The Chronicles of Goddess Potato

She never considered herself depressed or anxious. Yeah sure, every time she sends a text she keeps checking her phone every five seconds and her hearts starts racing when she hears the familiar "ping" of a notification on her phone. But, that doesn't make her anxious, does it? She feels lonely without her phone. It has become her best friend. That's not sad, is it? She lies in her bed awake because she has no energy or will to face the outside world. Even though her horoscope says, it's a great day to go out and give into that adventurous Sagittarius self. Sleep was her escape but now she is trying to escape sleep, just like she is trying to hide from the other goddesses. On certain days the Goddess Potato finds herself staring at her reflection in the mirror, her cheeks wet as the exhaust in the bathroom hums silencing her hiccups because crying in the shower she thinks, is too overrated. Some other days she spends her hours staring at a blurry laptop scree...

The goddess is confused. Something that's been happening a lot lately. She seems to have lost all sense of direction and her pitch black orbs look forward mindlessly. The goddess is angry. So fucking pissed, she doesn't know what to do with all that energy and pain and... Great! Now her head hurts. She wishes she had powers like most goddess' that you hear of or read about in the stories. The power to burn everything to ashes, the power to bring about thunderstorms and floods, the power of destruction because she seems to be in a mood to ruin everything that comes her way. She looks calm and peaceful. She smiles while she weeps inside. She forces herself to forget but there is always something. Knocking on the door of her conscience, like a cop who bangs on the door and refuses to leave. Although here's the thing, she has a choice not to answer the door. Even though she knows the cop is a persistent little ass and would never leave, she chooses not...

As most might have guessed by now Goddess Potato is a “she.” And being the proud vagina owner that she is, like many others she has encountered a few– well a bunch– of fuckboys.  Now, what exactly is a fuckboy? In Goddess Potato’s life, every man that walks in is one unless he proves otherwise.  A fuckboy, she says, is not the guy who sucks at texting and replies hours and hours later. Sometimes he starts with an apology but sometimes he just starts with a simple, “Hey, how was your day?”  A fuckboy is the guy who sucks at texting and is proud of it.  He’d leave you on read and won’t text you the next day or the day after unless he is horny again or needs help with calc homework. A fuckboy is not the boy who asks you questions or gives unnecessary explanations when questioned about something. A fuckboy is not the boy who wishes your best friend a very happy birthday when he sees your story on snapchat.  A fuckboy is not the boy who see...

It was a relatively cool pre-summer morning of April 2011. The school was buzzing with activity, students in white and white running around, boys throwing chalk at each other, showing off their athletic prowess to the pretty girls standing in trios in corners of the class, conversing in hushed voices, with the occasional pointing and high pitched laughter. Then there was a group of boys, the less athletic kind, who sat around a table, playing games such as tic tac toe, Hollywood Bollywood, pen fight and simultaneously stuffing their faces with cheap canteen snacks and homemade parathas. The young goddess potato was a part of this group. She was a plump little girl, with height more than all the boys at the table save one, and a light brown streaked shoulder-length wig that brought out her dark brown eyes. She didn’t feel like a black sheep with them. Those boys treated her like one of their own, like their bro, but at the same time, each of those guys would protect her like a fragi...

"Ma please stop", she said, batting away her mother's hand as she kept fussing over her. She had just gotten off a 12-hour flight and the thin line differentiating between endearing and annoying was practically non-existent. Maybe once she went home, she thought, once she slept off the cabin hangover, and had a long hot shower while shaking her booty to the latest Jason Derulo, she would feel better. She would be able to filter out her father standing next to her, looking her top to bottom with a fatherly pseudo-disgust look on his face, telling her to do more crunches. Sitting in the car, she faded away from the present, thinking about last weekend. Her exams had just gotten over, one day before her birthday, and she and her roommate had hosted a party in their dorm room. It wasn't especially huge, but it was the most fun she had had in weeks. She had felt like herself, felt independent and free, like her own person. So much had happened in the past semester. It w...