Put your cuss words to good use

If the trolls over the internet were to be taken seriously, one would certainly belive cussing never did you any good. Most of us would agree, using profanity magically makes us feel better about the situation for a few moments. Twitter, the micro-blogging website, is abuzz with new ideas is, now witness to @Swearbox.

B****, Y U NO Cuss?

The Charity Swearbox, (@Swearbox) is a positively minded venture that provides Twitter users a way to right their verbal wrong.  Founded by James Dow (@jamesscdow), Jay Gelardi (@jaylardi), and Rameet Chawla (@ramneet), Charity Swearbox was initiated in May 2010 with a simple motive to make a difference in the society through simple measures. “Jay is a particularly foul mouthed young man and I believe the idea came to him initially when thinking about just what to do with all his tweets with swear words in”, claims Dow. The duo came up with the idea while working together at Agency Republic in London. Dow finally contacted Ramneet Chawla (@ramneet) in New York City who seemed interested by this idea who helped developing this website.

Your online swear-box creator: James Dow,
one of the founders of  Charity Swearbox

“We both left the agency, I became a freelancer and he (Gelardi) moved to Australia. I developed the idea further in his absence, which included wire framing and working our user’s journeys” explains Dow. “After I had planned it all out on paper I worked with a friend of mine, Bobby Evans who runs Telegramme, a talented Illustration and Design Studio. He helped me create a brand look and design the site as you see it now. We always wanted to focus on the good deed rather than the swear words themselves.” 

By signing up for SwearBox, users pledge to donate £1 (about $1.55) or any other amount they wish to donate. The site tracks your swear in tweets and tells you cuss words your use the most. At, the end of each week, they drop you a mail asking you to pay up, via PayPal. The site doesn’t take itself seriously, since it encourages its users to tweet swear words according increase donations.

SwearJar, which is nested under the 50-50 project, focuses its efforts to improve the famine conditions in East Africa. According to UN reports, a child dies every six minutes in East Africa with 12 million people at risk.

Dow adds that it is early days for the project, since the website has just started off. They team plans to add more charities very soon and hope that will spur on more donations. Many users have paid up and it is I think it’s important we keep working on maximising the amount of people the revisit the site and donate.

On a given day, the site is able to contribute around $ 400- $ 500 and has collected $16208.00 so far. 

When asked Jay Maniyar (@jayblawgs), a 24-year-old what he thought about this idea, “This is a creative way of getting people to not fret upon losing some money. For a good cause. I hope Twitters diverse audience responds to such a scheme.”

Till then, armchair critics can troll the internet, cuss anonymously and safe in the knowledge that it is for a good cause. Effin’ marvellous, anyone?

The Other Woman | Chapter Five

So last night, last night was just about sex.  Nothing more than sex. In these two months of time we spent knowing each other. I guess the message nullifies the ‘relationship’ to null.

If that is what he wanted to make it clear that the night was great, he wouldn’t even want to mention it, but  maybe just how I am going to look at it. His action just revealed his insecurities.

I wish it was totally legal for a woman to castrate a man who puts her though this grief. That wretched son of a !

I knew he lied all along about us everytime he flashed his dimples. The lines around his eyes always creased. But his eyes never managed to smile. I should have seen it coming, all this while.

Leave aside these emotions, let them be unattended. Things will settle down when you put them on the back-burner.

No. Sort it right here till you have a grasp on what is going on, for the sake of your sanity.

All it takes is a moment for you to start loathing yourself.

Today every positive feeling I had for the man has fled away for me to notice the flaws in him. Delusions were my reality; an illusion to reflect the lies.

I agree; we didn’t have anything serious going on. I’d like to believe that we were a little more that flinging ourselves at each other when we got a room. We weren’t madly in love with each other; neither did we imagine ourselves happily walking together by the beach at sunset.

But there was something more than us staying the night; discussing our dreams and hopes till six in the morning.  

Maybe it was my fault. I tried to play cool from the start when his actions started to offend me. Maybe I was trying too hard to please him.

It is too mainstream to accept feelings so each other, because you are supposed to be unaffected with anything that has got to do with emotions and attachment. Yes, because, do what we may, feelings ain’t ever supposed to come to the forefront?

We dated for two months and spent most of our waking time together. Does that imply we were two souls who had nothing to do but just fuck each other in our free time?

Since we do not have a label to our relationship, I am assumed to be his whore? Since that’s what society perceives it as.

Well, what actually happened is that, in these two months, we spent too much time together. I gave into my emotions, and I found myself snuggling next to him. Everything always transcends into sex for him.

A little respect and maybe, a little rock in the balls to accept that I mean something to him that is all I expected from him.

            To pacify the lonely nights, I started finding love in the wrong place. In him.

I will probably emulate him and become a splinter of what he is. Maybe even poke fun at his tragedies.

You hate a person more when you can see though them. Though their masks and veils. Through their smiles and disguise.

Fuck. What I should probably do is dump him. Play his own game; be the ice-queen and then leave him to the pits.

I want him, not need him. I want to be loved by him. But only till I find a man who gives me the respect I deserve. I wish he realises I won't be with him for long. I’ll go on with the show.   Maybe I am playing his own game, and it makes me just as lowly as him. Maybe I have learnt my lessons. 

The day I stop taking him seriously, will be the day I learn to live for myself. The day I will be able to accept the fact that I am a solitary traveller, will be the day I start loving myself a little more.

These secret societies living inside the crevices of my head will help me get through this.

It pays much to date a dickwad.

I am his last contact with reality. His malevolence will become a reason for my vengefulness. His assholiness will become my silent weapon.

Maybe even write a book about his douchebaggery,  turn him into prose and make millions out of it.  

The Other Woman | Chapter Four

Two months since I decided to use women and “mutually part” ways when I'm done trampling with their aura.  Decoding their mystery, a mystery that never was any attached to them.

Never a bad name on me, I’m the heartbroken kid. Of course the charmers always turn out to be the biggest dickwads.

The ex decided to leave because she never thought me to be commitment material and she reached for the door. Like that. Just like that. Though she still is very much a part of me. My best days with her are now deemed to be her worst.

My best days with her are now doomed to be her worst.

The prodding, waiting, pillow talk has finally done her in. I always make sure the persuasion works. Oh how it works! Like sweet poison running through her veins. The plan is easy. Lead a woman on, pretend that you are falling for her, reveal something emotional about yourself, make her feel that you are comfortable sharing intimate details about yourself. Make her realize you have your flaws but you too are human enough to be loved. The emotional ramblings wire her brain to be emphatic towards me.

All this makes it so much easier for her to love me. Such is the spell of such cacophonic weave of words.

Most women like men with intellect, humour and maturity. Sapiosexual, she claims.

Know a woman’s checklist, and slowly personify each of these traits. Make her realize she has met THAT guy from the checklist. That’s just how easy it is so make them swing by our side.

I am the man with the charcoal heart.

I lure her by toying with her emotions. I seek gratification by watching her writhe her in pain. It awakens the sadist in me to watch her in distress, and watch her effortlessly conceal her disappointment; act concerned and nonchalant as she tried to counsel me. While in reality, she was burning of insecurity and jealously. That lady has a lot to learn.  

Ever since then, waiting, prodding, giving her the security she needs and making her feel special has finally done her in. That is the golden rule; be an ass only after you have managed to make her fall for you.

A few kind words from me alters the perception of her reality. My state of mind gives her a moment to look forward to. I talk about how happy she makes me, I whisper sweet nothings to her and in exchange I get her to get much more comfortable with me between the sheets.  

It’s her naivety that I want to rupture. I want this relationship, her swan song, to turn into a quiet reflection. I am protective of her in a very unconventional way.

Meet. Date. Commit. Break-up. Rinse. Repeat. Seems legit to me, maybe convenient too.

That is the golden rule; be an ass only after you have managed to make her fall for you. 

         

The Other Woman | Chapter Three

Last night. What happened last night? Old Monk smokes and sex happened. Sex with the whore happened. Heh.

Drinks and sex go like rhythm and music together. Brain damage has happened. Ughh… these hazy frequencies of thought.

She is probably asleep. Asleep from the flash of vanilla stars and twinkling sparks I gave her in that state of bliss. They don’t call it slow death for nothing.

There is a world I live in; a world inside my head. A pandemoniac world buzzing with thoughts inside my mind. A cavity where it is perfectly normal to experience epiphanies amidst the chaotic mood swings.

I believe I have successfully managed to make her my whore. My modest demi-mondaine. I guess she wants to play with danger. Cut through the red tape. I believe she wants to be my saviour. My moonlight by the night.

A conversation at the bar and exchange of digits later, the next thing I know is I was dancing my way into her pants. How could she not understand? This illusion of attachment is such a delusional beauty. She sees the man who isn’t there. A man who never was there. Or maybe I played my part well, I mean, how else can I tell her that I was always only interested in her vayjayjay?

Two months since I have been putting on this marshmallow-but devious at time mask, and it works, just like a witch’s portion. My theory and her reality are poles apart.

And I wouldn't let anyone disrupt my hatred for the scheme of relationships and thoughts. 

The Other Woman | Chapter Two

On such charcoal nights, the ash flickers, his memory slowly fades away with the drag of smoke. In the night, there is something soothing about chaos; there is something chaotic about silence.

I wake up at 3 in the afternoon with a heavy head not knowing if these soliloquies even paused for a sleeping moment. A headache caused by dreams speeding at a millions thoughts per second. The headache caused because the thoughts in my head refuse to rest.

Thanks to my career in advertising, my days and nights are one. Sometimes, the day puts on its yellow cloak; sometimes the night bares its soul like the full moon.

My BlackBerry beeps reminding me of a queue of mails slowly piling up. I notice a mail from him. The subject: ‘Last Night was great.’ An empty message greets me in the email.

Well, Nights are what I am to him then. I wanted to retort with a million abuses in tow. The man could be an object of my wrath if I desired it. 

Rage aside, I know I have to sort it out. Sooner or later. “Later,” I decided. Coward, my mind points and laughs at me.

My phone buzzes to Violet Hill who could it be other than the friend who has known me since I believed in tooth fairies. “I am engaged,” she shrieks with joy as she announces her engagement to her boyfriend of a year who had proposed to her last night over wine and food.

The two met at a party, and hit it off instantly. A week and a date later, they have been together for the last year. Her happy ending gives me a little hope. Her happy ending will hopefully signal my new beginning.

Despair, now turns into jealousy. 

We choose to meet at 7 in the evening, which gives me enough time to buy her a gift and practise my best smile in front of the mirror.

We check-in at Hard Rock Café, take one of the corner tables and order our Old Monks for the evening. 

As expected, the topic drifts to the recent happenings in my life. I smile and pretend like everything’s alright. A woman like me, we don’t kiss and tell. Yes, I am traditional that way.

She tells me what it like is to love a guy like him; I gently withdraw my burnt fingers. Falling in and out of love, both are just as difficult, I want to quip in defence. 

Today, she needn’t hear that; this is her day. A day that a woman imagines to be her special day right from the time she is takes a liking for romantic movies.

But today, we speak about love and all the things that come attached with it.

The Other Woman | Chapter One

The sunlight beams through the curtains painting the white walls a shade of sunshine yellow. The rays passing though the curtain create a kaleidoscope of light, making my room resemble a lit lantern. Fireflies living on the ephemeral light I think to myself as I lie happily in my bed imbibing every joule of energy and happiness that I can find.

This day gives me a new reason to reflect and turn my wrongs into right.

There. There, I say to myself. This constant bickering need to go for the poetic overkill leads to a buzzkill.

The alarm clock reminds me it is 6.30 in the morning. Why does the clock remind me to be awake when I already am? Or maybe I am not.

He is still in la-la land. I notice his curly mop of hair, his most striking feature that makes him look attractive yet child-like even when he lies here in a slumber. He lies here next to me. And I lie next to him with a million thought-bubbles in mind. Thoughts about him throb in my head, for every single moment of my waking life. These thoughts make an appearance in motion, in a sequence; in flashbacks.

There is a perception tied up with being in a new woman in a man’s life. When you date a guy who is a practical mess, you are a little guide of shining light for him. How are you supposed to be his messiah anyway? When you are nothing but a nomad yourself? In search of something that may not exist. Or it may. In utopia.

He coos about me being one of the things that make him happy, but sometimes he won’t give me a reason to feel the same. Sometimes his words seem forced, because he knows that I live for these validations. Sometimes, his validations seem unconvincing to me. For that elusive peace of mind.

How do you react when he says that the things I do unintentionally remind him of her?

She was the ‘most amazing woman’ he had ever met. Apparently. I think that tag should pass onto me. Why not?

When you are told about his past, you never really know how to react. The gong of jealousy hits you in the throat, and in the head, as he continues to talk about her. If you vocalize that his statements are turning you off, you are no sport. Insecurity, these Martians have named it.

As a matter of fact, I did tell him my opinions.

“You are thinking too much,” he retorted. And then wham! The man will close in on me. “I need to stop thinking about her,” he claims. “Or I won’t be able to give myself in this relationship.”

Snap. This is how he distances himself from me.

Feelings are dangerous things that should never be spoken about. Positively, he does teach me things about myself. I decide to maintain an icy cold conduct with him. But no. He then needs to be my knight in shining armour and show the sweeping side in him. The reason why I fell for him. I once again find myself happily tingling with his attention.

I reassure myself that everything is fine. It is just the over-thinking. My mind’s mechanism sends me into over-drive.

She makes an appearance again. “She was just another girl in your life.” I speak in a reassuring cadence, secretly begging him to spend time with me this very moment; instead of being caged in the corridors of the past. Then I put on a confidant face and offer him advice which I wish he would use.

His next woman might very well say the same thing about me. My mind decides to let me find peace only when I die.

Maybe I should drop a not-so-subtle hint that I too have feelings. Yes, I know I am safe in this relationship. We are magic when we are together. Like paper to fire.

Of course, he doesn’t mean to hurt me. He likes to keep communication channels open in this ‘whatever-it-is-that-we-have’ stage.

Doesn’t our relationship need a label? Heck, who came up with this labeling business anyway? We were never the conventional ones.

He needs her. I need him. Maybe I even want him.

These talks put him off. Maybe I shouldn’t reveal these feelings to you.

Wait a second. What am I afraid of? Hurting his feelings or mine? Or just losing out on whatever precious time we may have together? Or the fear that I may end up alone with a goldfish and a cat for company?

Maybe I’m just very vulnerable right now. Maybe my mind is on a tripkill.

I wanted to be your special somebody.

Delusions. That’s all that is left of us.

I hope. No, I am sure that one day things will be good. Just like how it was. Not too long ago.

I am his other woman.

           And no. It doesn't pay much to be an emotional slut.