated, this time louder.

“Leena…” I whispered, my voice not daring to go any higher. “Close your eyes.”

She fell to her knees, her back toward me.

“Leena,” I whispered again.

She laughed, and I took a breath.

“Meera,” she said. “He’s smiling at me.”

“Close your eyes!” I screamed.

The room went silent.

“Okay, okay,” she finally said. “I closed my eyes.”

I walked over to her, and when I rounded the couch, she opened her eyes again.

“Meera…” her voice faded into a whisper.

“Yeah?” I said.

“He’s still here.” 

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When I met my doppleganger!

Have you ever blocked an ex?

I blocked all of them. Facebook, phone numbers, the whole nine yards. When my wife and I got engaged, it was time to give up my guilty pleasure of stalking exes… no matter how much joy I got from seeing Mia chronically unemployed, or Riya dating a man double his age.

I’d successfully avoided stalking them for seven years – until last night. A friend of mine posted a photo of herself at a wedding.

My ex, Jiya’s, wedding.

Huh. I felt that familiar twinge in my stomach. Not jealousy, exactly – I was happily married. Just… annoyance? Curiosity? Nostalgia?

Maybe all three.

I unblocked her. Sure enough, her profile photo showed her standing at the altar. Watching her lovely groom walk up the aisle. I couldn’t see much from the photo, since his back was turned. But he was well built, with long, dark hair.

Her “type.” My type.

Another twinge.

I turned around. Kia was snoring softly, out like a light. Should I really be doing this? Checking out an ex’s hubby? I hadn’t seen Jiya in 12 years. I didn’t really care about her, or her hubby.

Did I?

I couldn’t stop myself. I greedily clicked on the album titled Wedding Photos. The first image loaded.

I let out a gasp.

The groom… looked exactly like me. Dark hair, falling to his shoulders in soft waves. A pointed chin. Full cheeks. Even that mole on his neck, under his left ear.

It was like looking in a mirror.

I clicked madly through the photos. Through the ceremony, the reception. There he – no, – was, throwing my head back in laughter during our first dance. There I was, closing my eyes, tossing the bouquet behind me. There I was, snuggled up to her, looking out the taxi window with a grin.

I would’ve thought it was some Photoshop trick, but the photos went years back. Us, standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. Baking muffins together. Engagement photos, showing off his ring – with the same freckle I had, near his thumb.

I clicked on his profile. Viraj Rajpurohit. Sadly, he kept it pretty private. The only thing I could see was his profile picture – a wedding photo I’d already seen.

Before I could stop myself, I clicked on his name and started typing a message.

Hi Viraj. My name is Rahul. I saw that you and Jiya got married. Congratulations! How did you two meet?

I didn’t point out the fact that we looked like twins. He’d see it herself. No need to be a creep.

The message popped up a second later:

✓ Seen 12:47 AM

Then three dancing dots appeared, indicating he was typing a response.

My heart began to pound. I grabbed my glass of wine and took a huge gulp, my fingers slipping against the keyboard.

But a reply never came.

After several minutes, I typed another message, nicer this time:

I’m sorry if this seems like a random message from a stranger. I just wanted to reach out, because I thought it was kind of cool that we looked so much like each other.

✓ Seen 12:52 AM

I tapped my fingers across the table, then took another sip of wine. Or, well, tried to. The glass was empty. I got up, poured another from the fridge, and sat back down at the computer.

Still no message.

Around 2 AM, I finally closed the laptop and joined Kia in bed.

He doesn’t look exactly like me. That’s what I told myself, as I slipped into sleep. His eyes are a little too close together. His smile hitches up on one side. And he’s shorter than me, isn’t he? People sometimes look alike. It happens all the time. My cousin looks just like Shakti Kapoor, when he does his hair right. Two guys I knew in college – Chintan and Dhaval – looked like brothers.

When there are 7 billion people in the world, some are bound to look alike.



The next day, Viraj popped up in my “suggested friends.”

I hate it how Facebook does that. You stalk someone, and then suddenly, it suggests them as a potential friend. It’s like some sort of stalking hangover.

I nearly scrolled past the friend suggestion, when I saw the text under his name:

12 mutual friends

He’d had no mutual friends with me last night.

What the hell? I read the list of names. Jhalak Parmar, Niki Parmar, Utsav Chu… They weren’t people I’d talked to recently, but they weren’t just random acquaintances, either. Jhalak had been my freshman roommate in college, Niki worked a few cubicles down at my last job, and Utsav was a pervert who I beat up from high school.

I saw that Utsav was online and shot him a message.

me: Hey Utsav. Did you accept a friend request by someone named ‘Viraj’?

Mike: Oh hey! You got your account back!

Did you find out who hacked it?

me: No one hacked my account. What are you talking about?

Mike: You messaged me from that Viraj account saying it was your new one. That your old one had gotten hacked. And you were using a new name because you were sick of your boss checking up on your FB.

me: That’s not me.

Mike: But the picture is of you.

I clicked over to his profile. His picture was no longer a photo from the wedding – it was just a plain old selfie. No makeup, morning light, with the caption “New day. New me.” I squinted at the background; it looked familiar, somehow. Blue sky, a patch of grass, and the corner of a stone building. But I couldn’t quite place it.

I shook off the feeling and continued typing to Utsav.

me: That’s not me, Utsav.

Mike: Oh, it’s a bot?

I didn’t know how to explain everything. So I told him yes, and to unfriend him immediately. Then I messaged the other eleven people and told them the same thing. I poured myself a cup of coffee – it was too early for wine – and sat back down at the computer, staring at his face.

“What are you up to?”

I jumped at Kia’s voice. She stood behind me, smiling, still in her pajamas.

“Just browsing Facebook,” I said, shutting the computer. “But I should get to work. I’m going to be late.”

I wanted to tell her about it. But then I’d have to admit to stalking Jiya, and spending hours tracking down her hubby…

After a quiet breakfast, I made my way over. The rain was driving down in sheets, drowning out the surrounding noise. I found the sound calming – water hitting the glass, over and over, washing away my fear.

I pulled into the parking lot.


Next to the door stood a figure. His face was hidden under a black umbrella – but familiar waves of dark hair fell down his shoulder.

I swung the car door open and swiftly walked towards him.

“Viraj?” I called.

He didn’t look at me. Instead, he turned around and walked down the sidewalk. Then he disappeared into the far end of the parking lot.

“Hey, you okay?”

My coworker, Leena, leaned against the stone building. In one hand, she held a Starbucks cup; in the other, her phone. I hadn’t even noticed her.

“Did you see that man?”

“What man?”

I shook my head. “Nevermind.”

Get a hold of yourself.

That wasn’t even him.

You’re driving yourself crazy.

I took a deep breath and followed Leena into the building. We entered the elevator and I closed my eyes, determined to put this behind me and get some work done.


My phone was gone.

In my rush to pursue what I thought was Viraj, I’d left my phone in the car. And my wallet. And forgotten to lock it up.

Now they were both gone.

Nothing else was missing. Not even the Rs. 300 cash in my glove compartment.

I swung into the driver’s seat. My shirt was soaked with rain. I gripped the steering wheel and began to cry.

It was too much stress. This weird man who looked just like me, now my stuff getting stolen… it was one of the worst weeks I’d had in a long time. I needed to tell Kia everything. She’d know what to do. She was always my rock, my calming force. Whenever I spiraled into anxiety, she was always there to pull me back.

I turned up the radio and drove home.

But when I pulled into our driveway, I found a car already there. A blue Honda Civic – just like mine.

I slowly got out of the car. Walked up to our door, my heart hammering in my chest.

I heard voices inside.

“That was fantastic! I didn’t know you knew how to make chicken cacciatore.”

A giggle.

My giggle.

I pulled out my keys. But my house key was missing from the keyring. I backed away from the door, feeling dizzy, and walked around the side of the house.

I peered through the window.

Through a gap in the curtains, I could see them. Kia clearing the plates. Her eyes twinkling as she stared at him. He sat at the table, his back turned to me. I could just make out his hair, the vague curve of his face.

I slammed my hand into the glass. “Chris!” I shouted. “It’s me!”

But she was already halfway to the kitchen with a pile of dirty plates.

Only he heard me.

He whipped around. Dark eyes locking on mine.

My heart stopped. He looked exactly like me – yet so, so different. He sat up straighter than I did, and his movements were too smooth, too graceful. The expression he wore – a small, mischievous smile that didn’t reach his eyes – was one I’d never wear.

How could Kia not see the difference?

Keeping his eyes on mine, he reached down and pulled something out of the table. The black metal glinted in the light, and I panicked.

A revolver.

He’s going to shoot me.

But then he turned – and pointed the revolver directly at Kia. She was hunched over the sink, her back to us, utterly oblivious.

“No. Please, no,” I whispered, my voice shaking with tears.

He lowered the gun.

Then go, he mouthed.

I backed away from the house. Footsteps thumped, and I heard his voice again. I was too far away to make out the words, but I could hear his light, lilting tone. My heart ached. More footsteps sounded, and then I saw a light turn on upstairs.

Our bedroom.

My insides twisted. Nausea bubbled up in my throat.

But I dutifully opened my car door, got inside, and drove away.

Now, I’m at a hotel. I’ve been here for the past few hours, pacing and panicking, not sure what to do. I can’t go back to the house. He’ll shoot him. I can call the police, but he has my wallet. My phone. He can prove that he is Rahul, through and through.

And then he might kill Kia anyway.

Because I know he wasn’t just making empty threats.

According to Facebook, Jiya passed away last night. Her profile is overrun with condolences and memories. Friends and family alike, celebrating her life, mourning the loss of a beautiful soul.

The top post is from Viraj himself.

I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for you, Jiya. I wish I could have reassured you. Shown you how much you are loved. Been by your side, through and through.

I wish you didn’t take your own life.

Next blog will be out soon.
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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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The man who saw rainbows!

Rajveer Singh, a house inspector from Mumbai, was a simple man with a nose that was just a tad too large and lumpy for his face. Rajveer took life easy and avoided going to extremes. He’d always heard that all good news also brought bad news, and that if every cloud had a silver lining, that also meant that every silver lining had a cloud. You take the good with the bad and the ups with the downs and the wrongs with the rights. That’s life. And life never ends well.

He had the house he always wanted and all the electronics devices he needed. He’d been divorced for two years and hadn’t been laid in five. He still was friendly with his wife, Meera Singh, and his two adult children, Rahul and Tina Singh, but it all felt cold and hollow to him. His life was full, but he felt empty inside.

Rajveer couldn’t remember exactly when he started seeing rainbows. If he had to hazard a guess, it would have been around three weeks ago. It felt like a year, though. He’d grown to wish he’d never started seeing them at all. In fact, he prayed that he’d stop seeing them soon. You can see too many rainbows just like you can see too much sunshine. Too much of a good thing can be poison.

But the rainbows never went away. There they were, hanging right in front of his eyes. Not in the distance over the horizon like a normal rainbow—this was as if some prankster had crept into his bedroom while he was sleeping and slipped on eyeglasses that imposed electric rainbows between his eyes and the world, almost as if they were trying to block his view of the world. These were sort of like rainbow-colored eye floaters. These rainbows didn’t form a neat arc like rainbows usually do—they had jagged edges like a starburst and pulsated brightly like a neon sign.

He usually liked looking at rainbows. But not now. Although, sure, rainbow colors are pretty, these intruder rainbows made it impossible for him to do basic things such as reading or driving—the jagged rainbow got in the way. So even though it might seem like a nice thing to always be staring at rainbows, it became a slow torture for poor Rajveer Singh. How could he, as a house inspector, determine whether a house had black mold if there was a rainbow blocking his vision?

After three weeks of nonstop rainbows, Rajveer decided to go see his doctor. It was a sunny day—at least from what he could see beyond the rainbow. But he also saw the rainbow on rainy days. Who sees rainbows when it’s raining? He did. He even saw the rainbow when he closed his eyes.

Ravi Bishnoi had been Rajveer’s personal physician for the better part of forty years. Nearing retirement age, his hands were a liver-spotted minefield and his what remained of his hair was a pathetic, horseshoe-shaped grey puff ringing the back and sides of his skull. The top of his head was as clean and shiny as a peach-colored bowling ball.

Rajveer explained to Dr. Bishnoi that he’d been seeing rainbows for nearly a month, whereupon an MRI was ordered of his brain. This surprised Rajveer, because he figured it was a problem with his eyes instead.

But Rajveer kept the appointment, stripping down to a hospital gown as they shoved his head inside the giant white steel cold donut and commanded him to cease even batting an eyelash for the next twenty minutes as his ears were assaulted by a relentless barrage of shockingly loud and inhumane industrial noises signaled that this evil machine was scanning his brain.

Ten days later, Rajveer’s cellphone rang. It was Tila, the receptionist at Dr. Bishnoi’s office, telling him to come in at his earliest convenience. Rajveer stood up, turned off his TV, put on some pants and shoes, and drove straight over to the doctor’s office.

“Is everything OK?” he asked Tila, panting heavily upon his arrival.

“Dr. Bishnoi has one patient ahead of you—he’ll be with you any minute,” Tila said, avoiding eye contact.

As Rajveer was ushered into an examination room, he strained through the rainbows and noticed that the office seemed dingier, dirtier, and older than he’d remembered it.

After a long wait during which Rajveer paced the room the entire time, Dr. Bishnoi finally entered, chart in hand, all business.

“Mr. Singh? What you’re seeing aren’t technically ra