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Compulsive stalker to compulsive eater, the t2 confession cup Runneth over. Some secrets tumble out...

A me-time-loving young mom

Quality time with the kids is precious. But any time, forget the quality, with just me and myself is invaluable. So sometimes, just sometimes, when I plan days out for the kids with their grandparents, I do want them to bond and have a great time, but for me the day is unadulterated bliss. Ditto for the school hours. Nothing beats the joy of bidding them goodbye as the car rolls out of the garage in the morning. Those four hours that stretch in front of me spell peace — of mind, body and soul.

I love to order them around while I’m lazing on the sofa — to fetch my phone when it’s ringing in the next room, or just to get me a glass of water — all in the name of teaching them to work. Most, in fact almost all, expletives that my kids are admonished for using, they have picked up from me.

I’ve never stopped my children from eating chocolates simply because I can’t do without the supply of chocolates that come for them from various sources. And I love it that they’re too small to keep track of how much they’ve consumed. And when somebody asks me about their favourite chocolates, the answer invariably depends on which one I’m craving. Pretty much the same with chips, which is when I teach them to share the most (with me of course).

Their mealtimes are sacrosanct, so what if I don’t serve them till all the five lives in my game of Candy Crush are exhausted.

a smoking non-smoker

I am a non-smoker. I’ve been smoking for the last 10 years. But I cannot deal with advice about my heart, lungs and fate of future progeny, however well-meant. I’ve tried talking about choice, I’ve tried talking about being otherwise healthy, I’ve tried the NOYB approach, but none of it works. Woman + smoker = JUDGEMENT + SERMON. Thank you very much, but I’ll pass that. I will be a non-smoker to you, on holidays, weekends and any public occasion, till I find a quiet corner and a kindred spirit or for that matter any soul who’s entirely blase about my well-being and offers a light. Yes, it’s a disgusting habit and smoking kills, but so do old age and sundry other things.

When there’s a TV in the room, honestly I don’t need anybody around. I don’t yet have a boyfriend but I don’t think I would tolerate one when I have the remote in hand.

When looking for PG accommodation, the first thing I make sure is that the place has a television set with a cable connection. And my most depressive phase in many, many years happened recently when I had to spend 10 days away from home without a TV. At the stroke of 11pm, I would crave and mope for Jodha Akbar and Ye Hai Mohabbatein. Oh miserable, wretched life.

I’ve often got late for office, trying to catch the morning rerun of my fave show, and my friends call me for show timings instead of looking up the listings in the newspaper. To the FAQ, “Do you watch all shows?” I just shrug and say: “Oh no, I just try to keep a track.”

The truth is I really don’t discriminate between shows. Good or bad, English or Hindi, soppy daytime soap or full-on primetime entertainment, I am clued into everything that happens on that smart box (which idiot said idiot box?). My meals are not digested till I eat with my eyes glued on the TV. Water I might skip, TV I don’t.

a TV-HOLIC

When there’s a TV in the room, honestly I don’t need anybody around. I don’t yet have a boyfriend but I don’t think I would tolerate one when I have the remote in hand.

When looking for PG accommodation, the first thing I make sure is that the place has a television set with a cable connection. And my most depressive phase in many, many years happened recently when I had to spend 10 days away from home without a TV. At the stroke of 11pm, I would crave and mope for Jodha Akbar and Ye Hai Mohabbatein. Oh miserable, wretched life.

I’ve often got late for office, trying to catch the morning rerun of my fave show, and my friends call me for show timings instead of looking up the listings in the newspaper. To the FAQ, “Do you watch all shows?” I just shrug and say: “Oh no, I just try to keep a track.”

The truth is I really don’t discriminate between shows. Good or bad, English or Hindi, soppy daytime soap or full-on primetime entertainment, I am clued into everything that happens on that smart box (which idiot said idiot box?). My meals are not digested till I eat with my eyes glued on the TV. Water I might skip, TV I don’t.

a jealous 30-SOMETHING

Nothing, absolutely nothing, gives me more joy than spotting some cellulite. On others. And I do a few cartwheels in my mind when I see a paunch sticking out of all the svelte-and-sexy 20-somethings.

a glutton

Friends call me a foodie and I take the compliment pretty seriously. At a wedding reception of a friend or relative, I am expected to eat last, along with the bride and groom. But, er, excuse me, making the most of the dinner/lunch is exactly why I came to your party. So I pretend to taste the fare and end up polishing off more kebabs than I do when I sit to eat, officially. Okay, once I ate twice at the same reception, officially.

I am not particularly pally with the injection needle and yet I always reach a blood donation camp first. A Good Samaritan? Ha! It’s my social responsibility to collect the food packet after parting with some of my RBCs and WBCs. I also make it a point to drop by the puja ceremonies in my para and beyond. From Baba Lokenath to Guru Govind Singh, Lord Shiva to Shoni, because I am devoted to the “shinni” and “luchi bhog”.

Friends claim I eat a lot but it’s really all in their mind. I just eat. The quantity is never a consideration.

a PET TORTURER

The last pet I had was a tomcat who we named Momo. He was delicious. Just kidding. I didn’t eat the poor fella but I do admit I did torture him more than once. Like the time he completely ruined my evening by sprinkling a wee bit of pee on my dress. Or the time he killed a pigeon and dragged his prize on to the bed to show me. So every time he did something that would drive me mad, I would squeeze orange peel in his eyes and watch him run in circles like a mad dog. It was a nasty thing to do but I guess we all have that mean streak.

Of course, the next day Momo was my BFF and we’d play WWF but if he could ever talk and tell PETA, I’d be dead meat, not the pigeon.

a hand-me-down stylista

Ihave often passed off things that have been handed down to me as things I have bought. Like the Chanel sunglasses my mother donated to me, which I flaunted to my friends as a brand-new birthday gift. Let’s face it, it was a design my friends and I had been lusting over for God knows how long, and I owned the original while they were having to make do with fakes. Long live second hand!

a stalker ex

I walked out of a relationship, swag intact, only to enter into a one-way, clandestine hide-and-seek with my just-ex-BF.

I put him on my Facebook ignore list, I blocked him on WhatsApp. I deleted all his pictures. Till almost a week later, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to sneak a little peek. So I unblocked him on Facebook (with a warning that I wouldn’t be able to unblock him again for 48 hours, but to hell with that!) as well as on WhatsApp. And did I say that when I deleted his pictures, I also saved them on a USB drive? There was nothing for me to see on Facebook, because he’d locked the visibility of every post. So I’d check his last-added friends — why were there so many women? And if they were men, were they friends of said woman, or knew other women? I stalked the hell out of every single girl who looked good on his friend list. I was sure he was having an affair with all of them — all of whom looked far inferior to the complete package that I, in my mind, was.

Then came WhatsApp and the legendary ‘last seen’. How dare he ‘last see’ his WhatsApp and not send me a message begging me to come back? And did he just put up a picture of a field, clearly taken from a window in a moving bus. Was he holidaying with a girl?

The stalking, that had its inception in ‘just one quick sneak’, is still going on, almost a year later. My fingers itch to send him a Facebook friend request, just so I can see in entirety what he’s up to. He’s turned off his WhatsApp last-seen though. And has apparently stopped adding friends on Facebook (is there another account somewhere?).

a wicked girlfriend

With a happy-go-lucky nature, I know I come across as the fun, cute girl many boys would love to date. Yes, I am all that... but I’m also a champion in making my boyfriend feel super guilty when he’s at fault. #grin!

When I make a mistake, I am smart enough to wriggle out ASAP, doing the little things he loves and melting his heart in no time. But when he is at fault, I just have to create drama. A simple sorry is never enough for me, I make sure he means it. For that I may have to go in for a bit of emotional atyachaar. To make him realise the gravity of the offence and that no forgiveness is possible if it doesn’t come deep from the heart. Only when I think he’s had enough, am I placated. A devil in disguise, you say? Hell, yes!

a sad single girl

Being a single girl, of 24, is not easy. I have to put up with the sob stories of my besties — the unending relationship problems, the break-up dramas and pathetic fights with their BFs. Which makes me appreciate my ‘happy’ single life so much more. And I feel like whacking every stranger who offers to buy me a drink at Shisha or Nocturne, even if that means I would be alone and depressed for years to come. I severely judge singletons who allow that.

Have a confession to make? Tell t2@abp.in. Names will be withheld