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Monday, May 30, 2005

she sat on her laptop, and chewed her lower lip. she had just come back from this new spa she had discovered. she'd gone shopping in the morning, looked at yet another jewellery store, then picked up the IPod she wanted for her birthday next month. she came back, still feeling empty. even retail therapy couldn't fix it anymore. did she need medication? suddenly, she couldn't take it, she got up, threw the laptop out the window. she tried anyway, it bounced off the pane and shattered on the marble floor. she picked up 5k heel she'd bought last week, and smashed it against the glass till it broke. then she picked up her diamonds, one by one, and flung them as far out into the garden as she could. even that wasn't satisfying. she picked up her DVD player, her DVD collection, and then one by one, her clothes, her shoes, her handbags. gucci, LV mixed with the sana and safinaz and zainab market and itwar bazaar in the garden. when she ran out of things to throw, she stood at the sill, balanced on the ledge on her newly pedicured feet, and willed herself to let go.
the wind blew, a bird chirped, and her intercom buzzed as the sevants and parents discovered her afternoon activity.
she stepped back down to answer the intercom. she chewed her lower lip, and came up with a way to explain the madness.

its one more day i skipped work. i just couldn't drag myself out of bed. i couldn't. it was like i was hollow, my lungs had collapsed in on themselves and there was a giant pink elephant sitting on the space between my ribcage and backbone where God said He blew our spirit in. N would call it a chakra point. whatever.
i spent a minute last night amid my violated blog (i didn't touch the template) with random droppings of bright pink in it, and i went to the Slade and NCA site, browsed the masters program, saw i wasn't eligible for applying for it, and just to torture myself went to the undergrad program site and read about the painting and sculpture majors.
i do this to myself occassionally, i seem to have inherited my mothers matyr gene. as i sit clackling my keyboard to smithereens and ruining my brand new manicure in the process, i can only think of the waste, the indecision, the what ifs and WHY's of where i am and what the fuck i'm doing here, and how the fuck i get out of this wealth encased crap before i drown in it.

i'm on the verge of something. what the fuck is it?

Sunday, May 29, 2005

She was a mother, a sister, a daughter, a friend. She had a secret.

It started right after her divorce. It was a new apartment, freshly painted walls, newly installed phone line, an empty bed and long hours of solitude.
She was awake till three in the morning, and when she couldn’t stand the ticking clock and whirring pedestal fan any longer, she picked up the phone.
Who to call at three am?
She remembered her three school friends, giggling in hours of afternoon bliss as they crank called the cute senior boys. She remembered how one guy said her voice was the sexiest he had ever heard.
She picked up the phone, and dialled six random digits. Beep beep bop beep beep beep.
A man picked up the phone, a little sharp, a little curious.
She lost nerve. Where was the funny repartee? She remained silent. A little wide eyed, a little breathless (would he mistake her for a deep breather?). She waited for him to hang up.
“I know you’re still there.”
She was a little startled. Panicked,she sunk a little lower in her bed. Then out of sheer curiosity, she stayed on.
“Is it you?”
Puzzled, she stayed silent. It seemed the best option.
“God this I stupid. Is it you? it IS you isn’t it? look, I’m sorry for what I did ok? what I did wasn’t so bad was it?”
She almost asked him what it was he did.
“ok ok, don’t hang up, maybe your leaving was justified. Maybe I was a jerk. I swear I don’t know how it got that way. All those things you said, they were true, and I didn’t realize that I’d lost you. I’m so sorry honey, I’m so sorry. Please come back. Please”
The man’s voice was choked. She felt the sting of familiar tears herself.
“ok I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pressure you. take your own time, but please, please, just talk to me a little while more, I miss you so much, I can’t take the lonliness anymore.”
She nodded into the phone.
After a pause, he started, “God, I found one of your paintings the other day. The one with the green dragon? I remember you hated it and wanted to throw it away, but I snuck it out of the trash and saved it. I’d stuffed it in the laundry drawer because I knew you’d never use it” The man choked out a laugh.
She smiled.
“I’ve tried to keep things clean, I know you hated my mess. Hell, even I hated my mess, i was just too lazy to clean it up you know? I’ve been thinking about my behaviour a lot honey, and I’m not too proud of myself. I took you for granted. I realize that now. Look, I’m sorry, please, please come back. I’m a changed man, I love you, I’ll never do that again.”
The man broke down, and sobs filtered through the phone.
Crying herself, for her, for him, she bent her head, and slowly clicked the phone back in place.

After she had blown her nose and stared at the clock some more, she clicked on her lamp again. Four am. Beep bop bop beep bop beep.
A woman’s groggy voice this time. “Hello?”
She stayed silent. She bit her lip, her eyes a little glassy with anticipation. Was it possible?
“hello?” a little more alert now.
“honey is that you?”
She waited breathlessly. What would unfold next?
“honey, listen to me, listen to me ok? Please please come home. Me and dad still love you very much. We don’t care why you left. We’ll fix it. please come back”. The womans voice cracked.
A murmer in the background. A man’s voice asking who was on the phone.
The click of a phone being shut.

She lies awake in the bed, hugging her little hobby to herself. She had a secret. She was a mother, a sister, a daughter, a friend.

Saturday, May 28, 2005

i remember a time when i was acutely adolescent, and used to go around with this permanant exruciating feeling of embarassment - EVERYTHING just embarassed me - for no reason.

then comes now. i've been stripped naked and attached to an ECG machine while some technician chick comments on my boobs (i didn't bat an eyelid), i've been given a sponge bath (in retrospect i cringe), and i've also walked around with my pants zip undone on various occassions and taken it all in my stride.

then came last Tuesday.

i was at our fancy gym at work during lunch hour, doing butt crunches with our gym instructor mr. fake saudi/american accent. suddenly i don't feel too well. so i get up (after a measly FIFTEEN MINUTES of exercise) and drink a couple of sips of water, and decide to hit the showers because this weird feeling. unfortunately, i reach the shower area, proceed to puke up my stomach contents plus stomach fluid, then go for a shower and proceed to nearly black out. out of sheer mind over matter i manage to grab a towel (visions of being found naked by coworkers - the horror) i proceed to faint on the bathroom floor at my boss and HR directors feet (erk) - i still managed to clutch the thankfully volumnous towel.

throughout all this time, my legs are frighteningly unwaxed.

then i have to walk the gauntlet of shame from which every security guard, every peon, every maid and every single co-worker asks me how i'm feeling, each and every single one of them with this an expression that can ONLY be described as a SMIRK.

my friend from school even called me, because she heard that i passed out in the gym, and somehow nakedness, fifteen minutes of exercise, and my boss were involved.

yoicks. cringe. humiliation. mortification. i think i'm going to change jobs now. anyone takers?

Saturday, May 21, 2005

trashy romances and alias overload

Low, low slung jeans, hastily yanked on as he dives out the bathroom window onto the fire escape. No time. Bare flesh, flat planes of muscle flexing and contracting with each pounding step towards the roof. Breath condensing to steam with each exertion.

The woman abandoned in the bed stretches sinuously, then wraps the sheet around her naked body. Hair rumpled, make-up seductively smudged, her bare feet lazily make their way to the window with long legged grace. She laughs silently. Gooseflesh ripples down her arms as the night wind chills the steamy room. Unbothered, she looks beyond the neighboring high rises and miles of urban landscape. She’s counting the time he’ll be taking in the bathroom. Her eyes rest briefly on the second building from the left. She lifts her palm, and places it on the cool glass, a silent salute.
The third window on the second floor acknowledges the signal with a flicker, then all goes black.
Still laughing softly, she strolls over to the bar, and fills a long flute with straight cranberry juice. She grabs a few strawberries from a nearby bowl, then drops the sheet. Taking a juicy bite and a long sip, she makes her way back to the bed, She lies on top of the sheets, artfully sprawled over luxorious eiderdown, and awaits his return.

The cold slaps his chest, and instantly condenses to a burn in his lungs. He strains with oxygen debt as he takes the last rung, clears the concrete to the expanse of urban skyline. He sees a movement to his right, and recognition barely registers before the leather clad leg snakes up behind his back, and knocks him face first into the floor. Icy steel snicks past his ear and rests behind his neck. For a split second, he freezes. Then he blindly grabs the shoe heel he has eye contact with and pulls. Manages to flip onto his back, get to his feet.
And finds a gun resting point blank on the center of his forehead.
Completely unruffled, her black ponytail intact, she smiles. Her jump suit leaves little to the imagination. “Hey grey eyes, got a good workout with your girlfriend??”
Instant recognition, black hair against pristine white pillow case. Lamplight on creamy skin. He grins right into the gun barrel, and drawls, “nah honey, that was just a warm up. I’d ask you to join us, but she’s a little particular.”
Eyes narrowed, she opens her mouth to speak, but with a flick of his arm her has her throat between his hands. He anticipates the groin crushing knee, and has already spanned one hand around her waist, shoving her too close to do any damage. Standard issue material imprints onto his exposed chest. Legs entangled, pony tail slightly askew, she’s breathing a little heavily. He cuts off anything she was about to say, “why don’t you just tell me what the hell the old bastard wants me to do, I’m running out of time for your little games”.
She tries pushing him away, then gives in. “He told me to tell you that they know you’re here. Leave in the morning. He’ll see you at plan B on the high street on Tuesday.” She pushes him away again, he traps her hand against his heart.
Black eyes stare into grey. “She’s nothing. I swear. What I asked you that day, it still stands.”
She looks away, tries to snatch her hand back. Reluctantly, he lets her go. Watches as she clips on her safety ropes. She stands at the edge of the precipice, poised, black hair darker than the night sky, strands whipping her pale face. Her eyes glimmer white in the dark. She pauses a second, then mumbles something into her radio, and then jumps off the side of the building. Nylon leaded twine whirs as it carries her weight down forty stories to the lights below.

He turns his back, climbs back down. Enters the warmth. Walks over, deliberately draws the shades over the palm smudged window.

He’d just deal with her right now instead of the morning. To hell with the old man and his bloody instructions.

[on edit: poor character development, weak plot, random story line. better luck next time]
[this is old. there are problems with the tense in the middle. oh well.]

the gash bled spectacularly. bright maroon blood gushed wonderfully down the calf, dripped in rivulets at the heel and puddled underneath limp limbs.

white faced, he blundered down the corridor to her, then stopped. Excruiciatingly forces himself to breath deeply, then gently bend and lift her inert form into his trembling arms.
pristine white shirtfront instantly splotched maroon. rolled up sleeves, the cufflinks she had given him, on the entrance table.

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

i've tried phrasing this better, and its just not possible.
you asked me in the car what i thought of him, the love of your life, the apple of your eye, the soulmate you swoon over, and after two years of internally strangling myself rather than telling you the truth, i couldn't keep it in anymore and had to spit it out.
it didn't help that you didn't understand what i meant when i said he's out of your league. it didn't help when you asked what a league was.
i work with him on a daily basis, i have probably spent more hours with him than you did at the university where you were going out with someone else.
he is an asshole. he will go far, because it is assholeness that gets rewarded at work. he is part of the cliched boy gang that sits together and talks about SWOT*s and other derogratory terms in its version of locker room talk. i am there when he tells people that you're too conservative to go to "those kind of things" when both of you are invited to balls and fund raisers (when you've been begging me to get invited for the both of you), and i am there when he tells you his boss is bitch (when she is fair minded and reasonable beyond question), i am there when he excludes only three people from the entire floor but takes the rest of the department out for lunch.
i am there when his boss gives him work, and i am there when he is "working nights and weekends" not understanding why its taking him so long to finish three simple tasks to his deadline.
i will also be there to help you do the wedding prep, to help you pick your outfit, and i will also be there dutifully playing the best friend role at the wedding.

Saturday, May 14, 2005

To AKU with love

My pupils are dilated to huge gaping holes, my iris a thin brown crescent. Hospitals remind me of beautiful red buildings, sprawling lawns, tiny turquoise tiles set in dark paneling, intricate wooden screens dusted daily with nylon feathers. Most of all, they remind me of the lakes, stretching far and wide in a little artificial oasis amid dusty concrete, with majestic unnamed white birds sitting sedately in trees among the rabble of crows, pigeons and eagles. After today, they remind me of emotional blackmail, of yet another pleasant sleepless morning turned nasty, of parents and their standards and their idealism, of their rights and wrongs and hereafters. A reminder of how I am just another spineless soulless insect in the cosmos, weak and selfish, and strangely proud to finally know it.

On another note: Happy birthday Mehreen. I’ve been trying to get your number since I’ve been back. I’m so sorry for not doing a better job and I'm so sorry for being such an ineffectual friend. Love you!

Friday, May 06, 2005

the ugly duckling

ok i hate this story. i know its badly written, but it was a little therapeutic for me to write it. it was intially a lot longer, and rambled on a lot more about the weird clique-ish "friends", and on the general manic obsessive thought patterns of the awkward adolescent, but i've skipped that because it became boring.

The music is deafening. The wooden floor throbs, vibrations pulsing though to her brain. Her hearing’s been numb for hours. She sighs, then quickly sucks in her stomach again. Her borrowed top would split at the seams if she relaxed (her damn chest is bigger than her friend’s). She has to make sure the top doesn’t ride up from the front though. The zip at the front of her pants turns neon white in the black light. Her mother’s slightly loose shoes make it impossible to move her feet in time to the rhythm. Thank GOD the sixties style is back, or she’d have to wear her flats, which would have been much worse. She discreetly tugs her bra (it was new) but the straps were loose. The granny panties help in sucking in her stomach though. She wistfully looks at her beautiful friends. She wishes she could own clothes like theirs (straight out of teen magazine), but her family spends all their holidays with her grandmother in stupid Lahore.

She sees the class 7 “hunk” pass by in his low slung leather pants and his Valentino shirt. Her heart sinks a little at how good he looks. She feels even more gauche and awkward. She knows that he’d never even give her a second look. He sidles past, through the little gap between her and her friends. He flips them a little hello. They all stare for a second, giggle in unity and say hi back. She feels fat and awkward, and doesn’t say anything because he's dissected the group and has his back to her. Why was he being so rude?
She notices who’s behind him only when he’s almost on top of her. She stifles a groan. “Hi! I’ve been looking for you the whole night! You look beautiful!” She can see her friends snickering behind his back. They get a hello from the most beautiful male on earth, and she gets accosted by his friend. He’s standing too close, she can’t breathe because of his cologne. She can see bits of the fuzz on the side of his lip that he’s missed. She feels like pushing him away, but there isn’t room. A sheen of sweat dots his upper lip. She notices his ears stick out a little, like her cousin's. She suddenly feels desperately sorry for the poor boy, and how scary it must be for him. She smiles at him, but then notices her friends have almost doubled over with laughter. She doesn’t know exactly what they’re laughing at, but she knows it's probably some mean comment about him and her, probably about sitting in a tree or something. She wishes she could change the topic because the poor boy is looking extremely embarrassed, and (even in the dark) his ears are beginning to turn red. He reminds her of her little brother suddenly, who looks like that when he says something he doesn't know is stupid and all the grownups laugh at him. She tells him that she'll dance with him at a better song (to spare him from asking her). Then she turns her back to him and faces her giggling friends, desperately tries to change the topic. She notices that the cute senior they’d noticed at the entrance was coming to their side of the room, and tells them. It works, and they forget about laughing at her.
Unfortunately, the cute senior comes straight for her and asks her to dance. She feels like crying because he didn't ask her friends too, and if she made the mistake for going alone with him they wouldn't talk to her for weeks (for being a bad friend). She tells the cute senior she hates the song and quickly turns her back.
Three boys who's parents rent apartments in London with her friends' parents come by. They don't bother saying hi to her because she told one of them she wouldn't go to the last party with him. Her friends drag her onto the dance floor with them though.

She suddenly notices the time. She almost falls over on the floor. She quickly says bye, then RUNS (loose shoes and neon zip and all) out the house, through the lawn, through the massive driveway to the gate, just in time to stop the bouncer from going in and announcing to everyone her mother is here to pick her up and could she please come to the gate. She jumps in the rattling car, prays no one will be coming out to notice her leaving.

Her mother, clueless, is happily humming along to the tape.
"Did you have fun sweetie?"

diamonds are forever?

(stupid link isn't posting as hypertext):

"You're in the market for a sweet-talking, smooth-moving, fit Casanova. This hottie knows exactly what to do and say in any situation. He's quite the charmer. Put him in a room, and everyone flocks to him. He's quick-witted, incredibly stylish, and runs with the right crowd. Is this man ever left waiting in a queue? Not a bit of it. Does he look as though he just stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine? Always. This super-suave man is not only a laugh to be around, but he's part of the coolest scene. Whether it's a trendy restaurant or the hottest new club, your man is there. He's a real ladies man. When you're around him, you feel as though you're the centre of the universe. This hip, fit man has got the slick moves and smart lines that keep you coming back for more!"

this is inspired by the comment suggesting men like this can be bought for a couple of lacs. anyone want to apply? i know a client interested in above specs :)

on guilt, disillusion and somesuch sentiments

i had to get up, have a bottle of blood wrested away from the gross spot on my arm, had to take a crap into a plastic cup and pee (midstream) into a bottle, and then had to deal with the rest of the business in a disgusting bathroom i couldn't even LOOK at. there was obviously no toilet paper, and the blue harpic bottle on the counter that said "leave specimen here" blurred in and out of focus as i contemplated the sadism of fasting and then giving blood.
then came the wonderful experience of dealing with HR morons on the phone about the case of the lost chest xray, and then it was my turn for an ECG. i had all my metal wrestled off me, ("gold is not a metal, you can leave it on" said the extremely well informed technician who had indubitably inflicted her wisdom on a million ECG's yet), and had to have my poor ribs molested by some chatty chick who knew all about my life by the end of it.
my parents missed their morning gym routine for me (guilt number 1), without even asking (they were in their gym cothes and everthing - SO cute). i came home after it was over to drop my mom off (i take her with me as a moral support/verbal punching bag to these occasions - guilt 2), to find my poor cook sweltering in the sun outside the gate, (my dad made him stand there and wait for us) to give me my orange juice box (guilt number 3). my mother insists i come in and eat a sandwich, so i - in a foul mood - do as she says. wait ten minutes (tick tock, an hour late for work - guilt 4), and then comes this beautiful three layer artistic concoction (my mother is a bit like Bree from desperate housewives) with protien, grain, carbs all healthily encased in it. its really nice of her - as usual - and i take a bite but SPIT it out because it has sandwich spread somewhere in it (i can TASTE IT). vomit.
so guilt 5, i have a tantrum, refuse to eat the damn sandwich and its disgusting, fattening, mayo filled secret ingrediant, and storm out. i forget that i'm supposed to leave the driver at home (the bloody fool is sitting in the back seat and i don't even notice he's there), so now my dad will have to find parking on his own when he goes for the meeting (guilt 6). the driver will have to sit in the sun somewhere in the parking lot (guilt 7) for the next four hours till i leave for my lunch plan.
i hate mornings. i hate medicals. i hate the bandaid on my arm, my genreal wooziness because i still haven't eaten after losing my pint of blood (seriously) and i also hate the deep ancient guilt my parents can evoke in me like a sore tooth.
i'm flying out tomorrow, won't be in the city for another week.
happy mothers day mom.

Thursday, May 05, 2005

I am now the proud owner of the earrings I nearly orgasmed over (on the trip I accidently stole the bracelet). What is it about diamonds that is so much hotter than any man?

Tuesday, May 03, 2005

Indocti discant et ament meminisse periti

She was sitting in her study having her afternoon tea amid her books and cats, when the fax came in.
“Darling, I’ll be in Fiji when you get this. I’m not coming back. Don’t come after me.”
She stares at it for a few seconds longer than necessary, then goes to his bedroom, unlocks his left bed side drawer, takes out the pistol. There is a rude bang, then a ruder shock, then blessed blackness.

I enter the room late, my eyes are swollen from fever, exhaustion and too much caffeine, and everyone in the meeting turns to stare. He pauses mid-drone for a split second of relief, then continues his presentation.

“Mommy mommy! There’s a man at the door, he says your name is Sarah. I told him he was a stupid head, your name is mommy.”
“Darling, I told you not to talk to strangers, let Beth answer the door.” She goes over to the foyer, and the maid is letting him in. She pauses, a greeting frozen on her lips, lungs freezing in recognition. The twelve steps she has to walk to the door suddenly disappear, and she’s there, right in front of him, then she’s in his arms.
“Mommy! Why are you hugging a strange man! I’m going to tell daddy!”

I snap to attention at the question addressed to me. I shuffle through my papers busily, and say “Do you want X or Y?” I say, shooting blind, because I haven’t heard anything. I hope the man to my left can’t see the doodles in the place where my notes should be. I give the answer, the meeting ends, and we all shuffle to the backlog of immense piles of paperwork.

She’s in an alleyway, its dark. She’s on her knees, screaming. There’s blood spreading beneath him, too much, too fast. The man in grey, the one who shot him, is long gone. She should run, she should try to get away. She knows she only has seconds. But she has to tell him, so she ignores the footsteps hurrying on the pavement. “Darling, darling! They said I had no choice! They have her!! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Then arms are grabbing her, cold steel manacling her wrists, face shoved into the concrete, into his blood. They hit her hard on the back of her neck, she feels a sting of a needle, and then nothing. Mommy! Mommy! Are the last shrieks she hears.

The screen blurs in front of me, the dull ache at the base of my spine spreads slowly upwards. I hit print, the writeup finally done, and put the papers in my out tray and breath a sigh of relief so I can finally head home.

He’s supposed to ignore her, just plant the device in her jacket pocket, then rendezvous with her husband later. Her husband dealt with the business, she was just a carrier. But for some reason, he fumbles at the last second, and she looks up at his startling grey eyes.

They meet again later, as he hides in the trunk of her car as they cross borders. Moonlit nights and furtively exchanged code words, and she almost giggles at how theatrical it all is if it wasn’t so serious.
They laugh plenty later. Laugh irreverently at the irony of having met because of him. Laugh in a bed stolen from a loveless marriage of convenience. Laugh at necessities and promises of youth. Their moments apart become more and more like voids of waiting till they meet up again. Life turned to grey and breath eagerly anticipating mingling with each other in stolen secrecy. The Assignments became more and more difficult to handle because the more they were apart the more they yearned for one another, and the more reckless they became.

I walk on the pavement, and it feels odd not to take a car. The night air is crisp, and stings my nose and cheeks as I huddle into my coat. I stare at the sidewalk as street lamps phase in and out as my boots rhythmically stamp the concrete on my way home.

Was it recklessness or love? Or both? Or was it just burnout, just an escape from the hell they routinely put themselves through for their country? Why had he suddenly learnt to fear the bombs and the snipers, and why did every prayer start with her face and every night end with a silent kiss across the night to her lips?
Why was he standing on her doorstep when he knew it would kill both of them? Why was he selfishly putting her in danger, just because he couldn’t live for another second without holding her, without loving her, without sharing the rest of his life with her, country and agency and secrets be damned?

And he knocks, and a little girl with his grey eyes and black hair stands at the door, and his breath freezes and knees feel weak. And then he knows why he came back.

I open the front door, and don’t bother turning on the lights. The memories wait in lighted corners and I avoid them and scuttle in the darkness to my bedroom and pray for oblivion.

She cautiously decides to meet him again. She’s been dead so long, she needs him to make her live again. Cozy evenings in stolen restaurants and hotel rooms hours out of the way of ordinary life.
The little girl is like him in so many ways. Already at ten, her grey eyes hold his secrets. So grownup she’s almost frightening sometimes..

And then one day she comes home to disaster. They’ve taken away her life, her baby, her only link to him.
A voice on the phone tells her what to do.
She does what they say.
But, even as she betrays her one and only love, she manages to whisper and tell him where to go. Where he will be safe, where he can grow old happy, and she can live knowing that he is alive and well in some corner of the world. She knows she will never share it with him, because she loves him too much, and he husband loves her too much to let her go. The eternal power struggle.
One day, when the child some of age, she tells her. Tells her the secret she has so long harbored, awaiting the time when there can be a memory shared, of one to tell of the memory, and another to hear of it, so that he may live again.

I avoid my eyes in the mirror. The grey is bloodshot, my hair stark black again the pallor of my skin. How long can I live with the knowledge? I look at my face, and remember the man who ruined my family. I stare at my face, as always, and try in vain to find some trace of the brown chocolate gaze and silver hair of the man I truly loved as my father. The bathroom mirror disappoints me once again. My father is gone, and only I am to blame. I look at myself, and see the guilt claw its way through my veins, and I know its only a matter of time before it consumes me.

She was sitting in her study having her afternoon tea amid her books and cats, when the fax came in.
“Darling, I’ll be in Fiji when you get this. I’m not coming back. Don’t come after me.”
She stares at it for a few seconds longer than necessary, then goes to his bedroom, unlocks his left bed side drawer, takes out the pistol. There is a rude bang, then a ruder shock, then blessed blackness.

Monday, May 02, 2005

Caffeine high and no where to go

the white spaces on web pages are still coming up as grey, and its one more day where i lose my battle with demotivation. my boss can see my screen from where i sit, but i don't care. after five days of spinning out my work much longer than it should last, in redoing all my filing, in checking all my emails and rereading all my blog posts, i return to swatting this one pesky fly that my slightly unhygienic but really nice cubicle sharing person has attracted.
everyone else in the world is busy, and i'm the only idiot in this bustling city who is getting paid to do nothing, and hating it.
i hate having only little insignificant things to do. i'm scared of starting them and having them finish too soon. i hate it. but not enough to actually ask for work, because this little interlude hasn't lasted long enough for me to be masochistic. its a waiting game, me and my boss playing chicken, but i'm going to break down and beg her to let me run her errands soon. someone stop me.

Sunday, May 01, 2005

sunday has almost ended, the hatred of monday has already begun. the dream has almost faded, and i sit in the ever present wind, and my heart hurts in memory.

the insanity spills over into the week, the sameness of work looms, the never ending project deadline filled days continue relentlessly, and slowly i lose the numbness despite higher and higher doses of caffiene.

there has to be more somewhere out there. there has to be a third alternative.

i think i should be careful what i wish for.

can i scrounge together an ounce of remose for one more dead person? for one more tragedy, for one more torn apart dream and family and lovers. how many more must there be before we realize?
every saturday party seems to be the only one happening in karachi, and unfortunately that means running into the "yuppie" crowd from the social pages. my biggest fear is that i'll accidently be included in the social pages pictures, and then either be labelled "[insert not so famous name here] and guest" (the "and guest" being me). "and guest" is the biggest insult possible, its like saying "yes we have no idea why this weirdo is in the pic, but we can't cut him/her out, and so we're just going to label him/her as the faceless non entity that they are". or even worse, i'll be in the background (so i literally won't even come into the picture) but my absolutely straight unspiked drink in my hand would gain all sorts of sinister connotations when viewed by all and sundry relatives and housewives poring over the Pages every Sunday.
they've been trying to set me up with S since New Years. from Z (at one end of my acquaintanceship spectrum), to M of my college buddy days. Z and M don't even know each other, but they both mutually think this dude is "it" for me (whatever). i've been avoiding him entirely, because any decision i make will jepordize my friendship with either one of these girls, and i really don't want to bother.

usually getting dressed gets me in the party mood. I love it, I love my scanty party tops, I love wearing high high heels, I love putting on make up. The more naked the top, the sexier I feel. Its my one way of showing the finger to society, it’s the one way I can break social convention and toss away my full sleeved shalloo work clothes and still not fuck up my lungs or screw my liver.
i was wearing a backless shirt today, and it was shiny and silver. When I first bought it, I tried it on and modelled it in my room every day for a week (it’s SUCH a fun top). Was having an ok-yet-slightly-bored time, S my apparent soul mate was one of the organizers and so was pretty much stuck on bouncer duty (the WHOLE night). T and M wanted to leave early, so MAA volunteered to do driver duty. Except instead of dropping me home (I was last) he kidnapped me, and took me back to the party, and refused to leave until he had danced his high away. And even then, when we were sweaty and exhausted, some idiot handed him a cigar and so I had to sit with him while he smoked it. I was thoroughly entertained by the sheer numbers of pathetic people lining the driveway, wrestling to get in. occasionally some drunk moron locked outside would run screaming through the crowd and toss himself over the gate, or the wall, and then S and his buddies would all intently chase him down and toss the poor sucker right back out on wounded dignity.

We were finally ready to leave (well I was at any rate, forced him to drop me home), and we were leaving, and passed poor S battling back the sea of humanity trying to roll into the vacuum we left. I paused to give him a “oh poor you, don’t envy your job, good luck”, and I can’t begin to describe the look on the poor guy’s face. I don’t even think he heard what I was saying, he just looked at me, with this crap-I-HATE-this-I-wish-I-was-with-you look. I didn’t know whether to laugh or not, so I just said good luck again. Even when MAA behind me came up and thumped his shoulder, wished him luck, and shook his hand goodbye, he was still looking at me. I walked through the driveway (MAA’s sheer size creating a wake I was following), I sneaked a look behind, and some guard was shaking S's arm trying to say something to him, but S was still just standing there, a little dumbstruck, still looking.
it was a little strange actually. I don’t know what to make of it. does he or doesn't he?