Now to push that boundaries even more, ICANN has now opened the doors for the new applications for .anything! I mean, you can go ahead and finally have an extension of your own.

Now will this be a chaos or the dawn of the domaining era? Only time has the answer.

I will be posting more details as an when I get it! so keep visiting.

What’s more?

This plugin removes the unnecessary “?” and converts spaces (%20) into plus sign “+”, making your wordpress search string more readable, and better for search engine optimization.

Get the plugin here!  Sexy Search Wordpress Plugin (262)

You may view the changes done since I started developing this plugin below.

I haven’t uploaded this to wordpress repository yet. This plugin is released under GNU GPL v3 License and you are free to share with anyone!

I have tested this plugin and it works perfectly with wordpress 3.0+. In case if you would like to link back to this plugin, please do not link directly to the download file, you can use the link of this page or grab this short link http://is.gd/sexysearch

Demo

Try out the search box in the sidebar and don’t forget to observe the URL

Installation

1) Upload the SexySearch folder to your /wp-content/plugins/ directory
2) Activate the “SexySearch” plugin in your WordPress administration interface
3) Done!

Changelog

2011.12.28 – version 1.0.3
* Fixed Compatibility Issues with WP 3.3.

2011.08.28 – version 1.0.2
* Minor bug fixes and compatibility issues fixed.

2011.08.02 – version 1.0.1
* fixed the RSS feed compatibility issue.

2011.06.29 – version 1.0
* Initial release.

P.S. This does not have any configurations or widgets and does not work if the pretty mod_rewrite permalinks aka fancy URLs are not enabled. This works with the default wordpress search only. You can learn more about using permalinks here.

It’s not my job,
to keep you happy,
I am not a prince,
You gotta live in reality.

Sharma’s wife got this
Verma’s wife got that
What you keep forgetting,
Is what we have got
And at what we’re at.

Don’t say you love me,
Cos’ for all this, you hate me,
I know the capacity I have,
And, This is a fact,
I can’t fulfill your dream,
that’s as huge as Buckingham.

np
i’m ok w/it
u kno
2b loved like an old computer
sans the comfort
of ctrl+alt+delete
though we could pretend
it’d work
to fix the errors in our relationship,
to brb at the beginning
or w/e.

but w8—
it’s 2 early for that;
we’re more like puppies
(lol soooooo cute!),
eggs, overly ez.

I shk,
w/o fear,
that 2nite we’d move
from puppies to
full-on canines,
teeth sharpened
into cya l8r,
into I don’t so much love u,
as h8 u.

d/w, baby
h/o, baby
so long, baby.

no longer n00bs.
just pwned by feelings.

omg, it hurts.

Originally written by Alexa Lash. Copied by me

For once I noticed, the smile of yours,
I fell for you, well that’s the truth,
Now, I don’t want to you behind me.
All i want you is just be with me.

Friendship lives for ever, they say.
i just wan’it till we die.
‘cos when we die we’re gonna be reborn,
I believe, I would again fall in love.

For now, I have no words to express,
with you over the phone.
I am still trying to hide,
The most emotional bit of me!

To be with me…

Here…

The last time I saw him he lay motionless, a pool of dark water in the middle of the country road that runs in front of my house.

Only it wasn’t the last time…not really.

I’d gone in for a second, just a second, to pee while I let him out to do the same. I was late getting home from work, and I knew he’d be anxious to get outside. It was dark, no moon, and he was a small, black pug. But I wasn’t worried, never gave it a thought. The road, a narrow, gravel thing, heavily cratered and barely graded, was little used. I live on, if you’ll excuse me, a dead end. The few people who actually use it are those few who actually live on it, and there aren’t many of us. Traffic wasn’t a concern.

I remember zipping up, my mind wandering over that day at work, what to fix for dinner, what was on TV that night. Nothing more. He’d come in, I’d cook something from my bachelor repertoire, share it with him, and we’d curl up on the couch together, pretend to watch a program or two before hitting the sack.

Not that night…

…not ever again.

I left the bathroom, walked through the house to the back door. The night was cool, and I could hear the river, a dark ribbon twisting through the greater darkness, gurgle just beyond the trees and down the bank at the rear of the property, its waters faintly limned by distant houselights.

Standing there on the little deck leading to the back door, I whistled for him, whistled the short, two-note trill I always gave when it was time for him to come in. Sometimes he’d respond; often he’d ignore it the first half-dozen times until he was ready to come on his own.

Unconcerned, I whistled again…and again…and again. Then, in mounting annoyance (Generally I was annoyed with him about something. He was that kind of dog.), I called his name, then called it again, louder, sharper.

“Hector! Here! Here!”

Then the whistle.

But there was no response.

No pounding of his pads on the driveway, no jingle of the dog tag on his collar.

And my attention, scattered across annoyance and dinner and television, suddenly focused, sharp enough to cut.

I felt something in my gut uncoil, like a length of cold rope.

My mouth went dry, even as something in my brain told me not to make too much of it; he was just sniffing around the neighbor’s house or nibbling a treat disgorged from the septic tank or following the scent of a passing possum or any of a thousand things that could have drawn his attention away.

But I grabbed the flashlight and flew out the back door, down the driveway.

Deep into spring, and the trees still wore something between buds and leaves. Otherwise, their naked limbs raked the sky. Clouds mounted in the distance, roiled darkly, ready to spill over the hills on the horizon and into the little river valley where we lived.

It would rain tonight, heavy and hard.

At the end of the driveway, I stopped, took a breath, and raked the cornfield across the road with my meager light. Blunted furrows piled up like waves on a black sea were all that greeted me.

Turning left, I walked onto the gravel road, the beam of light illuminating my way.

That’s when I saw it.

Just a pool of water.

Dark water….

Sighing audibly, I continued toward it, sweeping the flashlight before me, certain that what I saw was a puddle left from the recent rain.

Then, the glint of an eye…

I felt a rush of emotion push out from the center of me as I saw that it wasn’t water…it was him.

“Hector!”

As pugs go, he was taller than most, with long, muscular limbs and a lithe, almost athletic build that, perhaps one day, would fill out and give him the usual pug look of an ottoman with feet. But now he was only a little more than a year old…just a pup…just a pup…and his spare legs and lean body gave him the look of a gangly teenager…which I suppose, in a way, he was. Dog years and all…

She sits in a rustic A-frame cabin, looking out a set of double glass doors. It’s a humid summer day. She’s not fashionably dressed: a grey, short-sleeve expedition shirt with two front pockets — in one a mechanical pencil; a scratchy, drab-colored set of insect-shield convertible pants torn in a few places by bramble. Her forearms, scented with the remnant odor of lemon eucalyptus oil insect repellant, are well-muscled enough to show she can push her way through overgrown trails; her rough bare feet are masculine enough to prove she’s walked on tough terrain.

Her eyes follow a sloping meadow: beyond, the flat plain of salt marsh divided by a meandering estuary; further, a white swath of granite outcroppings; beyond this, the marsh rising again into upland forest. The only sounds she hears are the hum of an old refrigerator, the chirping of crickets, the moan of a foghorn from a hump of an island just off the coast.

For the past three weeks she has been counting birds, making entries into a laptop log: 1 Medium-tailed Guternatch; 2 Truncated Pipsqueaks; 1 Roasted Titmouse; 1 Nappy-headed Hoot Owl; 4 Sharp-shinned Slinkers (females only); 1 Albino Albatross; 1 Picbald Porcupine Flicktippery; 1 Jack-booted Thugwhomple; 2 Slack-jawed Yokels.

She likes being alone; better than working in an urban high rise. It’s a lovely day, and she can’t think of any better place to be — more or less.

“Drab-colored?” she says abruptly, apparently to no one. “You call ‘chocolate heather’ drab-colored?”

That’s what it is – drab-colored. I can decide. Does that justify her interruption of a carefully planned scene?

“Well, I don’t like what you’ve done. Are you seriously going to leave me alone in a wilderness bird sanctuary? For how long?”

Not much longer.

“Oh, really.”

She’s going to meet someone new.

“But you said I like being alone.”

She does and she doesn’t.

“Just who or what in this desolate place is going to be aroused by my masculine-looking toes? A black bear?”

It’s not desolate. It’s paradisiacal. I like her feet.

“Oh, come on. What, exactly, am I supposed to be?”

She’s an ornithologist.

“Oh, brother. Just what is at stake here?”

She’s very smart; she has a Ph.D. in biology from London University. Her thesis was on the female reproductive anatomy of the wild turkey.

“And you call yourself a writer.”

I think she’s attractive.

“Sure; if you’re into cloacae.”

Trust me.

“Do I get a name, or are you going to call me ‘she’ for the rest of the story?”

I haven’t quite decided. I was thinking ‘Midge,’ or something, I don’t know; I’ll work it out later.

“You’ve got to be kidding. Did I ask to be insecticide-reeking, muscle-bound, big-footed Midge-the-Ornithologist in a mediocre piece of fiction by a second- or third-rate fictionalist?”

See? She shows signs of being an intelligent woman.

“Stop calling me ‘she,’ and, no, I did not ask for that. Being nothing is better than what you’ve planned for me.”

She’s going to fall in love.

“In the middle of nowhere? Brilliant.”

She’s going to meet some guy in the woods.

“What, like you?”

I can’t just stop the story. I’ve created her, and I’m going to do something with her.

“Well, then, change the scene. Goa, how about it, and pronto?”

Goa’s loud and Jazzy. Here there’ll be this guy and the birds.

“As if I haven’t had enough. Make me into a sexy New York literary agent.”

I don’t want her to be a sexy literary agent. I want her to be an ornithologist.

“Afraid I’d reject both you and your book?”

Listen; the scene is a remote bird sanctuary. She’s an ornithologist whose job is to count birds. She’s going to fall in love with some guy she meets by chance in the forest. Want me to change the feet? Give her small, delicate feet – like a ballet dancer? Dress her in ballet-style shoes that lace up around her slender ankles while she looks out the glass doors counting birds?

“And I could be unbuttoning the top three buttons of my ‘expedition shirt’ — like this, see? — because it’s so hot, and right now I’m bending down to unlace my ballet shoes”