MONOSACCHARIDE: The simple sugar.

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

The last thing I need is for you to impose on me your theories as to why I am shrewd and not conforming to what you feel is healthy. So fine, think what you may, that it was out of repulse of one side’s hurtful flaws and a couple of bad experiences that must have wounded me pretty deep, whatever, or that I watch too much TV, whatever, seriously man, whatever. Just keep it to yourself. Do not keep reminding me. Stop trying to figure me out. I haven’t done it myself so I don’t see why you should. If you really must, do not do it at my expense. I am happy where I am. I am happy ignorant and confused and stagnant. All I know is that I am here because I chose to be here. Not because I was trapped in a corner and suffocating and desperate to be saved like you think.

Maybe I am in denial. I don’t know. Maybe, who cares, I certainly do not. It does me good that I do not think about it and that I deny according to my fancy. I do not think about it because I do not want to have this figured out just as of yet, meaning I do not wish to listen to your overwhelming opinions as you attempt to explain my life and my choices. I am young, I am reckless, I am careless, and I love it like that because it is undeniably easier that way. I am very comfortable with not having to wage war with the demons in my head just as so I can once again own a sad piece of terrain on your land. I am very comfortable with letting myself fall onto whichever side of the fence. Do not make it seem like the grass patch on your field is greener in comparison because I highly doubt you’ve climbed this opaque wall to see that other patch of grass and walk on it and lay on it and smell the dew on it the next morning like I have.

You cannot see through walls like Superman, can you? And hearsay does not count either because it does not do anyone, or anything, justice.

You choose to love what I love too, can you not understand that I love them for the same reasons too? Is it the male ego that hinders your acceptance that a seemingly inferior class is preferred over yours when by right, society gives you and your kind the throne?

Do you know that this experience has taught me more about myself than a whole army of men ever could? Have you thought about the fact that maybe I am truly in love with this new world, and not because I was left with no choice of alternative routes to salvation? Don’t you think it is possible that I have fallen in love through the course of my journey and not because I made up my mind to do just that before I began?

It is possible, is it not?

All that I ask from you is that you give me the benefit of the doubt. I am not sure myself, I am anything but clear-headed. But having negative mentalities like yours and churning such pessimistic ideas will not help either. Let the answers come to me naturally, let me explore and learn, truth will surface in due time, and when that happens, we will discuss. I will talk.

For now let me be.

Don’t you realise that it is people like you who say the things you said the reason why I cannot be proud of this, and instead hide it like it was some kind of embarassing, sick flaw? So much for encouraging me to be open, really. You only make me feel faulty and inept.

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 incredibly misunderstood by many, I realise. Especially those I have only just met. What makes that ok for me is probably the fact that the ones who loved me then love me even more now, and would probably love me still years down the road.

To the select few who have offended me by falling out of love with me in the course of the friendship, I daresay you lose out. I am one to better myself and if you would have just stayed a little longer to see it through, you would have gained more than what you stood to lose.

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.

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.

I was listening to an old playlist when I heard a familiar tune, with lyrics that never did hit home until today. I’ve found a song for you. I’ve found your song.

Amazing songs are those that make absolutely no literal sense to you even if you listen to it a thousand times over. By the 1001th time, you would have butchered the lyrics so many more ways that you’d be confused as hell and you start to doubt even the spelling of 3-letter long words. 

And then one fine day, something happens and it’s either your roof or your floor. Your roof comes down on you, along with the rest of the sky, or your floor crumbles and you’re falling and falling and falling all the way down to nowhere exactly.

 Then a good friend plays that same insensible song from your Ipod and he blasts in on your car stereo while you’re driving. First you feel annoyed cause you already have to deal with your suffocatingly tight chest, now you have to deal with a crazy assed friend who yells meaningless lyrics at the top of his lungs too.

2 lines into the song and you catch his eye in the rear view mirror while you stop at the light, and you realise he has fire in his eyes. You realise he isn’t playing the song randomly. You have 1491 songs in your Ipod and this particular song was chosen for you.

 So you sing along anyway. 

2 verse and a chorus later you finally breathe again after almost 48 hours of oxygen deprivation.

An amazing song lets you cry and breathe at the same time, when you were so close to losing all hope of ever finding sanctuary.

An amazing song is one that you won’t ever understand until you experience that same level of despair, until you reach the same plane of emotional state as the one the song writer was on when he penned down the lyrics.

Do not bother googling for meaning of classics; Great writers will never tell you what their words are about. It’s not that they don’t want to explain to you their stories, they just can’t. If they could, if they were even slightly capable of being so direct about their feelings, they would have written cheap hip hop club hits instead. 

You know hip hop, they take everything as it is, at face value. When sex is just pumping and music’s just to set the beat for that pump. It makes everything ugly.

Oasis balances out the ugly.

That amazing song didn’t help me solve much, but it jumpstarted my road to recovery, when before, I didn’t think it was even possible.

“Players only love you when they’re playing.”

You wanna gamble, you gotta be prepared to lose. Cause even the luckiest don’t walk into the casino 30 times in 30 days with 30 straight wins.

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

That was me hogging on Amanda’s phone till the battery went flat simply because I couldn’t stop talking to you and we’ve already killed the battery on my own phone.

That was also me not being able to concentrate on my Maths the whole night.

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.

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