Something is not quite right with me lately. It’s as if my brain is bound by a tourniquet. My thinking is skewed, my memory is shot and I’m at a loss for words. It’s like I’ve been sleep walking the past week. I do strange things, and lose myself and the train of thought I was mometarily riding at the drop of a hat.

For example, a couple days ago I was making chicken pot pie. I boiled the chicken and was making the stock base for the white sauce. I very painstakingly chose my spices and boiled them with the broth till I had the right consistency. When it was ready, I had to strain out the remaining whole spices. I found the strainer, grabbed the pot, stationed it over the sink and carefully poured it out. No really, I poured all the broth down the drain. I was in such haze that I only faintly realized that I was doing something wrong. By the time I figured out what it was, I’d poured out almost all the broth.

I also misplaced the salt shaker. I looked everywhere for it and found it, guess where, in the fridge along with the box of corn starch that I’d also somehow misplaced there. Not surprisingly, I found the milk and the butter in the kitchen cabinet.

Last night as I was sleeping I thought I heard my alarm clock so I woke up, hit the snooze and went to go do wudu for Fajr prayer. I came out, unfurled the jainamaz and prayed. When I turned around to reset the alarm for my work time it said 2:30. I thought maybe we’d lost electricity and the clock reset so I went to find my watch to figure things out. My trusty black banded watch reported the same time. I also noticed that the alarm for the dawn prayer was still set. It had yet to go off. So last night I prayed my Fajr at 2:30 in the morning for no reason at all.

Yesterday I went looking for a book to read before I went to bed. I was shuffling about around the bookshelf and briefly sat down on the floor to look through a pile of books. When I found the one I wanted, I stood up and very stupidly smashed into the elliptical trainer machine, which I had pushed to it's present location only a minute before. I am now the proud owner of a 3-D purple bruise the size of an orange on my leg.

As Abez has mentioned we’ve begun going to a local gym to get some exercise. We’ve been fairly regular at it, but habit hasn’t stopped me from forgetting generally important things, variously my shoes, change of clothes and ID card, every day we’ve gone. It’s become a routine now when I get there to dryly announce, “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve forgotten today.” I've a feeling Abez will answer with a "What now?" only to find I've forgotton myself at home as well.

Over the past few days I’ve also managed to spoon a whole spoon of sugar into my shoe (with my foot still in it), drop an egg on my leg and misplace many important things.

Sigh.... let it be known. Senility comes soon after 21.

X-TREEEEME Popcorn Catching

This is only for you especially brave and extreme types. The weak of heart, tongue and stomach need not apply.

First cook up a large pot of popcorn the old fashioned way, on a stove, using oil or butter, not in a microwave or air popper. In order for this game to be played to its extreme utmost, you must make sure that most of the popcorn is burned (since you only recently rediscovered kettle corn and had never before drawn near a stove when making popcorn) and those that are not burned are only half popped.

Then pour obscene amounts of salt on the still piping hot corn. Bring all corn, still in sizzling container, to a slightly open area. Turn on your over head ceiling fan on full blast. Quickly grab the hot, burned, over-salted, under-cooked kernels, throw them into the air and attempt to catch them in your mouth.

This sport is made all the more difficult by the fact that you’ve burned your fingers, got salt in your eyes from the fan, chipped a tooth when an unpopped kernel rebounded off your teeth, made your entire mouth sore by eating very hard over salted corn and laughed so hard your cheeks are aching and your sides are throbbing.

For added difficultly, popcorn kernels can be caught on fire and voracious lions can be released in popcorn catching arena before beginning.

If I have to eat okra one more time I’m going to hurl. You’ve been warned.

Abez, my father and I have become learned of the sad bachelor ways now that our house is running at half capacity. We’ve gone from being a six at default, eight at average and 14 at max household to being a household of three bums.

Problem is, my darling abbu is still shopping for the former circus house (which is what we called our place in the US, it was always full up with friends, relations and gate crashers), so we get our groceries by the kilo. Take it from me, you’ve never lived until you’ve had the displeasure of washing, sorting and cutting pounds of nasty okra, which I rate the worst vegetable ever invented (it‘s green, it‘s ugly, it‘s slimy and there are only three known viable uses for it - gumbo, salan and slingshot ammunition).

To top it off, a week has passed and we still haven’t managed to hit the bottom of the pot of okra salan. Woe is we. If it lives any longer we’ll name it and give it the spare room.

Once I decided to make some cauliflower salan, which used to be my favorite when I was a kid. That was when the house was still at five, so cooking up a pot of food wasn’t a bad idea. I played the part of dutiful female and bought, washed, cut and cooked about 3 pounds of cauliflower and 1 pound of potatoes.

The stuff was good, but then disaster struck. Abez got appendicitis and my dad simultaneously opened a restaurant. Suddenly my dad and my kid brother, depended on to consume most edibles, were eating three meals a day at the restaurant and Abez wasn’t up to solids. My mom isn’t big on Pakistani food, so she stuck to her sandwiches and salads and left poor sad me, who isn’t a big eater on the best of days, to finish off the pot. I did it but I have never liked cauliflower since and I NEVER WANT TO SEE ANOTHER ONE AS LONG AS I LIVE.

I shouldn’t complain though. It took me weeks to get any produce in the house at all. My dad, bless him, is as much of a space cadet as the rest of my odd family, so he often forgets to stock the house. It’s no big deal, since we can always just order out at the best restaurant this side of The Village, where the service stinks but the food is great and the owner is *cough* like a father to me. And in a land where people still go hungry, it’s in poor taste to whine about plenty, so I should just shut up.

It’s been more than a couple months since “The Great Downsizing,” and I’ve come to realize that there is a whole lot of stuff that doesn’t get done when the wonderful mother and handy dandy brothers aren’t around.

For instance, the refrigerator will probably never be cleaned again. Why? Because that has always been mom’s domain. I handle the kitchen, Abez does laundry, and mom does the fridge and other unsavory mom-ish duties. Plus, you just can’t clean out a fridge full of near-dead food when you don’t have a ravenous indifferent teenage male to stuff full of dubious leftovers. Well, I exaggerate, we’re not that bad. I do throw out anything older and more feral than the dog and I try to keep it less than toxic in there, but it‘s not as shiny and sanitized as it would be if my mom was around.

You’re also more apt to run around in holey and wrinkly clothes when the mominator isn’t there to mend them and sass you for being too lazy to iron. This is good and bad. Good, because who said house clothes, linens and shawls need to be ironed anyways, and bad because you begin to look homeless when your jalbs have unwanted ventilation. Don’t I sound *cough* chic?

My sister and I attempt to pick up the slack, but without the nagging powers of a mother to motivate, we just manage to keep up with the important things.

Another thing you only notice after you lose your household default burly dude: boxes and suitcases are left sitting around because my huge little bro isn’t here to hoist them to their proper places. Occasionally, when we’re feeling rough and tough (with our Afro puffs?) Abez and I will huphuphup and nearly kill ourselves trying to lift and tote heavy things, but mainly we leave things be at midget level. I guess one of my gigantor brothers will put them away when they come back.

All the knives are dull too. It’s not that the rest of us don’t know how to sharpen a knife, but we just don’t take the same maniacal pleasure in digging out the whet stone and going at it like some bleak executioner the way my always brothers have. We could always tell when my eldest bro had been feeling bored when the knives were suddenly razor sharp. It’s all good though, cuz duller knives means fewer incidents of Abez’s “How to mortally wound yourself....” And the butter knives, who lead the saddest and least fulfilled lives out of all cutlery, get more use, as their sharpness finally exceeds that of the paring knife.

Stupidity and hyperbole aside, the moral of today’s story is family is very important. You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone, so be nice to your relations while you‘ve still got them around. They can't be replaced.

I give up on my home phone line. I think it is fated that we shall not have one, and who am I, but one grouchy hijabi, to question fate. All I can do is shake my tiny fist at the PTCL-walas and wish a flaming pox upon them.

Abez has written a blog about our phone line problem, but it’s stuck at home, and who knows when she’ll be able to post it. So, I’ll just tell you what’s the problem. Problem is the local lineman is a kameena baighairat (shameless creep) extraordinaire. He refuses to fix our line unless he gets some ‘mithai money,’ meaning a bribe. My dad’s not the type, so there’s a bit of a tense standoff. If the dude doesn’t fix it soon though, there’s gonna be hell to pay.

Such is the way with 99% of people with authority here. They’re rotten to core and completely without remorse. It’s pretty damn depressing. The whole world is seeded with corruption, and the only variance you find is in the variety indigenous to each particular region.

Er… feeling sick…. I think I should fast for a couple days. It always helps me feel better.

My brain isn’t up to speed today. It’s Saturday and I’m dreaming about my day off tomorrow. I need some recuperation time.

Here’s a question to bide the time. What do you think are the best character and personality traits people can have and what do you think are the worst?

I musta gone back to sleep three times this morning. Today was just one of those days where you just don’t want to wake up. Your bed for once isn’t giving you a backache and your pillow isn’t pounding into your brain. It’s not too hot or cold and there’s no honking, barking, irritating nasal music, banging or yelling yet. It’s the kind of day where you skip school and instead go on a long bike trip or stay home and read a good book and do some baking.

But, there’s no one to tell mumble at from under the safety of your covers “I’m not going to school today, call me in sick,” cuz first off, it’s not school that is calling you, it’s work, and secondly, your parents don’t answer for you any more, you do. I could play hooky from work, but it’d only put a dent in my paycheck at the end of the month and make me feel like I’ve cheated my boss. And not to mention, there’s no one to fill in for me, so rain or shine, welcoming bed or not, I have to drag my sorry self to work.

So here I am, at work, trying to type a blog while the irritating tech guy tries to fix my net connection.

I’m making a list of things I want my 800cc Silver Bullet car to have.

1. Spikes on the wheels ala Ben Hur.
2. A long distance electric tazer.
3. A mega phone so I can shout at offending vehicles.
4. A set of prerecorded taunts including the following: Move it or lose it, Are you driving or pedaling?, Road hog!, Put the pedal to the metal, You wouldn’t be driving like that if you’re mother was with you, If you were going any slower you’d be going backwards, Where’s my shoe cannon?, Step out of your tank and then talk, You wouldn’t be so uppity if those weren’t UN plates, Where'd you learn how to drive, Pakistan?

5. A shoe cannon.
6. A water balloon launcher.
7. A fire hose.
8. Frills, not unlike the frills on a lizard’s neck, which I can open when confronting larger cars.
9. A kadooka horn.
10. Water wings.
11. Stealth mode.
12. An escape pod.

You know, when I first moved to Pakistan I used to wonder if I’d ever stop seeing it with a first worlder’s eyes. I wondered if the odd architecture, prevalent filth, disorder, small boxy cars, red earth and strange landscape would ever cease to be visually jarring. The smell of the buffalo milk, the grease of the cooking, the crush of the khandaans, the constant staring, the noise, the smog, the culture, the nasal music that poured out from cars and homes, the lack of privacy - it all assaulted my sheltered Amreeki senses.

People are always asking how a white-washed half breed like me survives in Pakistan so here is a list of the usual things just in case you’re wondering.

Yes, after living here for a while you do get used to the mosquitoes. I used to be very allergic to their bites but now, like a true dheet desi, I don’t even notice them.

You do stop feeling the heat. It has supposedly been an amazingly hot summer here, but I haven’t once turned my airconditioner on in the day. Of course, it IS hot, there’s no denying that, but it’s very bearable and not misery inspiring.

The water also stops making you sick and if you‘re daring, you can manage the thala (cart) and dhaba (shack) food. Your stomach does acclimate itself to the daily burden of salan.

You eventually stop worrying much about the bugs. Cockroaches are bad, I admit, but ants in your tea are no prob. If you’re squeamish, just fish it out, but if you’re adventurous, call it free protein and enjoy (so I hear, though I’ve yet to take this route).

I don’t see the garbage dumps any more, I’m too busy laughing at the kittens playing in them. I can’t complain about the miniscule cars any more because now I drive the smallest of the joota garis - a car with as much horse power as a lawn mower. I also live in an amazingly odd looking house, but now when I see it, I only think “Lucy I’m home,” instead of the usual “dang, was the architect on magic mushrooms when he designed this place?!”

The disorder of badly placed streets provide impromptu adventures. The traffic mayhem, complete with gaudy monster trucks, obnoxious wagons, snailish taxis, domineering diplomat SUVs, spoiled sahibzada sports cars and pocketypockety rickshaws breaks up the monotony. I survive the staring, though it still offends me, by mastering the art of the prudish scowl and frightening she-man swagger (hah hah).

We’ve learned to love our khandaan, replete with it’s soap opera drama and weekly intrigues. Though I still run from the oddities of culture, I’m finally learning the intricate steps and mincing gait of the dance of desidom.

My asthma may be bad here, but the pollution makes for fascinating sun sets. The red cliffs, with their large sandstone boulders and sparse scrub brush, have finally found come into their own with beauty to rival that of the meadows and forests I left in the US.

After three years, it finally feels like home.

Well, as much as home can be for the earth nomad that is me. Pakistan feels as right as the US ever did, maybe even more.

I still don’t like the music. Probably never will. It’s horrid. :P

Disclaimer: I cannot be expected to be grammatically correct and free from typos. Why? Cuz I use all my editing points up at work and when I come home and type this nonsense I haven't gotten any valid English skillz left. That said, once again, I'm posting a blog without having proof read it. It reflects the sad state of the world when an editor does this but shploom, I don't care. I tiiiirreeeeedddd.

All you wannabe anarchists and rebel children (sans the authentic and original Yazzo) aint got nuttin on me. Today I raged against the machine. Mightily so. In fact, I raged against three machines, count ‘em, three!

This morning as I got ready for work I was challenged by our uppity iron. This iron has a huge attitude problem. It only works when it wants to, and clandestinely at that. If you’re in a hurry or have some place important to go, it absolutely refuses to warm up. But, if you happen to be doing something in the vicinity of the iron and accidentally bump into it, shazaaaam, the iron is melting hot and you’ve just got a second degree burn. This morning I’d run out of unwrinkled jalbabs and was forced to trudge downstairs and do battle with this unworthy foe. I plugged it up and waited... nothing.... I fiddled with the knobs..... nothing.....I pushed the cord around a bit....nothing..... By then I was running out of patience and feeling murderous. I grabbed the iron and smashed it against the wall..... it warmed up. Yeh boi, you betta recognize.

When I got home later today another unsuspecting electronic machine tried to challenge my authority. The microwave decided it didn’t want to warm up my lunch. Little did it know, to mess with the tired Aniraz when she’s just come home from work can prove fatal. I gave it a minute or so of trying the usual things, power on, plugs in, transformer functioning, before I lost it and grabbed the plug and whammed it into the socket one last time. It worked.

But seeing as how appliances aren’t especially intelligent, the example of these two unsuccessful rebellions wasn’t enough for the washing machine. It too wanted a piece of the action. Fresh from crushing the other uprisings all I could say was ’bring it on foo.’ When it chose not to run I checked the plug, pushed around the transformer, slammed the lid and then stood holding my joota (shoe) menacingly. Within two minutes, it began running. I thought so foo.

The moral of today’s story: Don’t mess with Aniraz and her jootas. She’s got anger management issues. The other moral, yes Aniraz isn’t quite right and yes, her arch nemeses in life are household appliances. There are worse things to be.

Btw, here's the legendary dino cake in all its splendor.

I came home from work on Saturday and found the two circular carrot cakes I’d made the night before transformed into an awe-inspiring dinocake by the wondrously talented Abez. I was much impressed. I know frosting cakes isn’t easy as it is, but it’s especially hard to frost a cake with raw edges. If I wasn’t a card-carrying fundu Moozlum type, I’d tell you guys to bow down before her grand skillz. But I am. So don’t.

I bought my birthday slingshot and let me tell you, that’s the best Rs 100 I’ve ever spent. It’s awesome. From the safety of our boundary gate I launched carrot tops (which wouldn’t have had to have been wasted if *SOMEONE* got me the wombat I’ve been wanting! You guys, the white saddle with the lilac canopy is getting dusty without my noble steed.) at the milk shop guys across the double road in front of my house late last night and the dudes didn’t have a clue where they came from. I also pinged some melon off the wall clock in the living room, which by the way, is the sort of fun a person can partake in IF AND ONLY IF their mother isn’t around to whack them upside the head for being so childish. Abez yelled at me, of course, but my dad just laughed. He later went and launched things too. Gotta love the dad.

If I had this sorta weapon of mass irritation when I was a kid I could have wreaked some serious mayhem. I guess it’s good that I didn’t. I did have a slingshot, but it was made out of the tie that we had to wear as part of our school uniform. The tie was held around your neck by an elastic band, which you hid under the collar. If you flipped the elastic around and used the tie as the handle, you could send paper balls whizzing by at a good clip towards the heads of the doofus kids harassing for being a 'gora' (gaijin, whitie, Caucasian, etc). If any of you ever get stuck in a retarded private school in Pakistan with no Urdu-speaking abilities, that's the best way to while away the hours. You heard it here first.

But, back to more important things, including my plans for semi-sub-regional-domination with the power of my new slingshot.

I have grand plans of surreptitiously (say this word in a Russian accent for full effect) shooting unwanted edibles at moving targets in the village by my house, though my dad made me promise not to hit the buffalos, since they’re baizabaan (without tongue, mute), though I argue their baikhubsurti (without beauty) and baikhushboo (without fragrance) as well. I'm also not to hit the Punjabis, lest they bust out with their own firepower, which would make my silly, albeit powerful, rubber slingshot look like the toy that it is. A word of advice, never mess with Pakistani villagers. They may look happy-go-lucky, living to banghra and eat marijuana-pakora types, but they’re downright dangerous when pushed. My kid brother's best friend is a guy from the village and he says if we ever have any problems, he can have six tractor-trailers full of armed Punjabis ready at the drop of a hat. Mwuahahhaha.

I didn’t get the birthday hat I mentioned, though I was very enchanted by a tea cozy at the craft shop. It would have made an impressive head ornament, but the central daisy pattern gave it away for what it really was. When I’m rich and senseless, I’ll travel to Mongolia and buy all the great hats I can carry. Central Asia has the best headgear in the world, hands down.

So now I’m old and an adult. Yep. It’s official. Sigh....

EEEEEP! (this is a joyous noise, so says Ramona Quimby)

Tomorrow is my birthday! WHEEEEE! I’m going to be uh......*counts on fingers*...... hmm.....*counts on toes* .........hold on.....*counts on freckles*..... errrrr........*runs out of things to count on*...... well, never you mind how old I am. The only info you need to know is I was born on August 9 and I like LOTS OF GIFTS!

I’m so excited! I’ve decided I want a dinosaur cake! Yep, like a brachiosaurus, but preferably a green one with M&Ms and coconut on it. And no, I’m not a dino-freak. I just saw a picture of a dino cake and dudes, something in my head said ‘that’s for me!’ Of course, I have no idea how I’m going to go about baking one, but that won’t stop me. Mwuhahahaha! I think this will be the first shaped cake I’ve had in my entire life. I’m a bit worried about how Abez and I are going to polish off a whole cake all by our lonesome selves but she says she’s up to the challenge. If we fail or die trying, dear friends, know that we lived valiantly and spurned no challenge.

I also am going to buy myself some birthday gifts cuz most of my family isn’t around to do the honors. I saw a sling shot I want and I was thinking of buying a really neat hat from the handicraft shop by my office. Important stuff. If any of you guys happen to see a grouchy-faced hijabi wearing a red fuzzy mirrored hat, shooting at passing Punjabis with a brand-spanking new neon orange sling shot, that’ll be me.

This is the first birthday since I was about 14 that hasn’t depressed me. Maybe because my mental age has stayed at 12 (me mum says I’ve was born old and have been the way I am since forever) it has always bothered me to keep adding notches to the life stick without any tangible changes except increasing pressure to accomplish, marry and reproduce. Bah. I’ve been upset and bothered by each passing birthday over the past many years but this one is sitting well so far. I guess I’ve finally wised up and stopped railing against something I have no power to control. We all age. You’re doing it at this very moment. Time is always rushing by and nothing you can do will slow or stop it. Right? Right. So stop worrying.

Actually, I believe this is an artificially induced state of delight. Today I went to the drug store to buy vitamins with Abez (and I know yer thinking, 'uh oh, Aniraz is on drugs!’ Foolish mortal, the Owlie bird is Straight Edge dude.) and I did some impulse shopping. That means the neat little colorful candies arranged along the counter jumped into my basket along with random candy bars and exciting chewy things.

Candy shopping in Pakistan is always an adventure. We get exotic candy from all across Asia. It’s almost as weird as the local stuff, which tends to taste like rose water. What I want to know is who ever said roses were tasty and who told the candy-walas to taint my stash with it? But that is another matter for another day.

Today was hit and miss as usual. The chewy pineapple slices in the shape of an orange from China were good. The Marbels from Malaysia were okay, though some tasted like kewra. The Kitkat was unimpeachable, as always, but the biggest and nastiest shock of all was... cabbage flavored candy from Thailand! Spew! Appalling! (Constable Parrot et one a those!) The little orange, purple and green candies were supposed to be fruity, in the appropriate orange, grape and apple flavors, but for oddly enough, the sour apple one tasted EXACTLY like boiled cabbage with sugar. I haven’t been adventurous enough to try the other ones. One nasty shock a night is good enough for me.

When I die, can I be Willy Wonka in heaven?

Devotees wishing to make offerings for the celebration of the birth of the me can submit cash payments, tributes, first born sons, chocolate, water guns, fancy hats, and oddities to:

Degrouchowl
The third big tree on the left
The Village, Pakistan

Summer is finally winding down. The days aren’t so sizzling hot since the monsoon arrived weeks back. It will soon shuttle off again, to hang in wait over the Indian Ocean until it’s called back next year to water South Asia. The odd unannounced rain storm still tends to drop by at night, soaking everything in sheets and sheets of slightly warm wetness. Unless you’re a light sleeper and hear very well, chances are you won’t notice the past storm until morning, when the world seems suspiciously cleaner and the thick blanket of smog that usually curtains off the Margallah Hills is missing.

The pop and fizz of firecrackers abruptly punctuate the warm days. August 14, Pakistan’s Independence Day, is near. Green and white flags, bunting and buttons are already being sold at corner shops and on carts. Little boys fly kites painted with the crescent moon, trailing tails of small paper flags behind them. ‘Chauda Agust,’ as its called in Urdu, generates almost the same enthusiasm as Eid. Girls can be seen in green and white shalwar kameez made to wear on the holiday. Houses are papered in flags and illuminated in green lights. Cars are decked out in green, bikes done up with patriotic streamers and even the taxis and the buses are decorated in celebration.

The day air is filled with slow moving dragonflies by the thousands. You can see them wherever there is greenery and still water, hovering, riding the unhurried currents and dodging the diving swallows that have gathered to make the most of the summer bounty. Fresh cut grass perfumes the air and the earthy brown smell of persistent rain and young ponds give it depth. It’s breezy during the day, but not yet gusty, as life in the Potohar Vally is want to be. The gentle drafts that catch the full treetops bring with them the sounds of laughter, rustling leaves, chatter and birdsong.

The electricity in air has changed as well. It no longer has the energy of early summer, where you feel like running out of doors the moment you’re up until the long days darken, having water balloon fights and playing cricket in the street. It’s a calmer, riper feeling - like summer has slowly baked and you know it will be done soon. It’s still bubbling, but it’s pretty much cooked. The days have shortened again and the early falling sundown calls you to the rooftop to play hide-and-go-seek and trup chaal in the dark before time runs out.

When dusk finally falls the sound of croaking frogs and singing crickets begins to surge and the air smells of barbeques and roasting corn. The children go indoors and the adults come out, walking in groups of threes and fours. The white of starched qurtas, cotton shawls and pale flowery lawn suits are outlined faintly against the grey night like slow moving ghosts. Steady talking voices and gurgling laughter joins the stream of sound that quietly swells. Kulfa walas, ice cream stalls, roast corn sellers and limka walas do brisk business on the road sides, catering to and cooling the night walkers.

It's a nice feeling, but it's only transitory. The roulette of life will change soon.

I am pissed. In American slang, not British, mind you. I’m volcanically angry, not drunk. Never drunk. It’s bad for you I hear.

Why am I pissed? Lotsa reasons. I feel like letting the anger that’s built up in me like steam pour out of my fingers into this blog, but it seems so petty to honestly complain and bore you guys with the ugly bits of my life. Plus, aren’t we supposed to be handling the spiritual quiz show that is life with patience and gratitude? Sigh…I’m always short on patience. Mind lending me a cup?

I dunno. That’s the problem. I just don’t know enough. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what I want, I don’t know what it all means, and I don’t know how to cook moussaka. I tried yesterday, it was icky. I’ll probably feed it to the dog. She deserves it. She licked my foot yesterday. Mwuhahaha.

I’m tired of people telling me to study English. My dad tells me to study English and the chief executive (supreme major domo loser buttface man) at my agency tells me with a snide look, after he details his many grand accomplishments before I was even born, that I should just study English. It’s not what I want. I don’t want to orbit around a static subject and study and teach the dry words of dead men and revel in things that have little to no bearing on how people now are living. A life peopled and populated by books and words alone doesn’t appeal to me. It’s all dust.

In high school, my teachers told me to be a lawyer. Apparently, that’s what they tell all the smart alecks who argue too well. But I don’t want to wear a plastic smile while bending the rules and searching for silly loopholes to crawl through all my life. Lying is bad, manipulation is bad, deceit is bad and making a career out of those things seems especially bad. I don't think those with an overly developed sense of morality and ethics make good lawyers.

I guess I want to do something right, proper, needed. I want to make the most of my time on this dirtball. I want to be something useful for the Ummah, for what I believe in. I want to struggle for the greater good. I want to be Superman. Is that too much to ask?

I thought I got it all settled when I chose a university and sort of picked Defense and Strategic Studies out of the air as my major. I thought if I parried strategic papers and social plans with those who’ve made life hard for Muslims, the Neo-Cons, the Zionists, the haters and the bigots, I may be doing something worthwhile, something that very much needs to be done. D&SS seemed like a good idea. But now even this second runner up isn’t going very far. The university doesn’t want me and the registration deadlines of my other options have passed. Seems like it may be another year with me out of school.

Frustrated incorporated. That’s me.

And that is just the tip of the iceberg. But I’ll leave you be. No point in spreading the misery eh?

(my internet at work and at home is broke and broke some more so I give you this half-baked blog, typed in a seedy net cafe that smells of cigarettes and stupidity.)


Beracun: Jauhkan daripada makanan dan kanak-kanak

Aha! Bet you guys didn’t know I was….*counts on fingers* quadlingual. It’s ok. I didn’t know either. I’ve been slowly and subtly brainwashed by the can of bug spray that lives on my desk. It was manufactured in Malaysia, so the Malay on the can has been subconsciously ingrained in my brain. Here’s the translation, in case you’re wondering.

Poisonous: Keep away from foodstuff and children.

There you go. You have now been enlightened. Don't say I never gave ye nuttin.

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Flippant and idiotic. Those are the two words off the top of my head that I used to describe my blogging self the other day. I asked my partner-in-crime Abez if there were perhaps better words to describe me. She laughed. Oh well. If the glove fits…

I've got more thoughts and stuff but they're being hindered by the retarded atmosphere of personal message dings, sniggering teenagers and the incessant tickitytickity of typing so maybe I'll finish this shpeel another time.

Until then........... HI HO SILVER!