yummy

my new passion is Lays. salt and vinegar. the green ones. yummy.

going at midnight for the third time to the supermarket just to pick them up. and getting noodles, pancake mix, shower scrub and new shower gel in the process. yummy.

of standing at the cashier insisting on paying myself, having a six year old little girl looking at me in total wonderment, amazed at my credit card, car keys and ability to buy groceries at midnight all alone. with an expression of awe, and an almost disbelief that she could ever achieve such great heights one day too.

back rubs are yummy too.
snuggling under covers, warmth against cold AC air. jean clad legs intermingling, naked arms intertwining to shut out the artificial cold. yummy.

stepping outside into ever present restless wind, whipping hair into eyes as ears adjust to the sound of the sea.

feeling sand sinking ankle deep.

sitting in a board room, kneeling incongruously on the alien floor only ever stepped on before, leaning into the silent stand, bend, stand, kneel of prayer. sitting for a stolen ten minutes of a crushing brutal rapacious day. watching out of floor to ceiling windows from the top floor while squatting in reflection, looking at balcony plants being torn by the wind outside. hypnotized by the serenity of the wharf as a seagull arcs over a boat buffeted at its standstill. wrapped on a ray of rare pale sunlight in utter silence, eternity poised in the restless wind.

i had a dream. in a giant cafeteria looking out onto a huge green valley, complete with rainforest blanketing the mountain sides and a waterfall and snaking river off into the far distance.

of being in heaven before life started. of sitting on a long table with all of humanity on it. opera in the background. starting and stopping like musical chairs. the objective being to hold hands in the split seconds of silence, and hold onto two partners for the rest of the song, for the rest of life. of watching mesmerized the ocean of criss crossing hands. of reaching forward in the next silent gap, and latching both hands onto him.
of the archangel himself pausing at the incongruity. at the ingeniousness of humanity. how can someone change the rules and just hold onto one person? he’s more conventional, holding onto two. the music restarts, too late to change, all eggs in one basket.
the opera reaches its crescendo, the people stir, awaiting the next change. she waits poised, but notices he isn’t looking at her. he’s struggling, but his attention is waning, eaten by the other hand he’s holding. he’s going to leave her. she who broke convention never broken by humanity before, broke it for him. she weeps, and he weeps for her.

when the music changes, he changes hands.

she wakes.

making hay

for Z: i can't help it.

i’m bored. i stifle a yawn. then turn to my favorite pastime of late. i look casually over to the head of the bed.
his hair is a little sweaty, and rumpled adorably. sitting from my vantage point, I can sneak a look at his face, and something about the pleasing set of dark eyebrow against pale tanned skin makes my heart give just a little skip.
he’s stretched out against the headboard, intently watching his Discovery behind my head somewhere to the side. I sit at the foot of the bed, our legs mixing at the knee at a perpendicular.
he suddenly notices me looking and I’m a little embarrassed at being caught. but then his gaze meets mine, and he does that look. like he knows.
how does he do that?
“Can you change the channel please?” I say out of the sheer awkwardness. and, well, because I want the channel changed.
he looks a little surprised. “But, but….baby! that the gobbeldygook car being blahdiblahdiblah car made in lalalala car land”. his hands gesticulate in excitement as he says "car". he looks hopeful, and tries to find a similar spark in me. his eyes flick longingly back to the TV.
I keep looking at him.
he looks at the TV. and then he looks at me. and then his eyes soften just a bit. he sighs. then hands me the remote.

I happily flick to BBC/star world/channel V/comedy channel. the sun is shining.

j'adore.

a whole new can of fuck up

i don’t want to wear your tshirt to sleep today. i don’t want to wear the clothes i’m wearing right now. i want to jump in burning hot running water and scrub the humiliation, embarrassment and stupidity off myself.

i can only wonder WHY i sadomasochistically choose to stay in a relationship that is making me feel so bad about myself.

i don’t know how to deal with you when you get upset. i can’t, i can’t open my mouth and allow the smooth oily words you want to hear to pop out like giant regurgitated pills.

and when i stare at you miserably and try to make fumbling apologies that involve me verbally prostrating myself before you, and you continue to look stonily unmoved, i feel helpless with lack of knowledge on what to say or do.

and in that ocean of not knowing anything and fumbling around in the dark, i do know one thing. any longer, and i’m not going to take it. i do know, that if we continue like this, no, if you continue to be like this, get hung up on stupid unimportant things, and make me miserable and teary and get satisfaction out of my misery, i will end this.
these are not the foundations lasting relationships are made on.
make your choice.

happy pre-valentines week to you too.

happy valentines day

he tiptoes in holding his shoes in his hand. the dog gives a little whimper, then continues to sleep.
he slowly opens the door.

the lamp is on throwing the room into a pale yellow glow. shadows everywhere. he looks around, hoping she’s not awake and waiting, and hence angry.
he notices the blanket askew, and figures she’s gone to sleep. he heaves a sigh of relief. guiltily promises to come home early the next week, after the project is launched.

she’s curled on the bed, arms incongrously flung in childish abandon of sleep. he strips down to his boxers, too tired to change. he snuggles into her warmth, and as always, even in her sleep she curls into his side in perfect harmony. he kisses her forehead fondly.

suddenly he notices her lacy lingre. a small part of her notices how deliciously sexy she looks.
red lingre? alarm bells go off in his brain. he fumbles for his PDA, and sure enough his calender schedule says valentines day in a bright red capital letters.

fuck.

sexual healing

relationships with a U rating are painful for several reasons:
(EFFECT 1)
manifested upon (i) the people in the relationship themselves
manifested through (i) fights, racy banter, physically violent reactions to otherwise normal stimuli (wresting match over who gets the last toothpick anyone?)
cause: acute sexual frustration.

(EFFECT 2)
manifested upon (i) loved ones of the people in the relationship
effects (i) excruciatingly embarrassing moments of being part of a third wheel while other two cuddle at the drop of a hat (that chair can only seat ONE, people!), watching while the couple dances slowly to fast songs, being part of a dinner table conversation where the couple ignores you but stares at each other instead
cause: acute sexual frustration

(EFFECT 3)
manifested upon (i) random innocent bystanders near the people in the relationship
effects (i) physically nauseating innuendo filled conversations, surreptitious hand holding and inappropriate footsie playing
cause: acute sexual frustration

moral of the story: after the legal age of fifteen, parents should give children an exclusive annex of their own where they can run wild with no supervision. a box of condoms and a birthing video can also be supplied to health safety and sanity reasons.

me

i hate her. i hate her because she’s stupid. because she’s dumb. because she’s rigid. because she’s cheap. because she’s embarassing and idiotic and doesn’t read and doesn’t understand me.

i hate her because she’s a know it all. i hate her because she preaches and knows what she wants and likes interacting with people and has great social skills.

i hate her because she’s childish and stupid, and hates pakistan, and seems to have regressed since i last saw her. i hate her because she makes mylife seem pathetic and stupid, i hate her because she doesn’t understand and doesn’t bother to.

i hate her because she’s too stupid to understand that she has a good thing going. that she has a great life going. because she’s too stupid to make the most of herself. she’s too lazy to make the most of her potential. she’s too lazy to get the energy to work at her job like she wants to, shes too irresponsible and she’s completely floating through life with no direction and no idea where she wants to go or where she wants to be. she ends up doing things other people tell her, which isn’t what she wants at all, but she can’t seem to intelligently get out of the traps she lets herself and just crashes and makes an idiot out of herself and is unprofessional. she’s stupid because she thinks too much. because she can’t express herself and it kills her from the inside. she hates herself, she hates everyone around her who she thinks should understand her enough to save her from explaining herself. she hates herself for her inability to have the energy, conviction or the skill to debate anything with anyone to show them her point of view. i hate this one the most.

When I was around eight, our class teacher made us do this exercise one language class. She said we could write any three things about one person from the class, bad or good.
After a lot of struggle and pencil sharpening and erasing, we were all finally done. Even Turhan had finished. We all had bones to pick with someone or the other. What a great opportunity to legitimately voice them.

We all read out our essays.

They were hilarious. Everyone had a ball giggling on the criticisms of their classmates. Then one boy stood up. His name started with a U so he was towards the end. He didn’t have too many friends, and actually was the son of some teacher, which was probably how he could afford the tuition. His bags were always local and way uncool, and his shoes had the terrible worn out look of hand me downs. Social suicide to a eigth year old.

His essay was different in two ways. One, he had written about a girl who was his friend. Second, he spoke about three good things instead of bad.

He was the only one in the class to do so either.

I remember briefly pausing a moment in awe. In awe of his indifference to social custom, in awe of his ability to just say exactly what he felt like saying without worrying about which classmates would laugh at him. In awe because it was so many years before teenage rebellion would become cool. But that was just a moment. The snickers started, then the teasing, then the “X & U, sitting on a tree, K.I.S.S.I.N.G”. he had tears in his eyes before home time that day.

Many many many years too late, I salute him. I’m sorry U.

i will survive

i don’t have enough friends to host a party. thank god. the small talk alone to sustain a small get together would kill me. or drive me to drink. or something.

i walk up the steps into a veranda. the fairy lights are up, the people are quarter way through the bar stockpile, and the hum of general conversation is well underway. glittering strangers.

i grab my champagne flute of juice, and try walking up the steps to the dance floor, but get waylaid by a couple from work. we schmooze about this and that, she name drops and i smile and grit my teeth.

i’m on my fourth group of schmoozers, when it happens. through the melee of people, i see him. conversation blends in, lights blur, and i almost choke on cranberry and preservative. his hair is still standing up rebelliously. he’s holding a glass, talking to a couple of investment bankers we invited at last minute. theres a woman with him.
wife? girlfriend? mistress?
when sound returns to my ears, i hear the end of a sentence on tax reforms and the patriot act not being renewed at congress.

i leave early that night. i’ll make my excuses the next monday.

we are pathetic, apathetic, self hating single brained fragile fools. we rip open our souls and beg for company, beg for solace, prostrate our prostrates in the hope for salvation.

and we face moments of such profound lonliness that they cripple us.

in a crowded room, amid the hubbub of background chatter. in a bed watching tv with roaming hands, talking quietly shutting the world out for a few stolen hours. on an old sofa talking with a parent at the end of busy day, civility barely leashed with each lash of a bitter word that widens the gap of miscomunication and intolerance. in a restaurant talking to a potential man to marry, watching a beloved adopted brother interrogate and dismiss a poor wishy washy ambitionless man with no calling in life and no verbal skills whatsoever.

these moments sneak up and remind us that our lives are empty and meaningless, that we’re lost in the dark and will never find our way, that for every one step forward there are fifty crevices to fear.

but they are just that. moments. the clock ticks past, and we blink away our moements of mortality. we snap out of it, ignoring the gaping chasms that sit like pink elephants on our chests. we pick up the threads on conversation lost in our musings, we continue to thrust tongues into hidden crevices, and wind up lost causes and move on. and in that very facet of denial, is our greatness.

Saturday night

i have a couple of sketches I need to complete. I have a report I need to proof read. I have a campaign I need to design so fast it should have been completed a month ago. I need to order my mercahndizing material so that I don’t get raped in this strategy meeting with the sales teams.

My mother has gone psycho. She gets like this whenever the usual fathomless lake of miscommunication between us deepens to an ocean.

She did this before college. Post a-levels. We had all postponed vacations abroad because that’s where we were leaving for in two short months for a future none of us knew about. it had been a year on insane pressure of deadlines and aps and exams and rejections and acceptances. It was a time to rejoice, to heave a sigh of relief over futures secured and a sigh of nostalgia of pasts that would be forgotten. That summer was when everyone let loose. The moon shone, we met up hungrily, craving company in haunts where we knew we ruled, knowing that in the coming months the torch would be passed on and we would be gone, never to hear echoes of our superiority and ubiqitous-ness of youth again. we partied into the wee hours, desperately seeking to silent the nagging voices of nostalgia and fear, desperate to enhance that small niggling spar of excitement of futures unknowns and promises of futures to begin.

She hated it. and a small teenaged part of me still thinks she hated me. a larger part acknowledges the grey of adult decisions.

then came the ocean of sleepless, stress crazed, near suicidal wandering. a deluge of essay writing and assignment and final week after final week, drenching me in reality as i knew it, isolating me, flaying me to the bone till i whimpered and prayed for santuary.

i managed to crawl back. without a tear, head flung back with stubborn pride as always, clutching tight my cloak of denial. Then came my hermit days, and my i-love-my-suffocating-home-i-have-no-life-I-will-unhealthily-try-to-kill-myself-with-familial-bonding.

Then I told her about him. She seemed ok with it, but we were only going out with friends (because we had no where else to go) or driving around with a city to chaperone us. She still called me and had me home before midnight.

Now our lives have parted, homes shifted, priorities and mind games changed. I’m old now. I pay bills and manage bank accounts that I put my own money into. I handle billion rupee portfolios and bitchslap men older than me by decades on a daily basis. I drive to places she’s never seen or heard of, I do things she will never understand. She talks to me about boys to marry to try to trap me into admitting I love someone else, she tries to drop me to places when she thinks I’m trying to seek away to someone elses house. She’s never tried to be my friend, her stubborn rigid paindu hicktown morals trying to beat me with self righteousness over a generation gap.

It’s a time when girls’ parents are often out of town, where indifferent servants retire early and leave the front gate unguarded to indifferent eyes. It’s a time when boys’ parents move away and leave homes and brothers un-chaperoned, and girls routinely go over and bum around ignoring friends and watching tv.

It’s a time that heralds change. It’s a time when things have built to a point where there is no other place to go but shoot out breaking glass hymens of roofs that threaten to smother with protection.

Its time. Its Saturday night.

In the city by the sea

it hurts. digging in till you're wrist deep in ribs hurts.
you twist and turn and struggle with effort, and then there's a huge gaping splcuk sound and your ribcage heaves open and lo behold there lies the black cavernous heart thumping, bloody, bruised veins popping with the exertion of living.
and you hold it open for him.
he reaches in, with such slow movement that the wait and yearning is almost painful. your breath catches at contact of fingertip with heart.
the fingertip, it reaches through. slowly, carefully.
and your heart, it hurts after such a long time.
blood seeps through the gap. you weep.
you lie in bed alone at night, yearning.
you remember radha and krishna, and understand why radha means longing.
-------
you're both standing in line, you're mentally replaying the order in your mind and calculating how much change you'll probably get. you're holding your wallet in your hand, tapping your leg in impatience. the woman ahead of you seems to be six feet tall, and has the most beautiful children. you suddenly glance over to him, and he seems hypnotized by something. you follow his gaze to your wallet. puzzled, you look at him, but he ignores you.
he reaches forward, slowly, with a fingertip, oblivious to the TV over his head showing some Oxfam woman giving a speech.
he reaches past the wallet stuck in midair in your hand, past your fingertips, and toward the white city fm 89 bracelet on your wrist. you look at his hand as it almost reverently reaches past the bracelets nestled on your wrist, and touches your arm as if its the most fragile thing in the world. as if you're a china figurine, as if you'll suddenly break and shatter and he'll wake up.
he's not breathing. neither are you. one finger touches the arm that’s stuck in mid air that you can't seem to move, touches it as if to see if you're real. as if to test the color of your skin and see if it'll rub off.
"EXCUSE ME PLEASE" the guy behind the cash register says.
you both jump, you guiltily snatch your wrist away and you both step forward and he turns his attention to the guy to order.
you try not to notice the smirks.
-----

he sits splayed across a narrow leather sofa, the concealed light in the wood beam throwing shadows of his eyelashes on his cheekbones. he reaches for his phone, nonchalantly chomping on the red thing they give you mix coffee, and leans over and proudly and shows you a video he took with his phone when you weren't looking.
you're playing back on a screen, intent on your phone, your hair splayed across his chest in a way you don't remember in your mind. he has to lean really close to show it to you, because he's afraid you'll grab his phone and delete that awful clip he took of you saying he was right.
you have to look, and then blink at the mutually embarrassed look you share in a restaurant full of people you momentarily forgot about.
------

you sit in a new restaurant with a friend from childhood you haven't seen in months. the noise and smoke level is horrific, and the waiter is stupider than ever. your sunglasses are on your head and your friend is bitching out work while sipping her vile glass of Perrier. you take a bite of the fish, and suddenly remember him holding your feet in the car to warm them up, and the delicious curl of your stomach flipping at unexpected heat. your friend gives you a strange look, and you suddenly snap to attention and have to make the prerequisite hums and haws of sympathy.
------

you sit awake at night. unable to sleep.
so you write.

shaken

There were tremors in Karachi as well. It seemed appropriate, because how could a city a thousand miles from the epicenter remain unshaken by the tragedy?

Places have stopped accepting volunteers. The first day when no one knew about the PAF, it was merely disorganized. With the onslaught of teenage and twenty somethings it became a full blown mela with 800 people standing around doing nothing. Then the boredom set in, and the ass pinching and butt groping began. People began to get hungry and eat rations from the donation boxes.
I signed up for a waiting list at the TCF. They have too many people, they don’t want to be swamped with bodies they can’t handle. So I keep giving money, to anyone who would ask in the hope that it will help.
I gave blood, all the while feeling sick with the knowledge that they had no refrigeration to keep the blood of the 500 people they were collecting it from, and that they had no refrigerated trucks to transport the blood to the quake effected areas. That they probably didn’t have all the needles they required and were clearly reusing them. I gave it anyway, and then blacked out at the ATM and then again at sehri the next day. I’d never given blood before.

There are too many lootings, too much anger, too many predators taking advantage of what they perceive as weakness. Shopkeepers raising supplies of medicines, rations and kafans, people looting homes vacated after tremors. Quake effectees robbing trucks before they reach their destinations. People continuing to spend thousands on one meal at restaurants and plan their Saturday nights not shaken by the earthquake that seems too far away.

This is a mess of our own making. We have raised these ass groping, myopic, unidealistic mercenaries because we have been apathetic about social reform. We have raised generations without teaching them right from wrong. We haven’t taught them that queues are civilized, that helping others in need is good, that dirt is bad, that what’s wrong is wrong. This is a failure of people who know better. This is our fault.

I leave for Islamabad tonight. And like when I was giving blood, I know it won’t help. The roads are bad, there is no transportation, and once you get there, there are no supplies or places to stay or things to eat for your relief efforts to be sustainable. They need able bodied men right now, or doctors; people who can carry goods and help people. They don’t need a woman from Karachi who blacked out twice the day before and is there just because she’s held helpless by conscience.

meeting twain

She bends over the sink and busily scrapes the brush across her teeth, lathering the bright blue gel into a cheery foam that drips down her chin. She notices a bright stripe of red that has gushed across the white froth just as she openes her mouth to spit out.
She coorlies and then opens her mouth and watches the water curl into the drain, making sure she keeps tapping her foot on the orange tiles hoping the vibrations keep the cockroaches at bay.
She gathers the trickles of water from the tap into her hands, and then splashes it onto her face. She puts a tiny amount of the pot of cream onto her cheeks, and then wiggles into her comfortable see-through cotton shawar kameez, adjusting the AC vents so that the blast isn’t directly on the bed. She goes out to get a last drink of mineral water from the fridge perched in their sitting room, and then puts her head into her parents room and says “shabbakhair”.
She makes sure there aren’t any stray mosquito’s to torture her in the middle of the night, and then shuts the light.
She says her ayat-ul-kursi (to ward off bad dreams and what not) as she snuggles into bed, and falls blissfully asleep.

************

Shes talking on the cordless as she watches TV standing in her loft as as she brushes her teeth, and then neatly spits and gargles into the convenient kitchen sink just outside the bedroom partition. She fills a glass with tap water and takes a drink, and then walks over to her bedroom and strips down to a tank top, then hunts around the newly laundered basket and snuggles into fresh boxers.

She hangs up after making plans for next weekend. She slathers her face in night cream, puts eye pads on her eyes, and collapses amid the dirty clothes scattered on her bed, and falls blissfully asleep.

Sometimes. All the time.

I hate you, I hate me. I hate the world. I hate my parents, and even though I thought I’d never live out this cliché sometimes I hate you too God. I’m sorry. I hate myself.

Hate is a strong word. “I’ve never hated anything you know? We haven’t felt fucking life. The strongest thing I hate now is that bastard for giving me a A- because he doesn’t like me”.
I have no strong emotions in this diluted grey washed out one-deadline-to-the next life I have. I have no energy, I have no friends, I have no time.

Every morning I lie in bed and half asleep I think if I could only wake up now and go to work early then I’ll get the stuff done. Then theres the haze of existance and then I look up at the clock and damn its seven in the evening and I take work home in the hope that it’ll finish. I eat, and then I can’t bear the thought of staring at a screen so I watch a little TV and then I look at the clock and damn its 12 and its time to sleep. Where did two years go?
I have measured out my life in planner pages.

I stay awake long into the early morning hours. I can’t help it sometimes. I need to feel, I need to live, I need time, and the only way to catch up is to wind myself up till I crash and burn and then finally sleep in exhausted bliss. I need to feel. I need to drink, I need to dope, I need anything that will make me feel. Why do princeples remain behind when everything else has been leached away?

I hate you. sometimes. All the time.
I hate you for making me stay. I wanted to get out, i remember feeling the choking oppression. I don’t notice it anymore. I’ve forgotten what it felt like.
You’ve made me into this corporate whore. You made me a slave to evaluating every decision on the basis of a paycheck, you’ve made me sneer at people who still might have ideals (do people still have them? Yeah right). I hate myself for becoming the person I said I never would.
I hate you for your princeples. I hate you for your self sacrificial goodness and the silent fucking matyr you’ve tortured me with my whole life. I hate you for making me feel inadequate, for not doing the simples things you’ve done for me my whole life.

I hate you. I hate myself.

random self involved musings

Why do I look at you, and why can I imagine some perfect woman for you other than me? I can see you and this unknown woman as a pair; see you two have your first baby, see you buy your first house, see you send your first born to school for the first time. Its sad, because I envy that, I want that, and somehow I know its not with me, we’ll never have it together, with me you’ll just end up delaying your destiny, one of us will end up hurting further down a bitter path of resentment and misunderstanding.
I look at you, and I know you don’t see that now. But I’m used to that. You’ll see in time, and we’ll both pay the price, so its better if you to just leave now. Trust me on this one.

I gave in to self doubt once, and it wasn’t good. I didn’t mind the detour, he was so young and he had years and years before he stopped screwing around and actually found out who he was and what he wanted. When he used to talk about marriage and kids, I would just humor him and play along even though I didn’t see anything, deluding myself for just a small while, and it was nice being so uncharacteristic. When he would talk about ‘feelings’ and ‘where we were going’ I would avoid the conversations so blatantly that he started joking about the girl-guy role reversal in our relationship. I convinced myself it was because he was taking things too fast.

Do I, like everyone else, simply shut people out because they have the ability to hurt? To have expectations is only to be let down? Or is it something more perceptive, does it come from an innate knowledge of knowing people, of knowing myself, and knowing the absolute certainity of how it will end?

DAMN ii

this is the second time i re-write this so that i don't sound as obnoxious and shallow as last time. worldcall better comply

One of the first pioneers of my blog tagged me. So in the spirit of joie de vivre and fellow bloggership camaraderie I will commence:
(1) 5 years ago: first year college, sleep derived, deranged, derogatory (of life, people, naiveté, men and ideals)
discovered event management, forgot how to draw and write

(2) 1 year ago: first job, hating single digit IQ creep of a boss
still sleep deprived, deranged, and a little less derogatory
discovered retail therapy and decided life was worth living as long as clothes were being sold
forgot how difficult it is to be Alone

(3) 5 songs I know all the words to:
grade 5: ice ice baby
grade 8: Mr vain
o levels: macarena
a levels: bomboleo
college: we didn't start the fire

(4) Snacks I enjoy: strawberries (NO CREAM), dark chocolate, OPTP tangy fries, Tabasco straight from the bottle, carrots

(5) Spend a $100 million dollars on:
Clothes: $1m
shoes: $2.5 m
house: $30m (france, new york, london, italy, spain, pakistan)
cars: $1m (diablo, the yellow supercar, the green little car with the white stripe) :)
investments: $ 98m (microsoft, apple, yahoo, google, anything else my advisors suggest)

(6) 5 places I would run away to:
my bed
in case my bed isn't available: any place my parents are at
in case my parents aren't available: any place with books & a TV
in case books and a TV aren't available: any place with art supplies and a laptop
in case art supplies and a laptop aren't available: any place with a view

(7) 5 things I would never wear: thong, thong, thong, thong, shoulder pads (no connection to thong)

(8) 5 fav TV shows:
it would be easier to mention the TV i would never watch:
the bits in fear factor when they eat gross stuff
soap operas
texas lone ranger
anything with chuck walker

(9) 5 greatest joys: eating, reading, writing/painting, doing math, hugging someone i love

(10) 5 favorite toys: dinkies (sp? the toy cars), the car with the pedals i could sit in and drive, the toy kitchens that actually had running water, the barbie with the cinderella shoes, the hairdryer for barbies

(11) 5 people i'm tagging: hmMm the three people who read this blog have already been tagged. so anyone reading this who thinks they know who i am.. you're tagged :)

fuck

fuck blogger and fuck worldcall

updated

The story of Black and White

Black met White at a party. White was wearing something black and skimpy, and Black was wearing something gangster like in white. They ignored each other most of the evening, but looked up each other on orkut and decided that they were soulmates.
The scrapped each other for a couple of days, and then decided to get married.
Black got a red suit stitched for the occasion. White obviously wore red too.
They ended up living together and going to parties and theatres and plays and operas.

Then White got pregnant and so divorced Black.
Up till now everything had gone according to plan. They had reached all the right steps and done all the right things. They had made all the correct sacrifices to the rituals of the gods of Black and White.
But a terrible tragedy was about to hit the poor Black and White family.
The baby was born, and terribly, the baby was a shade of Grey.
Doctors and Nurses tried to explain to the bereaved divorcee that Grey sometimes happened. That plastic surgery might be able to fix it. White tried everything, but to no avail.
White tried to raise little Grey on her own, but it became too difficult, so she ended up in her White bathtub one evening several harsh years later, and slit her wrists till she sat in a pool of red.

Grey started living with Black, who was a father with a terrible anger management problem.

Finally she grew up one day and while waiting for her laser Whitening appointment met Dark Grey, and fell in love. They married and through genetic engineering had lots of Black babies and White babies, and only wore Black or White. Grey and Dark Grey eventually died, and the Black and White babies continued to live and procreate more Black and White babies who would grow up, fall in love, and wear Red on their weddings.

And so the circle completed, and balance was regained in the Black and White world.

rockstar INXS

(1) i don't know how Mig gets votes. i really don't. its one more piece of evidence of how mankind should never trust democracy to the masses because masses are stupid. only the intelligent elite should rule the earth.

(2) J.D epitomizes so many cliches. he's hot, and has a "bad boy image" that he first establishes and then feels he can tone down by playing up his family lovin side.
however, because he's so hot, anything he does comes across as phoney and over smooth. J.D. is the asshole you always want to date but maturity and experience teaches you to stamp out any such urges.

(3) Marty is - to put in politically incorrectly - ugly. but that really helps because his talent and brains are then taken to be the real mc coy. (JD might be able to sing (doubtful) but really.. can someone that good looking REALLY have talent?) he's the kind of guy you would never want to date but you would eventually want to marry when you reach a higher level of maturity.

who has my vote? its hard to tell... :) i'm bordering on immaturity and maturity