Archive for July, 2009

Casual Conversation

Posted: July 15, 2009 in Uncategorized

“God doesn’t exist.”
“Don’t say that, look around you! He’s in everything, it’s obvious!”
They were in the tree in the backyard. He was ripping a helpless leaf to shreds.

“I’m so fucking lonely,” he said. “I need a distraction. Let’s go vandalize a stop sign.”

“You’re a maniac.”

“I wish I was a delusional maniac. At least then I’d have delusions to keep me company.”

“You’re such a tragedy,” she said, plucking a leaf off a branch. “God’s always there to turn to, you’ll never be lonely if you remember that.”

“I guess that’s why people believe he exists huh?”


“I said that’s why you believe God exists. You conjure him up when you need to talk in order to convince yourself that somebody cares about you and listens to you, when nobody gives a shit.”

“Are you finished, Dr Freud?”

“Because without that, you’d be just like me: all alone.”

“So you’re calling me delusional?”

“Yeah. You’re delusional, I’m a maniac. I guess what I’m trying to say is, you complete me,” he said, drawing a heart in the air with mock-seriousness.

She laughed. “You’re probably lonely because even God gets tired of your mad rambling.”

“I stopped rambling to him when I was 7.”

“Why 7?”

“That’s when I quit imaginary friends and opted for real people.”

“Hardy har har. So condescending. But hey, I’m not the pitifully sad one in this tree now am I?”

“Why would you be?” he said, crushing a tree-ant between his thumb and index finger. “Imaginary friends last forever, real people don’t.”

Trolling @ Yahoo

Posted: July 14, 2009 in Uncategorized

Trolling around Yahoo Q & A is insanely easy, I found, one dull Monday morning.
Here are a group of people, genuinely eager to offer ideas and advice, for no other reward than ‘Yahoo points’, which are imaginary and cannot be refunded in any shape or form for actual cash or a lame gift voucher at the very least.

Here’s some of the ridiculous questions I asked the helpful bunch.
Click on the links to see their answers. Funniest part is half of them took me seriously!

Q. The tunnel to China?

Is it illegal to start digging a hole in your backyard, with the motive of reaching China?
Is it the same as entering a country without a passport or can it be excused as a neurotic experiment?

A. If you poke such a hole in the planet, all the gravity would escape!
Not to mention the Chinese immigrants that would clutter your country…

Q. Isn’t marshmallow man a symbol of obesity?

I think marshmallow man is a secret propaganda against fat people.
I mean, isn’t it obvious, he’s this giant fat person, who seems harmless, and then suddenly turns evil. What’s up with that?

Fat people are people too. Everyone calls my mother fat, it’s just glandular really, bastards. 😦
Why would the makers of Ghostbusters do this? It hurts me.

Q. How can I make them stop talking?

I was in rehab for things I cannot mention here for my own safety, and got back last month. Ever since, I find it very hard to fall asleep at night.
This is because I hear voices inside my head, that start talking at exactly 9.42PM every night.
There are usually 2 voices, but some days up to 5 (could just be one voice fooling me into thinking it’s several by changing its pitch though).

It’s highly irritating, and the medication doesn’t stop it, and my doctor just says I’m imagining the whole thing.
But they’re real, and they keep talking about stupid things like cheese burgers and nail polish and Dita Von Teese. What do I do? How do I make them shut up?

Q. Is Barney’s middle name really Hagar?

Barney the Dinosaur was a legend among my people, here in Lafkastan, Russia.
We still play his reruns and his oratory skills are a great inspiration indeed.
But Mrs Kafka, my neighbor, she told me a terrible thing this morning, that Barney’s middle name is Hagar.

Is this true? Because Hagar means Angry Jew in my native tongue and I think this is very offensive.. I mean, not ALL jews are angry.

Mrs Kafka says Barney is a nazi bastard. I told her to shush and finish her oatmeal, silly woman.

Anyway, true or false? I must know. My village depends on you, people of Yahoo.

I think there is a man following me and my dog?
Why cannot I say that my mother is fat?
Is it ok that I think maggots are edible?
I think I might be in love?


It was an ordinary rainy morning when I was in the mood to exercise my amateur photography a tad.
After toddling about in the garden in the heavy drizzle, looking for cool bugs and new flowers to take pictures of, I came back inside to grab a towel.

Lo and behold! A gorgeous little spider spinning its web on the window of the bathroom, the sun from outside making diamonds on the silk.

So there I was, standing next to the toilet bowl, zooming in on the busy arachnid.
I hear a noise. Bzzzz. Ting.
Stupid wasps banging their heads on the tubelight I bet. (What’s up with that anyway?)
Buzzing gets louder.

Buzzing two inches away from my face!
A big fat fellow, wearing gorgeous yellow and black warning stripes, dancing around merrily in my face.
What the hell is a bee doing in the middle of some random Colombo bathroom?
Momentary shock and panic.

That doesn’t sound too good. -_-
I look down and find my beautiful bought-in-Dubai 8.0 megapixel camera looking quite depressed inside the toilet bowl (don’t worry, the bowl’s been flushed).
Instinctively I let out a scream resembling what some medieval hero must have let out before rescuing his princess from the clutches of the mighty dragon (a medieval hero with a potty mouth might I add) and I reach down and grab the camera.

There was a moment here, naturally, where I froze and realized what I was doing.
Standing in the bathroom with my right hand in the toilet bowl.

Nevertheless, after much obsessive soap-scrubbing on my part, my hand and the camera were salvaged.
Can’t say the same for my pride though, after I sheepishly narrated the story to some others. 😛

Twas comical indeed, but woe! The flash doesn’t work now and there’s a heinous looking splotch on the screen when I switch it on.
Time to get it serviced. I can imagine the convo at the counter..
‘What happened?’
Uh.. I dropped it in… some water.
Yeah. No. Uh. It fell.. in a… puddle. Yeah that’s what happened.
‘You dropped it in the toilet bowl didn’t you?’
How did you know?! Does that happen very often?
‘Nah. You just seem like the type.’

Makuluwo foiled by the spiders themselves!

Also, Mr ChubChubs and some vagrant squirrel who can play the guitar did a little impromptu duet cover of Travis’s Love Will Come Through.
It’s a bit sloppy as impromptus often are. Enjoy!

[ChubChubs audio clips have been removed temporarily]

Remember that dream, where you find yourself falling and falling, almost forever, as if stuck in the anticipation of actually hitting the cement below?

I hate falling.
It means you have lost control.
You’ve fallen victim to the tyrant Fate who pushed you off the building (or so you’d like to believe), and now there is no way but down.
You know it’s quite likely going to hurt when your skull slams into the ground, but there is nothing you’d really love more, seeing as the act of falling is more nauseating than the end of it itself.

So far you’ve been able to dodge all this falling business.
At the very worst, you’ve fallen off just a short platform, or maybe a tree.
But it’s got to happen some time, I s’pose.

But shit. I thought there’s going to be solid ground at the end of this 10-storey fall! What is that bubbly pink goo doing down there?
You’re falling into something worse this time, says the narrator in your head.
Not just the cement ground, but more like this bitter-sweet pot of lava, except it’s also loaded with a lot of weed that gets imbibed into your senses once you slosh into the concoction.
So there you know you’ll be, floating around, high as a kite, but quite often, it’s going to hurt like a bitch, and it might even eventually kill you.
The worst part, or some might argue the best part, is that after it’s over you may at some other time find yourself at the top of that building once again.

Those of you who can take a hint (however mad the metaphors may be) might have guessed what I’m talking about by now.
So tres fou to have to throw that awful four letter L word around.

So this falling stuff.
The most inconvenient thing. And you can’t really blame Fate or whatever to have led you to the edge, since till then, you were taking your own foolish little steps.

Is it Fate that makes the final push though?
Jump! it whispers, till you’re tempted.
If I stand on an actual ledge long enough, I find the ground at the bottom strangely inviting.
You’d like to think it was anyone but you that made you actually take the plunge (perhaps that damn suicidal nuisance of a voice in your head), you might even plead insanity.
But some times, squinting down at the ugly seductive puddle below, while telling that damn suicidal nuisance of a voice in your head to shut up, you notice, that the voice is yours.

Sibling Fucking Rivalry

Posted: July 5, 2009 in Uncategorized

Bro strangling me in my sleep. Evilll.

Know that feeling, when you want to rip your sibling’s heart out and watch while it’s fed to starving piranas?

No? It’s just me?
Fine. 😛

That western had nothing on us when they said “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”

The bombs were flung through the air, both parties relentless, ruthless.
Artillery seemingly limitless, the war waged on for years on end, much to the despair of the innocent civilians caught in the fire (a.k.a. parental unit.)
Finally, during a time of apathetic stalemate, a peace treaty was signed, condition: no provocation.
For almost two years, the world was at peace once again.

Whadappened?! yelled the Fatherunit, taking out his walkie-talkie to report the unexpected explosion to the Motherunit.

A battle cry pierced the air.
The peace treaty had been broken.

Grenades were launched full-force, people were PWND (him), bazookas and nuclear weapons were once again put into action, and it was epic.

“This is war,” he said, hand poised over the shotgun, as a tumbleweed passed between us.
The desert sand kicked up as I stepped forward and narrowed my eyes.
Dindigglidinnnggg. (western-showdown music, in case you missed that)
“Bring it.”

Aaah good times comin’ around again.

Looking Back

Posted: July 2, 2009 in Uncategorized

I was telling a friend of mine who still aches from the loss of a best friend, that she should stop living in the past, and that the past has no connection to one’s present or future.

But every now and then I wonder how far this is even humanly possible.

Rummaging through the messy internals of my cupboard, I find white cloth splattered with holi powder in hues of blues and purples, still fresh with the laughs and madness of the last day of school.

Tattered shoes that spoke essays of how they used to run through busy corridors and playgrounds and muddy puddles.

Old perfume whose fragrance always takes me back to some day where I sat sprawled in the grass and sun in some garden in Nuwera, plucking he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not petals off a sunflower.

Notes, hundred of raggy notes, with scribbles from people I’ve been with, some not as much anymore and some still a phone call away. A past joy that sat static in ink on paper.

CDs full of songs that could instantly transport me to another era, specific to people and places that they signified, some memories of wistful nostalgia and others that made me hate the song.

Are we our pasts? Or were we our pasts?
Things change and it’s only normal for people to evolve over time, and a reflection of the past serves no other purpose than for some fanciful entertainment.
Moving on from the fears and loves and nuances of yesteryear is easy once you realize that the past is like a framed painting of a man you used to know: finite, indifferent and gone.

And yet, sometimes one can’t help but pick up that painting, feel the rough edges of the picture, the contours of the paint and canvas, and imagine on the inner eye, maybe just for a second, that you were standing next to the man in the frame once again.