An Uncanny blog from a Baleful child

Shit Happens. Life sucks, and then, you die.

God sure has a very twisted sense of humor.

This is the tale of a Girl who has lots o'time to spare

Come take a glimpse of the world I live in... Where neighbors seldom love you, where people have more hair on their armpits than their heads, Where grammatical errors are are a way of life, and everyone is 26.
And that's just their IQ, nevermind their age!

Friday, February 26, 2010

A note to the Idiot who drank my last Cuppa Joe

Since I knew I'd be too drained to type this down, I just took a picture of it while it was still hung on the bulletin board. Click to enlarge...

This is why I should never be allowed to go more than 27 hours without coffee.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

I hate to burst the Indian Bubble.

Indians are very schizoidal. We have a knack from coming up with an array of neologisms, half of which are merely words that have a condemned pronunciation.
And that's not it.
We also conveniently MAKE up the spellings of the words we pronounce differently. Sic today, i have sought to officially calling it BUBBLEBURSTIN' Day, where i shall cast aforth light on the various words most of us make up without having the slightest clue of it.
  • Presumptious (Obsolete!): Today, this word is officially known as presumptuous, the pronunciation being presump-choo-us. This word is a hybrid from the verb 'presume', which, in Latin, is Janus-faced in a way the it not only means "to suppose", but also, "to take liberties". An anecdote about Sir James M. Barrie aptly illustrates; One day, he opened the door on a reporter he didn't want to see.
  • "Mr, Barrie, i presume," the reporter says.
    "Yes!" The, usually calm, Mr. Barrie snapped back and slammed the door shut.
  • Prophesize (sic): The word is prophesy(the last syllable pronounced as sigh) and the noun is prophecy(the last syllable being pronounced as see).
  • Portentious: The word is portentuous, which comes from the noun portent (strange signs or omens)
  • Unctious: Though this word is found on Webster's Second and Third, this word doesn't exist. The word is actually unctuous, again, the choo sound quite audible. It means to be oily in a suave, insincere manner. The words unctuous, annoint, and ointment come from the same Latin verb.
  • Unequivocably(which, by the way, is Unequivocally Wrong!: The word is unequivocally,meaning without any qualifications, absolutely, clearly, and unambiguously.
  • Undoubtably(again, undoubtedly wrong.): This word, without any doubt, is undoubtedly, and not undoubtably. Both this and the former words have common mistakes.
So, that's all for today!

P.S. I wrote all this not because i am a purist, but merely because i am preoccupied with the purity of a language and its protection from the use of foreign or altered forms.
P.P.S. I do not know if that was tautology, or a juxtapose. I'd appreciate if someone could help me with that.

Friday, February 19, 2010

The Call: An Odd Spool of Humiliation and Quintessential Revelation

It was very difficult to connect with our folk and peers in the late eighteenth century, when one had to travel miles just give a hello. People of that era were extremely poor, the courtesy of their Colonial rulers, and, hence, found it even harder to commute from a place to another. As cited on wikipedia, "Proto-industrialization is a phase in the development of modern industrial economies that preceded, and created conditions for, the establishment of fully industrial societies". Initially using surplus labor available during slow periods of the agricultural seasons, proto-industrialization led to specialization in both industrial production as well as commercial agricultural production. As the protoindustrialization came close, families saw the independence of women, allowing them to work outside of the house. Many simple machines where made during protoindustrialization.
Industrialization, like it's primitive form, has its roots from eighteenth century London, where a massive increase in agricultural productivity known as the British Agricultural Revolution enabled an unprecedented population growth that freed a significant percentage of the workforce from farming, and helped to drive the Industrial Revolution.
China and India, while roughly following this development pattern, made adaptations in line with their own histories and cultures, their major size and importance in the world, and the geo-political ambitions of their governments.
Currently, China's government is actively investing in expanding its own infrastructures and securing the required energy and raw materials supply channels, is supporting its exports by financing the United States balance payment deficit through the purchase of US treasury bonds.
Meanwhile, India's government is investing in specific vanguard economic sectors such as bioengineering, nuclear technology, pharmaceutics, informatics, and technologically-oriented higher education, openly overpassing its needs, with the goal of creating several specialisation poles able to conquer foreign markets.

And Sangeeta? Well, she invested in stealing XKDC's Mathematics Manual from the esteemed math teacher. Said teacher was handing out lab manuals of all students to me and Aaa-khi*, when i casually slipped in the fact that i lived close by him. Instead of merely letting me get a glimpse of his Domain of Errors, the manual was dumped atrociously in my hands by her, a smile and a "Get Out" included.
Well, Shit.
So, i ride home toward tension and anxiety. For a start, i'm not really SUPPOSED to have it. In fact, i don't even KNOW where XKDC lives. I only know of his vicinity, but that's it. Au contraire to popular notion, i've never met with his mother. I've only seen his papi, and i've never even had to priviledge to talk with him. Ok, i COULD'VE. But i chose not to.

I value my life.

A typical phone call by an ordinary person to an ordinary person, traditionally, is placed by picking the phone handset up off the base and holding the handset so that the hearing end is next to the user's ear and the speaking end is within range of the mouth. The caller would then press buttons for the phone number needed to complete the call.
A typical phone call by me to XKDC, weirdly, includes rapid pacing, sweating, nausea, temporary aphasia, more nausea, helplessness and, then, passion-struck pathos. In this phase, i finally pick up the and dial the ten digits i had grown accustomed to remembering. Nervously, i place to phone near my ear.
"DING DING DING! The Number you have called, is currently Busy, Please try again Later."
#@!& you.
I dial again.
"DING DING DING!" #@!&*grumble**grumble*#@!&*grumble*
"DING DING DING!!" (grrrr) #@!&*grumble**grumble*#@!&*grumble*
"DING DING-" #@!&*grumble**grumble*#@!&*grumble*
"DING DING-" #@!&*grumble**grumble*#@!&*grumble*
"DING DING DING!"*grumble*
Exasperated, i sit on the ground, wailing.
And that was yesterday, i.e. on thursday.

Today, i made a speech. Yes. I figured that i'd get nervous if i tried to talk with him without memorizing anything. So i wrote down what i'd say.
For a start,
"May i speak with XKDC?"
Yes, i was so nervous, i doubted my abilities to say even the simplest of sentences. So, i began practicing.
"May i speak with XKDC, please? No? Well, fuck YOU!"
Ok, i wouldn't have said THAT, i'd just say "Screw you", instead.
"Right. I'll remember that."
But, as luck would have it, i found his number to be busy almost all day. Everytime i pressed, "REDIAL", i'd hear the definitive "DING DING DING!", meaning that the bastard was talking to someone. But, FOR THIRTEEN HOURS?! What, is he having sex with his LANDLINE?! And i'm all ready with the speech, too!

I'll try after a few hours...
It's 9:49pm. And i'm giving one last try to this phoning business.
"If he doesn't pick up now, i'm never calling him again. Isn't that what he wants??"
Suddenly, as though by magic, i hear the ringing tone. My eyes fly open.
"~~~Hello?" A velvet voice breaks the pattern of my thoughts. With a rush of energy, i sit up straight, staring awkwardly into space.
"H-hello? Is XKDC there?"
Shit. Shit shit shit. Mega-shit. Double-mega-shitty-shit-shit. Someone up there must be having a really hard time keeping a straight face whilst watching me squirm.
I frantically turn the pages of my notebook, looking for my speech . For some weird, contradictory reason, i am unable to find the speech.
"Um... Hi, It's me... Sangeeta."
"Hi...." he says something else.
I began to get worked up all over again. WHERE THE SHIT IS IT?!I ask him if he'd be coming to school or not; we have an exam this monday. Then. I tell him of how i just called to tell him that i have his manual with me.
"How did you land on it?"
"Well, ma'am distributed them all, so, i brought yours... By the way, have i ever told you that your choice sucks?"
"Yeah, i know that..."
"Well, i was wrong. It doesn't just suck -it sucks MAJORLY!"
"Chood na..."
"No, seriously, Fluorescent Orange and Fluorescent Pink?! What were you thinking?!"
It sounded like he was snorting in good humor. But, really, this conversation wasn't going so well. For a start, he sounded distracted. And also sounded as though he was smiling. Believe me, i can hear emotions. Then, on top of that, there was the sound of rustling paper from my side of the line. To all those who don't know that that's not supposed to happen: that's not supposed to happen.
"Why do you sound drunk?!" I can't resist asking. Suddenly, i regret saying that.
"I'm having my dinner right now."
"OOOoooohhh! I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you..."
"I-I can't talk to you right now, i'm having my dinner right now." He says curtly.
I smile. "Goodnight. 'Bye."
I cut the phone. I then look down. There's my speech, in the galore of my handwriting.
Wait a minute!
When i HAD the speech in my hands, the number was busy. When i was completely off guard, he picked up the wretched phone.
This just shows: God is against me...

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

The Farewell- A Contorted mix of Energy and Lesbianism OR The Littlest Things Matter the Most

Click click click click.
I brush past an array of students buzzing outside the school hall, waiting to enter the start of our first -and, possibly, last -ever farewell. My six-inch heels click weirdly against the gravel and i crunch past senior boys who seemed to have an affininty of incessantly staring at my butt for no reason. But, i didn't care, then. All i cared about was----
I click away toward the Gemini's* house. She'd called me earlier, telling me to come home. She, apparently, wanted to show me the varied dresses that were worn by her, Sugu-Pugu* and Ice-Kitten*. With the last whiff of nervous energy that my body had attained -fearing that i would be the only one is corporate wear -i heave myself toward the door. I had the perfect outfit out for this, too. My corporate satin shirt with lace trimmings from Westside, jeans from BHS [what's strange to note about them is that though they really ARE from BHS, they have the word "Sexy" written on their back-pocket. Well, that sure explains the weird staring...] and my bag from the Camel market [Camel market stuff is actually GOOD stuff. They're all at half off. Isn't that good?], and the most amazing heels from Catwalk that i only bought 'cuz of my shoe-fetish.
Oh, yeah! Did i mention that i have shoe-fetish?
No? No?!
Well, i have shoe-fetish.
I ring the door-bell.
"Hi! ~~I look HIDEOUS!" Gemini says as she opens the door.
"~~this school has taught us..." Sugu-Pugu trails off behind her.
"Do i look like i'mma girl going to a strip-club?!" Ice-kitten whines.
And the world spins on its axis~~~~
"Strip-club?!" I scream.
"Yeah, look at me!" she whines.
That's the most special thing about Ice-kitten*; no matter how much she whines and nags, she always manages to look cute. Just like a real kitten. I stare at her, from head to torso. Because, for some reason, i cannot look beyond her chest-region.
Oh, no no. The Lesbianism doesn't come in here.
"That necklace is so PRETTY!!" i scream.
"Lemme see what you're wearing!" The girls say in unison.
"Oh, I..." I put my leg up in the air, bent at the knee. "... am in love with THESE." I point at the six-inch torture adorning my feet.
Almost instantly does the room get filled with a hoard of shieking, maniacal female laughter that sounds close to the frantic squawking that i had to hear on the 14th of this month[as you may recall].
I still have the nightmares...
"So, whats this," I say, "About you looking like you are going to a strip-club?" I look at her again. She seems to look normal. She has a nice black top with white sequins on it, and a black skirt to go with. And....
"...Are those..." I look down. "Ankle-length boots?"
"Yeah, nice, huh?"
"Nice? I think i'm in love...." I look up at her.
"....right." She turns around and walks toward sugu-pugu.
"Do i look ok?" she asks. "Is the skirt too short?"
"What, are you kidding me?!" I say. "Zenith's* skirt is way~~~~y shorter! It's like, even if she DIDN'T wear a skirt, it wouldn't make much of a difference!"
"Are you sure?"
"Uh-huh... Say..." I begin. "Can i see those?" I point at her feet.
"Sure! Go ahead!"
At this precise minute, she turns around and bends forward. Suddenly, from being face-to-face we're... butt-to-face... I stare at her behind. That's a nice behind. Not too plump like most indian girls, and not flat. Could give even MY butt a run for my money... Not bad at ALL... reminds me of that song from Sir Mix-A-Lot. Yeah, sure, it's extremely racist; but we hate whites, too! How did it go, again?
Oh, yeah!
"I like big butts and i cannot lie.
You 'otha' 'brothas' can't deny,
when a girl comes in wi' an itty-bitty waist an'
a round 'thang' in yo' face, ya get sprung!
Wanna pull out on yo'r tough,
'cuz ya noticed that the butt was stuffed...."
Ice-kitten turns around and looks at me.
"What?" she asks. I stare up at her, my head still cocked to the right, the mouth slightly open.
"...Yeah..." I look at her, turn around, and walk away.
Today, I like big butts. Tomorrow, I'm getting married.
What has this world come to?!
"We will light the lamp of Knowledge, and everyone will be give a candle of knowledge. The first will be lit by our very own Principal." one of the teachers says into the microphone.
"Kiss-up!" I say, only to hear a murmur of giggles erupt behind me.
The teachers huddle up in groups and walk toward the students with lit candles. The unlit ones are handed to us.
"Here," my class teacher hands a candle to me. I stare at it. This is the candle of knowledge...? This golden, swirly, waxy thing with what looks like bird-poop on it is the candle of knowledge?!
"If thats the case, then knowledge is everywhere!!" I wail.
"You're right!" My teacher says. "All of us have knowledge. We must only share it with others. Thats what counts."
Knowledge is actually a bird-poop covered candle. No wonder school stinks!
My class teacher bends toward me, trying to light up my candle for me. it doesn't light up. She tries once more. No show.
And once more.
And again.
And again. But the candle doesn't light up.
I move my candle toward that of my friend in front of me.

"...and now you may all blow out your candles." the principal says. I blow mine, and so does the entire hall. Now, the hall is filled with double its volume of smoke. People all around me are coughing, and blowing at their candles in vain. Some are sneezing, and some others have covered their mouths with their respective hands. I shuffle around to see whats up with the others. Suddenly, i spot XKDC* laughing with Chilly Flakes* in a far corner.
Invariably, my jaw tightens and my grip around the candle strengthens.
"...Sangeeta?" Someone says.
"What?!" i snap at them. she beckons me to look down.
Oh, my God.
"I broke it."
Thats right. I broke the candle of Knowledge. I broke the fucking candle. Since everyone's staring, this must be bad. I turn to sugu-pugu and show it to her. She giggles.
Sangeeta broke the candle of knowledge. Why does this not surprize her? Then, i think of something else.
This was a very symbolic event. My hearts envy led to the tightening of my grip on the candle, sic it broke. It is said that when there is anger and hatred on the mind, the power to think logically diminishes. This was just what happened -i was so angry that i didn't realize the breaking of the candle in my hand. This was like Gods own sign.
It's always the littlest of things that matter the most...
"Where do we get the energy to do things from?" Sugu-pugu asks, twirling the hem of her dupatta in her hands.
"Well, I get the energy to message from my mum, who pays for my phone-bills." i say.
"No, no. Where do you get the energy to do work?" she says, a little irritably.
"From food, we trace it to crops, which are green..." Gemini says
"And so- " Sugu-pugu begins
"-we get the energy from the sun." Gemini completes the sentence.
"Exactly. Now, where does the sun get energy from?"
"Heat." Gemini says.
"How is heat formed?"
"By the presence of Helium on the surface of the sun?" I say.
"It's hydrogen, actually..." Gemini trails off.
"Yeah. the reaction between Deuterium and Tritium(Hydrogen Isotopes). In ordinary cricumstances, the radioactive tritium actually decays into helium-3. But, on the sun, they bombard into each other and form helium-4, the cause of heat on the surface of the sun. In the reaction, a nucleus (mostly of the Triton) is discarded and 17.6 MeV(mega electron volts) of energy is released as an appropriate amount of mass converting to the kinetic energy of the products, in agreement with E = Δmc2."
Of course, this cannot be proven true in many other cases, such as that of anti-matter (specially anti-protons/anti-hydrogen).
And, of course, that isn't what i said. I said
"The reaction between two protons, or, two hydrogen ions, creates a vast amount of energy from mass. This energy is from the fusion reaction used to make helium on the surface. Hence, the heat."
What? These are teenaged girls! The last thing they wanna do is listen to an entire chapter out of The Physics of Inertial Fusion" from the mouth of a girl who sounds like a drunken boar falling into a pit full of shit!"
"In other words, we get energy from protons -" Sugu-Pugu begins.
"-which are everywhere. Exactly." Gemini chimes in.
"It's like with carbon," I say. "Our body is composed of carbon in varied different forms, and, yet, if we try to eat burn toast -carbon in its purest form -we fall ill."
"So, our entire existence relies on protons. Just radioactive matter! The littlest thing in the entire universe... and it matters the most!"
To think that such an award-winning ass was formed the courtesy of decaying radioactive matter.
That is so pathetic!

And so am i.
Excuse me while i crawl into a hole and die.

*Names changed. Duh...

Monday, February 15, 2010

Weddings, In-Laws, and Politics, Oh My!

One of the main reasons most bachelors and spinsters dread the entire alliance of marriage is the in-laws. According to Merriam Webster’s Dictionary and Thesaurus, an “In-law” is “a relative via wedlock”. According to Sangeeta, an “In-Law” is “a fucking idiot with no sense of fashion who is just hell-bent upon making you look fat and ugly on your wedding day and, then, stealing all your jewelry and passing them off as their own”. In-laws are people who are ‘all “the” talk and no “the” do’, meaning, they are people who blow things way out of proportion, and then buy things from the Camel market while saying they are branded. Most in-laws have an uncanny habit of wanting to act like they are ravishing their D-I-L, while all the time they are merely being penny pinchers and being complete assholes to the same. But, In India, we do not dread just the In-Laws. We dread much else...

India is, indeed, a strange country. In every other country, marriages are categorized in five simple steps:
1. Boy and Girl meet.
2. Boy likes Girl.
3. Girl likes Boy.
4. They get married.
5. They live happily ever after.
For us Indians, of course, the steps are... welll, longer:

1. Boy and Girl meet.
2. Boy likes Girl.
3. Girl likes Boy.
4. Girl’s family must like Boy.
5. Boy’s family must like Girl.
6. Girl’s family must like Boy’s family.
7. Boy’s family must like Girl’s family.
8. A thousand rituals and political mudslinging later, Boy and Girl get engaged.
9. After another thousand rituals, they FINALLY get married.
10. Then, they live in a house together where they spend the rest of their sorry lives eating pizza from the carton and fighting for the remote all day.
This pretty much sums up a typical Indian marriage. Today, I went to my sister’s In-Laws’ place.
Why? Because I have no life. And because my sister is ill, but whatever…
The rendezvous was supposed to last an hour, us discussing the timing, the venue and apparels that would be involved in the marriage. Our heated debate lasted four hours, over which we discussed politics, the weather, how nice Aloe Vera is for the skin and how wonderful it would be if we could all just get along. There WAS no mention of the marriage in the entire tryst with the dreaded “In-Laws”. That’s just how marriages in India are: We always sought to do one thing, but instead end up doing another. It’s very common in India for a girl to fall in love with a boy, and get so attached to his family, that she ends up eloping with his brother.
“Mrs. Khanna, have you heard? Lara’s daughter ran away with the groom’s brother!”

“Oh, that’s nothing! Have you seen the amount of jewelry they ran with? Only worth a million rupees! How’s my diamond encrusted crown? Could give the Queen a run for her money, couldn’t I?”

Yeah. Sure you could.
You see, I have nothing against marriages – Nothing at all! It’s just the PEOPLE getting married that put me up in the spot. Really, why buy the album, when you can download plenty bloody albums for free? No commitment, no issues, no hassle, and they would never flirt with your best friend to make you jealous.
Trust me.
So, I was in a fix when I heard that Mother and I shall go meet the beloved parents of my brother-in-law who –in completely UNrelated news – looks like a seven-month pregnant Dick Dastardly.

How about we keep the wedding from ten-thirty to twelve and the reception from one to five?” Sister’s father-in-law says. Sure, uncle –if that’s humanly possible. Yes, and then, there is this other thing; Indian marriages are slow. Slow? That’s like saying, “Hitler was a tad aggressive.”

There’s a lot to an Indian wedding. Firstly, we start with the HALDI rasam, where the groom is made to sit on a stool with white shorts and a white shirt. To all those who don’t know, HALDI is a Hindi word meaning “Indian saffron” or "Turmeric", which is ground with water into a paste, used to give the esteemed a fairer glow. In the HALDI rasam, loads of fat women with no dressing sense and cleavages that could hold the Everest sing songs in death-defying tones similar to that of a desiccated gorilla dying at the gates of hell. In the midst of this crass cacophony, the sisters of the bride sought to tear the shirt of the groom from his body and then smear the paste on his torso. If that’s not bad enough, the mother of the bride gets to pull the groom by the nose and bring him to the staging of the marriage.
Then, the bride is to be dressed up. Now –and its customary –the weight of the bride must always be a quarter of the weight of her dressing gowns and her jewelry put together. Meaning, if she can walk, she isn’t completely dressed. And if she can't, she’s pure evil. Why, and the mudslinging after that? Goodness, it’s so freaky; I don’t even need to be funny about it.

“Arre, you saw Rajesh’s bride? Practically dripping gold and diamonds, no?”

“Of course she is. What do you expect from such [a rude Hindi word for OSTENTACIOUS] people? Bloody Ramgharias*!”

“Oh, my GOD! Rajesh’s bride is WALKING TO THE MANDAPAM**!”

“Such disgrace! Such disregard to our Hindu customs! Those fucking Ramgharias don’t deserve to live!! Even Lohars*, Jatts* and Rajputs* would give all they can to their only daughter! Rascals!"
If that’s not pudifying enough, the make-up palette comprises of the most hideous of colors in history of the most hideous of colors! The only two things an Indian bride can possibly look like is either a prostitute, or a forlorn fool who walked into the streets of Abu Dhabi in the month of Ramadan. It’s like the stylist has been plotting sweet revenge against the poor bride all his life!
“How’s the bride?” asks the stylist from hell.

“So hideous, I think my eyeballs have started to bleed!” The assistant says.

“I know she is, but…” he thinks for a moment. “I STILL think she could look worse…"

Nobody can be more humiliated in one night than the Indian bride and groom are on their wedding day. That’s why it felt so bad to be sitting in front of the In-Laws (read: Aliens from Pluto) and discussing the wedding.
Why? ‘Cuz I’d have to be the sorry soul who escorts (read: carries) the bride to the Mandapam. In other words, my back is going for a TOSS.

I hate weddings…

P.S. *- These are Sects and Tribes in the Sikh religion.
**- The wedding venue.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

On Crows, Parrots and the Day of Love

"Happy Valentine's Day!!!"
Yeah, yeah. Shut the fuck up.

My day begins quite ordinarily; too mundane, to be precise. I just get off the bed, brush my teeth, eat my breakfast, and checked out my cell. 
  "Hie! I'm getting myself a new book from Landmark and i'm gonna watch , too i'm so happy!"
And happy fuckin'-tines's day to you, too, Ice-Kitten.

I walk toward the window. A beautiful tropical parrot sat directly opposite me. How glossy are her feathers... The red beak was, as though, embossed in the scenic loveliness of the neighborhood trees...

"Seeing a parrot in suburban Mumbai is lucky!" I smile to myself. Luck, and on Valentine's Day? God must love me! (^_^)
I grin ear to ear~~~~
~~~~Until a crow comes along.
"What a deceitful creature! It's making such a racket... huh? Wait. W-wait! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! GET OFF OF THAT PARROT! Let her fluff her wings and fly to the other side of the tree...."

She did just as i said.
She FLUFFED her beautiful emerald wings....
....and got gang-raped by four ugly crows.

Yes. My luck.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

My thoughts on New Moon, An adaptation of Stephanie Meyers' book w/the same name

Before we start, i just want to say:
  • Yes, i AM an ostentacious bitch.
  • No, i don't think Taylor Lautner's hot.
  • And, finally, YES, i think Robert Pattinson IS gay.
I just hope Sugi-sama or Ice Kitten isn't reading this... Anyway. here it is:

I saw 'NEW MOON' on the telly today. In my humble, and politically non-biased opinion:
You have a testosterone-charged Bella frantically running around on a suicidal spree, a shirtless Jacob frolicking on the sands of 'La Push', and i partically clad Edward trying to tell the Volturi that he WANTS to die, and a very hungry Volturi with little, or no acting skills, whatsoever.
Deep. Real deep.
I can practically SEE Edwards undying love for Bella in the dimples of his nipples, which -in completely unrelated news- are bronzed to the ump. And JACOB! Ahh.... he's such a great friend: he is giving free porno to a reluctant Bella, her love for him notwithstanding. How essentially moving. Really, i could CRY my eyeballs out to this pathetic attempt to making a movie.
Seriously, the only thing missing here, was Snoop Dogg singing 'Sensual Seduction' in the background. New Moon? This was 'Testosterone Rising'.
"Yes, Jacob, we know that you can withstand the cold- just don't push it into our faces by
taking your shirt off and running around half-nude!"
This 'New Moon', he takes off his shirt in the autumnal wind, next 'Eclipse', he'll freeze his testicles for Bella.
Such love is SO thought-provoking, right?
If you don't have the money for clothes, guys, I'm all up for a donation.


"I just heard i'm getting laid in Breaking Dawn. YAY!"
"I'm the hottest werewolf there ever~~
 ~~Wait. Is that Robert Pattinson without a shirt?? GOD, i'd tap THAT ass...."

"I gotta pee..."

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

The Farewell and a Dream that Never

Dreams are vivid part of ones life. Dreams constitute ones own thoughts, beliefs, and day-to-day happenings. Dreams are the very heart and soul of our inner Self: They are the portals through which our subconcious communicates with our concious self. Dreams are also said to have a very large role in portraying ones own intelligence level to oneself. Recently, researchers have found that ones dreams are linked with ones own IQ level. This is possible due to the strangeness of our dreams. The more strange ones dreams are, the higher is ones IQ level. In the same pretext, the more dreams one has, the high his capacity to learn, and retain knowledge. I had a dream which i haven't been about to understand. This is odd, since i'm so good at it. No matter how intelligent my dreams are, i always seem to get what the gist is all about. So, anyone wanna help me?

this was just a simple dream about XKCD. I was in our class room, just the way it looks in reality. Except for the fact that not only were all my classmates there, but also the ones who come to REMS with me. We were on the last seat. XKCD and i were lightly talk we seemed to all be working on something or the other. So, as a joke, XKCD made me a card-like structure with a picture and a cartoon on it [excuse the pun]. So, naturally, i chose the cartoon [excuse the pun, again.] I cut out the cartoon and paste it in my diary [which, by the way everyone is interested in, seriously, if it's not personal, why is it called a PERSONAL diary?!] . Then he says something about me being a complete miser. "That is SO not true, XKCD!" I say to him, as i begin to walk all the way toward the other side of the class, right to where he is sitting. Invariably, he scoots to make room for me. I sit down there, and, before i know it, we've got our arms around each other. I'm on his right and, though everyone can see us, they don't seem to mind at all. Nobody interrogates us, or judges us for sitting so intimately together.

The best part about the dream is that its so casual, yet it feels so very delicate; so intricate. And the elation of it all, the loving joy... I've never been so happy after waking up from a dream.
But, then again, i've never cried for a dream only because it wasn't real, either... So...

In other, completely UNrelated news,

Ok, so, its not very clear. I'll write down what it says, instead:

Now, i know the timings totally suck, but hey! Atleast i've GOT a farewell at school. so that TOTALLY accounts for SOMETHING! I'm looking forward to it so much, i actually fell out of my chair when i read this message.

"I'M GONNA HAVE A FAREWELL!I'M GONNA HAVE A FAREWELL! The timings suck, the dress codes totally drab and the venue's straight from hell, but~~~~

Jeez Whiz! I'm as excited as a fat person is about cake!
Or as i am about cake...

Ummm...Yum... Cake...!


Saturday, February 6, 2010

An extract

This is just an extract from the novel that i'm thinking of writing. It's still crude, as the end product will be much more superior to this draft, but i will post this, anyway. The ray of hope still shines through, doesn't it?

'I didn't decide to die.
Nobody decides to die. sometimes, its not a choice. Everything else can be chosen. Everything.
but death is a necessary end. It isn't an option. I'm not deciding the end. I'm merely ending the novel before the due page.
So, you see, i haven't DECIDED to die. I'm not one to decide what starts and ends in this world. I only decide to do the things i do.
We are all born with a certain religion, an ethnicity, in a place at a certain time in an era that, as we grow, we call 'yesterday'. I could've changed my religion. But, here, i chose not to.
i chose not to, simply because its the easier option. I could've changed homes, changed ethnicity to an extent, get a sex-change or even try to surgically MAKE myself white. i chose not to. simply because it was an easier option.
So, i haven't decided to die, because death has to happen, as it will. it's not a decision. i cannot choose to do something that is bound to happen, anyway. i have merely increased the speed of time by altering the aspects of my life and of those around me.
It's not that i do not have control over my life. It's mine, after all.
Here i stand, in front of the mirror at seven in the morning. I usually wake up at four thirty. Of course i have total control. i choose my bedtime and the time of my rising. Ordinarilly, i wake up one minute before the alarm rings. i stare at the ceiling till it rings, and then shut it off after that. I then proceed to running toward my bathroom, almost slipping over the rug, and then start brushing my teeth. by four fifty two and seven seconds, i'm in the shower, trying hard to keep the shampoo out of my eyes. it's around five twelve and a second when i pat myself dry, stare at myself in the mirror, and rush toward the wardrobe. by the time it's five thirty and fifteen seconds, i'm in my formal wear, and- briefcase in hand -i am walking toward the sedan. I reach work at six and, ten minutes and forty-eight seconds later, i have already assigned five tasks each to most of my subordinates.
So, not only do i have complete control over my life, i have the same over the lives of others- not to mention the course of time, itself. Now you see? We can choose to do things, but we can't choose to die.
I am not Veronika. My life is not a novel, and Paulo Coelho is not my literary father. I do not have any spiritual awakenings, and neither have i lost the hold of the strings that defy the perfection, that is me.
I still stare at me in the mirror. The only difference is - she isn't me. She is a middle-class low-life with no social life, no friends and bags under her eyes. Her eyes are puffy and red, swollen are their lids and rub-lines are what adorn them dearly. Her hair are a messy tuft on her head, and lines, of what look like effervescent tears, are running down the rouged cheeks. She is a girl who left her home after her parents tried to sell her to her wealthy uncle for two sacks of rice, She is a girl who stole bread from houses, clothes from their lines and made fire from torn paper and broken matchsticks. The only possible similarity between us is our age.

Who is she?
What is she? A microbe? a bag of chemicals born of the sin that two people committed, that they still regret?
Just a reminiscent of lust long disintegrated? What??

She makes mistakes, she lies, she cheats, she steals, she cries, then laughs. She loves, she loses, she cries some more. She hurts, she bruises, and the tears cease to stop. Is she made of salt water? or sand? Or just a wandering spirit who found shealter in a random body? Who is she, anyway? A 'nothing-special girl'? A nobody? A random soul in a crowd of a zillion random souls? A spec of dust? A scrap of filth?
She may be all or none of these, but she'll never be me.
I'm the youngest executive to have reached the top of the career ladder in five years of doing the things i do. I have the perfect life, the perfect job, the perfect boyfriend, the perfect social life. I have a great appartment, a splendid pay, my own wine cellar -but then again who doesn't?
Oh. Sure. She doesn't.
And yet we stand at the same level. Yet we see each other when we look in the mirror. Life is strange, is it not?
Out of the blue, green, electric purple, techno burple, and every other shade and tint the common man ha s made acquaintances with, a bony hand moves toward me. Invariably, my hand moves toward. the two hands touch, and burst of light, heat, and electricity begin to reverberate through my entire body. Our hands quiver against each other, both perfectly manicured, both with a slight chip on the left-hands pinkies' nail. I move closer, and the teary-eyed girl copies me to the ump. I begin to feel the hand i have beneath my palm. It's not fleshy and knotty, like mine. It's hard, and cold, and lacks a typical human feel to itself. It had definitive scratches on its surface, too. Time and unfortunate razor accidents had worn out the wall between the Nothing and the Everything of the chimeras of divine imagination. I place my cheek on this wall, and she reciprocates. I melt under this union, as the fire of me and the ice of her meet, and, suddenly, her cheeks aren't so rosy anymore. The known sting gets caught in my eye, as the wall acquires an odd moisture from a source unknown to me.

I didn't decide to die.
Nobody does.

I pull away from the illicit embrace which i wholesomely share with my nemesis. I look into her eyes. There it is, the warmth. The sadness, the humility, the mortification of being alive and being of not use to this world, or the next.

Nobody decides to die. They merely provide sleep to a moribund life, which will end, as like, as not.

I look down at the watch on my hand. Passively, i reach for my cell phone.
"I am one hour twenty minutes and twenty-two seconds late for work," unthinkingly, i reach for the clothes on the rack behind me. Counting the minutes, i plan my perfect life , where my perfect self shall reach work to realize that all the fuckers who work under me are slacking off, like the humans they are.
I could've ended the book here, i could've stopped time.

I chose not to.
Only because its the easier option.'

Thursday, February 4, 2010

For her.... and HIM?!

You know what I love about being Asian?
No, it's not the part where they stereotype us to be either Chinese, or Japanese. It's how we're related even REMOTELY to the most cockiest, craziest country on the entire planet.

And it's not france.

So, can you guess what the new "invention" of the japanese companies in Tokyo possibly is?

It's a BRA....

                 ... for MEN!!

Now, picture this ~~~~~~~
       Yours Truly just had the most passionate sex with her hubby ever, when, suddenly, the Mon says, "Could you help me with the hooks of my bra? I can't seem to reach them...."

Imagine that!

Or, maybe, one morning, he comes up to me and says, "Sweetie, all my bras are in the laundry room, could i borrow yours for the day??"

Seriosuly, guys, a brassiere for MEN?!

Thats like saying, "The new-aged SPEEDOS - FOR WOMEN."

Check it out~~~~

SAN:"Would you happen to have an underwired lace bra in teal for size XXX*?"
CLERK: "Of course, Ma'am. How do you like it?"
SAN:"Oh, its BEAUTIFUL! I love it!!"
CLERK:"So, shall i pack it for you?"
SAN:"Yes... ~~OH! And~~"
CLERK:"Yes Ma'am?"
SAN: "Would you have the same in two sizes smaller? I was hoping to buy it for my husband..."

 *Withheld on request.

(>_<) *SHUDDER*

OR, how about.....

HUBBY:"What color Bra are you wearin'?"
SAN:(*WINKS*) "Red lace!"
HUBBY:(Astonished) "Heyy, me too!!"
SAN:(*SMILES DREAMILY*) "We have so much in common..."

I'm so glad I'm not Japanese....

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

The First Post

A blog. A real, live journal. No, it's not something i do very often. Such things signify change, and i'm the last get along with anything that dirupts the equivalent balance that is me.
So, why did i make one? I'm not so sure of this, myself. All i know is that someday -maybe not today, or tomorrow - sometime soon enough, i'm going to regret ever making this happen to me. For a start, change is hard.
Change hasn't happened to me ever since puberty. To humor the sorry souls reading this, i wouldn't ever get in the details of THAT. The last time i experienced environmental change was in the shower. And thats not even applicable.
So, what drives me toward such an uncanny furor of emotion? Its just that -emotion. A spur-of-the-moment action -and based solely on impulse and inner intuitive conflict -has made me finally make a blog i've not even bothered to give a good look at.
Now, here i am, writing the first post. A milestone change in my life has finally come.

Its a wonder why i have no social life beyond school, is it not?