Book Review: All That Glitters by Liza Treviño

All That Glitters Cover

Book Details:

Title: All That Glitters – A Tale of Sex, Drugs and Hollywood Dreams

Author: Liza Treviño

Genre: Women’s Contemporary Fiction

Publisher: Koehler Books 

Published Date: March 1, 2017

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1633933083

ISBN-13: 978-1633933088

Book Links:

Goodreads * Amazon


Alexandria Moreno—clever, sexy, ambitious and, at times, self-destructive. She blazes a path from Texas to Los Angeles at the dawn of the 1980s to make her dreams of becoming an A-list Hollywood film director come true. She and her best friend arrive in Los Angeles with little more than hope and the determination to make it big. Alex, a beauty as dark and mysterious as her scarred heart, stands at the bottom of the Hollywood mountain looking up, fighting for her chance to climb to the top. Will her quest to live fast and take no prisoners on her way to success destroy her in the end?

All That Glitters is a women’s fiction Jackie Collins-type saga that introduces a strong, driven Latina heroine at the center of a rags-to-riches story spanning a decade of action. Along the way, Alexandria walks the fine line separating ambition and self-destruction, and discovers that some sacrifices will cost her everything.


I received this book from the author, Liza Treviño, as a part of  book r3vi3w tours and this is what I think.

I immensely enjoyed reading All That Glitters. No, seriously, I couldn’t put it down. The book just grips you and doesn’t let you go until the very end. It’s dramatic, intriguing, full of sex, affairs, drugs, tragedy and betrayal. 

I loved the characters. I’m a sucker for strong female protagonists and Alex Moreno was definitely one. She was sassy, sexy and managed to find her way through a sexist industry. I want to be Alex Moreno. I also really liked how Alex wasn’t shown to be invincible. She goes through a hell lot of problems and comes out stronger. Huge fan of her.

I liked the plot. It was always interesting- full of drama and I dig drama. The duration of the entire story was a bit too long. Too many things were happening and at times it was a little difficult to keep up. The time leaps happened without warning, that got a little confusing. One minute Elly was in Texas and the next she was getting married? A little more of Elly’s thoughts in between would have been nice but I do understand the length constraints. 

The book ended on such a strong and positive note. It could have been gritty and sad under the reason of being realistic but it was so much better this way. It left the reader feeling hopeful and encouraged. 

Liza Treviño has such an amazing writing style. It’s easy to read and yet so entertaining. The transgression from one point of the story arc to another is so smooth and I credit the author’s writing style for it.

Overall, it was a nice, fun read.

Rating: 4/5 stars.

Har har! The wedding season is here!

It’s the middle of the night, I have to doll up for two pre-wedding functions tomorrow and here I am, trying to make those dark circles more prominent. Way to go, Mia! The recipe for a sweet disposition and a decently made-up face definitely consists of late nights and late night snacking.

A part of me really doesn’t give a shit about the zits, the dark circles, the grumpy face and the angry demeanour that are sure to make me the belle of the ball. I mostly just care about the food. Weddings are an extravagant affair anyway but in India, the judgemental stares are mostly directed towards the buffet.

Me? I don’t judge. I merely stuff my face with gulab jamuns and pakodas and I’m looking forward to just that (and chilling with the cousins).

However, at times, my worn pyjamas and chinese takeaways almost manage to lure me in. Did I mention I get to binge-watch TV shows and binge-read books? I am probably the only person on the gruesome planet who is yet to watch Stranger Things.

(Yells out to the wilderness: Anybody out there in the same place as me?)

And, as of 22nd December 2016 with nine days until 2016 ends (YES FINALLY), I have ten more books to read this year if I am to complete my Goodreads Reading Challenge. I decided to read 150 books in 2016 and as I am a big fat braggadacio, I went around telling everyone about it. So far, I’ve managed to read 140 which is pretty decent. But but but, I still have a long way to go before I accomplish my goal. While I know that I’m horrible at accomplishing goals, the Goodreads Reading Challenge is something I manage to complete every year (and then brag about it of course).

As if 2016 wasn’t already a clusterfuck, Mia, the legendary bookworm who prefers to go by bookdragon because dragons are cooler than worms, won’t be completing her reading goal this year. Wow. I said that out loud. That wasn’t so bad now.

It sounded much worse.

*cue existential crisis because if I can’t read 150 books in a year, who am I even? What do I do? Stop reading altogether? WHAT IS THE POINT OF MY LIFE THEN?*

It’s not like I’m writing like I’m running out of time. To be honest, napping like I’m running out of time is more like it. I’m not even sorry because naps ftw. If only I were a wee babe again…

Also, although 2016 has certainly been a clusterfuck for the world, it’s treated me pretty okay. Sure, hell did break lose. I did fall sick and had a difficult time coping with it. But, I did plenty of awesome things too. I should write a separate appreciation post for those. 2016 has been nothing if not eventful.

As 2016 comes to an end, I am unfortunately reminded of my resolutions. Nope, not stuck to any. I’m still fat; I’ve still been inconsistent with the blog and I don’t even remember what else I had resolved to do.

The thing is, it is very easy to feel like a piece of shit due unfulfilled resolutions. But, remember, we don’t need reasons to feel like pieces of shit. We’re all trash living in a garbage bin and trying to make the best of it.

So what if I’m still fat? I’ve realised it makes me really huggable.

So what if I barely wrote anything? I know most of the Hamilton soundtrack by heart.

So what if I didn’t do something that changed the world? I am pretty sure I managed to make it at least a little better by trying to be just a little nicer.

Fuck resolutions. Let’s just raise our weary glasses to the fact that we survived Brexit, Trump and Modi’s demonetisation.

Bye-bye, Bunky

As a kid, I believed that every wish made on an eyelash would come true.

Now, this wasn’t because I was gullible. I questioned and I experimented. My belief came into existence because at the age of seven, I wished on a fallen eyelash for two materialistic possessions that seemed crucial for my existence.

I regularly wished for a bunk bed and a bean bag.

A  few months ago, I had accompanied my dear mother and my aunt to a furniture exhibition. All I remember from that experience is the abundance of free candies and the presence of beautiful furniture that managed to grab and hold the attention of a disinterested seven year old. Oh and the fancy vegetable chopper cum peeler.

It was there that I first got acquainted with the existence of bunk beds and bean bags.

They fascinated me. It was a bed with a ladder! And a chair that could mould itself according to the size of my butt and my posture! Science! Wow! Miracles!

Safe to say I was persistent and obstinate in my demand for a bunk bed and a bean bag to both, the universe and my parents.

(What a brat!)

I wished on every eyelash for them. Every. Single. One.

Maybe it was the universe or maybe it was my doting parents, but the following July I became a proud owner of a bean bag.

I remember taking turns with my friends to bounce and jump on it during my birthday party. I warmed up easily to my bean bag whom I named bean bag.

We moved to a new flat soon after my 7th birthday. Our new home was bigger, airier and I got my own room. I shared it with my grandparents but it was still a lot more space than I was used to. I was very excited.

My parents gradually began the long, expensive process of furnishing the house to their taste (and mine). I got Tom & Jerry curtains, a proper dressing table and my very own bunk bed with a cute little ladder. I called it Bunky.

I was a goddamn coward as a kid. Ghosts terrified me. As did the dark. I refused to sleep on the upper bunk because I was terrified some malicious entity would whisk me away in my sleep and my darling grandparents wouldn’t know until the next morning. By then, it would be too late and I would be lost for ever and ever and ever.

I had an active imagination. I read a lot.

Don’t judge me.

I didn’t sleep on Bunky. However, I would often climb up the ladder and curl up with a book. I would remain undisturbed for hours.

When I did start sleeping up eventually, I realised that Bunky offered privacy that I would not get any other way. I could put up posters and I did. High School Musical taught me to get my head in the game and Shahid Kapoor was super hot.

I wasn’t scared anymore because I had won a Harry Potter frame at the mall which I stuck on the wall. Harry Potter watched over me as I slept with his wand drawn out.

(His wand with a phoenix feather and not…you know…)

I could keep a stack of books with me and never get bored or worse disturbed. There were times when I would be reading so silently that my mom would spend hours looking for me. I would be found only when I slithered down the ladder.

I had become quite good at climbing up and down ladders.

When I began writing in earnest, there wasn’t a better spot to jot down some words than Bunky.

I had stuck glow-in-the-dark stars to the ceiling. Staying up gazing at the ceiling became a past time.

Bunky had become a haven of sorts for me. I spent years making it my own and loving the bed. I understood why beds were such a big deal during Shakespearean times. Beds are a reflection of the owner/user. The pillow I used (a multicoloured turtle shaped one), my three sheets- duvet, shawl and the typical solapuri chaddar were an expression of my personality. My sense of individuality was on a constant rise.

But as all things must, this blissful period too came to an end.

I eventually stopped sleeping on the bunk because my grandfather  complained (he slept on the lower bunk) that the bed moved too much as I rolled over in sleep.

Then my dad passed away and I ended up sleeping in the same room as mom to fill the emptiness he left behind.

I turned twenty this year. My mom had been trying to convince me to dismantle the upper bunk for the past three years.

I knew that I wouldn’t be sleeping on the upper bunk ever again. Due to lack of use, the sheets and the mattress used to get incredibly dusty. Bunky became a place to dump broken toys and other things.

It was time. I gave in to mom’s wish.

Three days ago, she called a carpenter and Bunky was dismantled. Bunky has now been reduced to a few planks of wood and a mattress.

Sure, the room looks brighter and feels more open. It is airier and my sister and I now have an entire wall for our posters.

All of this doesn’t make up for the strong sense of loss I felt when I first entered the horribly empty room. My gut sank and I felt lost. The room felt alien to me.

If I am being honest, I hadn’t expected such an intense reaction from myself. I barely called Bunky Bunky anymore. I hadn’t slept there in over three years.

But damn, it hurt. The hollowness of the room mirrored a hollow pit in my stomach. I couldn’t bear to enter that room for a few days.

Turning 18 didn’t feel so much like a loss of childhood as this did. I won’t ever slide up the ladder with a book in hand ever again. I no longer have my very own reading nook. I won’t ever fear falling off the bed and landing on the person sleeping below ever again. I won’t ever sulk away on the upper bunk ever again. I won’t do any of the million things that I used to up there.

I am 20, I no longer have a bunk bed and this eerily feels like the time to start adulting for real.

The Pink Tinge of Hope

I am a 20-year old girl. I wear whatever I want to, whatever I am comfortable in. I am not against the idea of drinking. Staying out of home beyond 7 pm doesn’t scare me. I am not at all opposed to the idea of pre-marital sex. I am one of those women who pick careers over kids and I can assure you I won’t feel even a tiny sliver of remorse or regret when I do.

Does this mean I have no character or am I in any way asking to be sexually assaulted?


Nor were the thousands of women who were in fact assaulted. Nor were Meenal, Falak or Andrea.



Source: Wikipedia

Pink is a story of three working girls in Delhi who go to a rock concert and end up with a court case. An action taken in self-defence is considered as assault while actual assault is not and the whole case against them is on the fact that these girls drink, party and have sexual relations ie they are not ‘decent’. Retired lawyer Deepak Sehgal steps back into the court to fight this case by waging a war against sexism.

I spent the first half of the movie crying. The incident happens. Meenal bashes Rajveer’s head with a glass bottle as he repeatedly tries to sexually assault her. The three girls, terrified of legal action, run away from the scene. Rajveer along with some dear friends insists on an apology and on being refused, starts to harass them. Anonymous phonecalls, threatening messages, kidnapping and molestation- all of this without any guilt. In fact they consider it their right to instil fear into the three women who dared to fight back.

Meenal, Falak and Andrea are strong independent women who earn for themselves and are generally okay with living away from home. They are fearless in their own way until they aren’t. This kind of harassment and mental torture can break apart the strongest person. It’s terrifying to see the women you hope to become so helpless in the face of such an adverse situation.

It’s terrifying that they received minimal support from the police who nicely pointed out that they shouldn’t have ventured outdoors after dark in the same place.

It’s terrifying how even their parents, close friends, boyfriends and neighbours chose to believe that the three of them were prostitutes over the fact that they were victims/survivors of assault.

It’s terrifying how Rajveer’s lawyer felt okay to wash all their dirty laundry in court without any warning.

It’s terrifying how helpless they were despite being strong and independent.

The thing that terrifies me the most though is the fact that it could be me. I could be the one asked if I had taken any money for the sex. I could be the one whose character would be written off as indecent due to the fact that I wear jeans or the fact I venture out when it gets dark or even because I hug my guy friends. It could be my neighbours talking about how I had it coming. I am actually terrified of my family not supporting me although they are pretty modern and all for equal rights.

It could be me. It could be my sister, my mother, my little cousin, my grandmother, my bestfriend-it literally could be anyone and the society will point fingers at the girl’s morality over the guy’s inability to control his id impulses.

If that is not crazy, I don’t know what is.

And the preparation for this kind of shaming begins even before any kind of assault. It feels like people wait with bated breaths for something untoward to happen to the girl wearing a crop top or shorts. Sometimes not even that; sometimes the mere fact of her being female is enough as a source of shame.


I shared this post on my facebook timeline yesterday.

Hey, if people can make fashion trends shameful, then why the hell not everything else? I mean, it is a choker. It is slutty. Wearing a certain kind of necklace can lead girls to being judged, mocked and branded as hos.

Numero uno

What in the world is wrong with being a sex worker? I mean, it’s easier to forgive someone for being a thief, a murder or a rapist (Yes, Brock. I’m looking at you) than for using your own body to earn an income?

But here’s a thought. Don’t we use our bodies for any damn profession?

Numero dos

Can’t we be allowed to enjoy any thing without being judged for it?

This whole system is frustrating and almost hopeless. Almost. What gives me hope? This-


There were so many girls in my friend-list who did not hesitate in calling out this stupid attempt to belittle women for following a harmless trend.

Deepak Sehgal, the lawyer from Pink so beautifully defended Meenal in the trial. He managed to kick sexism in the nuts this one time. It was so satisfying.

So long as there are people who are unafraid to call bullshit just that, there is yet hope that the society’s mindset will eventually change. We have come this far; we can go further still.




A Love Letter to Myself

Dearest Mia,
I am writing this letter to you, love, so that we remember. The past one year has not been kind to us. Why, you demand. Because we stopped being kind to ourselves. Something shattered and the shards remained buried deep within us; corrupting us, killing us.

We have been so sad. Medication barely helped. After a point, it was easier to give in than to fight. But, remember this, remember this always, depression is not your friend. Depression is a vile, beautiful woman than seduces you into her smothering embrace. She manages to be both the most wonderful and the most horrible thing to happen to you. Wonderful because she persuades you to stop trying, to give into the pain. Her embrace is so easy to get lost into and who doesn’t like easy?

But easy and good are not the same and we failed to understand that.

Depression makes you hate. It makes you hurt; it makes you want to hurt others. It is manipulative and masochistic. You take a knife and cut yourself believing that you are doing yourself and the world a favour. That’s depression.

But, love, you are not doing anyone a favour. You are giving in to hatred and when hating others stops being enough, you turn to yourself. You turn on yourself.

We know each other the best, don’t we? We know where it hurts the most. We know what hurts the most. And we attack relentlessly. The worst part is that we believe that we deserve this cruelty.

Love, I want you to remember that you are human and you are one of the good ones. People love you because of the bits they get to see. We see the entire, completed puzzle and yet we don’t love ourselves.

It’s high time we learn how. I am trying to learn how, you should too.

We have to remember to be kind to ourselves. Kiss that smooth palm, caress that soft cheek, indulge, be affectionate. Forgive.

We must learn to look into the mirror without feeling the bile rise.

We have to stop apologising for looking ugly when we don’t and when we do. There is a certain beauty in ugly that we should learn to notice.

We have to stop apologising for wanting, for needing, for craving.

We must stop apologising for existing.

You, darling, are not a waste of space. If you can convince so many others, why can’t you fucking convince yourself?

You are not the evil incarnate. I’m sure being the evil incarnate takes a lot more than mere jealousy.

Remember, you are worthy of kindness, of compassion, of concern and care. You are worthy of love. You won’t destroy every heart you touch. You won’t hurt every person you talk to. Good things can come out of being associated with you. And your mother sure as hell doesn’t wish you were never born. Even if you do, at times.

Believe me. You are worthy of love, of friendship, of puppies, of birthdays, of a kind smile, of miracles, of luck and of life. You are worthy.

Please believe me.



I looked around the world for beauty with my two colourless eyes.
I was in desperate need of something that would make me rejoice.
I broke mirrors to see magic in the shimmering shards.
I cut myself and bled instead.
The red hue that surrounded me, fascinated me.
I squeezed another piece of the broken mirror to catch a glimpse of that repeated red.
My eyes fell upon the broke mirror for the very first time.
The mirror showed me something-
that was bright like the smiling sun;
that was shaped like a rich almond;
that was melting like pure chocolate.
It took me a while to realise,
But they were my very own bland eyes
staring back at me.
I realised…
There was beauty in me.
I realised I first needed to close my eyes and ponder over
the beauty,
the art
that was in me.
The art that was me.
When I did so, I could see all that was around me with my eyes closed.
Colours became brighter.
Asphalt was beautiful.
Rocks took shape of my imagination and became so much more.
My twinkling, yearning eyes might now be closed to the world,
But my mind was now open.
      – Mia


The poem is based on another painting by my talented mate Netra.

Be a happy potato ^_^

The Pizza (Pondy #2)

I love sitting next to the window while travelling. I love watching the trees, the houses, the people pass by. I love the strangeness of it all.

While going to Pondy from Chennai, I did have a window seat but the blazing sun did not let me draw open the curtains. The next best thing to do was to do nap and I did nap but not for long. I was sitting by myself with no one to talk to so I decided on watching a movie recommended by someone who knows movies. My eyes were fixated on Brad Pitt knocking out a guy twice his size on my teeny-weeny screen when suddenly loud music in Tamil broke out from nowhere.

I paused my movie and looked up to see that they were screening a movie in the bus. Awesome. Wow. The only problem? I knew only a few words of Tamil (mostly swear words taught by my TamBram internet friend) so I could not understand anything happening in that Tamil movie. Nor could I watch Brad Pitt beat up any more guys because the Tamil movie was very loud.

Finally, after three to four hours in the bus, we landed in Pondy. I loved Pondy right from the very first glimpse of the endless blue ocean. What can I say? I’m a sucker for Poseidon.


My face after looking at my beloved Poseidon

The place we were staying at was called Les Hibiscus and it was on Rue Suffren. If you ever happen to go to Pondy, I will highly recommend Les Hibiscus to you. You won’t meet a nicer person than the owner, Pascrane Uncle in the whole of Pondy.

Our room was a beautiful blend of Franco-Tamoul culture with colonial furniture and paintings of Hindu goddesses.



Beds fit for princesses!


The weather was way hotter than what I had anticipated. I am a Mumbai girl, a summer child. I have never seen a winter that wasn’t mild. But the heat on the east coast was a real, living monster. My friends and I sought refuge in our cool air-conditioned room from this vile creature.

Too lazy to get out of the pyjamas we had put on, we decided against venturing out for dinner. We chose to order pizza from a place called Farm Fresh. Why pizza? Because pizza.

Dee is a vegetarian so she opted for a regular Farm Fresh pizza while Tash and I being the meat-lovers we were opted for something large and with chicken.




The small pizza turned out to be the same size as a medium one from Domino’s and the large pizza turned out to be someone that could fill Joey’s stomach for sure.

Did we mind?

Nope. Not even a little bit. Screw weight gain. Screw dieting. We devoured the pizzas.

Farm fresh had enough vegetables for it to qualify for a vegetarian pizza. Every slice of the chicken pizza had more chunks of chicken than an entire Domino’s pizza. The pizzas also had proper cheese that made our vacation start on a cheesy note.


Dee's Farm Fresh pizza

Dee’s Farm Fresh pizza

Our chicken pizza!

Our chicken pizza!


Did I mention that the base was sourdough? Have you tried a sour dough pizza base? No? Then, you are missing out on something splendiferous.

When I visit Pondicherry again, I am definitely ordering a pizza from Farm Fresh. It was the second best pizza I have ever tasted and I have eaten a lot of pizza.

Our tummies were now bloated. Our senses satisfied with the gustatory pleasure they had received. The three of us now slithered into our beds and fell asleep.

It was the start of a week of the most sound sleep I would get in the 20 years of my life.

The Departure (Pondy #1)

It’s been two weeks but I still remember the day as if it all took place just yesterday. It was a day of firsts, it was a day of adulting and most of all it was a day of sweating profusely.

April 14th, 2016: The day Dee, Tash and I went on our first parentless trip together.

I had just escaped from the clutches of my end of the semester examinations. I had survived the ordeal. I had emerged victorious in the first battle but there was one other skirmish I had to win before I could put my guard down.

Packing my bags.

Damn son, the worst part about travelling is packing me bags. Do I have enough pants? Do I have enough underwear? I haven’t forgotten my toothbrush, have I? Are my clothes folded properly?

It’s stressful.

My suitcase was packed and ready by 1 am and the flight left at 9am. We had decided to reach the airport at 7.30 am which meant I would have to open my eyes to the world at 6.15 am which gave me just over five hours of sleep.

Now, five hours of sleep isn’t all that bad. But try telling that to the past me who had gotten through her exams solely by burning the midnight oil (as well as the dawn oil).

Weirdly enough, I ended up oversleeping. My uncle drove like a pro and we reached the glorious new terminal of the Chhatrapati Shivaji Airport in Mumbai half an hour later than we were supposed to.

A quick hi to my friends, a quicker good bye to our families and we were off.

We checked in our luggage, collected our boarding passes. Then came the endless security queue. We waited and waited for what seemed like an endless time but in reality was about fifteen minutes.

The airport staff declared us to not be mass murderers, crime lords or terrorists and we walked towards the gate until we spotted a loo and realised that we really really needed to pee.

So we did. We peed in peace at the sparkly clean airport loos, brushed our hair and contemplated grabbing some breakfast.

All was fine and perfect until Dee’s phone rang. It was her mother informing us that our flight had left without us and that we were to stay put in Mumbai for rest of our lives.

Well, no. I’m exaggerating a tiny bit. Dee’s mum just asked to hurry after which we checked out watches, realised the airport was a silent one and that we were waiting for boarding announcements that would never come.

We ran. If you were at T2 that day and noticed three fat girls (well no, I’m the only proper fat one) run like the wind, then that was us. Hello!

Thankfully we boarded the plane just in time. It took off in another fifteen minutes.

Problem two. We hadn’t had any breakfast. We were starving. Plane food sucked too much to be consumed after paying 300 bucks. We shall starve till we reach chennai, we decided valiantly. No wasting our (parents’) money on yucky plane food.

What we had forgotten was that we were in an Air India flight. The airplane may or may not fly (mostly it will) but Air India always serves food (so I learned).

Hearing the cacophony of noises made by our tummies, the staff of this particular Air India plane proceeded to serve breakfast.

Dee and Tash opted for the vegetarian meal. Me? I’m a hardcore non vegetarian. Being a non vegetarian eater served my taste buds well this time.

The breakfast included this huge sweet bun along with a small packet of perfectly melty butter. The bun was delicious. It was sweet but subtly so and so soft that it dissolved in our mouths.

The vegetarians had idli sambar but me? I had an omelet. It was an egg omelet stuff with more eggs, cheese and mushrooms. It was served with a side of beans and potatoes. Bliss, I tell you.

I would’ve put up pictures but I ended up stuffing myself up with it before I managed to take pictures. It was too damn yum.

We landed in Chennai before time. It was hot. We felt scalded and burnt and uncomfortable. We took a taxi to the bus stand and then walked towards a nearby KFC for lunch.

The weird thing was, we were all of wearing jeans and t-shirts- nothing special. But everyone, and I mean everyone kept on staring at us. The rickshaw wallahs accosted us offering us rides (not free ones, mind you.)

We trudged towards KFC, struggling with our bags and dreaming of an air conditioned environment.

Entering that particular chain of KFC is the most relieved I’ve ever been. The sun had blazed mercilessly and we were starving again.

We ate burgers and fries. I had a Chicken Zinger, fries and SevenUp. My own version of heaven.



The burger was huge and it had enough crunchy chicken to make me happy. The bread was fresh and soft. The fries were crispy. Kentucky Fried Chicken is bliss.

We took a ric back to the bus stand and hunted for our bus. After sitting in the heat for another fifteen minutes, the bus roared into the bus stop and we set off.

When the three of us became friends four years ago, we were learning french together and dreaming of visiting Paris together. Now, Paris was a tad too farfetched so we decided on Pondicherry. Why Pondy? Because Pondy was a French colony and now is a Franco-Tamil city.

Keep an eye here to read about all our adventures in Pondy!

Be a happy potato ^_^

Once Was Mine

I find this poem so relatable. Please ask this blogger to write more (she’s my friend. She won’t get mad.)

Good job, Dee<3

The Vocal Wallflower

I stare around this empty house

And wonder how I got here

The loneliness I feel is nothing compared

To the lies I’ve told and the hurt I’ve caused

To people I have duped

I think this is the end of me

And that I have forever lost my happiness

Then, this realisation nudges into my mind

All this time, I have been thinking of only

What once was mine


P.S. This is probably my first attempt at poetry. I wrote this a few years ago, and found it on my computer. I hope you guys like it. Please read and review! 😀

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Two years ago, on this day, my friend Sam convinced and motivated me enough to start a blog. Two years later, today, Diary of an Introverted Schmuck still continues to exist. It’s so fabulously shocking and exciting that I lasted this long!

Sure, I have come very close to quitting quite a few times but I didn’t and I feel so proud of myself for that. It’s so easy to quit but equally difficult to persist. I am so happy today that I persisted because this unknown little blog here? It means the world to me.

So firstly, thank you so much if you’ve read whatever I have been writing all this long. I couldn’t have done it without you. I love you so much! I hope you actually like what I talk about here.

Last year, to celebrate my Blog Anniversary, I had my friends write stories or poems on a series of prompts. You can read the first post here. It’s ‘Eclectic’ by Leanna. I got to post some really good pieces last year!

This year, I have been struggling with mental health issues. Depression and anxiety make you cherish happiness a lot more. I am so grateful to be happy today that I want to spread some sparkle around. I want to make every person reading this post feel so appreciated because you are. I’m glad you exist.

So here’s what we’re going to do-

  1. Fill up this form. (
  2. I (with my friend Mallika’s help) will pair you up with someone. It’ll be a chain or sorts. Person A will be paired with Person B while Person B with Person C and so on.
  3. What you have to do next is to write a nice, uplifting email to that person. The email has to be long-ish because I’m sure you will have a lot to say. Maybe you can list out the reasons why the person needs to exist or why is the earth not all that bad. Or maybe you could share something you are passionate about or talk about your favourite book. The choice is all yours.
  4. Also, you have to send the mail to
  5. That person, in turn mails another person and the chain continues


Ten of the best and most beautifully uplifting mails will be posted here on this blog. Beauty should be shared with the world.

You can make someone’s day. You can make someone feel so happy. You can spread a bit of sparkle.

You will, of course, get some sparkle in return!

The google form can be filled till 12th April, 2016.The emails must be sent till 30th April, 2016.

If you can’t send the email for some reason, please do not fill up the form. It won’t be fair to the person you’ve been assigned.

Here’s some virtual sparkle for you! ***




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