H8rz gon’ h8 September 23, 2010

It appears that by some freak coincidence many of the commenters on my last post were aligned on the same menstrual cycle. Which explains why so many page-long arguments were made- arguments which were only lacking of the bright-red font colour, required for maximum impact. Scrolling down the entire section and seeing words like “school patriotism” being thrown around and absolutely nonsensical shark jokes being made (something about sharks biting but not seeing???), I realised that, not surprisingly, very few of you ~understand me~.

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Shocking, though, is that someone who truly did understand me was AZ. You wouldn’t think I’d take seriously the comment of an anonymous wuss, but this was an exceptional circumstance. You can forgive me for it since many of you did the same, getting unnaturally upset over Penis Dude for intruding on the nice little debate club you had going on. Apparently the idea of ignoring someone whose most constructive argument revolved around genitalia only occurred to very few.

In comparison, AZ had something more substantial to say:

From your blog it can be gathered that:

1. You are well-versed in sarcasm.
2. Ali Umer has a long name.
3. You are ignorant of the importance of ECAs. Even your XBox Skillz, if presented properly, can improve your chances of being admitted into a prestigious institutions.
4. You are not colour-blind.
5. Your conclusion of choice is a couple irrelevant sarcastic comments.

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Considering how several critics just steamed through my post in blinding rage I can understand how it may have eluded them that this is exactly the effect I was going for! As a cold-hearted, hateful, baby-punching bitch (who is, no doubt, still quite adorable) I don’t really understand why so much more was expected of me from complete strangers. It’s some strange need of you guys to pass your own lofty expectations and wishes onto everything (example: Acacia) so that when they aren’t met you can go on a hate parade. Luckily, there were still a few hundred who enjoyed the humour without waiting for the meaning of life to be revealed to them at the end of the punchline. Those of you who did, I think we’ve all exchanged fist-bumps and if we haven’t, let’s def do it at a later date.

To those who were mocked, angered, and annoyed: I need not apologise to you because you got your revenge by boring me. Through glazed eyes, though, I fully made out some certain, special comments; in what threatens to become a repeating phenomena I, yet again, have found inspiration in Muhammed Ali Umer Ashraf Farooq Alvi (who chose the slightly shorter nickname of Msaudhsi Ali Udsjas Ahrecf Fawweaq Alvi for his comments) and his apparent fondness for defining words. Since obviously the subtleties of my post were totally ignored (cough-businessventure-cough), I have decided to take a more direct approach this time and, in my response, define some terms for you myself. And maybe these will help you own your anger and calm down and stop concerning and stressing yourself towards premature balding:

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Extra-curricular activities (ECAs)

Activities that are educational but not part of the school curriculum. Usually, therefore not only and not always, administered by the school.

Used in a sentence: Being part of a sports club, acting in a play, or playing in a sound check-after-sound check Rock for Relief show are all extra curricular activities, although none of them may necessarily have been backed/organised by an educational institute.

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Private tuition

Additional, remedial, or special teaching/instruction provided outside of school.

Used in a sentence: If the hours that kids would spend at private tuitions are seen as part of the 11 hours they are having now having “forced down their throats”, the number does not shock and awe as much.

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Context

The part of a text or statement that surrounds a particular word or passage and determines its meaning.

Used in a sentence: By taking specific lines out of context it was assumed that I regarded O Level grades as more important than ECAs for college applications, rather than for further education in general, as O Level grades in comparison to ECAs are better predictors of A Level grades which are then better predictors of academic success in college.

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Patriotism

Devoted love, support, and defense of one’s country

Used in a sentence: “School patriotism” is a dumb, made-up term meant to signify “school spirit”- something which is clearly evident in me, someone who lip-syncs to Nixor chants very convincingly, every. single. time.

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Satire

Use of irony, sarcasm, ridicule, etc., in exposing, denouncing, or deriding vice, folly, etc.

Used in a sentence: Satire is not the same as an argument, which may be defined as ‘discourse intended to persuade’; satire may just include bitching someone/something out.

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Feminism

A movement for the equality of the sexes, socially, politically and economically. Not to be confused with sexism, which is prejudice/discrimination against a sex.

Used in a sentence: Muhammed Ali Umer Ashraf Farooq Alvi was on a roll with his sandwich jokes which I usually enjoy, but, unfortunately, his incorrect mention of feminism kind of killed it.

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Stick

A relatively long and slender piece of wood

Used in a sentence: Everyone who took my posts as a punch in the heart obviously has one too many sticks up his/her ass.

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Kanye West

Supreme voice of our generation

Used in a sentence: Aziza decided to let everyone freely pour their sad, never-ending arguments out into the comments, following a Kanye West philosophy: “Yo, Muhammed Ali Umer Ashraf Farooq Alvi and Co. I’m really happy for you, and I’mma let you finish, but my post was the best fucking joke OF ALL TIME.”

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Haha

The last laugh

Used in a sentence: I could end this post with a ‘haha’ but, instead, I will attempt to stifle my arrogance and leave you with a ‘teehee’ instead.

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Teehee, muthafuckazzzz.

OkaySoThisIsMyOpenLetter September 19, 2010

Muhammad Ali Umer Ashraf Farooq Alvi, I commend you. Those are some brilliant pieces of analytical writing that you have presented us with here; I, for one, can definitely see you having a future in print journalism, even with such an unprintably long name (how do you not forget it?).

Considering the burden that you have to carry with your name had already hiked up my respect for you. And now, having read through your touching concern for these unfortunate, almost-not O level graduates, dis this respect has grown ten-fold. Your unnatural interest in Mr. Nadeem Ghani’s business ventures has not been ignored, either. I’m sure he appreciates your educated opinions (‘Acacia doesn’t offer sciences, ZOMG ZOMG ZOMG HOW DARE THEY NOT WAHHHH~*~… oh wait. They do.’) and helpful suggestions (‘please forgive my carefully-worded disrespect, it’s just my teenage hormones going haywire’).

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Time for me to share a fun little fact, though. I actually happened to see the transcripts of quite a few Nixor applicants who got redirected to Acacia. And- surprise, surprise- turns out these applicants aren’t really the scorned scholars of great misfortune you imagine them to be. Those transcripts happened to be pretty amazing in the number of D’s, E’s and U’s that they were able to accommodate. Not so many B’s or C’s. Now, I’m pretty sure you understand the importance of grades in one’s academic career. In fact, I know you do, from your heart-rending post about universities (with the absolutely bizarre non sequitur). Knowing that the aforementioned grades are not the best, do you really think that a kid with a transcript for the 10th and 11th grade that’s littered with these grades is expecting to get admission into an Ivy League? I’m guessing he (not she, because I am gender biased) is not. In your passionate argument for a cause that doesn’t seem like the most likely possibility, it appears you forgot about this crucial fact. And the fact is that with grades like that even if that kid is crazy optimistic about getting into Harvard… he’s very probably not going to. I’m sure Harvard is weeping tears of blood at this loss, right along with you.

You see, your O Level grades do matter and- despite what MyLifeIsBro may tell you- ECAs like your Xbox skillz aren’t fully as important. Even if you were actually unlucky in your Cambridge exams, you had every single test and exam administered by your school to ace. Chances were given. These students just weren’t able to step up to the plate at all. Bummer.
I’m not saying they’re necessarily at fault but even if they are, hurrah, hurrah- Acacia is here to help. Since they haven’t been able to “acquire the skills in O Levels necessary to successfully complete their A Levels”, Acacia’s motive, I believe, is to teach its students how to focus on their academics. Which seems kind of necessary at this point. And with that they probably still won’t get into Ivy League universities but there are still good ones out there they might have a chance with. And if they don’t? Atleast they’ve now got the skills to do well in any future academic career, even here in Pakistan.
But wait! Still not convinced? Well, at the very least I can guess that if you have enough faith in these kids to be able to get into ever-precious Ivy League then I’m sure you have enough faith in them to know better than to join Acacia if they think it’ll hinder their chances of admission. Seeing how you were unable to figure this out on your own I question your chances with Harvard, too.

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Ofcourse, that’s not all that bothered you. There’s the matter of the fees, too. Well, I don’t know when exactly Sir Nadeem became the iron-fisted dictatorial leader of every O Levels graduate in Karachi- I didn’t get the notification. I’m guessing he never did. So you really don’t need to worry yourself silly over how much Acacia costs because you know what? The kids going to Acacia and their parents happen to have free will. This is a free country run under democratic principles after all (LOL JK, just added that for my own amusement). Therefore, they’re choosing to pay those fees. The price is right for them. So what’s the big deal? Call it a niche market and get over it. No students or parents of students are being forced to join Acacia. They can just as easily choose to go to Southshore or Lyceum or L’ecole (wait- do we even consider L’ecole a school anymore?). And many of them actually did. Happy ending.

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I hope I’ve acted with sensitivity to your “humanity” that, unfortunately, Izna ignored. And yanno, anger is not pretty, but your blog definitely is. Specifically the glorified email post. Your use of colour is not only clever, but moving. I know that many of us who read it LOVED how relative the colours were to the words. Pink for “respectable man” and two shades (TWO!) of green for “Rs. 25,000?”. Accusatory red for “Really, sir?”. Beautiful. Are you considering a fine arts major? Maybe Literature, since you totally have the hang of symbolism?

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As for your hopes of propelling yourself to fame with the support of your blog- you definitely have. Look, a blog post featuring you! I hope you print it out. Shall I send it to you as a batch of flyers?

Dropped a new single August 1, 2010

I know I haven’t been here in a while (I don’t know why people say things like that- did they assume that others expect them not to know? Due to what- denial? Non-stop partying? Amnesia? I can account for none of the above), but fact is that after a a couple of years as a struggling artist (struggling for fans, mostly) I really just decided to sell out.
And I have, successfully!

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Here’s my article, published in today’s DAWN newspaper’s Sunday supplement, Images. Under the Review section. Under the sub-section of Phobias. And this is the unedited version*; although I understand the need to edit stuff for public consumption, for more chance of people actually reading it, etc., you know me (wait, you probably don’t): one word out of place and I’m on the edge of a murderous rampage/ crying jag.

*You may note that this version uses a hefty sample of my old hit of the same name. Should I call this Deja Vu?

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Like most kids, when I was young I was pretty scared of the dark. I eventually grew out of it, but over the years I have definitely acquired a lot more fears. I’m terrified of marriage, spiral staircases, and saying ‘no’, but more than anything I have a phobia of aunties.

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I hate aunties. In fact, I think what really scares me is my hatred of aunties. It’s pretty strong. And you know what it stems from? The hates and fears of aunties, the main one being single people.

An aunty, by rights of her own marriage certificate and the physical deformity of a nose that tends to get stuck in other people’s business, feels morally obligated to get every single single person on earth contractually bound to another of their own kind, no matter what. It’s their service to humanity.

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I can see why they push marriage so much. Marriage has been a good bet for aunties, with submissive husbands who are unable to even touch them in fear of creasing their latest lawn jora- which they paid for in hefty four-digits. An aunty’s summer wardrobe can easily pay for one of those glitzy weddings they work so hard for.

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Recently an aunty tried to set me up. My mother’s colleague told her that she has found a rishta for me, of an undoubtedly delightful 28-year-old green card-holder. Now, let alone the fact that she has NEVER met me and therefore doesn’t have the slightest clue as to who I am. Let alone the fact that she has only known my mother for about three months now. Let alone the fact that my mother therefore had to point out to her the fact that I am only seventeen years old. An aunty’s gotta pimp.

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I don’t even get why aunties salivate a flood at the idea of a green card. But at least it quiets them down for a while. An aunty’s greatest weapon is her tongue. Encased behind a pair of bright, smudgy-lipsticked lips (and this lipstick is like a deep, dark sin- it will never wash off once your face has been cursed with it- think Fight Club) this is a muscle they exercise with great vigour. No one is safe from aunty gossip, and no one is safe from a cutting aunty remark. It comes when you least expect it, and, usually, is so despicably racist/sexist/weightist you’d suspect them of having swastikas embroidered on their dupattas.

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It is surprising how manipulative and conniving and vicious aunties can be if you consider how they’re honestly not that smart. I mean, who could whole-heartedly follow the concept of a kitty party and feel like they’re doing justice to their precious convent education? All you do is collect your money, give it to someone, then get it back a few months later and not even with an interest topping it. Instead you have to spend some of that money on throwing your kitty party group a lavish hi-tea. What for? To celebrate the idea that you now have much less money than what you started out with?

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Maybe they’ve never heard of a bank. I can forgive them that, though, because it’s not like there’s one around every corner, ofcourse not. Or maybe they hate banks, too. Most of the people working in banks are single, after all. Accountants, what do you expect? …

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So back from my digressive trip to the topic of my fears: recently, I’ve semi-conquered my phobia of spiral staircases. I climb one at least twice every day. I say no a lot, too. I started by saying no to climbing up a spiral staircase. And while I’m still bothered by the concept of marriage, I’ve realized I’m pretty fond of weddings. Thus, my fear (and loathing) of aunties is the last one left. I hear it only gets worse as you get older, so this really needs to be nipped in the bud. And I’m not sure how to tackle it, but I think a sex change and a green card might do the job.

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I’m a little short on cash for either, though, so who would like to help me raid some aunties’ closets and hold a lawn exhibition? I’m assuming they’re very profitable.

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Or we could always have a kitty party.

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My favourite edit was ‘pimp’ changed to ‘match-make’! Such a sweet alternative. Totally filtering it in everything I hear every time now.

Eleven high June 4, 2010

I feel fairly sorry for everyone on my Facebook profile whose life is so incredibly boring (presumably from spending said life on Facebook) that they find the prospect of a natural disaster thoroughly entertaining.

My news feed is full of statuses saying “Thunderstorm <3" and, "Can't wait for the tidal waves!" and, this is an exact quote, “Move your body like a CYCLON all night longgggggggggg.”

It’s spelt “CYCLONE“. Have fun.

Threesome May 26, 2010

For more than 4 years now, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and I have participated in a deliciously, disgustingly one-sided romance. This love affair has involved, for the most part, an unhealthy interest (obsession) and embarrassing amounts of piracy (guilt). I have often felt like a filthy voyeur, completely unknown and completely unwanted, rifling through their catalogue which I have no legal ownership of in the same way a stalker would paw through their victim’s underwear drawer.

It’s sick (me), and beautiful (them).

I even used to be a regular member of their fan forum. It’s like I’d found my way into their house and snuck into their closet, waiting for them to come by.

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Okay, is this analogy getting a bit much? My point is, basically, that the YYYs and I are- and were always- meant to be. They’re cute and they’re clever. Their old interactive site at the time of my self-introduction to them featured a clickable Karen O whose head would spurt both blood and champagne. And their ever-changing band logo featured, most prominently, bunnies. At the age of 12, when I first got into them (are you calculating my age, you pedo?), I was very fond of doodling bunnies. I was also quite mentally immature, I suppose, because my mother’s 12-year-old pupils are more fond of drawing various parts of the human anatomy.

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Either way, everything just fits with the two of us. Therefore, I was convinced that I had the chance of chances to win when the band announced a t-shirt design contest in June. My design was everything I’d ever valued about our relationship, plus I was from Pakistan so imagine the awesome publicity in having a fan all the way in Pakistan (no, I am completely unashamed to admit that I was playing the child-from-poor-country card)! This was my design:

It didn't win.

I can’t say I was extremely shocked, my Photoshop Skills were a day old. The winners, instead, were a white t-shirt design of upside down band members doing the classic Abbey Road walk of the Beatles (an understandable loss), and a black t-shirt design of a pink and blue blob (featured in the next pictures, completely NOT an understandable loss. Call me a sore loser).

But the YYYs never disappoint. Ever. I went on the site recently and, well, guess who’s a part of the site design now?

me! me! me!

ME!

Makes me feel like a real ~art star~. And not so much of a creep. 0:)

Super Poked May 19, 2010

Facebook is not working here. I’m sure you’ve noticed because anyone who can work the internet enough to be able to access this blog is sure to have a Facebook profile. So if you’ve tried to go on it today you must have been confronted with a blank white screen saying “This Site is Restricted” and the tab announcing in a criminal bank-robbery fashion “Access Denied”.

Twitter is also claiming to be “Over capacity”. I do not know if this is because the entire Pakistani Facebook community has simultaneously shifted over to Twitter to mourn the loss of Social Interview and the incredibly useless FB chat for a day (or more, because in Lahore it’s been banned till the 31st of May) or if this is part of the government’s nefarious plot to stifle the free speech of the internetterz.

It’s most probably the former. Which is sad, because IT’S JUST FACEBOOK.

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The fact that’s it’s just Facebook also makes one wonder… why is everyone taking it so seriously? The government has banned it due to an event scheduled for 20th May that was making its rounds on the site asking everyone to “Draw the Prophet Mohammed (PBUH)” like it was the most excitable activity on earth, because everyone loves a bit of blasphemy. This Facebook event invite got all these Muslims’ panties in a bunch and they decided something should be done, as it should. And their marvellous plan against the heathens involved another Facebook event for 20th May- Boycott Facebook for a Day (!!!).

Seriously.

Seriously.

How. Let me just ask you HOW the boycotting of Facebook on my part is going to stop anyone from sketching the Prophet. Will they all stop and think, “Hold on… why aren’t any Muslims on Facebook today? You know, maybe they’re trying to teach me a lesson. I feel awful for forcing them to abstain from updating their statuses and playing Farmville for one whole entire day. I never realised what a horrible person I am, this is LOW. Oh Lord, let me put away my paintbrushes and repent my sins! ;(“

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And, okay, so the general internet-working population of Pakistan is undeniably dumb, and easily swayed with the tide of popular fan pages and the like, but what is the government achieving from banning Facebook? How is this even Facebook’s fault? Someone sends a text message from their Ufone SIM calling the President fat or something and they’re going to ban Ufone? BBC shows Pakistan in a bad light in some news feature and they’re going to ban the cable company? What’s the point? What’s the lesson?

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I’ll overlook that, too. With the kindness of my heart, I will ignore all of that. Take it out own on whoever you want to, man. All I’m saying is at least choose a way that’s effective. If banning Facebook is such a blow to the creators of Draw the Prophet Day then we should thank god the Taliban haven’t figured this terror tactic out yet. And let’s hope they never do, because if they ban Facebook for a month (they always go all out, a day is just for peace-loving sissies like us) WE’LL BE DEVASTATED. After suicide bombing, this is next-level shit.

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This isn’t the only bit of idiocy that people are capable of, though. There was also Wear Red for Haiti Day not so long ago, after the Haitian earthquake. How is my fashion choice for the day helping anyone? Are you saying that, for every hour that I sit at home in my red t-shirt, one earthquake victim is receiving relief? Yeah, I don’t think you are. Days like this are just a way of convincing yourself “I’M BRINGING A CHANGE” even though all you’re really referring to is your change of clothes.

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It’s not like a hunger strike by the entirety of the Subcontinent would have been enough to bring about independence. It’s not like Buddha starving himself to reach satori and start a religion has stopped people from now claiming that he just had an eating disorder.

The path of least resistance is the path of least gain. But if you really don’t agree with me you can just try banning my blog. Because it’s going to effect me soooooooooooooooo much.

IDK May 9, 2010

I wear contact lenses. For contact lenses you need cleaning solution. I looked at the solution bottle the other day and not only does it say something about how it stops protein from building up on your lenses (gross), it also says “For Sensitive Eyes”.

Apparently I have extra sensitive eyes because I can’t get this solution in my eyes without them stinging and watering a tsunami. So, instead, I have to use a sodium chloride drip bottle (often seen hanging at the bedsides of hospital patients) to clean the solution off my lenses before I wear them.

So now that I’ve sufficiently bored you with a background story let me get to the point: What the shit are sensitive eyes? I mean, aren’t eyes sensitive to begin with? What kind of redundant use of an adjective is it to call eyes sensitive? It’s not like I plan on doing much with them other than rolling them at “For Sensitive Eyes” descriptions. Today, in fact, I read in Reader’s Digest of 20 different ways that you can damage your eyes, from dryness caused by ~extreme~ weather conditions- a car’s air conditioning vent directed at your face- to a tiny particle of eye makeup scratching your cornea. LOOK, IF A FLAKE OF EYESHADOW CAN BLIND ANYONE, I’D ASSUME EYES ARE SENSITIVE TO BEGIN WITH.

You want to categorise eyes that can’t handle the heat (or air conditioning)? Call them abnormal. Or pansy.

Auntipathy April 15, 2010

We’re already making a list of things I don’t like. Let’s pull out our pens (Farooq!) and make a list of things I’m scared of. Here are the well-advertised ones:

1. marriage

2. spiral staircases

3. saying ‘no’

Here’s one you haven’t heard of before: 4. aunties

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I hate aunties. So let’s put them on the previous list, too. In fact, I think what really scares me is my hatred of aunties. It’s pretty strong. You know what it stems from? The hates and fears of aunties. The main one being single people.

An aunty, by rights of her own marriage certificate and physical deformity of a nose that tends to get stuck in other people’s business, feels morally obligated to get every single single person on earth contractually bound to another of their own kind, no matter what. And, yes, although it might seem like they’re only interested in their own little social groups, aunties are out for world domination. It’s an organization of evil.

I can see why they push marriage so much. Marriage has been a good bet for aunties, with submissive husbands who are unable to even touch them in fear of creasing their latest lawn print. Which they paid atleast Rs. 3000 for. An aunties summer wardrobe can easily pay for one of those glitzy weddings they push so hard for.

Recently an aunty tried to set me up. My mother’s colleague told her that she has found a rishta for me, of an undoubtedly delightful 28-year-old green card-holder. Let alone the fact that she has NEVER met me and therefore doesn’t have the slightest clue as to who I am. Let alone the fact that she has only known my mother for about three months now. Let alone the fact that my mother therefore had to point out to her the fact that I am only seventeen years old. An aunty’s gotta pimp.

…

I don’t even get why aunties salivate a flood at the idea of a green card. But at least it shuts them up for a while. An aunty’s greatest weapon is her tongue. Encased behind a pair of bright, smudgy-lipsticked lips (and this lipstick is like a deep, dark sin- it will NEVER wash off once your face has been cursed with it) (think Fight Club) this is a muscle they exercise with great vigour. No one is safe from aunty gossip, and no one is safe from a cutting aunty remark. It comes when you least expect it, and, usually, is so despicably racist/sexist/weightist you’d suspect them of having swastikas embroidered on their dupattas.

…

It is surprising how manipulative and conniving and vicious aunties can be if you consider the fact that they’re idiots. I mean, who could honestly follow the concept of a kitty party and feel like they’re doing justice to their precious convent education? All you do is collect your money, give it to someone, then get it back a few months later and not even with an interest topping it. Instead you have to spend some of that money on throwing your kitty party group a hi-tea. What for? To celebrate the fact that now you have much less money than what you started out with?

Maybe they’ve never heard of a bank. I can forgive them that, though, because it’s not like there’s one around every corner, ofcourse not. Or maybe they hate banks, too. Most of the people working in banks are single, after all. Accountants, what do you expect?

I’m a bit scared of accounts, too.

…

So back from my digressive trip to the topic of my fears: recently, I’ve semi-conquered my phobia of spiral staircases. I climb one at least twice every day. I say no a lot, too. I started by saying no to climbing up a spiral staircase. And I realised I wouldn’t mind being married to a hijra (let’s give them aunties summin to talk about). So my fear (and loathing) of aunties is the last one left. I hear it only gets worse as you get older, so this needs to be nipped in the bud. And I’m not sure how to tackle it, but I think a sex change and a green card might do the job.

I’m a little short on cash for either, though, so who would like to help me raid some aunties’ closets and hold a lawn exhibition? I’m assuming they’re very profitable.

Or we could always have a kitty party.

My pen is big March 5, 2010

Farooq died today. And this might be the most serious orbituary I’ve put up on my blog, yet.

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I met Farooq in the school cafeteria, sitting alone at a table. He actually belonged to my friend, Rija, but we just bonded instantly. And then he was mine. Then he was gone.

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This is Farooq:

Yes, he is a pen. But I seem to form emotional attachments with pens a lot more than with people. And to me, really, Farooq was a person. He was the emulation of my World History teacher- of the same name- as an inanimate object (of my affections). Except better. Farooq the Pen was really the answer to every single grievance Farooq the Teacher seems to have ever had with his class.

Often during moments of extreme frustration my teacher lets us know, without much hesitation, of our apparent inability to write, or to read. Well, Farooq here belonged to a Kitab Ghar. I’m assuming he’d known how to read. As for writing… I hope you noticed he’s a pen. I think he could manage that.

Sometimes, my teacher also hangs his head in sorrow over our generation’s language problem. “Aap ko to Urdu bhi nahin aati, aap ko to English bhi nahin aati” is a classic line of his. But Farooq here appeared to know both. PWNED.

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Dear Farooq was really the perfect companion. He was with me all the time. He had this soft, comforting feel that no other pen has ever provided me with. Ofcourse, he had predecessors such as the red Dollar SP-10 that I gave my O Level exams with (I lost it, and it was a heartbreaking experience. Never forgiving myself), but Farooq was a class of his own. Can’t you tell? First name basis.

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There is good news, though. He ran out of ink quite suddenly, during my schizophrenic note-taking in Psychology (HOLLA @Rosenhan), and ofcourse it was devastating. But this usage of the past tense is really just for some drama. Because I totally performed major surgery on him with the help of two Rs. 10 ballpoints and he is now as good as new. One of the pens went to complete waste but sacrifices must be made. At the end of the day I saved a loved one and that’s what counts.
I’m looking forward to years more of writing with Farooq. Except I nearly lost him yesterday. But he was in the car. And in my heart.

~I’ve never felt like this before~

Twiddling my thumbs February 28, 2010

I’ve been trying to write on here properly with a valid rant for a while now (well, excluding February because- not trying to make myself sound too corporate- I only found time once during this month to think of posting at all), but I’m quite unable to. I’m going to blame my broken down keyboard. It is bereft of several functioning keys and, really, the only way that I’m making this post coherent is through use of the on-screen keyboard (bless Microsoft and it’s lookout for disabled people and laptops) and simple Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V-ing.

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I think this laptop is slowly sinking into its grave. Does anyone have any suggestions for alternate uses? Perhaps I can crack walnuts with it.

But I don’t like walnuts. TELL ME WHAT TO DOOOOO. Because I sure as hell can’t write anymore.

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/Emo post. Should have been in red font, no? Next time, next time. Perhaps next time I’ll just post in my blood. If I have anything to say.

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