Category Archives: Family Circus

“Excuse me but I have to look for these spiders so I can’t get married now…”

People my age are getting married. MARRIED! At 22, 23 24!

They say living expenses have gone up so much that they can’t afford to pay separate rents or transport costs etc.

(living together is not an option for them as most of them come from so-called “bhadro” Bangali families who refuse to acknowledge the fact that their kids have an active libido, have dirty dreams at night and would like to check if they are sexually compatible with their partners before getting hitched.  As for the kids, there’s this invisible umbilical cord that ties them to their mommies hundred miles away and keeps them from doing what they want lest mommies disapprove. That’s okay with me. But when the same people complain that their mommies are not letting them grow up, that is not okay with me.)

Yeah so, people are getting married. People my age. And here I am still wondering whether I have radioactive spiders in my room and the like.

I love him. Like something more than heartbreakingly insane.

But I know I wouldn’t marry a hot, brooding, billionaire masked vigilante, even if he asks for my hand in marriage and goes to the extent of committing the cardinal sin (in his case, killing a human soul) to convince me. (He won’t him. I know him too well. And I digress. ). At least not now. Right now I am happy. And I want to be left in peace while I search for those radioactive spiders.


“….I’m just lookin’ for a dear, dear friend of mine…”

In my dream family, Russell Hammond will be the prodigal son (of my parents that is) who nobody talks about in the house and who I am forbidden to meet. He’d be the brother I’d have dim recollections of because he ran away when I was six. I’d meet him again many many years later at a cheap Irish pub. He’d smile a crooked smile I’d fall in love with and his eyes would lit up maniacally when we talk about music or doing something new, something no one has tried before, going someplace no one has gone before and just laugh and be blissfully clueless and beautifully random.

He’d be exactly the sort of person in my life my parents would strongly disapprove of and we will make it a point to hang out more often than they’d like just to piss them off and get a good kick out of it. He’d be the person who will not question why I did what I did but will laugh and play good music that will make me smile.

P.S: He’d also be the brother I’d die fighting incestuous feelings for but let’s pass on that.


And I thought the purpose of reading self-help books was to clear confusion and not add to them!

I think I am a potential lab rat for phobia medicine makers. A few days back, my father, after having his weekly fill of self-help books (not that he needs them per se. He just likes to point out the errors in my ways of living mess with my head.)  gyan, asked me to make a list of things that scare me.

According to the author of *insert supremely corny book title that makes you cringe and wonder if the man who’s been reading this really is your biological father*, once you know your fears you are ready to face them head on. He only forgot to mention that this book is only for normal, non-freaky people whose fears are keeping them from achieving things like a promotion or a girlfriend (read: book is only for people who can’t get a girl on their own.) and good advice and a boost of confidence are all it takes to help them make it. But it is not for people whose fears are not normal fears but phobias afflicting a borderline psychotic.

So one fine morning my dear poorly misguided father called me out of the blue and handed me a pen and a paper and asked me to jot down whatever scares me and told me that after this we’d go about tackling them. Making my life easier than I can ever make it and in the process, dissing everything I do or think as frivolous and abnormal is my father’s vocation and arguing with a perennially paranoid father isn’t exactly one of my strong suits so I decided to play along.

I sat down and started writing whatever scares me and then it struck me-none of these fears would ever keep me from achieving whatever I want; the worst they can do is keeping me from being accepted by a normal, semi-intelligent society which sometimes has a surprisingly narrow umbrella of what is considered normal. When I showed him the list, he simply sulked and muttered something like ‘not taking anything seriously…future looks bleak..’ and before he could start one of his trademark ‘you young people’ speeches I escaped. As if things weren’t bad enough that my confidence in my sanity has taken a major hit that he had to make things worse!

Now the list. Of all the coolest, genuinely scary things I could be afraid of, I chose the lamest- the ones which I can’t even tell people if I want them to ooh and aah over my fears; only reaction I can manage to get is abject sympathy; as if I am one of god’s special little broken toys, damaged in different levels.

For instance, I am scared of soft toys. Teddy bears to be more precise. I wasn’t born with this fear but twenty one years and two thousand horror movie nights later every teddy bear I see seems to be the reincarnation of that Sadako girl. Go ahead mock me but hear me out. Teddy bears have beady eyes which always seem to laugh at you like they’re enjoying their pet jokes at your unwitting expense while you’re completely in the dark about it. They are so comfortable; maybe that’s how they trap you. (no I don’t have persecution mania though I know there’s no part of this conversation where I am sounding normal. )And I have this nagging feeling that when I go to sleep they will come down and one by one plonk their fat butts on my chest and suffocate me to death. Or worse, start going around me playing ring-a-ring-a-roses. Can you imagine how creepy that is?

So the stuffed toys in my room left me with no choice but to evict them from my room to my parent’s room. Now there isn’t much space in my parent’s room and adding to an already difficult situation is the fact that even when I was in the womb, my mother made a pact with the devil that did not make her genetically wired to make life easy for me. So she decided to put them back in my room. Given that she has a mommy gland which works overtime, she thought that arranging the toys near my head, in the middle of the night when I am dead asleep would be a loving gesture which I would appreciate. The spirit was appreciated but the timing was not. So at 2 in the night I woke up to go to the loo and had a mini heart attack when I saw Anakin, Luke, Yoda and Obi Wan smiling a benign (read creepy) parent-y smile at me. (and yes I have given all my toys my favorite Star Wars people’s names.). The next morning she kept ribbing me all the time and drove me into a frenzy worrying how weird I am. The day ended with a royal shouting match which ended with one of my mother’s classic ‘you leave and I clear up after your mess’ speeches.

Then you have McDonald toys, Disney villains, spiders, reptiles, amphibians, any spineless creature literally or otherwise, especially jellyfish and sea animals, dolls, dominance, lack of space, ventriloquist dummies, turtles with supremely ugly feet etc. I think dolls spy on us; they are too sweet and nice and bright cute shiny happy to be actually nice. I think they watch us.

Hit me dolls are worse. They take all your blows with a smile and keep coming up for more as if it’s all a game for them. As if they feed on making you mad at them for smiling their obnoxiously sugarcoated creepy smile every time you punch them. (I am telling you-anyone who’s scared of dolls and has problems dealing with unchecked aggression can use a little bit of help from a hit me doll).  I am told that when I was small I used to get mad at my hit me doll whenever it bounced back and punched it as if my life depended on it. Sea animals are stupid and don’t have a brain and they crawl. Anything that crawls gives me nightmares enough to last a lifetime.

In retrospect, I am surprised that I have never been  scared of clowns. I think I find clowns  human. Very distorted. Very very. But human still. Something tangible. Something sad. Not pity inducing sad. Just plain sad. The kind that strikes you with awe but leaves you feeling…well, sad, for the lack of a better word.

So you see how difficult it is for a smartass overachieving obnoxiously full-of-himself self-help book author to help me overcome my fears. My fascination with the macabre combined with my cinematic imagination are to blame (not that I am complaining. It is my father in the first place who had it out for me.) So I sought to dispel his misgivings.

YT: I am really okay. I don’t need this. I can figure things out on my own.

F: that can’t be. Every person has issues that needs to be taken care of.

YT (mentally): has it ever occurred to you that I have the skin of a rhino, the attention span of a two year poodle and that I am the emotional equivalent of  a Simpson?

(loudly): not everyone has them

F: so you think you are perfect? (dirty judgmental condescending looks)

YT: I didn’t say that.

F: so you agree that you have issues? ( dirtier, judgmental-ier, condescending-er looks)

YT: I didn’t say that either.

F: this is the problem with you people. You are so confused.

YT: (mentally): what bad karma on my part has given you the right to screw with me on a Sunday morning?

And we carried on with this conversation for the next twenty minutes, me not following after 5 minutes and not caring much and him, well, being himself.

Seems I am not the only member of the Adam’s family. He can be the movie version of Wednesday to my Pugsley. Tell me you agree. Humor me. I am damaged and need help, remember?


What happened to good god-fearing Indian mothers who scream at offsprings for ‘dating sheting’??

The wedding season arrives once a year and all hell breaks loose in our normally peaceful, quiet-to-the-point-of-resembling-somebody’s-funeral household. Throughout the year, much preparation runs at the back of my mother’s mind for how to slam me from my relationship status which perpetually says single-till-hell-freezes-over. And it doesn’t help that my parents were known for their notoriously whirlwind courtship of seven years during which they defied severe parental disapproval, scheming grandmothers planning to marry my mother off, good-looking young men in oh-so-in (by 80’s standards) bell-bottoms with their proportional quota of male hormones raging through their bodies composing lame poems for her, a septuagenarian wack who was also a self-proclaimed psychic who prophesied that their marriage will spell doom for both their families and of course, mutual incompatibility. They were the quintessential Bollywood couple fighting rogue parents for true love from the 90’s Hindi potboilers I grew up watching. By twenty-four she got married and they had been going strong for the past thirty three years and not a day passes when my mother doesn’t wait for his call with the same eager anticipation I save for winter sales in Pantaloons or a new Batman comic book.

Adding fuel to the already-raging-and-threatening-to-char-me-to-human-kebabs fire is the fact that both my idiot of brothers are happily committed for the past four years. I mean, four friggin years, during which I had experience multiple breakups, turned downed suitable future mates (for producing future IIT-MIT embryos i.e.), faked my grandmother’s operation about a thousand times (don’t judge; as god is my witness, I have tried to come up with other excuses but nothing worked) to escape from clutches of well-meaning-but-clueless-about-who-they’re-dealing-with( in this case, it’s me) friends trying to set me up. For four years they had forwarded me annoyingly optimistic (bordering on supreme cheesiness) texts from which I was supposed to get inspiration and ‘jump into the fire of love’. Or something like that. God, these people are such suckers for long texts. I didn’t even bother to read the second line.

And of course, my mother.

For years, my mother and I had come to blows over inter-gender socializing in my life, or the lack of it. She wants me to tread the dangerously fine line between being a good Bengali middle class girl, virginal and docile and not-at-all outgoing and yet get a life that doesn’t involve lurking in my room 24×7 like an ancient house ghoul. She finds me talking to a boy who doesn’t fall under her extremely narrow and somewhat intolerant umbrella of ‘acceptable’; immediately her cinematic imagination bridges the gap between talking and holding hands and doing ‘bad bad things’. She sees me nibbling at Milkybar peacefully reading Batman in my favorite corner of the room and starts rubbing it in my face that when she was my age she had a boyfriend; not the imaginary boyfriends I have, the lust-inducing superhero costume wearing playboy vigilante type. Queen of contradiction, that’s what she is.

So when a wedding invitation card falls on her lap, she reads it at one go and smiles a benign smile at me while I am trying to work out the significance of this exercise. Then come the inevitable barrage of questions and the accompanying guilt trips- see, she is getting married at such a proper age and you don’t even know where you will be in five years to come. Or see, they are getting married after such a long courtship and look at you? OR the worse, they had a long-distance relationship and STILL made it work. (For the record my ex who my mother simply adored and I were in a long distance relationship and for some asinine logic which makes sense to no one except probably god, she thinks my reason for breaking up with him is rooted at my longstanding hatred of male dominance and a cavalier disregard for anything ‘normal’). When I ignore her or say something insanely stupid like ‘okay fine I will get think of getting married by thirty seven’, a creepy cold feeling settles in the house-the same feeling of the fabled Black Breath which one must have felt with a Nazgul around for a long long time. The almost-entirely one-sided conversation comes to an end.

At weddings, she tries to send me non-verbal signals clearly indicating that I must start thinking about doing something about my life while the archetypal ruined-for-good me is busy sending the waiters very verbal and very loud signals to bring the pakodas which they pretend to not hear (given the copious amounts of pakodas I have already devoured putting the high-strung grumpy chefs in a worse mood). And god forbid, when someone pinches my cheeks and says the unavoidable ‘you’re next’ that grates on my nerves!

My mother doesn’t get the thing that it is a bad bad idea to talk someone into marriage when that someone equates marriage with a concentration camp. Or a colonoscopy. Or brain tumor. Whichever is worse. Someone who runs for cover when she hears the words ‘commitment’, ‘marriage’ and her name being taken in the same sentence. It is not that I am averse to commitment; I like it when it exists between two people and neither of them is me. There are other forms of commitment in my life which my mother and the whole world deem too frivolous- Batman, books, comic books, Star Wars, world of secret agent, sleuths and aliens, music, food, movies, did I mention food, shopping, friends, traveling, working (yes, arch eyebrows as you may, do know for a fact that I love working) etc. I like my space. And I *think * I am a little oxytocin deficient. (Go look it up. and yay to me! I have finally made peace with my ninth standard biology lessons. Whenever I have to explain/justify something, I am finding new ways to point a ready ‘accusing’ finger at it!). I am not saying marriage isn’t my cup of tea because that sounds oh-so-forty-and-depressed-ish and I am, well, I still play Darth Vader vs Obi-Wan Kenobi games with admirable gusto with my little nephew so that should give you an idea. It’s only that whenever someone talks about it, it sounds like a death sentence.

Wedding seasons end with ma shouting at me for putting on weight and looking like a pregnant cow while I secretly congratulate myself for having distracted her successfully though I am still the one who gets yelled at.  .

I *so* think I am a changeling. Born to Dr. Thomas and Martha Wayne. Or to Anakin Skywalker. I think I will shave my head and join a monastery till Jim Parsons or Johnny Depp comes along or I die and meet Heath Ledger in heaven.


“All these bad bad talks…”

RDM and I have this ritual-we’d sometimes sit and discuss the most embarrassing things we have done/said/believed in and try to see who gets freaked out by the other’s confession first. Some of the stories are plain people-repellent; the sheer magnitude of depravity, stupidity is incredible and disturbing in many levels and I won’t try to gross you out describing how bad they are. (Don’t judge. RDM is a normal god-fearing happy-go-lucky geek-turned-cool dude type-turned occasionally geeky guy and at first glance, there’s simply nothing to suggest that there is something wrong with yours truly.) But we do take this game very seriously. So when he says that when he was a kid he used to wear mascara and pink jeans and guffaws like this is the joke of the century, I come up with a  “When I was a kid, I used to think you have to tie condoms around your waist when you’re having sex.”.

Flashback. I used to be a precocious prudish dumb kid. At the ripe old age of thirteen I had fallen in love with a guy who I thought resembled Akshay Kumar( yes now, you’re allowed to judge. Or plain stop reading to save me from cringing in embarrassment at the mere thought of someone being privy to secrets of my shameful past *what drama*). For me, love was all about running in the slo-mo towards each other; what’d people do after they meet I had no freaking clue about. (sort of like the Joker comparing himself to a dog running behind a car…in a really really snigger-inducing eyebrow-archingly uncool way). I thought kissing on cheeks led to babies. Holding hands in public was looked upon as a moral crime. After marriage, people would kiss each other’s necks and thus make babies. I used to have a very one-track mind back then. Study your ass off, stuff your face, read books, go to sleep on time, wear ugly oversized shapeless clothes and be a ‘good’ girl, whatever philosophy defines ‘good’.

Like all normal people with their normal quota of raging hormones but trying to suppress them because ‘good boys and girls don’t do bad things’, I used to indulge in some harmless boy-watching in school, discuss boys with the best friend AD, stand in the corridors like the poster girl of loserdom for one glimpse of that senior who had helped me answer GK questions in an exam and had a cute dimple that reminded me of Shah Rukh Khan. (Leave NOW I say :-|)

Sex was an entirely different planet altogether. Peno-vaginal intercourse was a concept I came to be aware of very late, like really late but more on that later; I feel mortified now. A very volatile proximity between hormones and almost puritanical denial of them was what my adolescence had been all about. And of course, if you’re the only girl in a family with equal number of older and younger brothers, the latter will always pretend throughout their childhood/adolescence that you didn’t exist and will only find you useful when they need a human punching bag( who kicked right back. yes. I think half my childhood and most of my parents’/grandparents’/uncles’/aunts’ patience went in breaking up our fights, bloody, loud and laden with abuses like ‘shuor’, (meaning pig/pig-faced, cuss words for 10 year olds). Only from snatches of secretly whispered conversation could I gather little nuggets of wisdom and information that shaped my entire (albeit meager) fund pre-adulthood sexual knowledge.

Like I had an idea that condoms were useful during sex but the way my red-in-the-face, tight-arsed, why-doesn’t-my-little-sister-play-with-dolls-anymore thinking elder brother explained to me, I came to think of it as a tablet. (In my defense, I was really small). When, much later, I had looked it up in the dictionary ( while younger brother kept close watch lest some nuisance in the form of a parent would come along…yes we were that …what’d do you call it?…weird? juvenile? ), I thought it said something about ‘rubber’ and promptly reached the conclusion that it was a belt to tie around the waist. (I am not a disgusting person. I am somewhat quick to draw conclusions. And I am perceptive like that only.) After this, the brother plain gave up on explaining.

Then there had been days when my much wiser, more knowledgeable self was asked by an enthusiastic pre-teen, questions like ‘what is a condom?’ “have you ever seen a condom?”; all of it had been going on in a roomful of ‘good girls don’t mix with boys’ thinking parents with my own set in an earshot. So I explained with prissy elder sisterly disapproval that a> these are adult things; you will understand when you grow up b> I don’t know (which my brother followed up with a ‘big surprise there’) c> helpless, Alan-sque expression. If you are lucky the kid will get bored and find better ways of extracting answers; if you are blessed with the luck of yours truly, he will keep pressing you for answers as the parents stare at you-days that I put down as plain bad karma. And you have to come up with really smart ways of bypassing the little tyke (no ‘I have to go to the loo‘ doesn’t work. ask me) or you have to field questions from an angry set of parents who will think that their biggest fear has come true-you are sexually active or in their words “my son/daughter has turned bad now..waaaaa!”

Cut to scene 1-weird conversation ended with RDM being unable to bring himself to look me in the eye while yours truly was trying to figure out whether she should feel jubilant for freaking him out first or plain moronic. Being the uncomplicated soul that she is, she settled for jubilant.

Big surprise there.


A Weekend (post in want of an appropriate title btw)

Okay so I went and stayed over at the Best Friend’s place this weekend. I don’t remember when was the last time I had gone. But I do remember the T-Rex in our para hatching out of its egg.(Pliss to excuse if they are mammals.) Masi, the BFM(Best Friend’s mother who’ll be referred to as BFM henceforth for all purpose and intent) had threatened to sever all ties with me and the BF(that’s so NOT my boyfriend btw) had similar intentions too9or maybe dismemberment?).

Yeah so I went there and had a really really fun weekend after a long time. Usually my weekends are spent in a grubby classroom, slogging my guts out over CAT quantitative aptitude(I misspelt this tetrasyllabic word twice if you are up for some useless information). Then I am found walking from Jodhpur Park, muttering to myself,singing much to the world’s disdain or dreaming about the cute guy who just took our class. The rest of the day can be a treatise on my non-existent social life,when I just stick to my room,eating crumbs off the bed(yes I know it’s gross.), peeping out rarely like a scared rabbit to prove it to my mom that I am not really dead,stroll out for lunch/dinner,crawl back and stay there.

I have had enough describing it and I know you’re two-minutes away from losing patience too :P.  So, this weekend, I beleive I had gained back more calories than I have lost during last week’s pathetic 30 minutes workout session (VH1 and me screaming at the top of my voice,if you’re interested). The BF showed off her insanely good culinary(another word which I always misspell) skills by cooking the yummiest cheese pasta I’ve ever had. I almost caught her gloating and smirking like an evil goat over my lack of cooking skills X-( .Then she had a brainwave and orders port wine. I was expecting she’d rob a bank or something because both of us would look convincing on the World Bank type poverty ads. But then the wine was a Made in Nashik product, and came amazingly cheap at just 150 bucks. somewhere aorund 150. So I forgive her for deriding me over my inability to cook.

The BF and her BF had an hour long screamfest while I sat and drank and called up random people. Twaa, my long-lost-twin-at-the-Kumbh-Mela ranted about every possible topic under the sun happily ignoring my ominous warnings about his upcoming exams. See why I am so socially awkward sometimes? 😦

In between Boss #1 called and I didn’t pick it up because it was put on silent mode.(Or maybe the BF’s screams were deafening). The missed call triggered off a series of panic attacks. A slideshow of pictures of an unemployed,veryvery broke me started running in my head. I was a little too tipsy to call back and so spent the whole night imagining a showdown the next morning with him ceremoniously kicking me out of the job(in his defense: he is really a sweet and understanding man and doesn’t deserve a slacker like me as a subordinate.) The BF’s BF talked to me a couple of times and each time he tried to talk about the fight,he ended up guffawing. I didn’t. I am good(and well, I had to spend the night with that woman in the same room without getting killed and I am sorry it came out all wrong). Then I roamed about and took pictures of every conceivable corner of the house.(Someday the shutterbug in my head will get the better of me when someone files an Invasion of Privacy complaint) 😛

The desk in its usual pleasant self. Oh, and don't miss the amazingly cheap wine!

The night passed with the BF^2 making up. Then we finished the wine,and got gloriously tipsy which kind of loosened our tongues. So much so that at 5, I realised I have a really sore throat that itched and my voice has gone all hoarse(not the sexy cowboyish hoarse). She passed out at 6 while I stayed up till 6.30 reading Sweet Valley Twins(listen, that’s for old time’s sake okay?). Woke up at 12 to find that the Boss wants me to do 20 articles on some inane topic which probably doesnn’t even exist in this world(his way of getting back at me). I ate stone cold garlic bread and cold salad and typed out rubbish while the BF slept on, occassionally snoring beautifully. I looked at myself in the mirror for a couple of minutes and realised how EXACTLY I look like a convict. Or a demon from a cheap B-grade mytholgical soap. I am so not cut for the job I dream of.

But the weekend was fun. We went out for long walks,tried to avoid talking about the future and ended up doing exactly so, had tea at this ramshackle roadside stall overlooking a lake and the beautiful Kolkata EM Bypass. A glorious storm also raged the city and I got completely drenched,dancing Bharatnatyam in the rain.

That's Yours Truly and not a baby gorrila in red

Armageddon.Minutes before the storm

Ching who posed because I threatened her.

The Bf who ruined this could-have-been masterpiece :(. and check out, it's spirit photography too!

One of the happiest times spent together in a long long time.I don’t know what else to write. But in the meantime I do realise how exactly I sound like the BF is my BF. as in boyfriend.

P.S: BF didn’t gloat. I was trying to soothe my injured ego. Okay no more lame lines henceforth.

I love you BF. 16 years and still going strong. You never judge, never are unnecessarily sarcastic, hear me out without clenching your teeth(or making a good show of not doing it maybe 😀 ), make absolutely delicious fudge cakes and pasta, love Enid Blyton and Mills & Boons and understands me. I could marry you some day you know? 😀


My Mother’s Day Story part one

I don’t understand my mother sometimes. We’d watched Wake Up Sid together and all the time she kept repeating her “you-young people” rants in my ears so much so that at the end of the day I just wanted to go and lock myself in my room and never come out. The moment Ranbir Kapoor picked up a fight with his dad, my mom lost it totally and started her angry monologue about moral degradation of young people,citing me as an example every now and then.

But, BUT, she LOVED DevD!!! I freaked out the moment I saw the cable channel showing it and wanted to change but she insisted on watching it. I quietly slipped out of the room and to avoid standing in the firing line for the next 2-and-a-half hour,fell asleep! But what do I get when I wake up??  “It’s simply brilliant shona!! Why didn’t you wsatch it?? Awesome movie!” Like what the heck?? A twenty-something jobless guy flunking college exams,fighting with his dad,moving in with an unmarried girl,partying all night gets the flak from my mom.But a drunkard,a heavy doper,perennially confused,fickle-minded, brothel regular who listens to heavy metal,has all his conversations peppered with the choicest,filthiest Hindi abuses,sleeps with an unmarried woman and tries to bed the same woman when she’s married,bangs his car into walls,sympathesizes with a school-girl-turned-prostitute caught in a sex scandal gets a “what an awesome interpretation of Devdas!!” !!!  Okay that’s a really long sentence but you get the drift right?? And she said all that without even a hint of sarcasm. Where’s the enthusiasm for slamming us-young-people man??Why isn’t it zooming into an overdrive now?? She even went on gushing about the album art, Kalki Koechlin’s bee-stung lips,the bottle of alcohol,the psychedelic album art with a wild splash of colors et all. She explained to me when asked, that “Dev is already wasted so why waste precious energy screaming your lungs out at him?” I don’t get it.  😦 😦

My dad is more predictable. He hates watching young people getting drunk on screen, going to discos,staying out late night. Doping,making out are topics out of bounds,for discussion with him. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat whenever ads for condoms or birth-control pills come up,tries to make random out-of-sync conversation, pretending the tv doesn’t exist.And the poor man cannot even change the channel because THAT would make it too obvious :D. That is kinda okay. I mean, I know my Dad would hate DevD and would like to strangle Anurag Kashyap for his interpretation of Devdas,but the point is he is predictable. With my mom,I’m always on tentderhooks,not knowing how she’ll react to what!

It’s an unfair world.And I sign out before you start your diatribe about how cliched is exactly my last statement.

 Go on. Tell me which is the more provocative,morally-degrading picture that kids shouldn’t be encouraged to look at??

This drunk stoned useless wuss

This utterly cute lost-puppy-eyed boy(cheese alert btw)

 

Tell me it’s the first one (No, I am NOT a prude) and try explaining that to my mom,wouldja pliss??? X-(