MONOSACCHARIDE: The simple sugar.

I got home a day earlier, and today I managed to meet up with 2 of the longest lasting, most treasured friends I have.

More importantly, I’ve also met up with the 2 aunts who brought me up till I was 7, one of whom lives in Japan now and I usually see only during Hari Raya.

I shall not continue this post because this whole leaving-everything-behind deal is starting to make me feel really sad.

“I’ll be your winter coat buttoned and zippedstraight to the throat
With the collar up so you won’t catch a cold”

The girl waits on the shore and looks out to sea. She holds her breath until his ship sails in. She has so much to say. She won’t dig her toes into the sand. So let the waves soak her dress. She won’t walk and she won’t breathe. She has too much to say. She takes this time to figure them out. Words don’t fail her.. Please.

I am back from the salon. I am tired from a hard day’s work and (a lack of) sleep that is seemingly impossible to catch up with. I have been reading Ash’s short stories and I realise I miss writing. I miss feeling. It is terrifying to let myself feel now. Everything’s been swept and tucked away into a bottle. I am waiting for the glass to explode onto the keyboard. My keyboard has three hundred and seventy alphabets and keys. I cannot imagine a man’s affection for a woman could ever compare with the connection that is made when a woman is affectionate for another. I am possibly homophobic when I look into the mirror. So much so that I have looked at myself lesser of late. But I am engulfed in your feminine prowess everytime I look back into your eyes.

I miss writing.

I will be your sunshine through the rain. In return, will you promise me solid ground?

We could be complimenting jigsaw pieces. Or our lives could.

So tell me, what is the damn point of me going down this very unnecessarily terrifying new route, that might or might not be of worth to me in the long run, if my new encounters are simply manifestations of what I’ve stuck through before, minus a dick?

I came this far because I thought a change was in order. I took a huge step for myself in a very risky direction just as so I can put a definite stop to tiring old ways. But you, you might just be proof that the devil indeed comes in every shape, size, and apparently, gender too.

And me, I’m just living proof that no matter which angle you bend the damn arrow, players will still be just players, and girls who are attracted to players (and only players) will still be just that.

You may have just ruined my last remaining bit of faith in humankind. This is dreadful, I swear. Do you see the gravity of this?!

I can’t stop this thing short, that’ll be lame. But I won’t play either, cause then that’ll defeat the purpose of you in the first place. So this is what I am going to do. I am going to start being honest. So brutally honest. No more pretense, no more hiding. Everything’s going to come out, and then I’m going to demand for an answer, and if it’s a no, I am moving on. I may find you hot, true, but please remember, I still hold both cards in my hands. I can switch anytime I like and you’d be forgotten faster than you can say gay.

I have also adopted a no return policy of late, to ensure space for newer, fresher stock; and I dare say I have been keeping at that rather well.

And you… You better start thinking hard about what you really mean to say cause the next wish that you make? Well you might just get it, beautiful.

Sidenote, Zouk was terrific. So was Marco V. It’s now 7.41am. Goodnight world.

On an average day, you’ll find I am one of those annoyingly happy girls who have everything they could ever wish for. I am the one with curls in her hair and her heart on her sleeve. The one who’s extremely enthusiastic to jump and laugh and love. I am the girl who’s too optimistic to take pains to heart, or learn the lessons that have made the world so cynical. On an average day, I am also the girl who secretly wishes you were hers once more to shower with affection, whose arms are hers to jump into as and when she likes, and whose pockets are for her to sneakily slip small trinklets and love notes into when you’re not aware. You were never the sort to keep too many things in your pockets anyway, your car keys were always in my bag (which always finds its place on your shoulders instead of mine) and your wallet’s so ridiculously thin, so there was always plenty of space in your pockets. In so many ways, you’re not the person I thought I knew back then. You’re almost impossible to figure out, more so now. But the parts of you that have stayed constant with memory still charm me like nobody else can. You still sweep me off my feet. & you, only you, still knock the air out of my messy little head everytime you smile. You are my last. Still.

After what happened on Wednesday, I am hell bent on making the remaining of this week work out in your favour. I’m gunna make sure you have fun!

I don’t know how I am going to sleep now that I’ll be alone. I wish school didn’t end so soon, but then again, we all need to move on to greater things, ya?

Needless to say, I’ll miss you heaps, Kitty dearest. xoxo.

You’re the bounce in my steps after 4 hour sleep nights,
and I thank you.

My oh my, look who’s still calling multiple times a day/night even after his calls were ignored and rejected, and he was told to stop. And no, it wasn’t to talk about school either. *smirks. The last thing he’d want to talk about is school.

Trust me, you wouldn’t want to know the things he chose to talk about, or the things he asked, or the way he suggested I call when this and that.

I wouldn’t lie about these things, and besides, I wasn’t alone when his calls came in. The girls saw “**** Home” (oh I am so dodgy!!) on the screen when my phone rang. Afterwhich they saw me press the reject button, and then they saw more calls coming in from the same number. I even have someone to swear that he heard me tell the dude to fuck off and leave me alone.

Come here, girl.

How about you go take better care of your boyfriend, huh? I don’t want to hear him giving more excuses as to why he picked up your calls late or why he’s taking forever to get ready and meet you, when I have been on his other ear on his house phone for the past hour.

Please do not impose typical Indian culture on me cause I just don’t get it. Indian by blood, but I’m really Frangipanian (sorry, Nat) by nature.

Let’s do a case study. Closest girlfriends like Mya and Bella have dated Indians too, but those weren’t typical Indians. They don’t look typical and they definitely do not think typically either. A couple were mixed-blooded, most have never dated typical Indian girls, some have lived overseas all their lives, all were either well educated, well disciplined or held down decent jobs, and most importantly, none were alcoholic.

A fair warning to aspiring middle-class Indian lovers, take it from the one who’s been there and done that more than once, and watched it going on around her, more than twice- Don’t go there.

Be prepared for their uniQQQQue sense of drama, and out of this world brand (it’s almost like India is on an entirely different galaxy) of bullshit. Whether or not the Indian has nigger proned ambitions and his ex-girlfriend was quote unquote, some shit mix Indian but she’s Christian. And see, this thing about Indians is that, despite the over-crowding that is going on back home in the land of celestial cows, they still believe that the Indian community is small, tight and well-connected.

Meaning, one Indian’s relationship, is every Indian’s business. Pray the dramatics are extensive enough to allow some 5 billion black noses to be stuck in. Make sure every nook and cranny are filled up to allow every moustached mouth under those noses a topic to talk about.

If you’ve heard about Indians being likened to double-headed snakes, I’m telling you, it’s true. Not all, but most.

See the problem is not necessarily the Indian you date, cause we all know that all our boyfriends and girlfriends are essentially the most wonderful people in the world, regardless of how hairy their chests are or how much darker the room seems to be at night behind closed doors.

Most of the problem lies in the Indian community as a whole. They feel an ingrained sense of duty to make matters worse by exaggerating a possibly small issue. And until the boyfriend is put in a spot where every inch of his being is being scrutinized and dirtied, until the relationship is put at the edge of a break-up, their solemn duties as friends have not been properly fulfilled.

They must talk, even if they weren’t at the scene of the crime. The Indian boys must act like they’re brothers, and that it is of utmost honour that they say things about the girl (even if the girl is their friend) to add fire and to break the couple up. The Indian girls must act like they mother the god-forsaken boyfriend and carry out maternal duties of assuming that the boy is too stupid to think for himself. And like all mothers, they must ask stupid OBVIOUS questions pertaining to his ‘pride’ like, “aren’t you ashamed for having been cheated on?” just to you know, rub salt in the wound.

Of course the boy is in some kind of dilemma. He cannot explain to his stand-in mother that she doesn’t understand what is going on but that he does, and he knows that everything is alright. He cannot explain that she was absent from the scene and hence, she doesn’t know enough to have the right to talk so much, that she has no idea what the nature of the relationship is like and so she won’t know how the rules run, he cannot explain that he loves her and that the relationship is strong even though it doesn’t seem like it sometimes. He cannot possibly explain all that- cause they’re Indians and they are so absorbed in their land of curry and coconut that they won’t get it. Ever.

Of course the boy can’t possibly be expected to back her up like how she did for him at least twice before, of course. Because his friends are Indians, and everything else is false and unfinal except for the words that sprout from the mouth of Gandhi and all things of the same shade.

I should know; My father’s Indian.

P/S: For those who are new to my writing, and are not yet informed of my blogging habits, please know that any threats/harsh requests/anything along those lines to delete my entries are duly ignored. I am expecting some form of blow-up somewhere to come out because of the things I have said here, but threatening to take back what I say won’t solve anything. So please, spread all you want, but comment selectively.