Archive for November, 2010

First of all, I would like to thank everyone for voting on my last post’s poll; apparently most of you love me so much it hurts. I am touched. Really.
And I would like to tell the other 43% who called my mum fat that it is just glandular okay? Don’t be a dick about it. ):

Secondly, I have nothing against arranged marriages; hell, it’s a part of my culture.
Personally marrying somebody you met yourself, to live with them the rest of your life, is as big a gamble as marrying someone your parents picked for you (assuming you get to know them to some extent before the big day).
Everyone changes after marriage, is what I’ve heard, and it’s not always going to be fun. So in other words, it sucks equally for everybody.

The whole parents picking someone for you, and you make a decision after just talking to him once though, is utter bull.
Seriously, right here in Colombo, you still find families marrying off their kids to people that they’ve only met once. And they didn’t even ask any important we’re-gonna-live-together-forever questions during the meeting.

What if you love cats and dogs, and he hates animals. What if he tortured a puppy when he was ten because he thought it was funny.
That is a crucial difference. Will you find out about it during your first meeting? I think not.
And then, BAM! You, a die hard animal lover collecting money to some day put up an animal shelter of awesomeness, are stuck with a closet animal torturer.
Cue the horror music.

So far I’ve never considered anyone I’ve personally met as serious marriage material. My fickle nature is probably to blame; I have an innate phobia of consistency. And what implies consistency better than the M word?
Also I can count the number of genuinely interesting Sri Lankan boys I’ve met on one hand. No offense, fellas.

So chances are, if a kindred spirit doesn’t suddenly fall out of the sky (Jesus), my parents are going to pull a… dun dun DUUUNNNN.. arranged marriage on me.
For the total noobs, the average arranged marriage proposal includes two families meeting, where the guy and the girl chat a bit and the uncles and aunties pretend to talk about boring stuff but are all along scrutinizing the other family’s son/daughter and thinking ‘hmm her nose is too big but nice hips, good for grandchild-producing/he has nice hair, good grooming means responsible.’

I lol at the idea of sitting through it with a straight face. Here is how it would go. Dim the lights please.

Old people enter, with eligible bachelor following close behind.
My parents enter.
Awesomely awkward silence as everyone takes a seat in a quaint living room.

I walk in, smiling and waving, resisting the urge to say something ridiculous to disrupt the formal atmosphere. Like ‘PONIES ARE GR8!111’

My mother initiates conversation. ‘Crazy weather no?’
Blah blah blah. Old people start talking.
Dad throws shifty glances at bachelorboy and me, while attempting to pay attention to the oldpeople convo about petrol prices and the government (seriously, do old people rehearse this conversation before meeting or something? it’s the same freaking thing every time). Dad is scrutinizing bachelorboy, he’s looking at his shoes, you can tell a lot about a man by his shoes allegedly.

So how is work going? bachelorboy asks. Of course, he already knows the answer, since in our families, the aunties and uncles are super spy agents who do extensive research on their subjects before an actual ‘proposal’ happens.
Extensive research, from where you were born to what clothes you wear today.
I am not fucking kidding. If you are Moor Muslim, and you are in the game of marriage proposals now, there is a file on you somewhere, and some aunties out there know virtually everything about you. Everything.
In the future, my hypothetical mother in law will mention reading this post in my file and her mouth will make judgmental wrinkles as it recalls the unbecoming swear words.

The aunties are hiding in the bushes right now. Taking polaroids of you as you read this.

Anyway, I say work is going great. Then I hand him a piece of paper and pen.
What’s this? he says.
He finds it is a list with boxes next to each sentence, headed with fine print:
Since in the arranged marriage business, we’re not going to meet more than, say, 10 times, before I have to give a thumbs up or down for an engagement – I thought I’d make things easy with this list! Just put a tick or cross next to each respective statement. And be honest cuz the aunties will find out eventually anyway and if you lied they’ll kill you with their aunty-wrath i.e. telling everyone you’re a dirty slut and then maybe feeding you tasty but poisoned cutlets.

The list will have something like this…
[] I have tortured animals at some point in my life
[] I like cupcakes
[] I have abnormal deformities in places that you can’t see right now
[] Fight Club is awesome
[] I am secretly gay
[] Walrus (trick question)
[] One day I plan to adopt a monkey/panda/koala bear (do not answer if you ticked Q1)
..etcetera.

If he sucks, he’ll say he has to go to the bathroom at this point, and then escape through the window.
If he sucks but wants to appear nonsucky, he’ll do the list but get the wrong answers.
If he’s awesome, he will tick Walrus. And then make a funny joke.

Meanwhile, aunties and uncles present will ask me lame pointless questions as I nod and think ‘haha look at that aunty’s face-mole, it’s shaped like a turtle’, my dad will interrogate bachelorboy about his shoes and then bore him to death with a prepared speech on manstyle, and mum will excuse herself at some point to go to her room and shed a tear thinking of how her little girl is all grown up.

This is of course the abridged version of the entire fiasco. I haven’t mentioned all the sweets eating, the old-people-cracking-dry-jokes-and-you-have-to-lol-to-be-polite, and the potentially worst part, knowing instantly that it’s not gonna happen (eg. the potential dad in law says ‘america is a country of infidels, i kill them all’ or the potential mum in law starts talking about what colour the wedding dress is going to be or the boy picks his nose and wipes the booger on the seat) – and having to bare another 40 minutes, at least, with them.

I would just honestly say ‘I think I hear my phone ringing, brb’ and then never come back.

Or just utilize the moment for comic relief.
Me: I have a confession to make.
Boy:
U LUV ME 2?
Mum:
*facepalming because she knows what’s coming*
Me:
I AM A ZOMBIE AND I AM GOING TO EAT YOUR BRAAAAINZZ *chews on random aunty’s hair till everyone runs for their lives*

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I did something insane.

Posted: November 25, 2010 in Uncategorized

Although the post title should come as no surprise, I even shocked myself with my latest move.

I dropped out of architecture college.

It happened while I was watching a lecturer rant as he looked at my design drawings on the desk. Drawings I had just scribbled up a few hours ago and a design that I couldn’t care less about.

The scene was muted, and the narrator in my head was going, dayumn, look at him go.

And then it said, I can’t do this anymore.

Yes the voices in my head rhyme. Cuz they’re gangsta like that.
I left class immediately and talked to a few buddies, gave me 30 hours to be sure about what I was going to do.

And then I let myself say things I’d been trying not to say since I started college.
I don’t give a shit about buildings.
Every time someone asks me what I’m doing, I wave my arms around and say, designing spaces, creating structures that induce feelings when people walk through them-
And on the inside all along I’m like, wtf AM I doing?

Designing a space is a cool concept, I concede. You control the openings in a room, the size of it, the textures of it, to create a certain vibe that affects everyone inside and outside it, whether they’re conscious of it or not.
People centuries from now will dig up our ruins and see the architecture we created as a reflection of our civilization.
Good architects are awesome, no doubt. The epic awesomeness of making the physical world that all of us walk through on a daily basis – was what attracted me to it in the first place.

But. It still stands. I don’t give a shit about  buildings.
Let alone pretending I do for another 7 years straight before I’m qualified.
After I made my decision in my head, I found Oscar Wilde’s ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ on my shelf and read a few lines. Damn, it had been a year since I actually read a book proper.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt like reading again.
I felt like a huge burden was off me.

I did ask myself though, are you dropping out because of the hard work or genuinely because of the subject?
I dropped out because what I want to do with my life, is write.
Fiction, poetry, plays, other people’s work, language – whatever. Words and stories, that’s what I always go back to. And I’d just been egged on all this time to indulge in it as a side panel ‘leisure activity’ and have a more ‘safe guarantee’ as my main course.

Fuck that.
I’m going to freelance till about March of next year, till I hopefully go abroad to major in English Literature.
#soundsliketherandomestshitever
But I checked out the syllabus for majoring in Lit, and it’s like a freaking holiday for me. Reading, analyzing characters, studying styles of writing, interning at publishing houses, studying drama and poetry, doing test novels as projects. I’m looking at going to Delhi, which is easy as pie to pay for and is apparently the literary hub of India.

I want to be defined as a writer. As a master at language and literature, a novelist, a maker of stories.
I’d been running away from the reality of that for this long, because as I mentioned in an older post, just-writing is one of those things you’re discouraged to get into over here. Because it doesn’t guarantee a safe desk job in the end, and all of it depends on just raw performance and creativity. No organized system to give you a cushy ride, you have to make your own niche to be a great writer.

But all I know is this is what makes me happy. I don’t care about money. I know I’m awesome at writing, judging from all the feedback I’ve got since I was 8. So this is the dream, I’m going for it. Wish me luck.

In other news, someone recently called my blog ‘offensive.’ Oh my. I’m always joking around, folks, take it with a pinch of salt. If you’ve got a sense of humour, you’ll see I am just a friendly little gopher beneath all the blunt sarcasm. :’)

Now taketh this poll!

many random thoughts o_o

Posted: November 23, 2010 in Uncategorized

I haven’t blogged in a while no! The ol’ blog juices are frozen from the lack of usage.. k that sounds awkward, forget I said that.
Here’s a post in the form of little spurts of what’s on my mind these days.

Rainy days make me delirious; I closed my eyes with my hands and wondered what if the world really disappears every time I do.

My cousin sister looks just like Chris Rock.

‘Teachers’ who think it’s a given right to be condescending bastards need to die in a fire.

I accepted a friend request from someone with one mutual friend, purely because he has such pretty hair. Shame on me.

They need to start playing Jem and the Holograms on TV again instead of that Punky Brewster FFS.

I want comic books and money for my birthday.

Eddie Murphy is a dick.

I feel like the forces of the universe are telling me to move to Indiyaar. Considering it.

People gossip a lot. Girls and boys. It’s the one time I can’t conjure up anything to say.

I hug people a lot these days.

Chocolate biscuit pudding from Cravings is da bomb.

Serious responsibility makes me queasy.

Swimming pools. They need to start putting them everywhere. Schools, churches, playgrounds, whateva.

Somebody needs to teach me to ride a bicycle pls.

They almost killed my baba!

Posted: November 12, 2010 in Uncategorized

Caesar

I never really knew I loved my cat so much till I saw him bleeding from his face, eyes full of watery stuff (cat tears? wtf.) and looking scared to death, under my dad’s car.

I was in the hall, putting out all my drawing papers. Taking my torch out. No this is not a scene from National Treasure but we have a neat little trick in college we use to do last minute homework. You put the right answers (smuggled from somewhere) on a glass table, and then your blank sheet of paper on top of it, a torch under the glass table – and voila! Instant tracing awesomeness.

Man I am so screwed if one of my lecturers stumbles on this.

Anyway suddenly, dad walks in, “Caesar got hit by a vehicle on the road itseems.. guess we’ll have to take him to the vet, that is, if he survives.”

Wow thanks a lot, dad. Always such a chirpy little man.

I run outside and find Caesar hiding under the car – he’d been hit by some asshole in a pajero, and the bottom of his face was soggy with blood. But he could move and his eyes were alert, so phew he wasn’t dead or something. But shit. All I saw was blood at the time so.

I ran around teary eyed like a blubbering panicky idiot, he’s bleeding! Call the vet! What if he bleeds to death?! His breathing is stifled, maybe he can’t breathe?! Maybe he broke something?! AAHHH. *cardiac arrest*

Finally we ended up taking him to a vet at 11.30pm. I’m carrying a bleeding cat and my dad decides to have a chat with the vet about Peradeniya university.

Daaaad. Cat dying over here. -_____-

Oh they’re still yapping during the surgery, when the doc had to make a few stitches on Caesar’s lips while he was under anesthesia. Somehow, he’d got his lips torn, but thankfully nothing else was injured. I’m watching the doc pull the needle through a lip as Caesar lies completely limp on a steel table, nnngggggg.. doc stops the needle mid-air and says to my dad “ah yes, I tried architecture out at one point, blahblahBLAH.”

-________-

At some point, I manage to convey to dad through a look to do the tea time gossip party stuff AFTER the friggin operation.

Sigh. We get home and Caesar’s stitched up and still unconscious from the anesthetic. It’s 1am, I put him in his basket and keep it next to me and try to do some work. In an hour he starts twitching, in two he tries to walk while still half drugged. And falls repeatedly on his side, on his face, and upsets the stitches. I have one hand to hold him down and one hand on my drawing papers, balancing the torch between my knees under the glass table. Mad skills.

After hours of trying to keep him from repeatedly walking and falling on his face, and getting blood from the stitches on my shirt (visualize the gore pls), I carry the bugger and walk around the house, MUM, DAD, BRO, A LITTLE HELP HERE?
They just grunt and go to bed. Real loving family you’ve got here, Caesar.
He’s awake for the most part but his body’s still drugged, and I can’t keep him from walking anymore after hours of ‘YOU’RE DRUGGED CAESAR, JUST GO TO SLEEP FFS, PLS, GAWD.’ So he’s walking and flopping and determined as fuck to walk properly, and I can’t bear to see him keep falling on his face, so I crawl around holding him up while he tries to walk.

Urgh the things you do for love.
After hours of that I am exhausted and I just pass out on the floor, he walks and flops around for another half hour and does the same.

Mum finds us in the morning, both looking rather FML-ey.
I have to feed him through a syringe for two weeks now and the look on his face says he is totally manic depressive right now. He’s the sorta cat who’s awesome in general, so being this limpy sad invalid is surely fucking with him.

I know animals are animals, and it’s not considered a serious criminal offense to kill one in this country or hit one with your vehicle, but animals have emotions and fears and minds too. They’re not stuffed toys or something. Just because they don’t communicate on our frequency or language doesn’t mean they don’t actually experience things like family and love and pain. They feel.

So to all you bastards out there who’ve hit-and-run an animal, and were all meh about it since hey, it’s not like you killed a human right?: fuck you.
I hope a pajero hits you in the face, see how you like it.

I was out today at the Square with some friends who are girls, and we were sitting there on a stone step when both of them cringed and started complaining with shifty eyes about the bunch of nineties boyband guys hanging around in two groups in the distance.

Nineties boyband guys. You know, in a sniggery gang, jeans, pulled up collars, ridiculous hairdos gelled to static perfection, one or two with an awkward piercing and/or moustache, eyeing you like they’re going to break out into a stupid song that is a nauseating mix of cheese and lame perversion.

(At least NSync was cute.)

Despite my skinny little frame I’ve always been a no-mercy type when it comes to leery losers. I have an umbrella or my plastic drawing-paper-carrying roll or my foot on standby when they’re around, and this look on my face that’s like, I’ll cut u and ur mum!111

So I don’t care for them. But these girls were like, omg what if they jump us. o_o

They really could if they wanted to. The Square was kind of isolated and we were skinny girls with no weapon of defense besides a box of vanilla cupcakes to perhaps throw in the other direction and hope they would jump towards its creamy irresistability whilst we made our getaway.

One of my friends had been cornered in the street by a ‘flasher’ once, and on another occasion by a gang of weirdos on bikes. The other had similar stories of guys following her with catcalls on bikes and through the corridors of MC.

And it struck me that these stories weren’t unheard of; me and loads of my friends had experienced at least once, some creepy guy leering uncomfortably close in some form, usually in a gang. Lots of the time in public hangouts like malls and beaches. This isn’t just a bit of jeering and winking, this is following around for hours, standing in the way, making really scary verbal attacks, and in extreme cases it transgresses to physical harassment or flashing the poor girl.

Where do they come from, these gangs? Their existence is a hindrance to women in Colombo and nobody’s really talked about it. It’s like they’re just… always there. Waiting for young girls to stalk. And they all have this appearance like they’re sexually starved rabid animals about to pounce.

I might not be as visibly scared as the other girls but all my muscles tense when I meet some of them in the bus or along the pavement, expecting some perverted attack, my face turned into a disgusted grimace. It’s oppression, bro, no other word to it. But what do you do?

Usually I’d end this with that, but it’s occured to me that this happens only because attackers aren’t punished. Perverts get away with harassing random women and it’s become a bit of a leisure activity for bored little boys methinks.
So mixing pepper and water and pouring it into a perfume bottle is one solution. It burns when sprayed.
Too far? I dunno.

We stayed longer at the Square because I insisted and because tourist noobs appeared and made the situation less potentially pervattack-ey. But on another day we probably would have left if the leering got worse. And girls have been leaving places to avoid confrontation with these bullies too many times; why should you spend less time at a place you love just because some primates are displaying their idiocy? I think it’s time that someone, when approached by a leery bunch of guys making kissy noises and standing too far in her personal space, turned around and sprayed those bitches in the face with pepper.

Yeah. Watch yoself. -_-