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Saturday, February 26, 2005

Damn its depressing coming home to an empty house. And coming home at maghrib at that. It used to be a time I found haunting in a nice way; it now just adds to the weights smothering my chest. It just reminds me about how my dad has more of a sense of purpose and more real work than I’ll ever have, that my mother has more of a social life than I do, that my siblings younger and older have their own lives, that our feuding, cat fighting, nail scratching days are long gone, and that my frantic deadline and caffeine filled day has just exhausted me so much that I can only turn my cell phone off and collapse in my empty room on my empty sofa. All over again.


Instead of writing a profile, or even one of those “stuff I have done” type things, thought I’d write about some of the most far off stuff I’ve done. There are three occasions which were pretty unreal, and which I probably won’t ever get a chance to repeat. I’ll try to keep them brief and not too over dramatic :)


The rock we’re supposed to climb, its frikkin frightening. We get out of our motorcade and look up as far up as we can see; only then can we see the red dot of a tee-shirt that is to be our climbing instructor.

The hike has been bloody long, the rocks bloody scary, and our flagging academia inclined muscles stretching for the first time in years. We diligently queue up at the bottom of the climbing pitch, spirits intact, a healthy amount of terror slowly sinking in. We wear our safety harnesses, and sit down and wait.

We’re unabashedly ogling the instructors. The youngest one, my God, his ass is to die for. He’s got the whole preppie lean white boy look that could get land him on any cover anywhere in the world. He’s just born with the kind of swagger that makes even a less than hot blooded person like me give him a second look. However, as usual, I’m bored in ten minutes, because what the other girls don’t notice is that he’s just one more pathan newly out of the village. He’s not used to dealing with girls who are ok with standing and ogling him, not used to our fast paced, cell phone wielding life styles. I lose interest, concentrate on the banker who’s flown up to climb with some of the instructors. He’s not very interested in a bunch of over hyper college kids, and he’s trying to climb the most difficult pitch. I can’t help raising eye brows as he takes a drag from what is definitely a joint, then puts on his safety rope, and grits his teeth and flexes surprising muscles on the overhang. Silence ripples through us; without realizing we’ve all stopped what we were doing to watch him.

The pitch juts out at an impossible angle. The rock face is so steep that all his weight is on his arms. He slowly stretches out, and is spread eagled on a rock that is almost sheer. Bracing on one foot, his hand reaches to an impossible hand hold, and his entire body is supported on it. He then does a series of maneuvers that seem so simple (yea rite) and then hooks his legs way higher than where even his outstretched hand lies, and pulls himself up with only one ankle securely held in place.

When he finally reaches the top of the climb, we all clap. He finishes his joint sitting silhouetted against the cirrus clouds, looking far away into some demons we can’t see.


There’s no one for miles. No people but us were stupid enough to hike for four hours to camp in knee deep snow in the middle of February. Those four hours. My God. Four hours of carrying a bag pack and staggering in an up sloping valley, slipping on ice patches and not pausing to take out waterproofs because if we stopped, we’d never make it to camp in time. Four hours of slow, beautiful snow flakes settling and absorbing into one of my cashmere sweaters, soaking through and numbing my arms as I continue walking. Panting trying to take in air that wouldn’t freeze my nose and lungs, but still bring in oxygen.
Finally making it, staggering into the only tent set up, collapsing into the sleeping bag and huddling up with two boys I had never said more than hi to in my life and my psychology 101 professor (erk) and not caring because I was so cold I thought I’d die.
It’s still so cold, I haven’t felt my toes in the last twelve hours. I can only close my eyes and pray to God that I don’t lose them to frostbite. I can hear God laugh at my paranoia.
The silence, its deafening. All eight tents are asleep. I’m the only one awake.

I’ve been dying to pee for the last hour. I refuse to climb out of my sleeping bag. Soon, I know I won’t have a choice. If I pee in my sleeping bag, it’ll stay wet for the next four days that I’m there (its an option I seriously consider). I wait till the last possible second, then I curse biology and struggle out of my two sleeping bags. I take out my torch, feel through the two zipped up tent doors and grab my snow boots. My tent mates mumble, but stay asleep. I have this hysterical urge to shake them awake and take them with me, but I don’t know them too well. So I remove my gloves, brush the ice off the laces, stuff my feet into boots that I wouldn’t ever thought I’d be caught dead in two years ago. I climb out. Nothing is moving. Nothing. The tents lie like eight mysterious alien eggs in the snow white valley, the full moon so bright that all the snow and surrounding mountains look luminescent. The stars, they’re so many of them that I swear I can see the misty band of the milky way.
I don’t even miss a step. Beauty shmeuty. Its cold, I have to pee, and then get back in my damn sleeping bag before I lose a toe, or a finger, or a nose.
I get to the rock that is designated as the “girls bathroom”. Then I realize what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
I curse, the biggest, baddest punjabi words I know, because I realize that I have to unpeel six (yes six) upper layers, one pair of waterproof overalls, and three layers of pants (yes three). By the time I do that, my gloves have fallen in what is definitely a suspicious color of snow, my torch is buried somewhere in the recesses of the sheltering rock, my toilet paper has fallen and gotten soaked. Not the mention my ungloved hand, my nose, and now my bare ass which is so frozen it’s lost all desire to pee.
It’s an ordeal, but I manage.
Halfway though the deed, when there is no way I could ever stop even if I wanted to, and as I’m precariously balanced because to date I have never even used one of those hole-in-the-ground indian toilets, I hear a noise somewhere to my far right.
My breath, my lungs, my brain, everything stops. The world stops spinning, and time slows.
I look over, see nothing.
I hope to God its not someone from camp. Smelly unshaven men I'll have to see for the next three years. How embarassing.
But oh my God, I hope its not anyone not from camp. Images of killer pathan tribesmen out in bloody rampage paralyze me as I squat bare assed in the bloody snow.
I still see nothing.
And then I remember the story about the snow leopards.

My God please let it be killer pathan tribesmen.

I manage to finish my damn business, manage to scramble together articles of clothing, one torch and one roll of toilet paper. I still haven’t drawn a breath in the last four minutes or so. I still haven’t heard anything, but I’m pretty sure it was an animal. A big animal. A big white furry animal looking for food.

I get up, and don’t want to ever move.Maybe I could out wait the leopard. I could. But then I hysterically imagine some Readers Digest article somewhere about the girl who got eaten by leopards while camping because she was too stupid to run when she had the chance. I will not let that article come true.
I try to walk slowly, silently, un-noticeably back to the camp. The path stretches impossibly long.

I’m exactly half way through, when I hear a silent muffled thump. Without remembering making the decision, I take off at the fastest sprint of my life, even managing to run at a zig zag to confuse any pouncing predator. I make sure i run through the tents, hoping it would miss me, pounce on some other tent instead (not my most samaritan of moments - heh). I manage to make it to what I hope is my tent (thank God it was). I dive face first into the thankfully unzipped doors, kick off my shoes in a single bound, and bury myself into my sleeping bag, wondering why I'm not being mauled, hoping that if I ever do become dinner, it’ll be with the rest of the ten camping buddies. At least probability of surviving will be on my side.

And with those thoughts, with my terror, while trying to stay awake staking out possible predator hunting grounds, I unwillingly fall asleep immediately.

It wasn’t a leopard, it turned out to be a teensy weensy white rat after our kitchen supplies. My little nocturnal adventure was not repeated to anyone. And I never went for a bathroom break unless I had someone with me to cover my ass after that. Literally.

Thursday, February 24, 2005


the best lie is 90% truth

[what i wish i could have said]
i met you in that room with so many people. how did you stand out? why did you stand out? how did we hit it off so perfectly? the emails are really sweet and extremely kosher, and i know what your underlying motivation is. i've been through this before.
please get back on that plane, please just leave. the logistics of an 'us' are too difficult. right now, its too easy to turn away, and therefore i must. i've been at the end of these roads, and they're always painful.

i won't be replying. thanks anyway.


[what i will be saying]


Thanks for the email, and sorry I couldn't reply sooner (was out of town on work). Something came up the last couple of days, and theres no way the delivery can be made in time now, so I'll just get the stuff through another source. But thanks anyway, it was *really* nice of you to offer,



Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Confessions of a bitch

I’ve had insomnia for the last month. I’ve been so disgustingly unhealthy and negligent at a time I really can’t afford to. So in case this is the spiral after which I eventually fall into a coma and die of some mysterious undiagnosed-till-too-late complication (heh), I hereby submit my confession.

Tariq: you’re mentioned first, because I think you deserve some kind of award for your absolute steadfastness. Now that I know more of the world, now that I know more about people, I understand that such dedication is quite unusual. If I can calculate correctly, you seemed to have liked me straight from class 3 to 2nd year A levels. I don’t know if that’s because you’re just the type of guy who prefers to be in love with the idea of someone, or maybe its just because you knew me enough to sense that even if I did like you back (I did, briefly, class 5, when we were sitting next to each other), my friends would gag and bind me and stuff me in the nearest trunk till I stopped being a danger to my social standing. However, I will admit to a strong streak of protectiveness I always felt towards you despite my friends, and there was a time (yes, grade 5) where I could have taken out a shotgun, blown out the brains of that Urdu teacher, and then kissed you senseless because she made fun of your stammer. Anyway. Maybe you were better off just liking me from afar. Good luck wherever you are. If it helps, I’m going to die a frustrated lonely dried up old hag stuck alone in my own personal hell. If I was a cat person, I would have 5 cats and they’d probably eat my body before the parents found my remains weeks later.

Ali S: from your class-6-to-current-date semi crush on me, and your denial of it, its been amusing knowing you. I must confess, our stilted msn conversations are extremely painful, and I cringe at your every attempt to flirt with me. No I am not encouraging you. Its been a decade. If it had to happen, it would have. Really. Just give up, show me some attitude and get some self respect back. Don’t come to my funeral, in fact, go spit on my grave. For Gods sake man, show some gumption.

Zeeshan: because I am brutally honest with myself, I will admit that we both have our issues, and we were just not meant to be, no matter how much we both wanted. I have come to peace with it, buried our past despite your attempts to resurrect it. I have also buried you, unfortunately only symbolically. I wish I had just left your sorry ass at CC, I wish I had told you more home truths that day instead of hanging up knowing I would never ever talk to you again. While my problem might have been that I expected you to become the man I though you could be, I have to confess that I tried to convince myself that your problem was that you were too young. I was wrong. Our younger selves are stronger, purer, more rigid, idealistic, stupid, callow versions of our older selves. You have no foundations of morality, you have no sense of justice, right or wrong, and no matter how many large dramatic claims you make, they are as empty as your threats, promises and your pathetic tighty whitey underpants.
(yes, along with every other phoney ‘cool’ thing you force yourself to be, you are NOT a CK boxer person, give up and submit to your true self).

T: we have a history don’t we? I’ve known you since I was 6, and shit, that’s a bloody long time. I’m sorry you hate me, I’m sorry we’re not in touch. We were good buddies in the middle, I miss walking into a party and taking for granted that we would be dancing together the whole evening. I miss knowing you’d be my back up date no matter what, that you would be my group partner no matter how aggravating we found each other. I cringe every time your girlfriends walk all over you with their pointy stiletto’s and leave you lying bloody, broken and pathetic on the floor. I hope the last two dire misfortunes have not driven you to suicide, that you have finally grown a thicker skin, finally grown better taste in women, and are finally working hard to realize the potential you so badly need to counter the terrible hand life has dealt you. I have to confess that only my little brother has managed to really piss the shit out of me as much as you have. That’s an honor. Really. Good luck where ever you are and in what ever you choose to become.

H: I am mentioning you here even though you really don’t deserve it. I confess that being the object of such intense adoration was frightening, but I’m human and I admit (albeit on my deathbed) that I was flattered by how I was the absolute focus of your extremely unhealthy obsession. We had fun, and I cannot forgive you pretending to be my friend only so you could guilt trip me into liking you back. That was low, even for you. but anyway, I hope your burn scars heal, and that you stop behaving like an awkward child and just come out and act less gangly and pretentious if you ever run into me. I will be kind, and not mention the incidents where you took to following me around campus, and the hours of painful phone conversations you made me suffer through. Or the time that you were extremely thrilled that I got drunk and spent the night with you guys at the apartment. I can magnanimously forgive you for all that, we were kind of vaguely friends once upon a time.

To my ex-stalker: well I know you’re a total freak, and that you are legendary for your skills of jacking off five times a day (which is STILL a *distressing* fact to know). I also know that you were stalking a different girl every quarter, and that you moved onto my poor friend after me. But I must confess it was a hilarious experience while it lasted. From the first stages where you were pretty much under the radar, when you felt up my advanced programming techniques partner Bilal in the advent of trying to “help” us with the assignment, to the final stages when you finally cornered me in the dark isolated hallway on campus and “asked me out to dinner” (I swear, you scared the crap out of me so badly that you made me forget all my self defense classes, all my heroics, all my false bravado on how I’m a kick ass kinda chick). There was also that point in the middle when everyone but nausheen knew about you, and she actually invited you to have pizza with her alone in the cafeteria because she can’t stand seeing people eating alone. Haha. She was so repulsed after she saw some of your better moments that she had nightmares about you for weeks. haha. I continue to look back at the events as hilarious, and pretty unique. May you whack away to some poor other chick who will probably be as repulsed by you as me and all other coeds.

Monday, February 21, 2005

i also want to confess that the story below actually had a very different ending. as if i would kiss someone in my own lawn with a million set of parents roaming around. really.
i just handled it in my own classic style. i hemmed and hawed and pretended i had no idea what he was asking.
denial is a subtle and carefully honed skill

oh and i won :)

and i've made sure i haven't played that game since.

Sunday, February 20, 2005

quite a few people have gathered for the party, and i can’t really delay going down to the garden anymore. there's only so much slack my mother would give me, even if she is seeing me for the first time in six months.

i walk down, and i think i pick out his sillouette from twenty feet away. there's a spark and his face illuminates in the flash, confirming it. his hands are protecting the cigarette from the wind.

the gusts are brutal, but all seven families have braved the outdoors for this barbeque.
i’ve just gotten off a plane that morning. its been a long time, and i'm not exactly looking forward to this.

karachi is unequipped to handle cold. its unequipped to handle rain, hail or anything else either. i stick my hands in the cardigan which is not equipped to provide any warmth whatsoever, and decide to say my hellos to the aunties first. they've gathered in a semi circle, and i walk into my mother telling them about my event decoration prowess. they're all oohing and aahing at the stupid table centerpieces i threw together a couple of hours ago. i handle the meaningless small talk, and escape to the uncles corner. they all hail me politely, terrified i'll attack them and their fat cat drawing room talk. i'm amused, but have lost the appetite for drawing blood, so don’t talk politics. i'm tired, want to mellow out for a couple of days before boredom and holidays start to grate. i'll save my battles for when i’m feeling passionate.

i’m avoiding him and we both probably know it.

i head over to the bar. “she’ll have a straight cranberry juice, no ice”, says a voice near my ear. i turn, and he’s right behind me. damn, didn’t think he’d be done with his smoke so soon.
i can’t help grinning. “Hi!”. it feels good to hug him, and to smell his aqua di gio. “still using the same bottle i gave you ten years ago mr. stinky?” by reflex, i revert to my nickname for him when we were ten.
he grins, and shuffles his feet. “of course not poopface. at least i smell of something other than oil paint”, and grabs my hand, sniffs it exaggeratedly.
i snatch it away, because i have a horrible feeling that the turpentine smell might just have lingered. i can’t help laughing. “god, its good to see you.”
“likewise poop, likewise”
we grab our drinks and automatically head for the tree. we sit down face to face. he grabs my glass, startling me. puts it to the side. grabs my face. before i can get out a ‘whoa there’ he says “owl!”.
crap. haven’t played that game since we were six. it’s the game when you have to sit and stare at the person until one of them blinks. i always lost.
“beware the years have hardened me” i say, in my mock shredder (from ninja turtle fame) voice. i spoil it by laughing. my eyes crinkle, but i don’t let them blink. i guess i'll just have to show this sucker who’s boss once and for all. heh.
“so too busy climbing ladders to keep up with old friends?” he doesn’t blink either.
our breath condences white, then evaporates.
“only kept in touch with the ones who count” . i try to be smug, but i’ve been getting the same complaints the whole day. i suck at emailing. one downside to returning home and facing old irate friends.
because of the tree branches, we’re practically nose to nose. his eyes are deep deep brown, like the batter of the dark chocolate cake his mother makes.
“been working out have you? need to build abs of steel to lure in the women?” i hope i don’t sound bitter. my mother had mentioned a few escapades. my eyes are starting to dry out with the strain.
“still stuffing on chocolate cake to fill out in the right places” he quirks an eyebrow. guess my traitor mother’s been talking to him too. thank god its too cold for my ears to turn pink.
“why didn’t you come visit?” i can’t resist asking. i'd promised myself i wouldn’t ask.
“why didn’t you call?” he counters.
good point. i try to sound nochalant, “oh been busy, you know how it is”. i give my version of a suggestive wink (winks are excluded from elimination rules).

and just like that, his eyes get serious, “i hope he’s been worth it.”

i can see him suddenly focus right through me, and i know he’s reliving the night i left.
“well, he wasn’t. but i'm back now stankster, thinking of moving back home for good. done with all the gallivanting”. i hold my gaze steady, and that isn’t easy.

damn all contact lenses.

his eyes still hold the question he asked all those years ago. “what will it be then?”
i know what he’s referring to. we always did know what the other was thinking. i know i’m tired, i'm jet lagged, and emotionally incapable of answering any soul searching questions right now.

i decide to just stop thinking.

i close my eyes, and just for the hell of it, lean over and kiss him.

what the hey, i would have lost if the game had lasted one more minute anyway.

comments please

comments in my blog are like:

finding a uneaten piece of dark chocolate in my freezer
and then terribly missing the younger brother who would have eaten it had he not moved away

like standing in the wind on the edge of a cliff looking onto the green sea
and freezing because because you've forgotten your sweater in the car

like turning heads by wearing a tiny halter and tiny tassled skirt
and running into a greasy uncle from work

like camping for a week in snow with only one meal a day
and then eating a 1600 rupee steak at the finest resteraunt

like being unable to open the presents till all the guests leave
and then actually opening them

like making the same wish every year at your birthday
and then having it come true

omens, whispers of destiny
This was an assignment i did at college. its a pretty lame attempt at "visual poetry", and its a little long, so i apologize in advance. This is in memory of ms. hima reza, the best prof and writer i have ever known. hey ms. r, hope you're happy wherever you are.
strolling in circles to nowhere
i enter the jaded door to ennui
walk barefoot into a room
full of glittering strangers
i wrinkle my nose
at the stale stink of success
glare at the Familiar
and i think:
preposterous travesty
I must phone God and complain immediately
and have them put out of their misery
but i'm one cent short of a load
and no one picked up last time anyway
so i grin
as we mouth to each other
miserably animated
and i say
"hellohowareyou finethankyou"
an old friend comes along
smelling of moth balls as usual
the old geezer
and i stretch my lips across my teeth
and as we airkiss, i say
"howdoyoudosir I'mfinethankyou"
he winds up his fist
and rams it in my chest
mesmerized by the pain, i think
could he be the One?
will this cure the acidity of isolation?
will this stop the solitude?
i giggle, and say instead
"ohi'msorrysir i'mfinethankyou"
his fingers grope through ribs
and intercostal muscles
reach their goal
clutch my heart
it beats for a second
resists the walls of his palm
then surrenders greatfully
i bellow with hilarity
ohthankyousir i'mfinethankyou"
but before i'm finished
he yanks his hand back
i feel aorta and venecava tearing
lungs pumping into nothingness
a scream almost slips out!
very uncool to call attention to yourself
when you stand with naked feet
in a room full of crowded strangers
the man is amused
by my almost breach of etiquette
takes a bite out of the quivering red mass
black blood drips down his mouth
"it must be the cooks day off. this stuff is terrible!"
he mutters
spitting it back in my face
In the reverberating stillness, I think:
a 24 karat hole
in a gaping heart
really itches
where is that damn phone?
but the line is busy
disgusted, he throws the heart onto the floor
stalks off
grinding it beneath his heel
without even noticing
i hail to his departing figure
"pleasedtomeetyou wemustdolunchsometime"
i listen for the sound of his soul
it doesn't reply
so i continue to stand
and i wonder
is God screening my SOS calls?
or do i have the wrong number?
i mingle in circles going no where
in a room full of glittering strangers
hoping they won't notice
my naked feet

Saturday, February 19, 2005

The room was pretty ordinary, if a little ugly. It had red walls and a black ceiling, a theme echoed in the table cloth and the chairs.

There’s a huge fat black candle in center of the table. And a red bowl. And for some reason, the candle is the first thing you notice when you walk in.

She walks in, and the woman is as ordinary and ugly as the room. The only thing that elevates her from every other Pakistani aunty is her black kajal overdosed eyes. They have a disturbing blood shot hint of madness. They’re the first thing you notice about her, as she enters and pins you to your seat with one look. “You’ll regret it beta”. Her voice is husky, like a man. I stare at her, confused, trapped by the kajal. Then she looks away to light the candle and I can breathe again.

The black candle: strange things happen to it when the flame hits it. It glows from the inside, as if it’s see-through. Yet it’s made of good old solid beeswax. I can smell it. And suddenly, the corners of the room shrink further back, the light from the flame being absorbed entirely by the black ceiling. There are patterns flickering on the red walls, and when I stare at them it’s difficult to look away. Suddenly I realize that there isn’t any grill or lattice work in the room. What’s making the patterns? I’m about to ask her, but she sits down in the chair next to me, and grabs my palm. Her nails, they’re painted black. I’m suddenly a little uneasy by the whole scene. I want to get up and run the door, when my three friends await their turn.

She sits too close, and then peers at my face from six inches away. I can only look to the door. I can’t move. Still holding my palm, nails digging in, she reaches up with the other hand, and picks off a hair from my sweater. She puts it into the bowl. I notice the center is black, but the outside is painted red.

Then I scream in pain.

I look to my palm, and her nails have dug right through.

There are four half moons of blood welling up across the center. I’m still looking at it incredulously, when she calmly sweeps up a couple of drops, and adds it to the liquid in the bowl. When did she put water in it? She swipes the remaining half moon, and then licks it. Madness.

I’m can’t open my mouth. The beeswax is choking. Her hand, it’s weighing my entire body down with that one touch.

She holds the bowl to my mouth.

I purse my lips closed, and pray to God. I really can’t drink that. Why can’t I move?

“Drink it”, she whispers. In my mind, the words are screaming loud. I can’t help it. My lips open, and the water, its hot. It burns my tongue, the roof of my mouth.

Tears run down my cheeks.

She’s still six inches away from my face.

“You’ll find him soon.” She says. I look at her; her pupils are like huge gaping holes. Her hot breath smacks my face unpleasantly.

Then suddenly, the candle goes out. The room is pitch black. I can’t see anything.

I close my eyes. I think I scream. In the second of her distraction, I wrench my hand away, and leap from the table faster than I’ve even moved before. I dive for the door, can feel a million invisible demons breathing down my neck, can feel her sitting six feet behind me. Can feel her eyes on me, even in the dark.

The door opens, and the line of women in the waiting room all look up at me in unison.

My friends, it takes them a second to recognize me. I guess ten seconds of hell changes one. The take a look at my face, and all three stand up in concern. I made quite a dramatic entrance I guess.

“Is everything alright?” “Why aren’t you getting the reading done?” “Is it over already? You just went in!?”

I look over my shoulder into the room, and the lights are back on. The Pakistani aunty with too much kohl is sitting at the table. She smiles and waves.

I take two steps back. My goose bumps are about to poke through my clothes.
“Yeah, its fine. Let’s get out of here”. I don’t want to take my eyes off that table and that room. I guess I blink.

“Beta, you haven’t paid.” she’s standing, right there in the waiting room, two inches in front of me. I think I scream, but only a strangled whisper comes out. The red and black room behind her, it’s empty. I notice that the roof of the waiting room is black too.

I almost back into a table. Then I can’t move any further.

My friends are holding one arm, wondering why the hell I’m treating this woman like she has the plague. I don’t care. I can’t get away fast enough. Since I make no move to open my wallet, one of my friends opens her bag and hands the woman some money. The lady leans over, takes the money in her black painted fingers, and says “I will get the change beta.” Then she murmurs something to her under her breath. My friend’s eyes widen, and she turns to say something to me, but I’m scuttling out the door.

The sunlight is over strong outside. I start the car with shaking hands, without waiting for my friend to return with her change.
And suddenly notice that I have no scars on my palm. Nothing. No blood, no cuts, nothing.
I’m still staring at my palm, and my friends are staring at me. Then the car door opens, and we all jump.

My friend is holding some currency notes in her hand. “That woman is totally bonkers. She told me to tell you that you’ll regret it. Did she mean because you didn’t get the reading done?"

The prattle is actually making me regain some semblance of normality. I almost smile, and feel ridiculous. I clearly hallucinated the whole thing. She probably had LSD in the candle or something.

Oblivous, my friend is prattling on: "If she didn't read you, then I don't know why she said you'll get sick and I'll save your life. Haha. I'm not the Florence Nightingale varity ok? I'm telling you from now. Haha."

I look at my friends. They're now having a giggling fit. There's a funny feeling in my throat. I can’t speak. I just put the car into gear and get the hell out of there.

Its been three years. I can speak about it now. And I can tell you: I did find him. And I do regret it. and she did save my life, but in a different way.

Thursday, February 10, 2005

cold night

brilliant sunset

morning chirping

secret silence

there are times in a day when our different worlds overlap
times when we feel vibrations of countless other lives
coexisting within our own world
and others a heartbeat away

those are the times
i think we have been asked to pray

"Lord of the worlds"

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

Why do simple minded men make life so complicated

Why are there NO statistics in Pakistan

Why is trying to find out the numbers on ANYTHING in ANY SECTOR such a frikkin pain in the ass?

Why do people not give you time or information on the phone or over email? Do they need evidence of your english speaking skills and dress sence before they actually bother to part with any miserable information they might have managed to gain in their pathetic insignificant lives?

Why can some idiot trying to help just HELP and not TRY

WHY can my job just be WELL DEFINED
WHY can't someone just TELL ME what the EFF is on the EFFING mind before i attempt something and then be told to "do it this way"


Thursday, February 03, 2005

You speak eloquently and have seemingly read every
book ever published. You are a fountain of
endless (sometimes useless) knowledge, and
never fail to impress at a party.What people love: You can answer almost any
question people ask, and have thus been
nicknamed Jeeves.What people hate: You constantly correct their
grammar and insult their paperbacks.

What Kind of Elitist Are You?

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i did it
i listened to the voice
the one that whispers
the one that said i should do it
the one that said i should go crazy

i did it
i think i did a bad thing