Yes. I know I can be dirty jealous at times. I know I am no I-care-a-damn sort of bubble gum chewing wonder who’s apparently too busy with her life to smell the neighbors’ porridge in the next window. Yes, I can scream and sulk at petty nothings and then feel shamelessly immodest afterwards no matter how perversely wicked I might have acted before. When a certain best friend once cried alone right beside me after the 1st break up, I was oblivious and busy with the eye shadow and lip gloss woes of my own. Yes, I am naively heartless, maybe. When I was repeatedly chided and warned to put a lid to my Bombay-talkies melodramatic chants which I called fantasies, I turned and tossed in my bed, pitying the pettiness of that which other’s called reality. Yes, I was more than proud then, maybe. I had this ruffled little head of mine wrapped and clothed with the yarns of a dimpled Floyd-humming horse-riding more-than-just-charming prince accompanied exit of mine someday. Fairy tales never came my way; still still still I hoped and prayed each day. Yes, I am greedy, maybe. And yet yet yet, I love a man who says “huh, you are always lost in your own whims, you are not one of the stereotypical clichéd ones really.” I have memories that are buried under best friends’ men and their men’s girlfriends. And after more than 447 good mornings and cell-phone kissed nights, the graves of all such memories gather flowers and dry leaves today.