Teenage Dirtbag

I'm just a teenage dirtbag baby,

Like you.

We're all teenage dirtbags now. All of us, with our funny accents, big cars, designer labels, iPods, fast food, boyfriends, girlfriends, empty physicality and so much more that makes us all the same.

The same thoughts, the same ambitions, the same aspirations. As if the world really does revolve around whether or not you manage to get the latest whatever-it-is-that-you-want. It hits all of us. Even those of us who pretend to be disgusted by this breed, we're part of it and it does affect us. We start giving a damn about how ugly someone is, we like being vindictive, because of course, bitchy is the shit.

It's not other people's fault when they refuse to see you for what you are, and judge you instead by your possessions, because there is no you. You're just a jumble of stuff that you have, that you want, and at one point or another, you're the same. Because the lines intersect, and your material possessions are the same as other people's. Your conversations are empty, you talk about altering your noses, boobs, legs, whatever it is that can be altered, about snatching up a rich boy,like, asap, about how ugly some whore is, and about how not getting the latest mp3 player puts you in a life threatening situation.

You think you can buy the world with daddy's money, and you think it's enough to get you by without anything substantial in that pretty little head of yours, adorning the latest haircut which you managed to get for some 10000 rupees.

And daddy showers his riches on you. Do you ever wonder where daddy got them from?

You may not know the order of the alphabet, but you have the accent. Oh yes. The accent, the pretentious, I-don't-know-my-own-language accent. And even if you don't, there's other things that make you the same.

Stop dragging me with you into your materialistic little worlds of boyfriends and blowjobs, girls and how many you've fucked, how much designerwear you own, how SEXY your car is, how amazing you are, how much money your daddy gave you to celebrate your 18th birthday and so on.

I don't want any of it, I don't want to be part of you.

Just. Sod. Off.

Leave my brain be, you've wasted it enough already.

Back when I was a kid...

Sometimes I wish I had a twin. It would be nice to have someone to share with. Birthdays, clothes, thoughts, books, friends, secrets, everything. But then that little voice in my head cuts into my daydreaming and tells me I would not want to have a twin.

And I ask, why not?

It tells me it wouldn't be nice to share the attention, the secrets, the friends, because one always gets more than the other. Rule of nature, apparently. I don't want to believe this voice, because it's the voice that makes us feel better about what we are missing. By being bitter, by being blunt, by being downright annoying. It nags us till we think "oh screw that, I'm better off without it."

That is what The Voice does. But it is also my best friend. How do you tell your oldest friend to back out of your life, when that friend is in your head? Not in any imaginary alien form, not in any tangible form. Just there, floating between the emptiness that connects your mind and the rest of the universe. Pretentious much? I think not.

But yes, The Voice. So this voice thing/ person ( because that's how I think about it) and I had many conversations. When I was a lonely child roaming around in the garden of our old house ( which was big and prett) pretending to talk to flowers, midafternoon. The flowers were usually asleep back then, so I resorted to talking to The Voice, because it was awake, and because it wanted to argue. Or talk. It was then I wondered, as all lonely little children might everyonceinawhile, what was there before God was. And the voice cut in again, in it's characteristically bossy/smug tone, and said "Silly! God was ALWAYS there." And I used to wonder. What was this God person, and how could he/she/it have been around forever? And when there was nothing? And when there was nothing, what was there? Huge empty blackness? But if there was huge empty blackness, there was something. I would wonder endlessly till I had a headache and gave up. Eventually I stopped wondering, reflecting, thinking, because it gave me nothing but headaches. Blind faith took over instead.

And then, when i used to get tired of thinking about this God character and the Forever-ness, I used to think about mankind. Silly little things about ourselves. For instance, what if we were just a collection of thoughts floating about midspace. A big jumble of thoughts, which materialised into humans, but were actually just these cell-like dots, scattered around in the vastness of space. And what if the stars were clusters of dead thoughts, which returned to their original states and became grouped together in order to form a burial ground (sky, space?) of sorts for the dead-thoughts-that-were-once-people.

I don't make much sense. I never pretended to, pointlessness being my forte. But the thoughts in your head don't usually have to make sense when you're 10 and roaming around in the garden under the hot sun, all lonely and thoughtful.

yeah.
=)

When the words stop coming to you, do you go to them?

Shitty Fucking Shit Shit.

Art major Aliza Shvarts '08 wants to make a statement.Beginning next Tuesday, Shvarts will be displaying her senior art project, a documentation of a nine-month process during which she artificially inseminated herself "as often as possible" while periodically taking abortifacient drugs to induce miscarriages. Her exhibition will feature video recordings of these forced miscarriages as well as preserved collections of the blood from the process.The goal in creating the art exhibition, Shvarts said, was to spark conversation and debate on the relationship between art and the human body. But her project has already provoked more than just debate, inciting, for instance, outcry at a forum for fellow senior art majors held last week. And when told about Shvarts' project, students on both ends of the abortion debate have expressed shock — saying the project does everything from violate moral code to trivialize abortion.But Shvarts insists her concept was not designed for "shock value." "I hope it inspires some sort of discourse," Shvarts said.

http://www.yaledailynews.com/articles/view/24513

This is a Yale student. And even if she didn't, as is reported in subsequent posts, the thought of something like this is horrible.

Evil, and horribly disgusting. Anyone who could think of such a thing is disturbed in the head.

I'm not pro abortion, except for situations when there is nothing else to do, and there is no choice. Those are different. Accidents happen, you can forget yourself in a moment and screw up. But this is fucking unacceptable.

Who lets psychos like these loose on the world?=\

And she wasn't allowed to exhibit her project.

http://www.yaledailynews.com/articles/view/24742

thank god for that.

What are this?

Can I talk about happiness, or will i jinx it again?

Nazar bhi tou lagtee hai na, mama ne kahaa tha. ^_^

I am through with:

a) Stalkers.

b) Math

c) Biology.

And fucked them up quite nicely too, but oh well.

No regrets.

ThankGodForSweetEscape.

Not the Gwen Stefani song, mind you.

She has hairy arms. With blond hair on them.

I noticed, yes.

I have realised that I can survive without(with great difficulty), but would hate to not have the following people in my life:


Min Min (erm. When i think about you i touch myself?=D)

Maria ( who likes to act like a husband to me, and is really not as scary as she looks=p)

Haiya (my love in lahore. <3 )


Ladies farast.

And then them buwayes, who are:


Gibran ( for 4 years of being my back up plan=p)

Abdul ( Who has hot hair, and nicer skin than mine. His only saving grace. (a))

He Who Is Apparently Not a Man (who keeps me extremely amused and for whom i WILL find a wife).

Of course, all these in no particular order. There are others, but family's not included, and my mum doesn't read this blog. I'd be in a bit of trouble if she did....

* YEH LARKAY KAUN HAIN??*
yeah.

We have a silent understanding, where we do not talk about my male friends because my mother firmly believes in the "larkay larki kabhi dost nai hosaktay" rule. Rather Indian, rather cliche. Rather Mommy-like. I suppose I can't change the way she thinks, and she can't change the way I think. So little white lies will have to suffice. At least things are better than when I was in 9th grade.... Now those were bad days. But the bad days are gone?

Let's hope so. You can't predict much at 17, can you?
I just want to be happy.
And I am these days, as happy as you get in the middle of your O levels.
Funny thing, this happiness business. You don't feel it as much as you feel the tingly feeling of misery in your palms, but everything just seems nicer, funnier....sunshine-y... but then.. everything IS sunshine-y and disgustingly humid around here anyway.

I am happy to be done with school. Honestly. No SJC means no more of that horrible, socially unacceptable uniform, no more evil nun principal, no more arms in 2 tones, no more math, no more biology, no more horrible toilets with shit on the floor, no more smelly girls with hairy armpits and oily hair....

Sigh.
It goes on and on and on.

Of course, I'll miss somethings about school, but just not the ones listed above.

I need an internship at dawn news, ( the CHANNEL, and not the newspaper.) and i don't know who to contact. A little help would be appreciated =\

I are needs monies. <3

We're not done yet.

Just halfway through.

DAMNIT=\