XOXO, Gossip Girl

love u

Well I don’t know if you’ll believe me when I say this– or believe me and then think me a delirious fool–but I, well I believe in…(coughs)–in…(spits out hairball)–in…(summons a demon) in… love.

I know, I know it’s not really an opinion worthy of being declared in this dramatic manner as if it were the answer to life itself, but I realized that I’ve never actually said that out loud. And even though it’s a normal little unremarkable thing saying it even now seems…weird.

I guess I’ve just never talked about it. And doing so now seems lame and awkward and paints me a cliché and I just don’t talk about it okay!

Don’t get me wrong, I still think love is a Neurochemical Response (yeah, but…like…capitalized), and I know some might use that as a reason to brush it off as fantasy, but honestly, isn’t everything basically a neurochemical response? Happiness, sorrow, fear, anger–everything is inside our head! Technically, they all could be called a result of our imagination–but does that necessarily make them fictional? Are the blues and the greens and the purples, the stench of onions and garlic, the pitter-patter of the rain, the blaring of horns all unreal? Colours, smells, sounds–we see them the way our brain responds to them. It’s all electrical impulses and reflected waves.

Continue reading “XOXO, Gossip Girl”


Humanity: A Child’s Fantasy

So yes, technically I did break the consecutive days rule. But exams, so I shall forgive myself and hope you do the same. Not that you’d care one way or the other. My AS Levels are finally over by the way. You’re looking at/reading a 12th grader.

And then I got busy with not being busy at all and took a proper, complete break; no extra-curriculars nothing, just sitting at home reading again, watching Jim Carrey, downloading His Girl Friday and anime (Death Note, for those of you interested), painting CDs and scratching over them and reorganizing my books and did I mention reading? Yes well point is, I did neglect the blog. I seem to be most inclined to write when I have no time for it and other, more important work to get to.

Anyway I don’t know if that disqualifies me from the challenge (are there such things as the Challenge Police? If so, I seem uncharacteristically curious about their tagline) but I suppose I’ll put it up anyway.



We’ve all heard about the attacks in Paris, and some of us to a lesser extent the ones in Beirut…prayers for the recovery of the people hurt and for justice being meted to those responsible.

It got me thinking. About how people claim this generation doesn’t have much to deal with. I think a lot of them forget that we are the children of War.  We pay the price for the events set in motion by those who walked the earth before us. We live through the wonderful and sometimes truly horrific consequences of the civil wars and world wars  and revolutions that our elders claim gave their lives meaning—I do not mean to condemn those or offend any veterans, I truly don’t.

In my country there are still people who say they hate Pakistan and it deserves the worst for what it did to our ancestors, in fact, there are people in my own class who believe so. Any mention of how those responsible are now already dead and that only the innocent descendants of theirs remain—like only the children remain in our country—are swept aside, hardly considered relevant, just like any arguments about how both sides have their share of bloodied hands.

Prejudice runs deep, all around the world. Children of war, born to hate. Even if those who caused the pain no longer remain to witness the repercussions and be held accountable for them. An eye for an eye is vengeance, regardless of who you’re blinding.

It is, of course foolish to pin the responsibility of the existence of groups such as the ISIS and Taliban solely on ineffectual government or meddling countries and any attempts I make at doing so will be riddled with ignorance and incomplete understanding of history, so I shall not try to do that.

What I will do though is pray for forgiveness, all around. Even for those considered evil. Pray for the hate to finally die down and not be reborn with every new child because of another eye blasted out of the socket. Pray for the hearts of those responsible, that they may not wither out and die from all the suffering they caused; pray for the innocent, lying dead, for crimes whose occurrence they had no hand or say in.

Pray for the children, born to hate. Born to flames and embers. Lost and alone, pray for their beating red hearts to not grow dead.

Yours Truly,


P.S I know the title was unjustifiably cynical and I don’t mean it, not yet, I think.


Smile–not right. A little

to the left? Deeper on the right.

And they cast shadows on her face

where there had been none.

That dent again, tiny, insignificant,

Another shadow, another wrinkle,

Another blemish where she could

Afford for there to be none.

Easy enough, for most.

Slight tightening of the muscle.

But not right, no, not hers.

A little to the left and deeper on the right.

And there, again, a shadow.

Where there was supposed to be none.

And so it goes, and on it goes,

A broken merry-go-round no one boards.

Because I Said So and Other Crappy Titles

The tea I’m drinking seems to be all sugar. But I drink it anyway because even though it is sickeningly sweet, it is still hot and this is one of those days and I need a hot beverage. Its soothing—even if the excess sugar leaves too much of an aftertaste. I’m having such horrible mood swings. And I’m too blah. I’m always blah, but not as much as right now.

And I was so happy today. There wasn’t any reason for it, I just was. And now I’m not and I’m sick, but in a not-sick-but-still-sick way. The pre-sickness-sick I call it, where my body is just starting to shut down and my mind is only just getting drowsy. I suppose I’ll be proper sick in 2 days. Such a wimp. Me that is, not you. You’re nice with your enviously good, strong immune system which is destroying all antigens like a boss with its B and T cells.


I just gave the ‘because I said so’ reason to my brother. I have a brother, by the way. He’s young—younger. About 4. Why don’t I know his exact age? I swear I normally do. But I don’t right now. Anyway he asked me why he shouldn’t wear his shoes on the bed and I said, “Because I said so.”—the pre-sick-sickyness is messing with my patience and reasoning capabilities. I could’ve told him his shoes are dirty and that it’ll make the bed dirty too, or that it’s common courtesy to take your shoes off at the door. But no. Instead: because I said so.

Everyone is going out to dinner. I’m not. Because I said so. All right, I’m not insolent or inconsiderate enough to say that to my mother. I’m just drained. Drained and tired and PSS-inflicted (PSS: pre-sickness-sick, FYI). Not to mention I have an English assignment to do. I’m missing out on good food, though. And if it weren’t for the PSS, I wouldn’t have minded going and just staying up later to finish the homework, because food. The aunty makes good food and she’s nice and her grandkid is the cutest kid I’ve ever met (after my younger brother and sister, of course). But I’m home. Because I said so.

Am I even making sense? I seem very disjointed to me. I was happy and now PSS. So blah much tired.

I haven’t written a story in ages.  I drank all of my tea

I believe in God. I don’t know why I said that right now. As long as we’re getting to know each other, I figured why not? (Not that I ever leave you any time to say anything about yourself here—and no, not ‘cause this is my blog—turf—I’m like that in real life too. Just jabberjabberjabber)

I’m pukish. I’m such a brat when I’m sick/near-sick.  I’m not used to being sick. I don’t handle it well. My skin’s peeling off of my fingers. Does anyone else feel inadequate when their skin is peeling off? Half-done and faulty? Not in a broad, philosophical sense, but in an everyday sort of way.

I have a hair on my knuckle. A singular strand of hair—tiny, disappears completely some days and comes back when I’m not doing so well to kick me down further—taunting me with the utter ridiculousness of its existence.

Because I said so.

Well, buhbye now,


I’d Like It To Mean Something.

We’re always running through life. Scrambling for that promotion or grade or interview that’ll catapult us to the very end of the race so we can finally settle down for a comfortable, peaceful life. Except we spend the wonderful lives we’re handed worrying and running to the finish line—because (and maybe that’s just me) we don’t think we deserve it yet–so we jump through hoops and do things we don’t like so we can say we earned the wonderful life that awaits us; that we worked for it and once you reach the finish line, the time to reap the rewards will come. But before we know it, we sign up for the marathon, and are running, sprinting, leaping. And this is our life.

I’m not talking about stopping to smell the roses and all that…I’m saying you don’t always have to step on the thorns to get to it. There’s more to things. There has to be; our life cannot be all about the finish line. Because, there isn’t one. After that one job position, there’s the one above that, and after you pass that very important exam, there are about a hundred more in your future. Going through all the unpleasantness thinking it will all eventually end is not what we should be doing. Because it won’t. This is our life.

The sooner we accept that, the sooner we decide if that is enough. And, if it isn’t, the sooner we can work at changing it.

Because right now? It doesn’t seem all that worth it. I don’t know how adults do it. But I better learn how to because I’m part of the race now. It’s all about beating that other person to the trophy so we can move on to the next level where we run to beat another person to another trophy and then another, and another. It won’t stop. As much as I’d like to believe it will, it won’t. There’ll be competition to get into a college, then competition to beat to excel in it, then competition to beat to be the best at what you do. And then competition to beat so you maintain your position. Somewhere along the line, we grew up, you and me. And we can spend the rest of our lives wondering how it happened and trying to figure out ways to stop it. But this is our life.

I’m tired already. But we don’t have to take all the bad thinking the good will come later. This is our life, and we decide if it’s worth it.

I’d just really like it to be worth it.


Yours Truly,


Teen-o-ritis Is A Real Thing Right?

This is not just the drama queen in me speaking. For once.

I’m a textbook case. Of what I have no idea, I just know that I am one. Sometimes when you walk there is a sudden pain in your foot—searing and quick, like the kind you might get from stepping on a pin or a pointy rock—but there isn’t any external or known internal wound to cause it. It’s just a phantom pain with no origin or story, there is just the consequence of going through eye-watering agony as you flex your foot this way and that, trying to work it out. I am a consequence of something. Of something terrible that left me devastated, ‘cept I don’t know what it is.

I mostly just pushed it aside for the past few months, thinking I was just going mental; slowly descending into the abyss of confusion and consequences—the biggest and most painful of all being me and all that I am. I have the trust issues of an abandoned kid, the cynicism of a divorcee, the random thoughts of a bitter, albeit silly, philosopher and the world views of a man whose world was ideal, yet I’m none of those. I’m a normal 16 yr old with a normal family and a normal life. I’m not a bitter person; I don’t expect the worse—really, I don’t. I don’t expect it. I’m optimistic about the things one ought to be optimistic of. I’m scared of things one oughtn’t to be afraid of.

So, I don’t make sense. I don’t understand myself sometimes. I don’t know how to say it, and I never know if I’m making any sense, I just don’t understand myself. I find myself thinking these thoughts that never crossed my mind about things I don’t even know of, and I have no idea who I am, or why I am. I’m a character who has all the personality traits, but no backstory to explain their existence.

People have reasons for being messed up—broken families, broken hearts and broken lives—I have everything bright and shiny. I don’t understand myself. I don’t know why I have trust issues—I like everyone, yes. And I never think about them distrustfully, I just never let them get too close. I’m this person they think I am, except I know that’s not the real me because if it was, then I would be simple and understandable and trusting. I’m not saying I put on a facade, no no, I don’t pretend or act like someone else. The person they know is me. But not, at the same time. I like them and I believe in the goodness of people and all that jazz. I just never get truly close. I feel gratified when something goes wrong, and pray that it doesn’t at the same time. I don’t make sense.

If only it were as easy as that...
If only it were as easy as that…

I’m a result of something. Something meaningful and rational–it’s what I hope for anyway. Because I don’t know me. And it’s not just the usual not knowing who you are as a teenager thing, it’s something else. Something is wrong and I don’t know how to fix it because I don’t know if it counts; I don’t know if any of it is real—really, if all this is just in my head, then that means nothing is wrong, right? But something is. I know it is. I think it is.

'I keep thinking I'm a Big Mac with fries...'
‘I keep thinking I’m a Big Mac with fries…’

I’m a textbook case. Of depression? Anxiety? Teen-o-ritis? No, not any of those. I don’t know what it is. I don’t make sense to myself, I live the life of someone else, think the thoughts of someone else, wish to be something else. I have no story. Nothing to lend me…personality. No hardships, no good luck, just a messy mediocre. I’m a consequence of something important; something that hasn’t happened yet, and perhaps never will.

I think too much.


It was while reading ‘Reading Lolita in Tehran’ that I came across the word poshlust. A Russian writer, Nabokov explained that it: “is not only the obviously trashy but mainly the falsely important, the falsely beautiful, the falsely clever, and the falsely attractive”


That what our lives are. Poshlust.

Or at least, that’s what we think it is. Why else must we think about Hell and Heaven? Why do we insist on giving our death undue relevance? Some believe in seven lives; reincarnation. Others believe that the real life starts after our death, when we enter the Afterworld. Basically, we’ve decided that the “life” we’re living now is never going to measure up—never going to be enough. We just can’t deal with the fact that this is it.

Oh you never went on that cruise, grandma? Don’t worry, living life frugally has guaranteed you a place in Heaven! Have fun in the Divine Caribbean!

But you know what is really poshlust? The afterlife.

We go through the life we’re currently living thinking that it will affect the next life—which may, or may not exist. Don’t get me wrong, my intention is not to offend any faith, I just don’t see why we should let what happens after our death hold us back from doing the things we want to before our death…Frankly I do not believe in a Hell, I do not believe in a hateful, vengeful God—these qualities are not be coveted in any mortal beings, and yet, it is completely okay for the Creator to have them? How in the world does that make sense? I don’t see how we get to dictate what is right and what is wrong…is a child really going to be fried in Hell just because she went to bed two hours late, or lied to her mum about that last cookie?

Carpe diem, people! Carpe diem.

“Man is the only animal who enjoys the consolation of believing in a next life; all the other animal enjoy the consolation of not worrying about it”

On a lighter note…

High school? Poshlust.