Excuse me for not wanting to read a book written by someone called Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay.

I can't even say it. And I like to be able to pronounce the names of authors whose books I read, so I'll pass.

Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay.

It takes half an hour to read the name alone. What kind of a name is it anyway?

Why would you name your child that?

It's worse than MM and DD.

Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay.=\

www.subconciousescapism.blogspot.com

=)

Makora Baby.

People who read this blog might be aware of how i tend to get slightly obsessive about things. (refer to Desperate Hoodwives post). Anyway, so you must be wondering why I've put the picture of this ET like child on my blog. In case you haven't seen the resemblance yet ( and its UNCANNY.)

This baby, if you can call it that, because I think it's some gross genetic mutation, looks like a MAKORA.

And since I discovered that people might not know what a makora is, it's an ant.

This baby looks like an ant.

Yes, I know you might be thinking I'm evil, but it's really not my fault.

And they call it Pinky.

Pinky the Makora.

And then my mother went bonkers over this child.

I have very, very weird people in my immediate and extended family. Seriously.

I'm putting myself up for adoption.=\

Mother dearest discovered cigarettes .
Either that, or Sneak stole the key to my closet and went through my handbags.
I can't find them.
And it's not the first time.

It's like the calm before a storm. I am so fucked.

He will do one of two things,

He will admit to everything,

Or he'll say he's just not the same,

And you'll begin to wonder why you came.

I heard this song when I'd reached the point in my life where all the words made sense and I could relate to them.

Still can, but it's like a memory now, in the past. Buried and forgotten, in the corner where it's out of sight, like the other memories which hurt when you think about them.

And I'm glad about it.

Because back then I'd forgotten how to feel happy, and I felt my soul dying with everything that was said to me. It sickens me sometimes, how it got so bad and I have no one to blame for it. I was the one who allowed it.

You know how there's rainbows and sunshine after a storm?

Yeah, like that.

These mistakes you made, you'll just make 'em again-

Read My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Picoult last night, and the ending made me cry.

Catharsis.

It might just be added to my list of favourite book. I like Jodi Picoult, she writes commercial bestsellers, but they're not trashy. I don't think they are anyway. They're not Sidney Sheldons, or Danielle Steeles or Mills & Boons romances.

Some of my favourite parts from the book:


"Why are terms of endearment always foods? Honey, cookie, sugar, pumpkin. It's not like caring about someone is enough to actually sustain you."


"Shooting stars are not stars at all. They're just rocks that enter the atmosphere and catch fire under friction. What we wish on, when we see one, is just a trail of debris."


"There are somethings we do because we convince ourselves it would be better for everyone involved. We tell ourselves that it's the right thing to do, the altruistic thing to do. It's far easier than telling ourselves the truth."


"Life sometimes gets so bogged down in the details, you forget you are living it. There is always another appointment to be met, another bill to pay, another symptom presenting, another uneventful day to be notched onto the wooden wall. We have synchronized our watches, studied our calendars, existed in minutes, and completely forgotten to step back and see what we've accomplished."


"There are stars in the night sky that look brighter than the others, and when you look at them through a telescope you realise you are looking at twins. The two stars rotate around each other, sometimes taking nearly a hundred years to do it. They create so muh gravitational pull there's no room round for anything else. You might see a blue star, for example, and realise only later that it has a white dwarf as a companion- that the first one shines so bright, by the time you notice the second one, it's really too late."


There are obviously more, but I loved these.=)

Lets rearrange,

I wish you were a stranger I could disengage,

Just say that we agree and then never change.

We're all in over our heads and we don't want to know it.

Not yet anyway.

I love libraries.
There's books.
And keyboards.
And silence.

Lovely.

If I'd been smart enough and brought back the books I'd read, I wouldnt have had to give back The Fountainhead to borrow another book. Thank God I've already read ( and loved) it ( even if that was a year ago). I'll borrow it some other time to reread. Blegh.

Anyhoo.
So I love libraries.

Parallel Rebellion.

No I am not lifting things off people's blogs. And I am not stealing ideas.
This post is dedicated to Parallel Rebellion.
Why?
Because


nb- says:
update your blog im bored
nb- says:
write how much you love me
nb- says:
<3
nb- says:
that'd be nice yeah.


And here I am.

Let's see now.
I love SK Babydoll very much. Yes, I do. She is nice and amusing. Everyone loves her. Everyone wanted her to fill their Bye Bye books. ( Or, in Squeaky's case Bi Bi book) She still hasn't returned many of the books. People are now getting angry. But, back to the point.

I have been studying with PR since grade 6. Back then, she used to look like a cute bunny. A thin one. She's still thin, but she no longer resembles a bunny. All thanks to her Orthodontist. She is now what is commonly known as a Young Woman, with metal free teeth. I always thought she was cute, and made it extremely clear. To the point that the she got rather sick of me. She was one of the few people who were nice to me in grade 6 because i was the loser who everyone ran away from.

In grade 7 PR went through a rather disturbing phase of "Bhoonga-ism". This was rather cultish. You picked up a stone from the hockey field (which no one ever, ever played hockey in) and made a face on it, and called it a Bhoonga. Then you broke it.
I never owned a Bhoonga.
PR owned many.

And sometimes, she would hop around a tree with Amna, and claim they were getting married. It was always disturbingly amusing.

In grade 8 we discovered the EP forums. And logged on. And met people.

Which is irrelevant.

We also used to write weird things for orkut groups which we never made, and thank god for that.

So yes, PR is nice.

At some point in her life, PR became obsessed with NASA. And other strange things. And Google. In order to get anything out of her, you'd first have to read some strange, incomprehensible mumbo jumbo she printed off some website, which she would hand to you, eyes shining and all and say *READ!*. And then she would say * WASN'T THAT AWESOME?* and you'd be like, yeah... Although you didn't get a word of it, but still.

Once she brought a petition to school and made everyone sign it. It was a promise that we would all use CFC free deodrants. I kept my promise because I love PR very much, you see. I do not know about other people. Of course, no one can love her as much as I do.

Ok this is getting disturbing now.

Anyway.

I have had many fun times with PR. Six years is a long time to have lots of fun times, which I did have. No perverted fun times, thankfully. But fun, nonetheless.

When Pluto stopped being a planet, PR was rather traumatised. She roamed around mourning the loss of Planet Pluto for God Knows How Long. And she would tear cellophane and ammonium foil wrappers into tiny little pieces, which was apparently her way of anger management.

My mother likes PR very much. She claims that PR is one of the few nice girls I've befriended. Of course, the truth behid PR is unknown, but I'd rather keep it that way. Better safe than sorry.

In the Christmas Play, PR played the role of Grey Stockings, and roamed around with silver eyes. I was the Green Dancing Toffee checking out Grey Stockings. Min Min, Noor and PR together form the ManClub. I do not know how/why this ManClub came about, but it is apparently very exclusive and has only three members.

I like PR very much. <3<3.

She writes well, and she likes Harry Potter. And The Fountainhead. And it is because of her that I use the T9 dictionary today. So much love, sigh.
She is also slightly obsessive compulsive about certain things, but thats ok, we're all allowed our quirks. PR is allowed as many as she wants, because I like her very much.

I might just make a shrine to show my love for her, but that might creep her out, so I won't.

So yes.

I love you PR. <3

I will sit next to you during Ironman.
In the dark.
OOH.
=D

Apparently, it is not possible to actually hate your own siblings.
I beg to differ.
I actually hate one of my "sisters".
Actually, actually loathe/despise/abhorr ( if that can even be used here) her.

And it's not just sibling rivalry. And she's not like this because she's 14. She's actually rotten. And it's genetic, comes into her from some members of the family.
Which is all okay, as long as she stays out of my way.
Which she doesn't.

Honestly, i have actually never hated ANYONE as much in my whole entire life. And no one has ever made it a point to make my life so difficult as she has. And I'm sure no one has poked their nose so obsessively into my business and my life as much as she has either. She is the sneakiest person i know.

Someone needs to get me out of this house for summer, or one of us will end up dead. Because I cannot tolerate her, or her face anymore. And her habit for hiding my stuff.

And leaving us alone in the house together is NOT helping.

Not. Good.

Racist Prude Fearing For Sanity.

As the very enlightening title of this post suggests, I am a racist prude fearing for my sanity.

I wasn't a racist. No sir, I was a people loving child, believing Martin Luther King's speeches and flower power and peace and all that crap. I even dismissed all the bad quality rap/hip hop ( and believe you me, it's hard to dissmiss) as freedom of expression. So what if someone wants to express themselves using half naked oily women with overly large rear ends? To each his own, i thought. Innocently unaware of the looming horrors awaiting my virgin mind and eyes. But no. Not anymore, not after THIS. I am no longer ignorant. Or innocent. I thank this book for being such an eye opener.

And how, you wonder, did it open my previously shut eyes?

I will be more than delighted to put the curious cat to rest.

You see, I am by nature a curious person. It's genetic, and I am not to blame. I also tend to be rather silly, and think of the world in terms of rose tinted shades. Everything is pink and pretty, and storks deliver babies. Of course, I was subjected, or at least introduced to the theoretical explanations of life's great truth(s), i.e sex. But I am the type who insists on leading a delusional existence. Happy Child with a Happy Bubble.

Ok, fine. Who the hell am I kidding? There's enough evidence on my blog to point out that I am hardly living off Barney and Teletubby reruns. Regardless.

The point of this post is, you should NOT, (And i reiterate, NOT) pick up a book without reading what is on the back cover. It doesn't matter if you're in a hurry. Because, if you make the grave mistake I did, you will pay for it, and quite dearly too.


There I was, oblivious to the horrors this book contained, all happy happy, thinking I was picking up some parody of Desperate Housewives to read. ( And yes, I love that show), everything on the cover pointed out to it being an amusing tale of DHW in a black world. Even the writers' names sounded funny. I mean, who on God's green earth would willingly inflict upon their poor children names like Meesha Mink and De'neesha Diamond. MM and DD? No, seriously. MM AND DD? I thought it was amusing, I was certain it was deliberate.

Anyhow, last night ( at the ungodly hour of 3 am), I opened this book. All went well, for the first 2 pages. And then it began. Began, and scarred me for life. I will never be the same person.

It. Was. Not. The. Parody. I. Thought. It. Would. Be.

It was some skanky ghetto trash about ghetto yo mammas whoring around and "gettin' wit" any and every black guy with a "massive blue black cock". No, I kid you not. Those were the exact words in the book. So much for subtlety. So much for good, clean literature. So much for amusement (my idea of amusement not being descriptions of black men having the ability to make their penises jump in their pants). And to put the cherry on the sundae ( which I'm sure is not even an expression), I have been blessed with an over active imagination. And over active imagination is all cool. Nothing wrong with it. Quite peachy, very pleasant.

When you're reading Harry Potter.

So I read about 20 pages of this book. It was like reading a behind-the-scenes-making of one of the aforementioned videos with oily, half naked women and weird, ugly black men. And of course, their "baby daddies". How could I forget. I do not wish to think about black people getting it on. Please excuse the rudeness, I generally do not wish to think about any people getting it on, but black people...oh my dear Lord.

I do not blame Oprah and Condi for trying to be like them white people. I APPLAUD the effort.

Needless to say, I did not read further. I did not wish to inflict further damage upon my dainty mind. I did not, and have no intention whatsoever, to finish this piece of trash which has been called (oh,the audacity of it!) a book. This atrocity. A book. It is NOT a book. It will NEVER be a book. It is a product of the extremely warped thought processes belonging to MM and DD.

I was very tempted to tear it up, and flush individual pieces down the toilet. I could have told the library people I did them a favour. But no, one must think with one's head. Had I flushed it down the toilet, this rubbish might have clogged the poor toilet. And no toilet deserves a fate as horrible as that. And I would have had to pay the library 600 rupees. 600 Rupees of my own hard earned money.

No. Frikkin. Way.

So here I am. Warning everyone.

Racism is fun.

Yeah.

You know what I did instead? I picked up another book. This one. Written by a WHITE woman.
You read? WHITE. *waves book around*

And it's NICE. It is a delightful collection of short stories, beautifully written with plenty of wit, humour, and randomness.

And life, once again, started moving. The birds chirped, the breeze blew, yada yada yada. The works.
And thank God for that.

Thank YOU Miss Kate Atkinson. I am forever indebted to you.

Ok y'all. Show's over.

Genius.

HAHAHAHAHA.

HAHAHAHA.

*dies*

I love N. =p

Is it too much to ask for you to let me live in peace? honestly?

Stop comparing me.
Stop judging me.
Stop shouting at me.
Stop telling me I'm wrong.
Stop trying to lock me up at home.
Stop blaming me.
Stop taking out all your anger on me.

It's not all my fault. It's really not, and I need a break from you.


Just stop.

Please.

Booyaaa!

I AM DONE WITH THE O LEVELS. *jumps around and shrieks*

That said and done, it wasn't very eventful. I didn't go wild. Or anything of that sort. But it must be recorded on this little piece of my heart, because it was an extremely important day.

So I walked into KGS in my disgusting, socially unacceptable uniform feeling quite happy, because it was the last time (yes, mark my words) I was going to be walking into any place in that uniform. And the last time I'd ever be seen in it. *little bubbles of happines bursting in aformentioned heart* =D
And then off we went to N's place, which wasn't my plan till about 15 minutes before i left home. M threatened and bugged me into going to Arizona grill, and it turned out there were but three of us little munchkins going.
Anyhoo.
The weather was disgustingly humid, and temperature didn't do us any wonders either. And when we got to N's place, the electricity, to our utter delight, had gone to take a stroll in the park. So I let loose a few sweet nothings, courtesy Mr. P.G Wodehouse, who I worship and who is probably one of the coolest dead old people in the world. And if you say anything against that man, I will make sure someone pokes you in the nose. No electricity. Yes.
So we changed, and decided to get out of the house. And Arizona Grill was closed. Boohoo Hoohaa, much sadness and noise. And then, we decided to go to Hotspot because we didn't have much choice. I have only one thing to say about my experience of Karachi Weather ( and I have quite a bit, seeing how I've spent 17 years of my life in this city). It's like all the airconditioners stop working effectively, no matter where you go. The infernal heat creeps in. Not. Pleasant.
I was planning on not eating, because I am Fat and Blobby, but my friends, being the wellwishers that they are, made me. And I find it hard to say no.
Ok fine, so I wanted to eat.
Big deal.
I won't look at food for the rest of the summer.
And if I do, someone can kick my fat ass.
^_^

So we sat at Hotspot. And ate. And sat. And cracked lame jokes, most of which I can't remember. M, who used to have a major jukebox obsession ( and she is quite the OCD-ed child) was rather heartbroken about the fact that the Jukebox was no longer working, and that the Hotspot management was making people put their money into the coinslots, and then playing the music from some-playerthingy-that-was-probably-located-in-the-kitchen. That, according to M, is fraud, and Hotspot should be sued.

I didn't agree, because they have nice plates in Hotspot. With funny Pakistani movie pictures on them. Why on earth, tell me, would you want to sue a place like that?

And then, we went back. To N's house. And lo and behold! There was electricity! And we had nothing to do. So we sat around. And did nothing. And entertained ourselves with M's iPod. And took pictures. N has a fun room. I like it. Yeah.

After which came, according to M and N ( I like how they're alphabetically ordered), the best part of the day. *drumroll*

THE TRIP TO THE 50 RUPEE DVD SHOP. OMG LAWL NOOOWAYYYSS KH3WLZZ.

And we bought movies. M bought 21, Juno, and this other funny one. I bought The Kite Runner and The Other Boleyn Girl. And N bought 21, Juno, some cartoon thingy and another one which I can't remember.

Just when we'd settled down to watch Juno, the electricity decided to leave us again. We weren't pleased.
And then we had to go.

And I couldn't watch Juno.

I.Must.Watch.Juno.

Goddamnit.

Lawl.

Me: That's Accounts Guy! Look!

M: WHERE??!

Me: Over THERE idiot! That guy who looks like a peeled turnip with rust coloured hair!

M: Oh.. OOOOH LOOK ITS CUTE GUY

Me: Where?

M: That one. He's SHOOOOO CUTEEEEE I WANT TO GO PULL HIS CHEEKS.

Me: eww ....what the fuck is wrong with you=\

M: noooo he IS SO CUUUUTEEE I WANT TO SIT IN HIS LAP!!

Me: Dude.

M: oh shit. That came out wrong, didn't it?....IF YOU TELL ANYONE I WILL KILL YOU.

=\

Mein itnii bakwas kyuun kartee huun?=\

Cold winds blow from your heart and hit me in icy spirals, while I sit and stare at God-Knows-What. I try to think, but it's too much effort. Giving my words a meaning, too, too much work. Let the conversations be empty, and mind numbing. They're just a harmless reminder of what the world has come to, really.

Just two more to go.

Two more, and I can retreat into my world of books and silences, where no one can bother me and I can forget what an awful place this world really has become.

For a little while anyway. Just a little.

But then it's that little bit that keeps you from the edge, and brings you close to safety when you're trying not to fall over. I've been trying for far too long, and I need a safety net.

Just 2 more exams, and I will have it.

=)

Is sleep deprivation supposed to make you feel like crying?