Dash-bored

Do not stand at my grave and weep

2010-05-15T11:22:00.000-07:00

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Fyre

hm

2010-05-14T12:44:00.000-07:00

While I was waiting for you to wake up, your dreams started coming true.

My Face

2010-05-03T13:49:00.000-07:00

They see me rollin'

2010-04-26T12:00:00.000-07:00

the devil swimming in the Lords swimming pool

2010-04-21T13:13:00.000-07:00

if there were no judas
and no devil
where would god and his little boy be now
nowhere i swear

Sophomore

2010-04-15T14:43:00.000-07:00

A whirlwind romance of intellectual proportions spun through his head as he started ticking off the answers on his quiz.

This is what he wanted. This was the package. Looks and brains. That was it. He didn’t need the heavy eyeliner sitting next to him, the hooped earrings in front of him, or the permed hair that he knew was staring at him in the corner of his eye. Even if she did think Ten was their best album ever never to be topped he would rather eat the chalk the woman at the front was holding.

He came up to her desk, pushing his way through the sponge like haze. One foot away from her, instead of putting the paper on the desk he held it out to her, as if he had written a sonnet for her, as if he could look into her eyes and have her look back, as if he could have her. But he heard her silent shout, “Don’t stand so close to me”. Gosh this was awful. He needed some new music. Something about booty and masala. This classic stuff was making his eyes bleed.

God bless Pakistan and its negative current account. He could listen to this all day. Or until 5 pm, whichever came first. So summer turned into winter and back into summer, all in one semester. Thats what the weather feels like in Lahore. Twice a week, Winter 2007, he would find himself at her desk with some silly little burp of an excuse to talk to her.

“There is no right answer. I just don’t like your argument very much. It lacks supportive material. But at least you have structure.” But what he heard was, “There’s nothing wrong with you. I just don’t like you very much. You lack all the essentials society demands. But you have very nicely shaped nose.”

A tumultuous and tragic guitar solo gripped his insides as he started ticking off the answers on his exam. This would be the last time he would smell her. The gel in his hair felt heavy. He looked at eyeliner strut past. Then the president of the music society left, damn these seniors with their acoustic mouths. He saw her smile at acoustic-mouth. His nostrils felt extremely hot. He felt hungry, specifically for flame grilled chicken. He waited until beard-boy, see-though-shirt-black-bra, and adam-and-his-apple were left. He wanted to be the last one out, the last one to have the khuda-hafiz mouthful, and receive the last nod of her on-brink-of-grey hair.

“Time’s up. Please stop writing and pass your paper to the aisle.” Dammit. She snatched his paper first. He rummaged around in his satchel, waiting for the others to leave. Beard-boy was having a long discussion on the right answers, and she was trying her best not to tell him to go shave. This rummaging was awkward. Beard-boy was on attendance issues. Rummaging. Beard-boy reached coinciding of the death of his aunt’s brother with his cousins marriage in Islamabad. Rummaging. On to what grade beard-boy thought she would give him. Rummaging. Fuck it. Skins was his favourite show this year. She could have beard-boy. He needed to pee.

“Khuda hafiz maa’m”. But what he really said was, “Well alright then. Have a nice year. Teach these fresh girls how to wear their hair.”

Boxes

2010-04-01T14:14:00.000-07:00

You and your friends in boxes in my head. Roses and caramel. I can taste them when in the smoke. You chill me to the bone. And you won’t give me your sweater. And I write like this when I am cold so that I can be a little warmer.

I love you. Especially today.

Heading for the city, in the haze of November. The smell of strawberries from my headphones makes me cry. You taste like salt and I am a slug.

The boxes are empty and it is too much effort to put things in them. I don’t want to put you down. You could use someone like me. I think pink is my favorite color. I will paint my bat barn pink. The boxes are too tight and I am choking on my smoke. Can you give me a box? Why don’t I deserve a box.

When you come over, when you are 50. We will sit on my porch and drink ice-tea the way it was made in 2007. The ravens will come back to the windows in our dreaming tree and perch in silence. The flowers will be dead of course so we will stare at the dirt and the empty boxes lying in my yard. And insects will taste like raisins.

I am ready to believe in anything. But magic takes so much effort.

My life tastes like smoke. You taste like water.

DontouchMeh

2010-02-05T11:43:00.000-08:00

I hope you get chewed up and spit out

2010-01-31T03:54:00.000-08:00

yes. i. do.

Hope

2010-01-12T07:53:00.001-08:00

I see signs now all the time

2010-01-09T14:09:00.000-08:00

Minor

2010-01-09T13:41:00.000-08:00

My beautiful drowning boy, its was so little that you already forgot.

I promise to melt on your sleeve like a snowflake.

Gak!?!!

2009-11-30T02:14:00.000-08:00

Hello dramatic mass slaughterage.
I will never understand you, Sacrificial Eid.

Escape on Ferozpur Road

2009-11-10T12:59:00.000-08:00

My grandmother’s house is built on the corner of one of the streets that branches off from the busiest roads of the city. Nights that I spend at her house are often sleepless as she likes to leave lights on throughout the house. Try to find simple and effective ways to escape. So I stand in my mother’s former bedroom, and look out from her window onto the street. Its 3 AM. I stare out at the trucks rolling by. I put my hands onto the windowpane, and feel the vibrations for this grand causeway. For a few seconds, my mind hears Lahore’s diabetic frequency.

There’s an epidemic in the city. We, I try and speak of the common Lahori and not all countrymen for reasons I don’t have... we Lahori’s are addicted to our cellular phones. The poorer we are, the more phone calls we seem to receive and get to hear the happiest Indian songs instead of the common beeping waiting for you to pick up the phone. It’s not about it being entertaining, or cheap, to manage a cell phone. It’s all about the momentary fragmented escape. So call me, my ringtone is Lahore’s song.

It has been four days that no one has called me. No five actually. Its 3 AM, the new day is here. Since the 27^th of September, I have sent a total of 8 text messages. I did however go to a wedding, where I made small talk about clothes, the weather and the dreadful sugar crisis gripping the departmental stores of Lahore. I have to have tea at noon with some of my mother’s friends. I hope they talk about sugar as well. My dialogue is well rehearsed. I need to talk to someone I hardly ever meet; it relaxes me, there is no pressure... Hello instant web messenger. How have you been today? What your favourite flavour? Strawberry? Mine too. Such lies.

It is Monday. I stare at cement carrying trucks at night. It is Tuesday. I lie in my driveway at 10 pm and try to see the stars through the November haze that grips Lahore and makes it hard to breathe. It is Wednesday. I stare at the progress bar of my download manager, watching the download speed change the time left, second by second. It is Thursday. I close my economics textbook, wait for 4 am to happen, and light up in my bathroom with the exhaust fan on. It is Friday. I come back from a family dinner, and try not to think about why the boy I liked couldn’t like me back and think about him for two hours while listening to the music we used to listen to. It is Saturday. I have my period, I have an excuse to mope, I sit in the dark and fantasize about dying, hospitals, and anorexia. It is Sunday. My baby sister falls asleep in my bed, and I stare at her for an hour, marvelling at how tiny the pores of her skin are.

Mornings are hard. We eat at night, we dance at night, we sleep at night, we meet at night, we stay at home because we are conservative at night, we get high at night, we sit with ourselves and get to know ourselves at night. Daytime came, and made me give three exams in one day. It was morning when my aunt just bled to death it the hospital. My cook, bless his ghee laden soul, slipped on a paratha, and broke his hip. It was high noon when my best friend’s boy friend decided to drown in his own bath tub. Ever remember Lahore being bombed in the middle of the night?

There is a story in here somewhere; I am trying to say what I need to say. Lahore I love you. But let me escape for more than just a few moments at a time.

Nirala has closed down. Nirala had the best sweets I have ever had. He has stopped talking to me, he is never online anymore. He also had the best sweets I have ever had. It should be a crime, to make a Lahori so used to something and then take it away. I replace mithai with chocolate. I’ll replace all the hes with a husband. It wedding season, those who can’t choose, wait to be chosen. It is most perverse. This is not the story I want to tell. It would be self defeating. Like the cramped supermarkets, the decadence of the drawing rooms, the fake accents and millions of rupees spent sending you to Georgetown and me to St. Andrews, the Karachite making fun of you, the rude beggars of DHA, the security barriers off Sherpao bridge, the seven overlapping aazans five times a day, the children on the street without shoes, the obnoxious empty towering buildings sprinkled all over you, the men on the street scratching themselves nonchalantly, the bus driver spitting pan out the window onto your feet, the officers gone for Friday prayers while you wait for two hours, the extra tuition fees to make up for inadequacy of schools. Yet, Lahore is vibrant, historical, rich and blessed by the Sufis. I need to escape to my bathroom, to have a smoke. I am not a smoker.

In Lahore for 21 years, I have never touched the Minar-e-Pakistan. As a child I was awestruck by it, reading about it in Urdu and soshial shtudies textbooks. Then one day, on the way to Islamabad, I drove past it. It was small. It was out of place. A colonized columnar minaret. It symbolized escape, but it was conflicted and trapped. A planned coincidence that you sand there, like a concrete dandelion. They soon built a better escape out of Lahore. It’s a highway that ignores everything on the sides.

So I go blind. I refuse. I stop thinking about mithai at Eid. I turn off the wi-fi. No one calls anyway. I delete any nostalgia producing music. I stop comparing Minar-e-Pakistan to Data Darbar’s magnificence. I stop listing to the man with a beard, on nine channels of cable television. I stop listening to the 25 anchormen all telling me Lahore is burning. I nod my head at whatever my mother says. I am left with myself and I have no way to get away from me.

Its Monday again. I try to tell you about my escape.

beautiful blue

2009-11-05T12:10:00.000-08:00

Read this:
Specturm Blues

Eve didnt tempt, she shared.

2009-11-02T15:07:00.000-08:00

Passive

2009-10-18T04:18:00.001-07:00

I smell coffee and it reminds me of you
Sumatra in the debris
Maybe you can smell mint
And remember me

Even my web browswer is being an awkward, un-understood emo

2009-10-05T09:50:00.001-07:00

Firefox has detected that the server is redirecting the request for this address in a way that will never complete.

Ctrl/c Ctrl/V's

2009-10-04T03:05:00.000-07:00

I stumble falling
Front of you and all your cool friends
You pick me up you brush me off I grin
But all I wanna do is disappear
One day when you fall for me babe
I know it's gonna come and then
I'm not gonna brush you off no way

Haiku for who?

2009-09-23T14:13:00.000-07:00

In love with your brain
Makes me visit your website
Again and again

Beirut

2009-09-23T14:05:00.000-07:00

and now outside i see your eyes meet the sky
and i dont mind what you decide to swear by

Expiry date

2009-09-03T01:05:00.000-07:00

its come and gone.

Ajeeb

2009-08-28T22:13:00.000-07:00

Staring at the wet blackness of my palms.
Peanut, please don't do this.
I'm begging.
Always
want
you
around.

Work

2009-08-26T18:49:00.000-07:00

go
forth
make
money
and
buy
me.
something.
expensive.

KILL THE LIGHTS. NOW!

2009-08-24T18:58:00.000-07:00

Ok so heres what you do...

Kill the lights.
Switch on the woofers. We need bass.

This is my new shallow obsession song

go on, click it.

Then, quick quick...
click on this below and full screen it (careful if you are epileptic).

hahaha

decay.

2009-08-22T19:12:00.000-07:00

ravens flying, fortelling this
silent. secret. dark. this kiss.
december flowers. we float away.
dying. dead. alone. astray.

.

2009-08-21T08:49:00.001-07:00

Bring it back. I have nothing to wear on my sleeve.

Refrain...

2009-08-16T10:35:00.000-07:00

... from drowning in your own metaphorical vomit.
(Hugh McLeod)

Pity the nation...

2009-08-12T11:42:00.000-07:00

... that is full of beliefs and empty of religion. Pity the nation that wears a cloth it does not weave, eats a bread it does not harvest, and drinks a wine that flows not from its own wine-press. Pity the nation that acclaims the bully as hero, and that deems the glittering conqueror bountiful. Pity a nation that despises a passion in its dream, yet submits in its awakening. Pity the nation that raises not its voice save when it walks in a funeral, boasts not except among its ruins, and will rebel not save when its neck is laid between the sword and the block. Pity the nation whose statesman is a fox, whose philosopher is a juggler, and whose art is the art of patching and mimicking. Pity the nation that welcomes its new ruler with trumpeting, and farewells him with hooting, only to welcome another with trumpeting again. Pity the nation whose sages are dumb with years and whose strong men are yet in the cradle. Pity the nation divided into fragments, each fragment deeming itself a nation.
Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931)

Happy Birthday Pakistan.

Substance

2009-08-07T20:41:00.001-07:00

[last lines]
I saw death rising from the earth, from the ground itself, in one blue field.
[picks up a blue flower]
A present for my friends... at Thanksgiving.

Kitty Cat

2009-08-07T08:44:00.000-07:00

ahahahahaha

Overdressed

2009-08-06T19:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I feel a little overdressed and slyly take my earrings off, or take a bangle off and put in in my bag. I avoid people, just so that I don't have to become friends with them, so I don't have to keep up with them, or tell them who's pictures I have on my wall. I hide the fact that I can sketch peoples faces so that they don't ask me why I study politics instead of art. Hey, you should draw me? I cringe. I nod. I smile. Say thank you.
And the Delhites I know aren't slow, and the Lahories I know aren't weird, and the Iranians I know aren't touchy. I don't look people in the eye when I talk to them. Makes me assume that maybe they're not looking at me, which makes me comfortable. That's why I remember what color shirt you wore. That your hair was long. What you said the first time we met, where we met. It was raining by the way. I cringe. I nod. I smile. Say thank you.
Your flipflops. Your kaulapuris. Your converse all-stars.
Its not about being different. Just out of place. Circle without the centre.

Layers

2009-08-04T15:53:00.000-07:00

This picture makes me feel queasy when its sideways.

Everybody's Sick of Your Great Potential

2009-08-04T08:13:00.001-07:00

http://www.gapingvoid.com/Moveable_Type/archives/005067.html

Gramsci

2009-08-03T12:13:00.000-07:00

Writing Gramsci obsessed essays.

(At from: http://kpocta.deviantart.com/art/Red-Sardinia-53381782)

Offline

2009-07-31T18:15:00.000-07:00

I can sometimes smell mint, the kind they put in chocolates and Ice-cream. I must have some neurons firing the wrong information into my brain. But I do so enjoy it, the illusion of the smell. For who is to say what is and what is not. That I can smell mint and you cant. And I only wanted the truth, as you spun around me illusions of it. Smell touch feel. I could be living in a shell. Yet I can smell the walls, and taste the keyboard and hear the pillows as I sit on the edge of your bed.

I know you are sitting at my side, killing the last orc on your computer screen and you are talking to me. In the 90's, that lost decade of sci-fi, they called this sort of a conversation a "chat". So I guess we are chatting. This is what conversations have become. Void of color, form, sound. I am online. That is all I am. I am a "status message". I am a cleverly thought out string of words or a random song lyric. I am online.

Let me break it to you, quite simply, right here, because I can get away with it without having to look into your dumb empty eyes.

cyberpixie252: I am going away. I'm going back.
orceater: LOL. I just blew up cyber Narnia.
cyberpixie252: for real. this is it. deal with it.

cyberpixie@gleemail.com is currently offline and can't receive your messages.

Phone rings, knock on the door. The real world sucks us back in. I get up from the edge of your bed, and the mattress decompresses a bit. We are like phantoms in each others rooms. But like the chocolate I am smelling now, of course I was never there. And now I am gone.

I HATE

2009-07-31T17:54:00.000-07:00

Whipped Cream and Other Delights

2009-07-30T19:00:00.001-07:00

Deleted a shit load of emoposts.

Keeping it light, like whipped cream.

Whipped cream on crack (hohoahahah)
<3

Akon Goes Emo

2009-07-30T17:00:00.000-07:00

In the words of Kanye West:
Dad cracked a joke, all the kids laughed,
But I couldn’t here him all the way in first-class.
Chased the good-life, all my life long,
Look back on my life, all my life gone,
Where did I go wrong?

for shizz?? He went soooo wrong didnt he. Rich beautiful successful people ranting about their problems.

Gotta appreciate the shallowness. Life sux as it is. Yes. I have sold out. Drop me a good beat and watch me forget about cutting myself with razor blades.

Heres more, Miss BS herself:
But all of the boys and all of the girls are begging to if you seek Amy
(ok this one was pretty funny... haha... Imagine the 11 year olds singing this. In my time singing "where you from you sexy thing" was scandalous. Oh parents.)

"I drive my Mini Cooper,
And I'm feeling super-dooper."--- MADonna

Oh and who else went emo. Jared Leto. The pretty boy. And he goes and does a skunk-punk cover of Kanye West. Good thing MTV loves him and hes so pretty. The following lyrics in slo-mo alternative:
So go ahead go nuts, go ape shit
Specially in my Pastel and my Bape shit
Act like you can't tell who made this new gospel
Homey take six and take this, hatersss
(Gotta end this blog post. Nauseaaa... blurgh**)

"to the window.. to the walls.... to the sweat *beep *beep *beep-alls ***********************************" (Lil John and the Eastside Boyz -YOUTUBE THIS)

Lemons

2009-06-15T17:15:00.000-07:00

I really have nothing to say.

Except for Love like Lemons.

Donno where I got it from.

Sounds good. Sounds enough.

Love like lemons.

.

This guy was a huge DMB fan. Used to be at every show with this poster. He died recently. I love this picture.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
love like lemons

More Insane boy profundity

2009-05-06T15:01:00.000-07:00

Insaneboy: are you afraid of the dark?
me: ell no
Insaneboy: the dark is afraid of me :/
me: hahahahahahaha
what?
Insaneboy: it's scared
i guess it's worried it might become like me some day
me: totally adorable and geeky?
i am reading your emo post
Insaneboy: what how'd you see it? :S
learn meter and rhyme
me: omg
Insaneboy: :) ?
me: sensory overload. I am sitting at the edge of your bed, looking at you, my mouth half open, eye wide. almost speechless.
Insaneboy: very MUD.
me: shut up
me: my mouth is closed.
Insaneboy: so whatchya think huh huh uhuh
me: im still wide eyed staring at you.
yar
i mean i know there way more to you than a random sense of humor and mindless typed talks... uhhh....
Insaneboy: check the song check the song
me: is this supposed to go with the emoblog?
Insaneboy: ...no :( i found it in my MSN received files
and was quite excited by it
hadn't heard it
no idea who sent it to me or when
but much appreciated, in retrospect
me: its madness, i can hear video games effects in the background
omg
Insaneboy: you used to watch Sabre Riders?
me: and the star sheriffs!
Insaneboy: :)
so you get the beauty of the song then
me: omg yess
<3
Insaneboy: have the song on repeat
time to sleep
me: ok. the darkness is your friend and it is honest and reliable.
Insaneboy: darkness isn't my friend
we're just... playmates.
the non playboy kind
Insaneboy: as long as it's not just random phrases stitched together
profound sounding like
like Simon & Garfunkle lyrics
me: cucucuchu mrs Robinson
Insaneboy: actually my "prose" as you call it was inspired by S&G's song
me: Im still sitting at the edge of your bed btw.
gonna leave now.
Insaneboy: Frightening
i might actually turn to look
i did. you're not there.
scariest typo evar

;

2009-05-05T18:12:00.000-07:00

blog blog blog blog bloggers blogging blog blog no ones cares no ones reading blogs dumb empty blogosphere saying nothing doing nothing wasting letters wasting cells blogging bludging bleeding all over the virtual plain with digits pouring out of cyber wounds inflicted with cyber blags and cyber hags and cyber dogs and cats and bats and emos and indies and photos and tripping and acid and neon and my semi-colon...
my diet coke does not care;

That No One Knows

2009-04-30T21:43:00.001-07:00

And this is our secret, that I know you and you know me and no one else knows.
That no one knows, that we know each other, that we have secret talks.
We silently converse nocturnally.
Pressing on words until we forget what we sound like and just click.
And as I click though my memory, I know I made you up.
That if you weren't real, I would still know you.
And no one would know you exist.
I would be a figment of your imagination, and you would read the words you wrote.
And say them out loud, when no one was around.
The full stops and commas would fade ways with the sound of records always playing.
With disjointed rhymes, and prose that was pointless.
We filled up memories, in folders and documents.
Of research papers and formats.
Our memories formatted, in codes and puzzles.
That only you and I know the key to.

Game Over

2009-04-14T19:35:00.000-07:00

Ctrl c, ctrl v,
I explained it with the birds and bees
pasted it in my head
to have it read
read by you
but this in not about you.
but not this time. ctrl x
now its just a reflex
Page dn, Shift End
I don't think I'll click send.
This is the last one about you
this is not about you
'This is not a love song'
this has gone on too long
Shift Break
It was fake.
Kiss my fist
If I could create a fist
ctrl x. Tendons..
I got none
cout << "this is not an infinite loop" << endl;
// kiss and tell
return 0; // this is a finite loop
//this is the last hoop
wait let me recount
wait let me comment you out
move over
//Game over

Saturated

2009-03-17T20:59:00.001-07:00

Haven't had anything to say in a while now.
I guess friends do that to you sometimes.
I mean this in a good way.
Newness.
I do like them, and appreciate them. But no way am I taking a closer look.

Asexual Armament

2009-02-07T17:35:00.000-08:00

So someone had an argument in an International Relations class about how masculine weaponry and arms are. Ever seen a missile. Hello!! Phallic symbol! So yeah, when you see a rocket, you better realize what it means. And if your feminist (not-feminine) ass can realize it then, you are halfway through a class on Feminist theory.

NASA had better become more gender conscious. Really. This is an outrage. Who designs these things?? Kids have to see rockets and submarines. What a way to pollute young impressionable minds. Whattay??

Maybe feminists just need some love. Find a feminist, pick it up. Weapons of mass destruction... *snigger

Oh no!
Cover thine eyes.

Prayer to Karl Marx

2009-02-03T12:09:00.000-08:00

A specter is haunting the space between my ears. The specter is chewing on my brain cells. Please listen to my plea, while the specter chews and gnaws on my brain tissues and I momentarily spasm and drool.

I know you think that Capitalism is dead labor, and vampire like, and sucks on living labor etc. But the thing is firstly, I love buying new stuff Mr. Marx. Really, makes me happy. Like opium. And secondly, though you are sexy, vampires are more so. Were their vampires in your time?? I cant find any. I'm supposing that since you talked of vampires you probably read Bram Stoker's Dracula. So in my book you are a cool dude no matter what the pope says about you. I would check if you and Mr. Stoker were alive at the same time but I am too lazy to Google it.
I sometimes wonder what you would say about Google.

Karl my man, I am bummed out. I know you were a real hippie cool cat with your communist party and all, so if my property isn't private no more, can I still keep my posters?? Pretty please.

Getting to the point, I am writing an essay saying that you did nothing for the International Relations discipline. Please forgive. I do love you. But its business you know. I will however to quell your wrath write about how amazing historical materialism has been for the Neo's. Even though Waltz points at them and laughs.

I pray to you, reveal to me the awsomeness of hysterical and diabolical mysterialism so I can curse the other students with it and get an A+. I never quite got the hang of it. Also reveal to me you theory of surplus value, I am too dumb to understand Kapital. I have been trying ever since I was a wee freshman half a decade ago.

I oxymoronically pray to you, with a sickel in my left hand and a hammer in my right (or should i hold them the other way around??). If you didn't go to hell for giving Lenin his crazy ideas, please bless my essay. Bless my mom, and dad. Bless my commie friends back home. Don't bless Zardari. And please shave.

For the Midget of Little Person Fame

2009-01-29T16:41:00.000-08:00

Keep clicking on the words. And then pay attention to where the words lead to.
Do it right!! Extremely important.

Aaiween.

My rules as I make them up, since all prior ones are redundant or broken. Should be generally applicable:
1. Don't worry about coherency. Kiay jao. Sink or swim. Lagay Raho.
2. Don't make a plan. Life is already too short. Plans need execution, which takes time and effort, which when wasted cause fireworks in the rear. Yes, you know that feeling.
3. If you don't listen to what Saadia has to say, you will end up in the fireworks in the ass position. Butt main pain. No seriously, its an empirical fact.
4. "All theories are for someone and some purpose." Robert Cox (Neo-Marxist) said this with reference to political theory. But I think he was saying "Do your own thing. Ignore everyone."
5. Stay away from the botox. Think Dolly Parton, Lil Kim, Jessica Simpson, Donatella Verasce. Or dont think.
6. "Love me love me, pretend that you love me. Fool me fool me, go on and fool me." Turn the tables already!! *struggles with the table, cant push it over.. uugh....*
7. Write stuff that makes no sense. Except that it does.
8. Dont be evil. Just think evil. Only the cerebral part. Make an effort atleast.
9. Find a vampire. There must be one real vampire atleast. Come on, thousand years of folk lore and still nothing!?!
10. Go "Rawr" every couple of hours. But don't be catty.

DON'T PANIC

2009-01-27T08:39:00.000-08:00

Its a tough galaxy. If you want to survive you gotta know where your towel is.

Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy

"Sent" never pressed

2009-01-24T19:48:00.000-08:00

Hey oh,

I think I love Coventry. Everyone I know hates it. I guess they aren't crazy about the stark 1960's architecture. I love it. Its real. You can see the war in it. I love walking around the new and old cathedral. I love the shops, traffic free. As I walk though, there are desi's dressed like rappers, blacks who stare you down, white aunties with walkers, big dogs and their big owners, punk chick with pink hair. I love going there but no one else does. No one else likes just going to it in the old cathedral with no roof because of the bombing. You would probably like going on these aimless trips. I think you would.

I don't know the rules of engagement here. I didn't know them back home even. But I don't really care. I think I left my heart on a window sill in Lahore.

I don't sleep well. I miss my room. I call this my pseudo room. I miss not having the option to call you. Not that I called you when we were in the same city, but I had the option. I guess I still do. Maybe I will call you sometime. But I wonder if you will have anything to say. I remember we used to just sit silently together until one of us could come up with something to say, "you know what..."

I'm writing this on a bus to London. I wanted to use a pen while writing this. Its beautiful outside. Chris Martin is in my ears saying "its such a perfect day". I wanted to write a calm letter without emoticons and misplaced commas. I think you deserve it. I think I deserve it. Sign outside says "Buckinghamshire". Didn't know they had a county called that.

I could live here you know. But never alone. So I'm coming back on the 6th instead of the 18th.

Careers fair in London. Pink shirt, pinstriped trousers, pumps with wedges, I have the cliche down. QQ would look like an amateur.

What happened to the music? You used to send songs, did they finish with Fizz and Purple Haze? I burnt garlic bread to heck yesterday, living up to expectations. I am so jealous. Seriously. I miss hanging out. Missed it since junior year.

Might see those in London. Would rather see you, Basil, or the midget instead.

This is me being expressive. I'm gonna type this up and send it. Sending it by post seems a bit retarded. I'm going to pop open a can of Diet Coke and read up on the Rwandan Genocide, I have a presentation coming up. Humanitarianism. Cool stuff. I wanted to write this, had the intense urge. And we both know I can write a mean letter.

With sentimentality to a minimum,
LSE

Text Message to self...

2009-01-23T18:54:00.000-08:00

its 12 gb's of waste. I loved warehouse and stone. eff this shit. I hate bloody ducks and i hate the rain. With a passion. I hate this nosebleed emo bull. Wanna scrape my brain out, put it in a blender and mix it and the pour it down the gutter. I wanna break my cell phone into two pieces. Cut my hair again. Find a razor. Burn the frikkin red curtains.

Obsession

2009-01-18T20:11:00.001-08:00

Not even going try to put this one into words.

So many metaphors, my brain is on fire.

Forget It

2009-01-18T19:34:00.000-08:00

Words for the karmic-ly challenged,
Said out in a whisper to you
You made me swallow a knife,
You chose to swallow one too
You continue your obsession,
And I'll continue mine
I am looking forward,
You never look behind.
The knife goes through my organs
The blood seeps out of my pores
Lets go though this alone a-single
Pretending to be whores
You assumed that it was recent,
That what I said was new
You expect me to ignore it
And not expect me to ignore you

The Book of Stones, Bones and Silence

2009-01-14T18:45:00.000-08:00

This was an idea Shveta had, or someone had she she told me. The chapters to the book of my life. A tragic-comedy (mostly tragic, but we rocks have a great sense of humor)

Here goes:

The Book of Stones, Bones and Silence

Chapter 1: Bones
“The One” is born. “The One” what? There is no indication yet. Shows no promise of might, talent, beauty or intelligence. Drools and has big round eyes. Awkward Silence.

Chapter 2: Frogs
Time spent avoiding frogs in warm humid South Asian evenings or pretending to be one other days. Thaa jungle!

Chapter 3: I dont wanna go to the salon!
Really. They are creepy

Chapter 4: Emostic
The discovery of misery, love, woe, awsomeness and black nail color. The undergrad revolution.

Chapter 5: The Rocks with the marshmallow centers
All of them. And breakage. “Crazy kism ki”, said Great Sage Amal.

Chapter 6: -7
Going away but never escaping.

Chapter 7: Drowning
And other imaginary plans in pencil.

Chapter 8: No no please, not the salon!!
No no.. noooo… Oh it does look better. Very emo, and hides my face… *wink *thumbs up

Chapter 9: Oh hot daym, this is my jam (not)
Jammed and pickled in a jar. And then... awkward silence. But still never sells her artsy soul to corporate bitches.

Chapter 10: Burn up in your atmosphere.
Well, “The One” burns up in your atmosphere. You crazy dawg.

A Fairytale (by D.C. Porder)

2009-01-14T17:37:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time there was a hat named Frederick. Frederick married a head of blond hair named Janette. They fit together peacefully for many years. But Jeannette had a terrible secret. One night it was too much for her, and she revealed the awful truth. She was a wig.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You can find this guy here: Hooray 4 Chainsaws!

Theory on Attraction

2009-01-13T13:50:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine made this.
:)

Drowning

2009-01-12T21:26:00.000-08:00

This is crazy :) Gorillaz (bla bla bla bla)

2009-01-11T14:17:00.000-08:00

I got myself together
Bla bla bla bla bla bla bla.
Watch out
I didn't need the patience, life bla bla bla bla bla
Collapse
Don't you sit to close, or I'll bla bla bla bla bla
Break up
Stick it up your nose
Bla bla bla bla bla bla

The end I didn't mean to do it (Rock it, rock it)
It loved me in my head (Rock it, rock it)
I tried to be a charmer, (Rock it, rock it)
but I got a bit hopeless instead (Rock it, rock it)
The world is very sexy (Rock it, rock it)
It's part of my collapse (Rock it, rock it)

athlete--- lyrics...

2009-01-10T19:28:00.000-08:00

i am tokyo.
i am here.

(my alarm is this song and it is time to wake up)

Socks

2009-01-10T15:29:00.000-08:00

(yes i drew her)

2009-01-10T15:27:00.000-08:00

http://www.gapingvoid.com/iwantobewithyou222.jpg

Rawr

2009-01-10T12:21:00.000-08:00

Insane boy: dracular doesn't go rawr!

me: rawr!

just did

Insane boy: you isn't a dracular

you don't have a cloak

me: then why am i going Rawr!

i has.

Insane boy: you haz cheese cloaks?

me: i has cloak. i donno what that has to do with cheese

Insane boy: cheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze burgah!

you haz no cheez

me: haha

i haz no cheez! Rawr!

2009-01-07T09:38:00.001-08:00

You have me
You hate me
I asked and you said no.

The Dentist

2008-12-16T10:00:00.000-08:00

1

“Now he begins, his fingers feel
The tiny burning bit of steel”

He remembered the first verse of the poem that hung in his father’s office, his father the courageous surgeon. Surgeons had to be brave, to be able to rip apart the sacred body and to put it back together. Surgeons were builders, repairmen, skilled carpenters. He on the other hand chose to be an orthodontist. He considered his work an art. Art he excelled in.

Very soon in his venture into the human anatomy he found that his hand shook when he tried to carve the cadaver that lay in front of him. The thought of sculpting something pulsing and breathing made him break into cold sweats. Anatomy was a different experience all together. Something about the symmetry of the skeleton, the shape of the skull and the jaw line, struck him as delicate, beautiful even. Muscle contour around those bones added to the appeal of the subject. There was something about the tongue that could keep him enthralled, examining specimens dead and alive. After all, the mouth was the beginning of most pleasures and many skills. No other part of human anatomy was as lovely as this orifice.

Lost in his thoughts about the poem, he held the light to the mouth of the old lady. The yellowing teeth and the bad breath did not bother him. Unlike others of his profession, this was not just a job to him. Before he started to fill the cavity at the back of her mouth, he took a minute to examine the mouth. The bones had regressed, but in her youth she must have had a very strong jaw making her look intimidating and shrewd. This effect would have been spoiled by the gap between her front two teeth that had grown wider in old age.

She coughed. He smiled and got to work. Every mouth was different. He tried to remember the name of the poet who wrote about the surgeon…

2

She lay there on the chair, eyes closed because he had purposely turned it to her eyes so that he could watch her for a while without her becoming conscious of it. Eyes closed, mouth open. A perfect mouth.

The jaw was perfect, the steep angle below the ears, then about 120 degrees at the graduation of the neck, melting into the most perfect ellipse. A jaw he wanted to measure with verniere’s calipers, and set the golden ratio for himself. The teeth he could only compare to a line of pearls, surrounding a pink tongue, moist velvety, complimenting the crimson lips that had a bit too much lipstick, but shaped by an artist.

This was a mouth he had to keep, document, preserve.

She shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

“Is something wrong? I came for my regular checkup. My last dentist went away, so a friend recommended I come to you…”

As her horse voice rang in his ears, he tuned her out. The vocal chords spoiled the perfection of her mouth. He put on a face mask and just nodded. She went quiet and lay back. He turned the light to her mouth. Some of her makeup came off on his glove as he held her jaw. She shifted her ample weight and looked directly at him through her blue lenses. The flash of color made him notice the stray hair that has not been plucked off her well mowed brow. The pearls called him back. Perfection.

3

The next time she came he was ready. She had to come of course; she had molars that did not need capping. He smiled to himself. It wasn't a devious smile, it was innocent. Like waiting for a lover. “It’s just going to save you a trip back when it’s too late, I’ll just clean your molar and fill it in next Monday.” It was Monday and she was back in his seat, something about a cavity. She had no pain, her teeth seemed fine. But he was the doctor.

She began to ask him something, he told her to sit back and relax. “I’m just going to inject something into your gums to numb them.” He gently put his hand on her collar and made her lie back. She opened her mouth, and he knew he had no time to waste; she wasn’t as naive as he thought. This was a filling, she didn’t need anesthetic. He swiftly put the needle in. The look of pain and surprise in her mascara framed eyes would never leave him. In his haste he had not used alcohol to numb her mouth before he injected her. Her eyes closed from the strong sedative in the syringe and he saw her abdomen relax and her hands clutching the chair loosen. He needed to relax as well, he was too aware of the rest of her.

He assumed he had about forty minutes before she was lucid. He opened her mouth and stuck the ready prepared plaster gently to her teeth. He smiled as he thought of reconstructing the teeth in his little laboratory from the mold. As he waited for the plaster to set he got up took a sip of the little bottle of brandy hidden behind the medicines. He brushed against her foot and her shoe fell off. As he bent to but her shoe back on her foot, her eyes fluttered open. She raised her head, with the yellow plaster oozing out of her mouth and looked at the dentist, with his hand on her calf, holding her shoe.

“What is this?” she managed to spit out.

He dropped the shoe, “Please madam, let me explain, you fell asleep.”

She was livid and half drugged from the anesthesia. She tried to take the plaster out of her mouth. Her eyes welled up with tears. He knew what she was thinking, “No no, it’s not like that, let me explain.”

“What did you inject me with… This is sick,” and it was sick, with the yellow plaster hardened on her chin, her mascara running down her cheek, and the kind dentist stammering at her feet. She got up, and he got up to stop her. “Don’t come near me,” she picked up a scalpel that lay nearby and held it in front of herself as she staggered against his desk.

This was too much for him. Even in the twisted situation he thought about the vulgarity that clung to that perfect bone structure. He came closer, put her hand on her hand, “Please calm down.”

She smelt the alcohol on his breath and screamed. She jerked her hand away cutting his with the blade. As he saw his own blood spill onto the floor he reeled with nausea; blood was not his business. She stumbled past him to the locked door and banged on it shouting for help.

The receptionist had heard the scream. The door was locked, the dentist never locked doors, something was wrong. She called the police, and then unlocked the door from the outside. The door flung open and the half crazed woman with her clothes in a mess limped out with just one shoe on and fell in front of the patients waiting.

It was obvious to everyone what had happened.

And he never got to take that dear beautiful impression from that ugly yellow plaster mold.

"Love is blind, and handcuffed with fluffy handcuffs."

2008-11-17T11:52:00.000-08:00

Me: what if the people you like are total morons?

Insane boy: i would ideally tell you that i'm allergic to stupidity and morons and such people
Me: two of my best buddies are.
Insane boy: but my track record would prove otherwise
so i will make my escape with a whimsical philosophical wishy washy SS-type asnwer involving love like: love is blind. (or maybe that was too short)
Me: deep sheep.
Insane Boy: love is blind, and handcuffed with fluffy handcuffs. (no that's not right is it?)
Me: naa. itl do. love is blind, and handcuffed with fluffy handcuffs. loves it. neew blog post title.

(love it when life actually gets simple)

A friend of mine wrote this...

2008-11-11T14:15:00.000-08:00

I am duck. The water is dirty. I am duck. Cluck Cluck.
I am celebrating today.
I am mourning another day.
Sometimes it is the birth of a thousand.
Sometimes it it is death by numbers, death by design.
Sometimes it is mutation in the breast.
Sometimes it is people burnt by the first.
I am duck and the water is getting dirtier by the day.
The holy fish and the whole pond is dirty.
The stinky fish and the whole pond is stinky.
What I am trying to say is that lights hurts my eyes.
What I am trying to say is that life hurts my eyes.
What I've been meaning to say is this is all messed up.
What I've been meaning to say is we really screwed this up.
What I've been thinking about saying is this it is all your fault.
What I've been thinking about saying is that I am responsible for all of this.
What you're trying to say is that you're listening to me.
What you've been thinking about saying is nice duck good duck lie down and sleep.
What you've been meaning to say is stupid duck go die in your dirty pond.
And I must tell you.
The pond is dirty.
Because the holy fish is dirty.
The holy fish is dirty because the stinky fish smells.
The stinky fish is stinky because the whole pond is stinky.
The pond is stinky because the pond is dirty.
The pond is dirty because the holy fish is dirty.
The holy fish is dirty because all the fish are dirty.
The duck is dirty because all the fish are dirty.
The duck is dirty because the whole pond is dirty.
The fish are dirty because you are dirty.
The duck is dirty because you are dirty.
And then you blame the duck.
And then you blame the holy fish.
And then you blame the stinky fish.
But I blame all the fish.
I blame you.
I am just a dirty duck living in a dirty pond.
Because of you.

Essam
------------------------------------------------------------
I love it :)

Nightmares

2008-10-30T11:14:00.000-07:00

I’m in the lab. Or the office. Ready to go home. He stands before me.

“Why didn’t you tell me. You should have told me."

I am looking down. I can see myself. A gray shalwar kameez. A flowing dubatta. My book bag hanging from my shoulder.

“I didn’t want to do this to you. Because I’m not good enough. Because you would never. Because I couldn’t. Because you want better…”

I am called away, another friend needs help with something. I go sit with him.

He watched from the other room. Asks her to talk me to talk to him. I go to him. Sit down next to him. He begins to say something. I wish I knew what.

***

For you

2008-10-30T05:45:00.000-07:00

The earth laments it
And the water cries too
I had forsaken all the forest
To see if it was you

And I dug you out of your earth
But you burnt your eyes in the light
So I drowned in what was deep
And I choked in what was tight

There is nothing I can say
And nothing I can do
But walk into the water
And drown my words untrue

So the zephyr, won’t touch me
And the earth won’t let me through
Because I’d do anything for you
I did everything for you.

?

2008-10-23T18:50:00.000-07:00

This is a dark dark spidery blog.

And I cant help it.

Arachne II

2008-10-23T18:32:00.000-07:00

Don’t kill me
Because you cant fill me

She spins and spins
Grows dizzy within

Smell, touch, feel,
Cant see a thing,
Listen, read, tread,
She can’t sing,

They watch they wait,
He used the bait.
She takes it and runs,
But he’s got the guns,
Things could be better than this,
He could miss.
She gets reeled in,
Grows dizzy within.

It’s her own silk she sees
She’s said this before
But let’s do it again,
Twice thrice more.
She smiles; it was her fault the first time,
And twice around it starts to rhyme,
And grimaces, now it causes pain,
And scowls now that the silk is a chain.
Suddenly it’s not the same.
Suddenly it’s not a game.

Don’t snare me
If your cant bear me

Thucydides Melian Dialogue

2008-10-18T14:29:00.000-07:00

I was reading about realism for class this week and i thought I'd do some back ground reading about classical realism. I was reading about Thucydides's History of the Peloponnesian War and I came across his Melian Dialogue.

It supposed to show the clash between liberal and realist ideas. But I am writing about it because it made me feel sad. It makes me feel horrible inside when I even thing about it. Its not worse that Rwanda, not worse than Hiroshima, not worse that Afghanistan. Maybe its the dispassionate way that it was told, or that I have an active moral conscience. Its just one of those things that sit in a corner of your brain, the corner with a trap door to the heart. This is what its about:

In a nutshell, the Athenians wanted to invade Melos. The Melians had the choice, of either surrendering and paying tribute or fighting and losing to a far superior army. Melos argued that they should be left alone as a neutral party, which was a legitimate request according to international law and if the Athenians showed mercy, the Athenians would win more friends; and if they did invade Sparta would come to aid Melos, and the Gods would protect Melos anyway.

The Athenians refused to acknowledge justice or logic of the Melian demands and went on the principle, "The strong do what the can and the weak suffer what they must." They knew that the Spartans knew this principle as well and that the Melians were on their own.

The Melians refused to surrender saying that they were willing to fight and would prefer to be "friends of yours and enemies of neither side". The Athenians crushed them. There was no support from Sparta and traitors within. The Athenians killed all the men, and sold the women and children into slavery, and colonized empty Melos.

416 BC

Arachne

2008-10-13T18:04:00.000-07:00

There he was... staring at me.

How many eyes? And was he actually looking at me?

One hand in my lap, one on the pen, one in my hair, one supporting my head from falling off. Yes it is loosly attached.

He walked by me, came up from behind... I think I just saw the web being spinned. Caught up like a fly, or a flea... which is smaller?

But then it wasn't his web it was mine, wasn't it. So it's my own silk I'm caught in. And it was me who turned around to watch him, and tightened the knots. But atleast it was silk.

It was all in my head. He wasnt looking. I should snap out of it.

Was he? How many eyes?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

October 2007

4

2008-10-13T17:31:00.000-07:00

Silence becomes you as you stare

At the girl who's never there

Darkness loves you as you lie

The purple trees and fire flies

The lights at night shine on you lips

I have the perfect words on fingertips

I trace your shadows, where you walked

I rewind your silent talks

I wrote this on the red brick walls

I carved this in the abandoned halls

I sit alone on the window sill

And you sit with me, silent still.

What God Did Not Plan On (Stan Rice)

2008-10-09T15:18:00.000-07:00

Sleep well,

Weep well,

Go to the deep well

As often as possible.

Bring back the water,

Jostling and gleaming.

God did not plan on consciousness

Developing so

Well. Well,

Tell Him our

Pail is full

And He can

Go to Hell.

Stan Rice 1975

Acceleration

2008-10-07T14:08:00.000-07:00

The earth revolves at the speed of one thousand and forty two miles, per hour, but our hair doesn’t fly, nor do we feel sick with the repeated movement, neither do we get that rush from adrenaline from the speed.
Remember those fourteen years in school, waking up every morning, at the same time for over a decade. It’s a good experience for some, but only in retrospect, when years have passed. By the fifth year all you have to look forward to is the recess and the final bell saying that the six hours of slavery are over, and then the weekend. Soon, you stopped looking forward to, it never lasted long, it wasn’t that great anyway and the food at the canteen had no variety.
I imagined that a bench in a green field, under a blue sky dotted with nimbuses and cirri, with the sun shining and a cool breeze blowing would keep me happy forever. I honestly thought it would. I imagined it would be perfect, utopia… until the idea became mundane.
And then the typical image of eternal heaven reels me in with its golden gates and streams of honey and milk, with nymphs and wine and gems and perpetual happiness. I didn’t even want that, unless of course they had ice that was mild, and a sun that wouldn’t burn, and the sort of music I like, and the people that I loved.
It’s like working in the most exclusive restaurant in the city. It doesn’t matter if you get to eat shrimp or strawberry gateau every night for dinner. Sometimes you just want an oily cheese burger smothered in deep fried onions.

None of these instances, or states, is even mildly alluring. They are stable, constants that will just wrap you in their monotony, chew up your adrenaline glands and turn off the red lights in your brain that show high activity.
I’m stuck in a thankless job and I just want to be a kid in school. I want to eat fried food from the street. I want to jump off a cliff tied to a rope. I want a new phone, and a different stereo.
The key word is not ‘want’, the key word is ‘new’. We want change that can lead to something new. It’s not about greed, or being restless, or thankless, or consumerism. It’s the simple fact that monotony is torture. If you lock a man in an empty room for a few days he’s going to lose count of days. It breaks you down and is a means of administrative control in prisons. Hell may actually be being alone in our rooms with no pictures on the walls, no books on the shelves, only static on the television and our cell phones with empty directories catching no signals.

I guess heaven shows itself in flashes here, while we are alive and have vision. It’s a mother’s child, a new car, an Ivy League scholarship, a friend telling you a secret, a song. The fact that these are temporary, and change what is in you, or around you, give them value. Joy comes after intervals. It has no point if it’s always there.
When we desire something, it’s not only wanting more of it but wanting it to be better than before. That’s why we wanted to see the remake of Oceans Eleven and listened to U2’s cover of Unchained Melody. Utopia for me is change to a better state. A sustained acceleration to what is superior. We have moments of pain, and we know it because its better when it’s not present. In a life (or afterlife, if there is such a thing) without pain or the harshness of reality, the lack of pain would only make sense if the pleasure was ever increasing. Utopia as I see it would extract the best from life, the desired best, and create an exponentially increasing series of it. Real utopia would not just be ecstasy, but accelerating ecstasy.
You can’t sit and stare at the Mona Lisa forever, no matter how beguiling her smile is. You can commit her to memory; she will sit and smile back in the same way that she did three days, a month, a decade ago. But what if, as you looked her, she started becoming more alluring. You see more color in the cheeks, her eyes start shining, and her hair becomes fuller. The more you looked at her the more you wanted to know the reason behind the half smile, until each moment that will come will give you something more beautiful than before.
————————————————————————————-
This got printed the The News (Pakistan), in their regular feature "Utopia for me". Thanks to a good friend of mine.

Complications

2008-10-07T13:56:00.001-07:00

I come from Pakistan where the system is breaking down, where there is no electricity for hours a day and the largest city has water shortages.

But things are so simple. If I want to open a bank account, It gets done in one day. If I need to change a course, its done in one day. If I need a cell phone, I can get it instantaneously. Queues are minimal, and books (subject to availability) are cheap. The rooms can be made as cold or as warm as you want. The shops are always close, food is available till four AM, and the city is buzzing at midnight.

Whatever you say, its beautiful. Its simple. Its easy.

I can only compare Warwick, if i can get out o fthis queue. I have been standing here for two hours and I have been told that the bank has lost my application and I need to start over.

Suicide is Painless

2008-04-10T10:13:00.001-07:00

Suicide is a very rational decision.

You evaluate the utility or usefullness of living which can be negative. And you evaluate that of being dead, which if of course zero (this could also be negative). A slight problem is the correlation between those measures. They are inversely related. So we can simply say that the greater the distance between them, the greater will be the benefit of suicide.

It is individualistic. The market teaches us individualism. Had our lives been established on the collectivist theories, this would change. For now our ancestors are libertarians and liberals. So we have the right to do what we like as long as we don't crap on anyone else. Secondly, this can even be seen as a natural life. We can dispose of it as and how we like. So long as the means are fair its is right. And what could be more fair than suicide. Murder would be unfair, an infringement on your rights. DIY, is fair.

Religon however is a different issue.

More on this later.

Pakistan Elections 2008

2008-02-17T06:18:00.000-08:00

The Elections are tomorrow. School is off. Nobody I know is sure of who to vote for.

Somebody I know calles Nawaz Sharif the "export reject". Shes not voting for him. Would rather vote for the Chaudhry's.

I dont know who the representatives of your constitutency are. And the fact the Zardari, the Bibi's husband seems the best "leader" on the horizon scares me out of my wits. Maybe the General should stay.

I have a feeling this is going to be a disaster.

Ps. check this out if your actually reading my sad sad blog http://www.pakistanelection.com/electionsymbols.htm

Whining about whining

2008-02-16T10:53:00.000-08:00

I was whining about the workload and the pressure of being asian (especially Pakistani) and of the crimes against spiders and about the fact that no one around me ares about modest mouse... and my friend told me to shut up and blog it...

So I did.

Ugh, Blog. What an awful sounding word.

PS. Where all this hostility coming from?