More Like A Quarter Pound of Splenda

First of all, I am fucking pissed off that this review got deleted and now I have to write another, and I've forgotten most of my jokes and links, which are now probably hovering nervously over one of the gimpier, glibbier internet sectors that probably has pictures of cats speaking like twits, and my words are all, "O Shiner, why have you forsaken me" and I'm all "if you love something set it free" blah blah "come back here."  Everyone gets that quote wrong anyway.

Everyone including Tinker Belle (in a post I linked before but totally don't feel like finding), our young author of Confessions of a Twenty-Something Drama Queen, the most redundant blog title ever, who rightly admits in her blog-blurb-beneath-the-title-thinger that her blog is about "Nothing, really. Just a walk through the world I exist in and observations of the people around. All with a little pinch of salt." I'm not sure if the salt was a late addition to the description, but it's definitely a late addition to the blog.

It's as if she wrote for two years with saccharine, chemically-sweet sentiments, actually read her own damp writing, realized she sounded like a fucking fifteen-year-old Twihard, started to try hard, and just salted the shit out of everything, instantly making things a little more delicious.

The best thing about this blog, by far, is watching Tinker Belle grow up. In the beginning, she's just another girl who uses too many exclamation points, wants a boyfriend, like, really bad, and everything is I'm-so-different-and-special, fanfic-styled stories, I'm-so-deep-because-you're-so-shallow, posts with nothing but soft-focus romancey pictures and horrible song lyrics, bad poetry, and emo heavily detailed updates about cleaning supplies. 

But Tinker Belle's growth as a writer and a person becomes obvious as she slowly evolves from a boring, whiny, insecure, hopeless romantic to a layered, confident, honest, hopeless romantic.  She turns her feelings into a story.  Sometimes it can come across as cheeseball drama, but it works.  She's trying new things with her writing, some good and some bad, but interesting. 

Although I really fucking hate the posts that are just bad music videos and lyrics, one eye-rolling line about Tinker feeling sorry for herself, and her ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY EIGHT LABELS.  I would lose those lame posts because they're awful and stupid, but I know she likes them, and if I were her I would tell me to fuck off. 

Seriously, though.  How many labels does one need?  I can understand having a great deal of labels if you're like, using them ironically instead of tagging posts with a new celebrity whenever you drop a name, which is the blog equivalent of a Tiger Beat locker collage.  Don't put them on your blog at all.  Get fucking rid of them.  I'm not a big fan of the orange-on-rainy-window template - but just using a color other than orange would fix that.  Try to let readers view more than one post at a time.  Create an "About" page.  And please, please, please change the title.  Maybe "The Confessional" or "Emotional Salt" or something. Because yes, she does confess things.  Yes, she's in her twenties.  But she ain't no drama queen. 


   

I'm Not Dead Yet

I haven't written anything on my personal blog since, oh . . .Christmas. I have nothing to say. Nothing even remotely interesting has happened to me. So, I just decided not to post until it's worthwhile.

I wish my reviewee would have done the same.

This is what's supposed to inspire me to write? A damn photo blog? The only writing is lame captions written in poor English. Aces. Ours is a blog that reviews WRITING. What in God's name am I supposed to do with this shit?

So yeah, Jidhu? Thanks for bothering to read the FAQ before submitting. Or any of the past reviews. Also, thanks for using us to get hits. You know what happens when asshats use us to get hits? I don't link anything other than the original link to the blog.

I don't know what to do right now. I'm here to review writing. I'm a "writer" (note the quotes), not a photographer. What the hell do I know about photography? I mean, I was the photographer for my junior high school newspaper 15 years ago. I got some awesome shots of the JV Boys Basketball game. I took a photography class in college and spent my time shooting gravestones at this old ass cemetery. Yeah, pre-emo, baby.

Where was I? Oh yeah, I'm not a photographer. So here's a layman's critique of your photography, Jidhu. It SUCKS.

Your minimal "About Me" says this blog is for you to express your feelings, ideas and interests. What feeling does this express? (Yeah, I linked. Sue me.) Your caption "Guys repairing pipes" is RIVETING. Does the photo mean something to you? Was your father a mechanic and you spent weekends working him, so there's some sentimental value to the picture? Does your "interest" in those guys bring up romantic "feelings"?

What the picture expresses to me is that you went out into the parking lot and took a picture of some shit, just to have something to post on your pretentious blog.

I'm done. I estimate there are more words written in this review than in the entire blog reviewed.

We have had one of these for awhile, so you get a . . .

High Speed Dirt

Greetings flesh bags. It's been a while, and I can't say I've missed you. Since my last review, I've gained a few hundred pounds, broken an opposable digit, and have lost all interest in blogging - reading, writing, and reviewing. The good lady hid my PS3 controller to accelerate my healing, and I haven't hunted a dim-witted herbivore in the last month. I am PISSED off and sure as hell hope I'm reviewing fuckin' Wodehouse today.

No? Fuck me and my broken claw then. "My Tumbling Thoughts to the World ...beware, here I come" (fuck, fuck, fuck) treats visitors with a list of "Amazing people who make me go on n on n on:)". I had flashbacks of karaoke nights in a basement bar, peanut shells, the overwhelming smell of urine, and asshole frats "ironically" singing Journey. And they ask me why I hate people.

When I visit a new blog, I usually page down to the bottom to get a quick look at the sidebar, template and general design. Not that I care about aesthetics, but historically speaking - crappier the sidebar, worse the content. But hey, if she has so many awards, she must be AWESOME right?

Sure, English is not your first language Suruchi, but must you make it so hard? You're a teacher, and your profile reads

I think I am wise, which makes me the unwisest of all theoretically...but rest assured, I can be what I wanna be and there's so much in me that I wanna share

If this were the first class of the course, I'd be getting ready to drop it right about now.

So what does a harebrained teacher write about? There's advice on kissing, new-age bullshit, and random thoughts no one deserves to be subjected to. It's one part emo, two part mommy blog - but complete bullshit whichever way you slice it. You yack about how you're different and how wise you are. But your writing simply can't shake off the unmistakable smell of bullshit.

I had a lot of trouble getting through your writing, and a small part of it was due to your frequent switching to Indianese. There's nothing wrong in using other languages in passing if they're translated (or obvious) and used in the proper context. But "writing" like you're "talking", and all the time at that is utter tripe. Also, you do know that writing like *this* is to *emphasize* something, and that the helpful duo (parentheses) are used to interject sentences? Right? Right? *RIGHT*? And, why in the name of Vishnu do Indians use so many ellipses? You have a full sized keyboard, and presumably a normal sized brain, what's the deal with the chat acronyms?

You don't seem to check yourself in light of your identity for all to see, but is this the best you can do? We get people who can't reach their full potential because their mothers and cube neighbors are frequent visitors, and we advise them to go anonymous just to explore their boundaries. I'd suggest the same for you, but only to spare your loved ones from the trash you churn out.

This showcases almost everything that's wrong with your writing. When you aren't stabbing grammar in the balls with a corkscrew, you get all cutesy, mix up tenses, styles of speech, overuse ellipses, use languages I don't understand. Even if I were to ignore fuckin' ALL of that, there's absolute no substance in a page long post. And for God's sake SAY FUCK WHEN YOU MEAN FUCK.

An hour at her blog, and I was down three glasses of my cigar malt but got nowhere close to finding something redeeming. To entertain myself, I began scrolling wildly, and came up with a composite post from a page of Suruchi's manure farm.

Presenting... the best post ever.

And suddenly I hear moans...
She put her fingers lovingly against the flaccid face of Sushant, the deepest of peaceful sleep spreading across his pallor.
Where men get ready to fist a loafer’s face blue if he raises so much as an eyelid at the girl on his arm...
What maximum can happen?
Come out...say as you feel...be as you are...

That got boring quick, so I substituted words in her posts to keep me going.

Between the duration when a vibrator would reach from the ground floor to his doorstep through the elevator, he said he would have written an article.

I was having an interesting conversation with a dear friend the other day when a kind of penis appeared quite conspicuously to the fore!

Fuck this shit. As bad as the writing is, there are several dozen "readers" to keep her going, and I think that's a tragedy nearly as big as this blog is.

Suruchi, get on the bus. And here's another for your "followers".



Also, since you like awards, here's one. You know where to stick it. *Your sidebar is an option*

Epidemic

So, I've been selling my possessions online. Skeins of new yarn I purchased for an ill-fated knitting project. A vintage dress I wore one time in 2001 for a costume party. Etc, etc. Whatever I don't need anymore, I'm trying to get some money for it.

However in doing so, I've discovered the alarming rate of obliviousness and illiteracy in the world. These idiots email me questions all the time, and it takes all my willpower not to go caps lock on their asses.

"Will these jeans fit me? Will they be too short?"

I DON'T FUCKING KNOW WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE. I'VE GIVEN ALL THE MEASUREMENTS OF THE FUCKING JEANS. CAN YOU READ THEM? CAN YOU MEASURE A PAIR OF JEANS THAT FIT YOU AND COMPARE THEM?

"Can you post pictures of the back of the jeans?"

THERE ARE 4 PICTURES OF THE JEANS, NUMBNUTS. YOU SEE THAT DOWN ARROW AT THE BOTTOM RIGHT OF YOUR SCREEN? CAN YOU PUSH THAT AND PAGE DOWN?

I have to deal with that shit, and then I get assigned this blog.

How many emo Indian girls have submitted their blogs here? Too many to count, people. Have they not read this site at all? Can they not see we have a tag, special just for them? Reviewing this blog is a waste of my time, which is why I've procrastinated in writing it. Part of me wants to just copy and paste any number of other reviews I've written and call it a done deal.

But, no, I can't do that, cuz it's cheating and the other reviewers will get pissed at me. So, here goes.

Aparna hasn't posted since November of last year. Which means she submitted her blog for review, and then just stopped posting. WASTE OF MY FUCKING TIME.

Strike one for you, Aparna. Strike one for you.

Her header is some shit people used to post as a MySpace comment. She switches between font colors, making the blog unreadable at times (thank God for small favors). She has a widget bar that extends halfway down the page, filled with GIFs, a Twitter box, an IM box, awards, a blogroll of about 50 and all of her post labels.

Strike two. (Please read any number of other reviews if you're uncertain why.)

Her labels are as follows:

• Chronicles of my life (18)
• Creative corner-stories and poems (22)
• Insight (13)
• Miscellaneous (14)
• Mushy bites(love and romance) (14)
• Musings (9)
• potpourri (12)
• Random thoughts (16)
• Retrospections (15)
• Reviews-Song Movies and Books (4)

which could easily be consolidated into one label call "My Personal Diary Scribblings That No One Gives a Shit About." In fact, if you go back to 2007, she actually posts her boring-ass diary for the world to see.

You know why we hate emo bloggers? It's because they think their personal dramas are special and have only happened to them. Of course! No one else has EVER had their best friend backstab them and peace out. No one else has EVER had their heart broken either!

Maybe it's because we're all just a bunch of old coots who dealt with our adolescent dramas before the dawn of blogging. We just wrote them down in an actual diary which we burned in the fireplace when we grew the fuck up, because we'd be mortified if anyone ever read our simpering, melodramatic drivel.

But nowadays, everyone posts this shit on the internet.

Anyway, strike three. You're out. Get on the fucking bus.

Here Comes Another One, Just Like.....

Happiness is an Internal Pursuit is the name of the blog being reviewed today. That sounds pretty deep and meaningful and shit. But you know what else is an internal pursuit? A pap smear. However, you don’t see women putting that one in their blog readers to be revisited at weekly intervals. From what I have heard, it is a once in every two years experience that is akin to having fingernails scraped down a blackboard. Except in your vagina.

So already this review has taken a review south. But I knew that when Shiner gave me my next mission, which I chose to accept. It unfortunately did not blow up in a delicate-ball-of-paper-sized explosion when I had finished with it.

Here is the bit where you realise I am a grouchy old dinosaur. Not to be confused with the hip young thang we know as Johnny Raptor. He is all up with where it is happening and whatnot. Not so much me. I still like to think of blogs in ‘book’ terms. Number one: it has to grab me on the first page. Usually someone in the book publishing process, least of all the author, will make sure that this will occur with a decent percentage of the people who have picked up the book. Unfortunately for the blog world, there is no editor to tell the blogger, ‘You know, I just think it needs a little more boom, pow, pizzazz? You picking up what I am putting down?’

Sufficed to say, the writerly stylings of Bipasha did not lure me willingly into her world. And here we come to number two on Redpen’s Good Blog list. Use correct punctuation. I am not a nitpicker – I won’t get all up in your grill if you try, and fail, to use a colon or semi-colon properly, but a capital letter at the beginning of a sentence will work wonders if you would like people other than baggy-assed jean wearing tweens with cell phones surgically attached to their fingers to read what you have to say. The ellipse, contrary to the belief of those under 18, it NOT an acceptable fill-in for any other form of punctuation; nor does it make it seem like you are soooo deep and there are so many other ideas peering out from within those little dots; ideas which your awesome intellect could not be bothered elucidating upon. But like the good Indian kid she is, having listened thoroughly to her teachers, Bipasha does manage to give the exclamation mark a good airing. Good girl!

Look, Bipasha is a compassionate woman who lives in a fascinating country. At times she tries to highlight it and I get a little bit intrigued. The problem in that scenario is that it ends being me that does all the imagination leg-work while trying desperately to ignore the abominable teen email/text speak…and FUCK ME. I really thought this chick was young. Like early 20s at the most. I seem to have been proven otherwise which disturbs me on all manners of levels. I really don’t think I can continue on. Thirty-one? Is that a typo?

I really don’t know what else to say Bipasha. You are an intelligent lady who lives in a scary and cool place. You are sweet and idealistic and I am a little bit in love with your dog Dexter. And I like you well enough. You are thoughtful and observant but fuck me if you write (in English at least, the only language in which I am fluent) like a fifteen year old - all grand ideas, a little bit of heart and terrible techno short hand.

This rating isn’t really for you. I mean, just for you, you would get a:




But for the culmination of Indian blogs with the same bloody issues I give you a:










And finally, for Shiner;









I am sorry I made you post my last four reviews. You can tell why by the bloody lay-out of this one. I also did try to think of something more 'hip' to give you but meh. I am nothing if not unoriginal and mother-lovin' lazy.

Where Everybody Doesn't Know Your Name

At my local watering hole, there are two old man barflies whom we avoid at all costs. They are nice, sweet old coots, but are of the type to babble endlessly about random shit. The times we have felt friendly toward them, they've ended up sitting at our table with us for hours, but don't even recognize us the next time we come in.

"Pops" is an 80-year-old veteran, who drives a taxi and collects old coins, keeping several on his person. He has shown them to me and talked about each for at least 20 minutes, in a semi-incoherent manner. I am unsure if it was because he is old and senile, or because he's probably been drinking non-stop for over 60 years. Before he left the bar for the night (whether he was driving his taxi for personal or business reasons is unknown to me), the bar staff knew to bring him a shot of half and half, his "immediate-sober-up" cure.

The other is someone whom we've dubbed "Old Hippie Man", because of his permanent smile and obvious overuse of acid back in the day. I can't remember anything about our unintelligible conversation. He does, however, continually and randomly say, "Carry On!" while making an "Airplane Taking Off" motion with his hand. Even when he gets caught in the middle of bar fights.

Talking to these two, is what it was like for me to read this blog. If the old man barflies were emo Indian girls, that is.

Sheetal rambles on about her feelings and all the wisdom she's gained in all her 23 years. It reads like a journal she's keeping as personal therapy, but it would be better for her to just buy an actual journal, than to expose us all to this shit by submitting here.

You want to know how incoherent and boring this blog is? I have read (maybe skimmed) every single post of every other blog I've reviewed, but I couldn't even get through one of Sheetal's posts. This is why I can't even give links for examples.

She talks about people who haven't been introduced in the blog, as if I'm supposed to figure it out on my own and give a shit about them. Hell, I have no clue about who Sheetal is at all, because there is no "About Me", and I cannot glean anything about her from her posts for the life of me. I mean, I'm assuming Sheetal is female, simply because "she" writes about meeting boys. That may just be coming from my heterocentric view though.

The blog is filled with run-on sentences, misspellings, and huge slabs of meandering, uninteresting paragraphs, which is frightening because apparently, she's a journalist. I fervently pray to Ganesha that her profession doesn't include writing in English, because she has a mediocre grasp of it.

She doesn't post regularly and only has 66 posts for the past 4 years, which I don't even mind, because that means less pollution of the internet.

My advice to Sheetal: Start a new blog, and write stories from your life. Funny memories, sad memories, angry memories, all of it. Readers want to read the blog of someone who puts themselves out there, which means writing about things that make you uncomfortable, not writing down every little emo thought in your little emo head.

Until then, I'm giving you:







For making it feel like I was listening to drunken, brain-fried, old men yammering on about shit no one cares about. Without the luxury of having a beer in my hand.

Yellow Submarine

I've been terribly late (that's what she said? oh shut it) with this review, and I apologize. In fact, I still don't quite have the mental bandwidth for a big ass review, so read this post thrice if you feel it's too short.

I've mentioned before that we retreated to underground bunkers when life top-side got a tad predictable. Boy bands sealed the deal, we'd rather take lava pits than listen to Ronan Keating's soporific voice. No guitar solos? What the fuck were you humans getting into? Anyway, curiosity gets the better of us and we check on you cultured apes now and then. A great way to jump from shore to shore is reading, and blogs are a great way to get around. If they're written right. If they're not gaudy enough to make my retinas bleed. If the author doesn't peddle shit in lieu of writing. If no opportunity to tell a story is squandered. If opinions are brutally honest. Right.

Today we visit the exotic shores of India, where a billion people are apparently on the road trying to get somewhere (have you seen the blasted traffic there?). Jil Jil Ramamani is a blog maintained by a lady whose name is not Jil Jil Ramamani. I'm not sure what language the about me is in, and I sense a wall of culture I'm about to run into. There's something about why the blog is called what it is, it could probably be modified and used for your "prophyle". The design reeks of local pop-culture, and if that's your thing, sure. All that colour was a tad overwhelming, but I have a memo here that says no one gives a shit anymore. Navigation is piss-poor, I couldn't figure out how to get to the previous pages without using the archives. You do want your readers to linger, don't you?

The latest post is emo - so whoop-de-doo, "NEVER FORGET" (old inside joke Sindhu, never mind). You aspire to be a biker chick and I like that. Just wear some goddamn deo, ok? I get the feeling you're a college kid, and I guess life is exciting even when it's a fuckin' 120 degrees all year long. English isn't your first language (nor a Raptor's) so I won't nitpick about grammar and the like. I'm averse to blogging with lists, especially long ones, but yours' give me an insight into life on the other side of the globe, even if it isn't intentional. There's coming-of-age writing, some musing and other random shit I won't bother linking.

Thing is Sindhu, while I find your blog readable, your writing isn't always tolerable. Writing and talking are two separate things, and blogging like you're yammering about some female teenage shit I can't be arsed about makes me want to drink a gallon of bleach. I'm sure you like the loudmouth, constantly chattering you, but I can't be the only one who hates it. Knock that shit off, respect the medium you're on. I'm going backwards on your blog and since I'm hating it more and more by every post, you've probably gotten better over the years.


Since you like lists, here's one for you:

1) Edit, proof read and edit some more.
2) Use colloquialisms more sparingly, and with better context if you want international readership.
3) Don't write like you're cooing over the phone.
4) Write more often. And I'm not talking about "whee I'm back" posts.
5) Enough of the damned gtalk conversations.
6) More stories, more opinions.
7) Stop selling shit on your blog. If you must, use a separate website and link it up on your sidebar - it's shiny as it is.


Meh, back to my single malt.

I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now

Trillian,

I realize you're only 16. That makes it easier for me to forgive some of your more angsty or boycrazy moments, since we've all been at "that age".

But you presumptuously call yourself a writer and you've submitted your blog to be critiqued here, so I'm going to attempt to treat you like an adult and be bluntly honest because I genuinely like you and think you deserve that.

Have you noticed that as soon as you were diagnosed with bipolar disorder (over a year ago), you have written about little else and your blog has become super emo? I'm not trying to discount your illness, but do you have anything else going on in your life that you could possibly write about?

UN Peace Mission to Bombay but never write about it. You do the same thing with a school trip to Singapore. You actually write about a school trip to Malaysia, but it ends up coming across as a journal entry where you literally talked about cute boys and what you bought when you went shopping at the mall. Where are the hilarious stories involving the people you met? Where are the descriptions of the things you saw on your trips, written so I can imagine being there?

Hell, you even spent some time locked up in an institution of sorts, and all you could do is give us a description of the people who were there with you. You've given me a cast of characters, but no actual play. I feel gypped.

I'm frustrated, because I know you can write. You use correct spelling and grammar, which is amazing when most of the reviewers get stuck with the blogs of grown-ass adults who have no fucking clue. You write about things other people are scared to. You can turn a phrase beautifully and take pride in your writing when you take the time. I want more of this.

But 80% of the time, you only talk about your current mental state or write pretentious pseudo-artist crap. I'm not sure if you've noticed, but we don't have a lot of patience for people who think writing about their angst makes them deep, introspective and unique.

Here's some big-sisterly advice from someone who's dealt with depression herself: if you wallow in shit, your cuts are only gonna get infected.

I'm not telling you to repress what you're feeling, but just to avoid things that trigger your depression and anxiety. Yes, writing about pain sometimes helps one deal with it, but there's a difference between that and relishing the pain to the extent that you end up defining yourself by it. And you really have much more potential than just a fucking definition, chica.

While we're on the subject of immersing yourself in your drama, why aren't your comments set to be moderated? Since you have an ongoing problem with trolls, it makes me think you enjoy the antagonism.

The problem is . . . I actually agree with the trolls half the time. I don't agree with how abusive they are, but I can see where they're coming from. You mention your maids, your tailor, spending a shit ton of money on shopping, and your FIVE expensive cameras. True, you have a mental illness and abusive/emotionally distant parents, but nonchalantly acting like a rich bitch makes it hard for me to feel that much sympathy for you.

Some more big-sister advice: I really think you should do some volunteer work for people less fortunate than yourself. It'll help put things into perspective, give you something to do other than think about your drama and provide blog fodder that will probably be more interesting to your readers.

And PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, take your fucking pills. Who gives a shit if you get fat? Imagine all the mentally ill people who can't afford their medication. You being flippant about your pills is completely offensive and makes you look like a self-indulgent princess.

Anyway . . . because I actually, truly, love it when you quote a relevant song, book, or poem at the end of your posts, these are for you:


You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everyone else, and we are all a part of the same compost pile.






That I must be their scourge and minister.
I will bestow him, and will answer well
The death I gave him. So again good night.
I must be cruel only to be kind.
Thus bad begins and worse remains behind.

Dick Move, Jargon Juggler.

I am an American. For the most part we are an English speaking country, but there is no amendment or law that explicitly states, “We speak English here, take your other worthless language and go suck on a dead dog’s nose.” Of course, this is a good thing, because other languages aren’t worthless at all, especially not to the people who speak them.

Similarly, there’s no official language of AAYSR. It’s not like we called together a reviewers gin rally and debated the semantics of our FAQ over bucks and Tom Collinses (Tom Collinseses?). Since the FAQ is written in English, we arrogantly assumed like the vainglorious dicks we are that all submissions would subsequently be in English.

Obviously, some asshole out there decided that he was entitled to a review, even with having less an a third of his posts written in a language I understand, as if he's testing me. You sonofabitch, I got a 34 on my ACT because I test so good. Pop quiz, jargon juggler: who's got two fists full of round bombs with fuses of scorn for bilingual bloggers testing my lexical patience? This girl. Dick move, jargon juggler. Dick move.

But I thought, you know, hey--this guy’s got to have some reason for doing this. Hopefully he'll reveal himself as some kind of pretentious fuck, and then we can set him on fire with leftover bottle rockets from this past weekend's patriotic debauchery. Maybe he'll be counterfeit and full of shit. Maybe he'll nearly plagiarize but not quite, and circumvent any accusations of plagiarism because of the nature of the concept he's addressing, thus brilliantly demonstrating the idea he's floating--but did he know that I've read that book? Does it matter?

Fine, so I didn't necessarily predict he would do that last bit, but motherfucker did itnonetheless.

And by golly, I fucking like him. He turned out to be feisty and hilarious and obnoxiously ostentatious because he is totally a Bombay hipster (which he would adamantly deny, true to hipster code), and I love that kind of unapologetic bastardization of self. Sure, some of this poetry crap is just nonsense, but I assure you: although it doesn't look like a standard poem, this blog is all poetry, even if a little wordy and rugged (the entry at the bottom), even if sometimes he comes across as a kind of drunken swan, where you can see how elegant he could be if he weren't such a flashy fuckdunce.

His template is horseshit, the navigation is a sterile, complicated hospital nightmare, sometimes the links lead to streams of shrapnel html and most of the writing is in fucking Hindi. Opening each quarter-monthly archive link is like passing around a live fucking hand grenade. There is no profile, no comments, no way to go back to a homepage, no way to click on an individual entry. He hasn't posted in a couple of months, which makes me believe he either joined Facebook or Twitter, where his brevity could be more immediately appreciated by his peers.

This guy is good. This guy is really, really good. And he fucking knows it. I'm guessing he's a professional (apparently he has already written some film scripts). He's above detailing his life or personality for any potential readers, because if they don't get it, if they cannot just deduce his dreams and self from his poetry, which "does not burnish on paper as much as it embers in the mind," why would he want them reading his blog?

So, Manish Fuckwad, you are a cocksucker.

I want you to take your superior word choice, your smooth, jerkface prose, and your aloof, cryptic layout back to Bombay's version of Brooklyn and dump it in a trash bin at the local ditchwater coffee shop.


Then I want you to straighten up your thick-rimmed emo glasses and start over with a simple template with a plain, classic header that's just your title and a drop-down archive. I want you to tag your posts with "English" or "Hindi" so people can just skip to whatever language they understand or feel like reading that day. And I want you to write more often, because I want it.

Don't jump, this is the shallow end

Hello, it’s 11 degrees Here In Franklin and they're predicting two inches of snow on Thursday. That's a virtual blizzard in these parts. I need to get this done so I can run to Publix before they run out of Sierra Nevada and Tender Vittles.

According to Wikipedia there are 1.17 billion people living in India. There are more than 2,000 ethnic groups who speak 29 different languages. And don’t even get me started on how many types of curry there are.

Point is, you’d be hard pressed to find a more diverse environment and multi-layered culture than India’s.

So why does eM sound exactly like every other 28-year-old American I know? Maybe because she lists her three favorite movies as Reality Bites, Girl Interrupted and Dirty Dancing. Aside from the very occasional Indian reference, this blog could be authored by any upscale wasp living in Dallas or Cleveland or Sacramento.

But that’s not to say that it isn’t well written, because it is.

eM is the blogname of Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan, who, I suspect, is quite famous in India in a chick lit sort of way. She published a book last year and is working on another. She was interviewed on NPR last October for a story featuring popular blogs around the world. She comes by her writing chops naturally—her father is a well-known writer and her mother is an editor.

However, it's eM's blog that's our concern today, not her family tree.

eM’s writing is clear and grammatically correct. She started blogging in 2004 when she was only 22. In those early days she wrote sweetly about growing up, boy friends, her work as a journalist and drinking and smoking with her friends. There was more of the same in 2005 … and 2006 … and 2007 … and by now you get the picture.

There just isn’t a lot of growth. Compare these birthday posts which are years apart.

Am now the grand old age of twenty-three.
Wow.
Twenty three isn't that old in the larger scheme of things, I'm sure some of you, who have passed that mark will look upon me as a mere fledgling. But still, it's the oldest I've ever been, in that, this year I actually feel my age. All these years, I've felt younger than I actually am. But now I'm 23, I feel 23, even if I may not look it. Kinda sad actually, because I would love to revert to 19 or something. At an age where I can still look around and say, "Where are all the grown-ups?" That's not happening anymore, coz, ohmygod, I am a grown-up. *scary*

And this:

If you know me, then you know my birthday is possibly the HUGEST DEAL IN THE WORLD to me. It's true. In the past, I began talking about it in like August, because I was so excited and now, I'm not much better, though I have managed to hold off till at least November before I make plans. People are amused, because, well, at 28, you expect someone to take a chill pill already about turning a year older, but it's so exciting! And it's a day all about meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! And more meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! How can you not love that?

So here’s the deal, eM —- I can’t take you to task about your writing. But can we talk about content? Honestly, can we have a little less meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee and a little more youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu? I realize that you’re catering to a certain audience…keeping up a certain persona. But the only word that comes to mind is shallow. You’re 28 now—old enough to notice the world around you.

You have a voice. You have an audience. You have a platform. Maybe once every few months you could write about something other than yourself.

For your writing skill, I give you



For your complete self-absorption, I give you



And if every single Paris Hilton wannabe in Mumbai hates me, so be it.

Lord, I Was Born a Ramblin' Woman

I'm new here, so I don't really have the right to complain about having to read yet another boring, Indian blog. But I'm going to gripe about it anyway. I wanted to like it, I really did. But Lost on the Street is gobsmackingly tedious. I guess the point of the blog is to entice her readers to visit the numerous beautiful locales of India. I wish she would just quit with the writing and take up photography because I think her photos are fabulous. Those pictures are what made me want to get off my ass and visit those places. But her words made me want to curl up on the couch for a nap.

She does take the time to write about non-travel related topics and upon reading some of those posts my ennui turned to anger. She actually contends in this one that housewives are using feminism as an excuse to be lazy. What a loathsome thing to contend. Her opinion that housewives, specificially educated housewives, have no right to claim to be feminists is downright disgusting. If she's going to make offensive statements on her blog she should at least back it up with a good argument. Another post that pissed me off is this one about tipping. What is the big fucking deal about leaving a 20% tip? She mentions in another one of her blogs that she has a maid. If she can afford to pay a maid she can afford a god damn tip.

Still, I'm not entirely unsympathetic to this blogger. She has a bitterness about her that I can relate to. And I can certainly identify with her complacency. She can form a coherent sentence and at least attempts to be grammatically correct. I'm assuming (perhaps wrongly) that English is a second language for her. If I'm right, then that's pretty impressive. I know a few native speakers of this fine language that can't do that. But being a good blogger entails a lot more than good grammar and sentence structure.

I suggest that she hone her story telling skills. As Love Bites recently told another reviewee, the topic of the story isn't as important as how you tell it. Lost desperately needs to edit. She seems to think that every last detail and thought is worth including each post. And the rambling has reached a critical level. She has trouble focusing and subsequently veers off in some confusing directions. What's annoying is that I'm not telling her something that she doesn't already know. It's apparent that she recognizes it as a problem because she mentions it in her posts. She wrote at the end of one post:

And thus ends one more pointless post. Promise this will be the last..pointless post that is.

But she broke that promise, over and over again.

Her template is dull but I don't really mind that. I'd much rather a dull template than a hideous one. She has tabs on the top but she doesn't really utilize them well. Lower down on the page is where all the trouble starts. In addition to her archives, she has way too much shit going on - tags, categories, favorites, just written, recent comments, and one of those creepy and annoying "Live Traffic Feeds". My suggestion is to eliminate all that crap and just use the tabs.

I do have one good thing to say about this blogger and her blog - Her niece is precious and those pictures of her pierced through the hardened layers of my bitter heart. That's not easy to do. Usually the only kids I find adorable are the ones I made myself.

In any case, this blogger gets a

She has potentional if she can learn to put a filter between her mind and the keyboard.

Land of wonder, spices, mystery, and incredibly dull bloggers

India has attacked us again. I blame Crowley, who I'm certain is somehow responsible for the fact that all of the blogs up for review in the queue right now are from India.

Fuck me sideways with a pickle. One of these pieces of refuse is clearly dead, so I'm discarding it. One has opted out on being reviewed. The other two aren't enough, singularly, to deserve an entire post.

First, Summer Diary. Ugly black & white template, and I have no idea what this person is doing. I like teenagers, I had a house full of them on Saturday, but this blog is like attempting to decipher meaningless gibberish posted on random coconuts and tossed into the ocean to arrive willy nilly on the shores of our brains.

I feel dumber for having spent 20 minutes on the site.

Fuck you for submitting to us, you stupid twat.



Secondly, this one. God save us from the unrelenting angst of teenagers. Were we all this inwardtwisted awkwardness? But some of it holds drops of promise. To that promise, I say...use good grammar. Choose your words more carefully. If you write dialogue, make it cleaner and more clearly identify who is speaking. Keep writing. Clean up your sidebar, and find a better place for the quote under your header bar. Don't try so hard to be unique, but instead focus on distilling your words until they are really and truly yours.

I give you a single star, work upwards to the rest.



These are my missives to India, sent in a digital bottle.

p.s. More importantly, if you were going to be an ironic, made-up superhero, who would you be?

The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul

You know I am a mom, right? And sometimes, the mommy job requires that I bare little buttocks, and swat them soundly. Other times, it means taking a distraught child, curling her against my body, and offering what comfort I can with my words, my arms, and my love.

Today, while you may be hoping for the former, little Askers, you're getting the latter.

When you happen onto this blog, you'll immediately think, "fuck me with a chainsaw, another emo Indian kid blog." Don't. And, don't roll your eyes at me, either. I don't care much for student blogs, but for some reason, I want to take this girl, wrap my arm around her, and tell her that life will be okay.

New is hard. And, frankly, it sucks ass. You are living in a new town or new country, far away from all that is familiar. You want your mom to be there when you're sick. You want to walk down a familiar street. You want the friends who've known you for years. You want home, and all of the ten million tiny details that are encompassed by that word: the scent of home, the familiar faded curtains, the furniture that bears the scars of recurrent collisions with your body parts, the stain on the rug from red nail polish when you were 16.

Ms. Gruntle is young, and she's learning a hard lesson: once you leave, you can never really go home again.

Oh, you can go back to the same place, but you'll have changed, and so will that place. And, the people you knew there will have gone on in your absence, and they'll have changed, too. Some things will be the same, but there will always be jarring absences, strange pauses, stories you didn't participate in, and new and disconcerting shops, restaurants, houses, and people.

Welcome to Adulthood.

All you can really do, Ms. Gruntle, is document the journey. Fill your blog with all the details that you WANT to remember from the trip. What you don't write down will get lost: faded, fuzzy, and forgotten.

And, if you want to document your journey for the rest of us, do this:

1. Add an "About Me." I want to know why you are in the United States, what you hope to accomplish, and a bit more meat about who you are besides the fact that you run "like a mole." You don't have to give incriminating details (Calamity and I had a long convo about this very topic - blogging anonymity - over drinks on Fridya night). But, you do need to give the readers of your blog a backstory to fill in the gaps, so we know what the fuck you're talking about.

2. Give more details that are relevant to the story. Instead of telling us that you miss the smell of a particular place, tell us what the smell is...tangerines and almonds. Or, fried dough and turnips. Or, my favorite written description of New Orleans: Roses and sewers. Let us miss it, with you. When you talk about depression, don't tell us you're sad, tell us how that sadness FEELS.

3. Let go. With everyone else, we say, "edit, edit, edit." With you, for now, I'm going to say, "stop editing." Let it flow. Give yourself 30 minutes, write whatever your are feeling, even if it is nonsensical, and post it. Then, let it go. If you can't do that in your blog's present form, find some kind of anonymity that allows you to do this. Anonymity is hard to keep, but it is valuable. There is one irony about blogging that never ceases to amaze me: I can tell horrifying secrets to strangers that I'd never tell close friends. If you lose the anonymity, you've lost that opportunity.

4. Write, everyday. Do it because doing so will help you, personally. And, here is how: It's been 5 months, and you're in this strange country, and everything is alien. In another 6 months, though, it will be slightly more familiar. Even now, you have your little routines. If you push yourself, those routines will expand, and you will start to build a place for yourself, a place that feels just ever so slightly more like home. In 2 years, you will really FEEL like you're home, and home will feel strange and alien and changed.

You should document that process, because when times get hard, you can look back and see how far you've come. You can see the progress you've made, and you can take heart from it. And in years to come, you'll realize just how strong you are, just how capable you are, and when future changes come, you will be able to more easily take them in stride. That is the one certainty of adult life, by the way, that all things change, even the things that you hope will never change.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And, now, with my mom hat securely on my head, I want you to know these things, as well:

Dear Ms. Gruntle:

I'm worried about you. Here is my best motherly advice to help you weather these tough times:

1. Eat better. Sure, McDonald's is cheaper, and the greasy carbs give you a quick high, but ultimately, you will feel worse. Better than McDonald's is this meal from Wendy's, for under $4: Small side salad, baked potato, chili. If you are struggling with depression, the worst thing you can do is eat a lot of unhealthy, carb-heavy, toxic food. It will only make things worse.

2. Do one thing each day that scares you. I'm not talking about jumping out of airplanes, but I am talking about pushing yourself outside of your rut. Talk to someone in the classroom. Smile at a cashier. Ask a stranger a question. Invite someone to go to dinner with you. Go for a walk and discover a new place. Eat a new kind of food you've never tried before. Push yourself outside of your comfort zone. You are on your own in a new place, this is an ADVENTURE. Treat it as such.

3. Take lots of pictures. You'll want to remember the things you've seen, done, enjoyed, hated, explored.

4. Find at least one thing each day that gives you joy. Maybe it's a song. Maybe it's the sight of the sun streaming between the bare branches of the trees onto crystalline snow. Maybe it's a funny bumper sticker. Force yourself to find your bliss.

5. Find some words that inspire you, and put them on your mirror where you will be forced to read them every morning. Do it so that you can internalize them. I recommend Ralph Waldo Emerson. Perhaps you can start with this:

Don't be too timid and squeamish about your actions. All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make, the better.

If you do these things, and you write, write, write those feelings out, I promise that you will find that the sky is significantly lighter in the next couple of months, and so is your daily mood.

Love,

Mom

I give you , with the promise of more to come if you keep working at it.

I am also giving you this for this post.

Stop overthinking this shit. It's just a blog, for god's sake.

Saale of the century

Let me get straight to point or I'll be here all fucking day, this is "Saale Bhehnchod" the blog of a moaner. A 23 year old Indian law student whinging his arse off. How many of you are there?

I haven't got the slightest clue as to why he would sumbit himself for a review.

I didn't find just one, nor just two, but three, and fuck knows how many more posts moaning about people mentioning he had put on weight or his appearance. Give me strength. Men come 3 groups, skinny, fat, and everything else. The addition or subtraction of two pounds should go unnoticed, and more to the point unwhinged about.

You rattle on and on and on about being addicted and/or not addicted depending on the day of the week to booze. Here's a clue, alcoholics don't usually get around to googling for and posting images of their favourite drinks on their blog. They drink it. You are a fucking student, it's your job to get arseholed twice a week and wake up with traffic signs in your bed. The only thing you are addicted to is the sound of your own voice.

The first post at the time of writing is an 'oh so controversial yet not really of Obama' and the frenzy surrounding him. Kudos to you for calling it as you see it, but you fucked up royally saying he looked like a monkey. At best, a misguided thing to say.

If I were objective I would just say nice job, well written, and you've created an oversized bebo page for you and your pals to play around with. Unfortunately, I'm not objective. The blog annoyed the shit out of me. My blood pressure actually rose while clicking through your posts. You have no interest in writing, only talking.

I couldn't go back further than 2008 because as irritated as I was reading you at 23 years of age, I shudder to think what went before. I really should have just linked to this post at the start and left it at that. Dreadful, self indulgent, unfounded, faux angst.

I had to go back and remove the working 'fucking' 4 times from this post, that's how much you got under my skin.

Constructive advice? You can clearly write well, technically, but you don't write, you talk. If you have any interest to improve, re-read what you write and ask yourself do you like what you read. Other than that, stop fucking moaning. You are privileged, go live your life.

Now I think I hear chants of Obama coming over the hill, so jump in fast, I've left the engine running.

New Delhi's Depp

I'm in a bad mood.

Timmy's mammy has pulled him from the alter boys, and I really could use his services.

So, what have we this week? Why the Blackbeard Chronicles of course, well shiver my fucking timbers.

I wish mister Crowley was a real bastard, then I could dissect him properly. Unfortunately this fucker seems to be a decent chap, articulate, with a reasonable sense of humour.

Although he has an Irish name, he IS a lawyer, in India. Obviously.

Can you imagine that fucking divorce hearing?

'You sir, get the estate, the staff, the assets, the marble rickshaw, and the children, and you Madam get to torch your wretched corpse on a flaming pyre'

'Sir gets to light it'

Anyway, the blog.

This Indian lawyer, is, um… a pirate, well fuck me anyway. Judging by the header a dead pirate who hangs around the set of Dawson's Creek.

The content is good. 'Good' in the sense that if I said 'average' it would be seen as an insult, so 'good'. Better than average.

It's varied, ranty, funny, even intriguing now and again.

Always written to a good standard.

Well done young man, now fucking listen up, my problem with you is this: I don't believe you are really into it.

I think you have a blog because you think you should have one, and you apply yourself to it in the same way you do to every other project you undertake, the result is a job well done, but nothing more.

It's formulaic, forced, fabricated, and monotone.

Something is missing, the real bite, the real spark, the real belly shaking. Basically, any personality. Your allegiance to Metallica is the only hint of human I can smell.

You said your blog was like a turd, it's not. Examining a turd can tell you a lot about from whence it came, and what makes it what it is, your blog does not.

2 stars for a job well done, (which is quite the bollock tickler seeing as I actually don't really like it at all) and due to zero 'uuumph' , you get a meh.

Feed My Frankenstein

Sid likes pain, apparently. Sid frothed himself into a frenzy over the brief reprieve he was given last week, enough so that I've decided to give him my "special" love. Take a minute for yourself while I pull on my tall leather boots with the stiletto heels, lace myself into my black leather corset, and pull the riding crop out of the drawer. Okay, ready.

Sid perhaps should be more careful what he whines for, in the future.

First, the template, which was apparently constructed on a dark and stormy night, using a pirated photoshop program, in a dank dungeon far below ground level, powered by lightning strikes. I hate the header image. Too much going on, Sid. Pick something simpler to put your title on, and use a title color that stands out more from the background. We're looking for contrast here, not matchy-matchy, in terms of readability The extra words are unnecessary and don't contribute to a reader's understanding of what you're about here.

Your sidebar looks like the nightmarish offspring of a coupling between a 13-year-old boy and the Transformers movie, complete with merchandising placements. Please get rid of the crap in your sidebar. You don't need:

1. Shout Mix
2. Pothead #
3. A map
4. Your current mood.

Please rip them off your sidebar and stuff them back into the coffin, Dr. Sidenstein. What you do need to dig up, however, is something that explains who and what and where you are. I could potentially get interested in your story if I knew these things, but right now, I just see you as some whiny 3rd world emo kid whose abby normal brain has rotted in the overly hot tropical sun. So, if you want readers outside of whatever country you reside in, you have to tell us more.

You also need to give your readers a method to return to your home page, either by linking your header image as is standard in many blogs, or by putting a home button next to your "older posts" link or on the side bar.

The content...I really wanted to rip you a new anus, Sid, one that would have you shitting bricks from the front. But I can't.

Oh, I'll be honest...most of the content sucks. ass. hard. And that usually means a throatful of shit. But, you do have a few gems buried in the rotten corpse you call a blog. I'll give you credit for that. I find you are at your best when you are sad
probably a frequent mood for you, emo-boi, so it should be easy for you to give us more. In these posts, you tell a story that is compelling, or you actually make a point and express a persuasive viewpoint. Good stuff, albeit not perfect. At least engaging, though.

In the other 90% of this mess, you do a lot of the standard teenage whining and crying, and you made me want to stab you in the eye and bury you in my compost heap. I mean, dude. You whine INCESSANTLY about how hot your car is (awwww, poor baby). You go to a rock concert, your first real one, and you whine about your neck aching from head-banging (I would so kick your ass in the mosh)...bruises and blood are PAR FOR THE COURSE at a show, pansy-ass. They are badges of honor, not something to bleat like a wounded sheep about. You whine because you don't have a job. Given how many of our jobs have been exported to your part of the world, this sentiment isn't going to gain you a lot of points from American readers.

Here's what you need to do. I can tell you've gone through Ask with a fine-toothed comb, even reading the FAQ. Good on you. You need to keep writing, because you are not a terrible writer. When you've written a post, let it sit for a couple of days and percolate. Then go through, and EDIT it. You are not experienced enough at writing to be able to write on the fly and release your monstrous creations into the world. And, the more experienced you become, the more you will edit yourself. You use the word "I" too much, and fail to tell the reader a story, or provide the details that engage readers. Your voice is very "high school," meaning that you still sound amateurish and very internally focused. That's okay, we were all young once.

It does mean, however, that you need to think more critically about what you're writing, and try to develop a more mature voice. Pay attention to details that currently trip you up, like spelling, grammar, and tense.

I wanted to hate your blog, but I don't.

I give you a for the promising bits of beauty in this monstrosity.

However, I also give you a for being such a whiny little bitch.