The wackness

The past week has been a major drag. Ive stayed at home throughout, even on eid, getting out only to go to work. Ive been skipping all my classes cause i cant seem to make myself want to go to school anymore. The bright side is, things have been so low, im sure something really good will happen soon just to even it out.

In other news, today was Leena’s wedding. It was nice to see a small, simple wedding, where the bride and groom actually looked comfortable and more than just a couple of puppets. Leena has a been a great friend throughout and is one of the nicest ppl i have ever come across. May Allah(SWT) grant her true wedded bliss and a life well worth envying.

Killswitch

Dear God, 

Please send someone over to attach a power button to my brain, or at least a reset button. That voice in my head wont stop, can you have someone mute it for me? Please? Pretty please?

With great adoration,

Your Humble Servant.

Behold, the sweet-n-spicy chococheese omlette paratha roll!

Every once in a while, when yours truly feels like he would like to try something unique, he takes a tour to the kitchen and goes ballistic with something. Now im no chef or nothing, but what i am is an experienced eater. Ive got over 2 decades of experience in the consumption-of-all-edibles field to show for, so you best not take me lightly.

Being the desi that i am, my omlettes will never have more than 3 eggs, infact most days they just have two. So two eggs beat very well with about 2 tablespoons or hersheys syrup, chilli powder, and a little more than a pinch of salt will produce the mixture that will produce the most exquisite omlette ever.

Fry with love on a pan sizzling with fresh creamy butter. Add shredded cheddar cheese, however much you may like(i added about a handful). Fold the cheese omlette over the cheese to create a wrap of sorts. Cook till the omlette looks the color of fresh bull shit. Now you may think this is a horrid idea, but when the air fills with the tingling aroma of buttery chocolate and warm cheddar, you will thank me for sharing!

Roll your freshly fried omlette into a piping hot paratha to make yourself the most mouth-wathering breakfast ever. To be served with hot roohafza-chai (for those of you who are very foreign or just very burger, roohafza chai is just milk tea with roohafza).

Burp. Spank you very much! Now i go sleep. :D

Not to be missed!

Um.

Give me a wall to bang my head against, and ill give you a work of art.

Perverted kids like to scribble.

speaking of textbooks, i used to make sketches of people at the back of all my textbooks. Id fill all the empty holes of letters with a pencil, and i used to tear bits and pieces of the pages off. I used to make my pens wrestle, and i threw chalk and spat at kids i didn’t like. I also used to kiss little girls and run away. School was so much fun. I cant kiss nobody no more. They say its haram and all.

As i hit puberty, the ppl at the back of the book started making out. Needless to to say i was utterly disgusted. Im a good boy, you know.

Man, i’m so bored. i like how there’s always an empty space in your comment box. And its so neat. Hence i scribble. Scribble scribble.

(This was originally a comment i wrote of Saadat’s blog)

University sucks. Its all so boring. Who cares about your stupid balance sheet?!

Why does that old guy keep talking and talking and talking? Roza nahi lagta?

Shahi Burp and the Capri theory

White capris represent low self-esteem.

Lal qila is just like any other restaurant, except for the fact that everything there is referred to as shahi something. So much so that the spoon the waiter serves you is referred to as shahi chumchee.

They even have a maharaja. But no maharani. It’s a G-rated place you see. And its a sad world.

You’ve all seen those chicks with legs that look chicken drumsticks packed in white capris. What you havent seen, is their mother. No, she doesnt wear capris. Doesnt need to. I was hoping this post could wait till eid. But im bored. It’s the mother, i tell you, its all on her. It doesnt matter how short the chicky’s capris are, or how recently she waxed her legs, youre drawn to her mother instead. Yes, im a pervert. But are all men perverts? They were all looking where i was looking. Or where i had to look. Even the women looked. I swear they did. God, please forgive me. You gave me hormones. You know my dilemma. She’s like a grilled chicken drumstick, grilled until golden brown, well buttered and evenly baked, she sizzles and it gives you goosebumps. The daughter can never compete. No matter how short her capris get. Shell get no attention when mommy’s around. And she doesnt like it. Not one bit. Why didnt badshah salamat raise his sword for her?

Hence the capri theory: Hotter the mother, shorter the capri, shorter the capri, greater the need for attention, greater the need for attention, lower the self-esteem.

*Theory will added to all psychology books when the curriculum is updated. If that ever happens, that is.  

P.S: Application forms for Membership to the aunty lover’s association are now available at all major retail outlets and restaurants.

Rawr.

 

And maybe when i shift into gear. and hit the accelerator. you will hear me roar.

Ze persian princess…

“For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else” Ralph Waldo Emerson

I feel good! Palwasha, who accounts for 33.33% of my support system/advisory panel (and by far the most vital) has made a comeback post almost two months. Thank god for friends!!

Shitloads of fullstops.

You kept trying. There was already so many graves, so much buried down because it didnt come out right. Babies that couldnt breathe. At it ate at you. Everyday. But you still tried. Somedays you failed. Somedays you tried harder. You took time. You stuck around. And bit by bit you put together all the mold you needed. It was hard to find. Because there were only bits and pieces left. You know, there’s not much green left after a fire. But you got it together. One spun the wheel, the other shaped the clay. You didnt know how. But you learned. Everyday. A little more. Progress. And then it fell apart. But you kept trying. And your hands got dirty. And you sweat. And your mind hurt. It tired you. You stepped back. You looked at it. It looked good. You had to display it. There wasnt much color left around you. So you made some. It wasnt perfect. But it was bright. And real. Because you put your heart and you soul in it. You painted. And some of it dripped off. But it looked good. If you looked at it right. It wasnt the monalisa. But it was yours. And you wanted to plant a tree in it. Someday it would grow and spread its leaves and shelter you. It would be the tree you would sit under in the heat. Because it was made out of all things good.

But look what they said. Break it. Why. Because. But i made it. Of course you did. Which is why you have to break it. But i dont want to. Its mine. But you have to break it. Quick. Do it. Do as we say. It echoed. It wouldnt stop. You were tired. Break it. Okay.

It has to be broken. I know. I understand. We’ll break it together. With our hands. And you did. Bit by bit. It fell apart. It felt alive. But you had to. Because they wouldnt stop. The echo. Your hands bled. But you smiled. Because this was the last time. Because you had to. And then you buried it. And they all looked away. They got their way. As always.

It didnt want to be buried. It wouldnt remain silent. It screamed in its resting place. And it echoed too. They looked away. Only you could see it. You could hear it. So you closed your  eyes. And your covered your ears. You could smell it. You couldnt stop it. It was strong. Because it hard a part of you in it. But you had to let it go. They didnt see what they did. They didnt want to. They smiled. Because they didnt look in your eyes. They didnt know what they said. They had no clue what they’d done.

Its still there. That smell. The light. That screaming. That part of you you buried. But you have to live with it. Because.