Am I the only one who finds this extremely disturbing??
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Friday, May 18, 2007
Loser
Dear Diary,
Wtf! The worst thing that could happen to me has happened to me. The worst thing that could happen to anyone else has also happened to me. Curse the heavens!
I had recently bought and returned a top that had cost me way more than I'd normally spend on an item of clothing. When I took it back to return it, realizing it as an impulse buy, the store wont take it back since I had bought it when it was on sale. Yes, knocking off $5 had put the item on sale and therefore non-returnable. After a half hour of cajoling, arguing and threatening three different people at the store, I had finally gotten store credit for it. I was hoping for a cash refund and so the store credit wasn't exactly thrilling, but at least something was better than nothing since their "store policy" normally didn't even allow store credit for sale items.
The manager of the store had put the credit amount and his signature on the receipt and given it to me - the proof of the store credit that I can use to buy something else from there later. Walking out of the store, I somehow convinced myself that at least I wasn't a complete loser. Curse my immature optimism!
Today I found that the receipt I had gotten from the store, the damned piece of paper I fought so hard for - the one with the store credit - is there no more. Actually it is still there, but now it falls better under the category of "soggy ball of mushy squish" rather than "paper".
I, my dearest diary, have washed the credit off of that paper while it was still in my jeans pocket. Curse the system of laundry! I dont know why people keep singing praises of the advances of science.. the internet, solar-powered cars, stem cell research.... And what has it done for waterless laundry, I ask? Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Right now I wish I was still living in the days of the stone age. Because then the receipt would be on a stone tablet. Stone is strong. Stone can bear hardships. Stone doesn't reduce itself to a pathetic mass of squish as soon as water touches it. If I was living in the stone age, right about now I would be riding my dinosaur to the store to get a brand new pair of trendy pants made of llama skin or whatever animal skin was in at that time.
I highly doubt that the store will give me even a button in exchange of this mushy pulp that I hold in my hand at the moment. Curse it all!
NOW I feel like a complete loser.
Wtf! The worst thing that could happen to me has happened to me. The worst thing that could happen to anyone else has also happened to me. Curse the heavens!
I had recently bought and returned a top that had cost me way more than I'd normally spend on an item of clothing. When I took it back to return it, realizing it as an impulse buy, the store wont take it back since I had bought it when it was on sale. Yes, knocking off $5 had put the item on sale and therefore non-returnable. After a half hour of cajoling, arguing and threatening three different people at the store, I had finally gotten store credit for it. I was hoping for a cash refund and so the store credit wasn't exactly thrilling, but at least something was better than nothing since their "store policy" normally didn't even allow store credit for sale items.
The manager of the store had put the credit amount and his signature on the receipt and given it to me - the proof of the store credit that I can use to buy something else from there later. Walking out of the store, I somehow convinced myself that at least I wasn't a complete loser. Curse my immature optimism!
Today I found that the receipt I had gotten from the store, the damned piece of paper I fought so hard for - the one with the store credit - is there no more. Actually it is still there, but now it falls better under the category of "soggy ball of mushy squish" rather than "paper".
I, my dearest diary, have washed the credit off of that paper while it was still in my jeans pocket. Curse the system of laundry! I dont know why people keep singing praises of the advances of science.. the internet, solar-powered cars, stem cell research.... And what has it done for waterless laundry, I ask? Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Right now I wish I was still living in the days of the stone age. Because then the receipt would be on a stone tablet. Stone is strong. Stone can bear hardships. Stone doesn't reduce itself to a pathetic mass of squish as soon as water touches it. If I was living in the stone age, right about now I would be riding my dinosaur to the store to get a brand new pair of trendy pants made of llama skin or whatever animal skin was in at that time.
I highly doubt that the store will give me even a button in exchange of this mushy pulp that I hold in my hand at the moment. Curse it all!
NOW I feel like a complete loser.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Chores
Dear Diary,
Today is my turn to do the household chores - cleaning, scrubbing, washing, vacuuming, mopping.. the whole deal.
I take a little break from my busy schedule today to make a quick entry. Because I want to remember today forever. I want to remember it as the day I bleached everything.
There had been some stubborn stains in the kitchen and the bathroom that just weren't coming off, no matter what we did to them. But this morning, I had bought a bleach spray to try on them.
So I come home from the store, get done with the dusting and vacuuming, put on my rubber gloves, and get down to business. I spray some on the sink in the kitchen, and what do you know! Right in front of my eyes, the stain disappears! It is like magic. I can barely contain my glee.
I then turn the spray towards the counter, and poof! The stains disappear! I resist the temptation to get on top of the kitchen table and start doing the Macarena, I am so happy. I then turn the spray nozzle towards the refrigerator. I feel like one of the Men in Black, shooting down aliens and watching them turn into mush in front of my eyes. I shoot down some of those disgusting stains in the refrigerator. It sparkles back at me. I am on cloud nine.
The situation starts to take control of me. I picture each stain as a particular problem in my life, spray bleach on it, and watch it disappear. Before I know it, I am spraying it on everything.
With a glint in my eye I turn towards the bathroom. But before I do, I take a look around, and realize what I've done. Everything is bleached. The kitchen rags and hand towels are not the color they used to be. There is a circle of a peculiar shade of orange in the middle of the brown shirt I am wearing. There are white spots in the shape of every country I've visited on the wooden kitchen table. And then, the worst. On the same table, I see my roommate's folder, on which she had glued some of her photographs. On closer inspection I realize that her face is missing from some of them.
Shoving the folder at the back of her pile of textbooks, I sit down in front of the computer to pen down this Pendora's box of feelings that has erupted from me today. Excitement, wonder, thrill, power, dismay, fear, and ultimately, regret.
I have tasted power today, dear diary. Real power. And I have misused it. One good thing came out of it though. Since I now know the side effects, I will be careful in the future. This experience has taught me caution. And it is with this caution that I prepare myself to attack the bathroom next. But that will come later. Right now I am going to run to the store and buy a pack of colored markers, so I can put some of the color back in the various objects around the apartment before my roommates get back.
Today is my turn to do the household chores - cleaning, scrubbing, washing, vacuuming, mopping.. the whole deal.
I take a little break from my busy schedule today to make a quick entry. Because I want to remember today forever. I want to remember it as the day I bleached everything.
There had been some stubborn stains in the kitchen and the bathroom that just weren't coming off, no matter what we did to them. But this morning, I had bought a bleach spray to try on them.
So I come home from the store, get done with the dusting and vacuuming, put on my rubber gloves, and get down to business. I spray some on the sink in the kitchen, and what do you know! Right in front of my eyes, the stain disappears! It is like magic. I can barely contain my glee.
I then turn the spray towards the counter, and poof! The stains disappear! I resist the temptation to get on top of the kitchen table and start doing the Macarena, I am so happy. I then turn the spray nozzle towards the refrigerator. I feel like one of the Men in Black, shooting down aliens and watching them turn into mush in front of my eyes. I shoot down some of those disgusting stains in the refrigerator. It sparkles back at me. I am on cloud nine.
The situation starts to take control of me. I picture each stain as a particular problem in my life, spray bleach on it, and watch it disappear. Before I know it, I am spraying it on everything.
With a glint in my eye I turn towards the bathroom. But before I do, I take a look around, and realize what I've done. Everything is bleached. The kitchen rags and hand towels are not the color they used to be. There is a circle of a peculiar shade of orange in the middle of the brown shirt I am wearing. There are white spots in the shape of every country I've visited on the wooden kitchen table. And then, the worst. On the same table, I see my roommate's folder, on which she had glued some of her photographs. On closer inspection I realize that her face is missing from some of them.
Shoving the folder at the back of her pile of textbooks, I sit down in front of the computer to pen down this Pendora's box of feelings that has erupted from me today. Excitement, wonder, thrill, power, dismay, fear, and ultimately, regret.
I have tasted power today, dear diary. Real power. And I have misused it. One good thing came out of it though. Since I now know the side effects, I will be careful in the future. This experience has taught me caution. And it is with this caution that I prepare myself to attack the bathroom next. But that will come later. Right now I am going to run to the store and buy a pack of colored markers, so I can put some of the color back in the various objects around the apartment before my roommates get back.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Vampires
Dear Diary,
Vampires fascinate me. There is something mesmerizing about them. I am awestruck by them. The awe strikes me every time I think about them, or read about them, or watch a movie about them.
I want to be one.
But I don't know how. I've heard that you can become a vampire after getting bit by one. But I don't know where they hang out.
One night, while walking home, I saw a group of Gothic looking people outside a bar. Believing them to be vampires, I walked pretty close by them, hoping one of them will bite me. But nobody approached me. I turned around and walked by them again. No one seemed interested. Never one to give up, I once again turned around and started walking in their direction. But found them gone. Feeling dejected, I came back home.
Another night I saw my neighbor's cat looking at me while I was opening my apartment door. The cat had a vampirish glow about it. A thought ran in my mind.. maybe the cat was a vampire posing as a cat to catch preys. Barely containing my excitement, I stared back. I stood there trying to use my psychic powers to persuade it to come and bite me. When that wasn't working, I pointed to my neck making yummy noises. The cat turned around and went inside. I locked the door and went to bed. I've noticed the cat has been avoiding me since that night.
But just think how my life would be if I was a vampire..
If I was a vampire, I wont age. So while people I know will grow old and shrivel up like a date in front of me, I'll stay young forever. I will never get sick. I'll have smooth skin, no zits. Sexual magnetism will emanate from me in every direction at a radius of approximatey 48 feet. In a traffic jam, I can turn into a bat and fly to my destination, so I will never be late.
I'll be able to travel through time so I can have breakfast in regency era England, lunch in medieval Greece, and dinner in present day Paris. This way I can also steal art pieces from people's houses in the 15th and 16th century and sell it off in today's market for millions. so I'll never be poor.
I wont need to cook. People can slave in front of the stove for hours to prepare a meal and eat it, and I'll just suck it out of them through their blood. How awesome would that be?
People say vampires are cursed. What curse? So I wont be able to come out in the sunlight. Who cares? If I am missing the sun so much, I can sit in front of a halogen bulb for a while.
So I wont be able to have children. So what? I can adopt some. And if the children misbehave, I can show them my fangs. My children will be very obedient.
So I wont be liked by the holy people. Big deal. I will eat the holy people.
The advantages far outweigh the disadvantages.
Although I have failed to catch a vampire's attention until now, I will not give up. I will keep trying. Because let's face it.. vampires, dear diary, are hot.
Vampires fascinate me. There is something mesmerizing about them. I am awestruck by them. The awe strikes me every time I think about them, or read about them, or watch a movie about them.
I want to be one.
But I don't know how. I've heard that you can become a vampire after getting bit by one. But I don't know where they hang out.
One night, while walking home, I saw a group of Gothic looking people outside a bar. Believing them to be vampires, I walked pretty close by them, hoping one of them will bite me. But nobody approached me. I turned around and walked by them again. No one seemed interested. Never one to give up, I once again turned around and started walking in their direction. But found them gone. Feeling dejected, I came back home.
Another night I saw my neighbor's cat looking at me while I was opening my apartment door. The cat had a vampirish glow about it. A thought ran in my mind.. maybe the cat was a vampire posing as a cat to catch preys. Barely containing my excitement, I stared back. I stood there trying to use my psychic powers to persuade it to come and bite me. When that wasn't working, I pointed to my neck making yummy noises. The cat turned around and went inside. I locked the door and went to bed. I've noticed the cat has been avoiding me since that night.
But just think how my life would be if I was a vampire..
If I was a vampire, I wont age. So while people I know will grow old and shrivel up like a date in front of me, I'll stay young forever. I will never get sick. I'll have smooth skin, no zits. Sexual magnetism will emanate from me in every direction at a radius of approximatey 48 feet. In a traffic jam, I can turn into a bat and fly to my destination, so I will never be late.
I'll be able to travel through time so I can have breakfast in regency era England, lunch in medieval Greece, and dinner in present day Paris. This way I can also steal art pieces from people's houses in the 15th and 16th century and sell it off in today's market for millions. so I'll never be poor.
I wont need to cook. People can slave in front of the stove for hours to prepare a meal and eat it, and I'll just suck it out of them through their blood. How awesome would that be?
People say vampires are cursed. What curse? So I wont be able to come out in the sunlight. Who cares? If I am missing the sun so much, I can sit in front of a halogen bulb for a while.
So I wont be able to have children. So what? I can adopt some. And if the children misbehave, I can show them my fangs. My children will be very obedient.
So I wont be liked by the holy people. Big deal. I will eat the holy people.
The advantages far outweigh the disadvantages.
Although I have failed to catch a vampire's attention until now, I will not give up. I will keep trying. Because let's face it.. vampires, dear diary, are hot.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Neapolitan Ice Cream
Dear Diary,
Eating ice cream nowadays like there is no tomorrow, I find it is a good opportunity to try all the new flavors in the market that I can get my hands on. So I buy ice cream ranging from your everyday chocolate, vanilla and strawberry, to the more unusual cherry garcia, almond fudge, blackberry, butter scotch, etc.
Right now, I am going through a carton of Neapolitan ice cream. This is an interesting one. It is essentially a combination of three basic flavors - chocolate, vanilla and strawberry - which, while keeping their separate flavors, are joined together to form a single block, so that when you cut out a piece or scoop one up, you get all three flavors in one serving.
Although of Italian origin, specifically from Naples (I googled it), it reminded me of something my Marketing professor had once mentioned about America. He said that at the beginning, America was a melting pot, meaning that immigrants came from all parts of the world and melted together, losing their own cultural identity, to blend into a new one that was unique to America.
But now, he said, it is more a salad bowl. People from all parts of the world pour into America, but they dont melt together. Instead, they keep their cultural identities intact - which is very apparent from different ethnic neighborhoods in almost every region of this country - but still sticking together to form one national identity. Like a salad.
While I scratch at the bottom of the ice cream carton with my spoon, I mull over the interesting demographic make-up of this country. The ice cream itself remains the focus of my thoughts though. And naturally, I combine the two.
In a neapolitan ice cream, all flavors have their separate identities - different tastes, different colors. They taste good when eaten together. However, you can eat only one flavor that you like, without ever having to even touch the other two. Hard to do that with the salad. Very much doable in this country. Very much doable with neapolitan ice cream.
Hmmm. What can I conclude from this?
And then it hits me.
If I want to maintain my weight and not end up looking like a salad bowl, I need to slow down on the ice cream and switch to salads.
So from now onwards, dear diary, it's all salads for me. :)
Eating ice cream nowadays like there is no tomorrow, I find it is a good opportunity to try all the new flavors in the market that I can get my hands on. So I buy ice cream ranging from your everyday chocolate, vanilla and strawberry, to the more unusual cherry garcia, almond fudge, blackberry, butter scotch, etc.
Right now, I am going through a carton of Neapolitan ice cream. This is an interesting one. It is essentially a combination of three basic flavors - chocolate, vanilla and strawberry - which, while keeping their separate flavors, are joined together to form a single block, so that when you cut out a piece or scoop one up, you get all three flavors in one serving.
Although of Italian origin, specifically from Naples (I googled it), it reminded me of something my Marketing professor had once mentioned about America. He said that at the beginning, America was a melting pot, meaning that immigrants came from all parts of the world and melted together, losing their own cultural identity, to blend into a new one that was unique to America.
But now, he said, it is more a salad bowl. People from all parts of the world pour into America, but they dont melt together. Instead, they keep their cultural identities intact - which is very apparent from different ethnic neighborhoods in almost every region of this country - but still sticking together to form one national identity. Like a salad.
While I scratch at the bottom of the ice cream carton with my spoon, I mull over the interesting demographic make-up of this country. The ice cream itself remains the focus of my thoughts though. And naturally, I combine the two.
In a neapolitan ice cream, all flavors have their separate identities - different tastes, different colors. They taste good when eaten together. However, you can eat only one flavor that you like, without ever having to even touch the other two. Hard to do that with the salad. Very much doable in this country. Very much doable with neapolitan ice cream.
Hmmm. What can I conclude from this?
And then it hits me.
If I want to maintain my weight and not end up looking like a salad bowl, I need to slow down on the ice cream and switch to salads.
So from now onwards, dear diary, it's all salads for me. :)
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Blog
Dear Diary,
Yesterday, I came across an old friend after a long time, and we talked for quite a while.
Now this friend of mine is into writing and literature big time. He writes, attends ghazal concerts and loves discussing great poets and writers with just anyone who'd listen. Although an engineer by profession like every other desi in the States, deep down he nurtures the dream of becoming a literary intellectual of some sort, either a poet or a writer.
So I asked him about his writing. Turns out he recently wrote a poem about Rejection. He recited it to me and I have to admit, it was beautiful. It talked about every form of rejection - personal, career-related, youth-related, every kind. It would speak to anyone on some level. Spoke to me on all the levels which got me a little concerned about myself. Anyway, it was extremely meaningful and touching.
Then the conversation turned to me. And I realized the most meaningful and touching thing I had done recently was taking out the trash when it was actually my roommate's turn. And honestly, I didn't do it to help her out. I did it because she is a lazy ass and the trash was stinking up the whole place. And even more honestly, I plan on asking her to take out the trash when it is my turn to do it. And I also plan to rub it in whenever I get the chance.
Failing to come up with anything else, I told him that I have started an online blog. He was intrigued.
"A blog? Really? About what?"
"My thoughts. They're deep."
"Yeah? Thoughts about what?"
"You know, things... and stuff."
"What kinds of things and stuff?"
"Well, there are too many."
"Uh-huh. What was the last thing you wrote about?"
(Pause)
"The smoke detector."
The jerk was laughing at me. Well, dear diary, he can laugh all he wants. While he came up with 12 lines on about 20 kinds of rejection in a month, I wrote four paragraphs in 10 minutes on one smoke detector. Beat that, huh!
Yesterday, I came across an old friend after a long time, and we talked for quite a while.
Now this friend of mine is into writing and literature big time. He writes, attends ghazal concerts and loves discussing great poets and writers with just anyone who'd listen. Although an engineer by profession like every other desi in the States, deep down he nurtures the dream of becoming a literary intellectual of some sort, either a poet or a writer.
So I asked him about his writing. Turns out he recently wrote a poem about Rejection. He recited it to me and I have to admit, it was beautiful. It talked about every form of rejection - personal, career-related, youth-related, every kind. It would speak to anyone on some level. Spoke to me on all the levels which got me a little concerned about myself. Anyway, it was extremely meaningful and touching.
Then the conversation turned to me. And I realized the most meaningful and touching thing I had done recently was taking out the trash when it was actually my roommate's turn. And honestly, I didn't do it to help her out. I did it because she is a lazy ass and the trash was stinking up the whole place. And even more honestly, I plan on asking her to take out the trash when it is my turn to do it. And I also plan to rub it in whenever I get the chance.
Failing to come up with anything else, I told him that I have started an online blog. He was intrigued.
"A blog? Really? About what?"
"My thoughts. They're deep."
"Yeah? Thoughts about what?"
"You know, things... and stuff."
"What kinds of things and stuff?"
"Well, there are too many."
"Uh-huh. What was the last thing you wrote about?"
(Pause)
"The smoke detector."
The jerk was laughing at me. Well, dear diary, he can laugh all he wants. While he came up with 12 lines on about 20 kinds of rejection in a month, I wrote four paragraphs in 10 minutes on one smoke detector. Beat that, huh!
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Smoke Detector
Dear Diary,
The smoke detector in our apartment is stupid. It cannot distinguish between fire smoke and shower steam. Either that, or it suffers from some complex because it failed its smoke detecting test, and now tries to compensates for it by going off at everything. Be it smoke, steam, heat, a sneeze...
Of course, it being two feet away from the bathroom entrance doesn't help matters. You come out of the bathroom after a hot shower and leave the door open, and it sets off the alarm. All of a sudden, there is a state of emergency declared in our apartment. Then you see us roommates, each with any piece of cloth we can get our hands on - be it a towel, a pair of trousers, or a pillow case - coming out of all corners of the apartment and gathering under the alarm, jumping and waving the garment like crazy in front of it to shut it off.
Now you can only imagine what such a psychologically dented, super-sensitive smoke detector, that goes off at any excuse it can find, does when there is actual smoke. For example, when one of us burns something when cooking. Yup, it goes stark raving mad. Takes about half our laundry to wave frantically in front of it to kill the shrilling noise.
But that's not all. As if the shrill of the alarm isn't enough, one of my roommates actually likes to continuously yell at it to "SHUT UP!" while clearing the air around it. Sometimes she is even louder than the alarm itself. So we get the annoying noise from the smoke detector coupled with the equally annoying noise from her. And the combination, dear diary, is deadly. I always end up having a splitting headache for the rest of that day. :(
The smoke detector in our apartment is stupid. It cannot distinguish between fire smoke and shower steam. Either that, or it suffers from some complex because it failed its smoke detecting test, and now tries to compensates for it by going off at everything. Be it smoke, steam, heat, a sneeze...
Of course, it being two feet away from the bathroom entrance doesn't help matters. You come out of the bathroom after a hot shower and leave the door open, and it sets off the alarm. All of a sudden, there is a state of emergency declared in our apartment. Then you see us roommates, each with any piece of cloth we can get our hands on - be it a towel, a pair of trousers, or a pillow case - coming out of all corners of the apartment and gathering under the alarm, jumping and waving the garment like crazy in front of it to shut it off.
Now you can only imagine what such a psychologically dented, super-sensitive smoke detector, that goes off at any excuse it can find, does when there is actual smoke. For example, when one of us burns something when cooking. Yup, it goes stark raving mad. Takes about half our laundry to wave frantically in front of it to kill the shrilling noise.
But that's not all. As if the shrill of the alarm isn't enough, one of my roommates actually likes to continuously yell at it to "SHUT UP!" while clearing the air around it. Sometimes she is even louder than the alarm itself. So we get the annoying noise from the smoke detector coupled with the equally annoying noise from her. And the combination, dear diary, is deadly. I always end up having a splitting headache for the rest of that day. :(
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Summer
Blue summer..
Outside sun is shining to its height
Children playing water games
Down the street dogs playing same
Blue summer, alone the most I have been
Afternoon sunsets are great
Yellow, orange and blue
But none greater without you
Blue summer...
and on and on the writer yaps about summer.
Yep. All looks great in the "blue summer" if you are sitting watching it all from inside an air-conditioned room. But life, I've learned, is not an air-conditioned room. The air conditioner is broken, both in life and in my apartment.
I hate summer! It is the worst of all seasons. I can't bear the heat. People argue that winter is the worst. I disagree. In winter, we can wear layers of clothing to keep ourselves warm. But how many layers can we shed off in summer? There is a limit to the number of nudist colonies we can have.
Because of the heat, I have no control over my temper. I keep snapping at everyone. I turn into this dehydrated monster that lashes out at anyone who isn't carrying at least a pint of ice cream for me. This is not a good side of me.
And not to forget, summer is the time when bugs of all shapes and sizes come out to make our lives miserable. Nasty little buggers buzzing everywhere. They are in my clothes, in my bed, they are flying into my ears. I hate them, I loathe them. I wish instant death upon them. Horrible, deplorable little critters. I keep squishing them and their relatives keep coming back to avenge them. They buzz in front of me and they taunt me. You just can't get rid of these bloody spawns of satan!
Everything's melting. Lipsticks, eye liners, chap sticks. Everything has to be placed in the refrigerator. Our refrigerator has contents consisting of every kind of cosmetic one can think of. There is hardly any space for food in there. So we eat everything we buy the same day.
Summer also ruins my appetite. I eat ice cream for breakfast, lunch and dinner. For dessert I have a gallon of water.
I'm taking three showers a day. At this rate, I fear I am gonna wash myself off the face of this earth.
It's so hot! I cant go out during the day. So I'm sitting at home, melting away in front of the computer or the TV. I cant keep the windows and the door closed because it gets stuffy. And when they are open, heat from all openings from all corners of the apartment pours in, with me sitting in the middle absorbing it all, my blood pressure rising constantly. With each passing minute, I look more and more like a giant tomato. I am going to explode one of these days, leaving a black mark on the carpet in my shape as the only proof that I ever existed on this planet. Summer's going to kill me.
And that, dear diary, is not where it ends. It's only the beginning of May. The worst is yet to come.
I fear I have no other choice. I can't bear to spend another month like this. I have made up my mind. First thing tomorrow, I shall start looking into accomodations in a colder climate. Maybe move to the east coast... or Alaska..
Outside sun is shining to its height
Children playing water games
Down the street dogs playing same
Blue summer, alone the most I have been
Afternoon sunsets are great
Yellow, orange and blue
But none greater without you
Blue summer...
and on and on the writer yaps about summer.
Yep. All looks great in the "blue summer" if you are sitting watching it all from inside an air-conditioned room. But life, I've learned, is not an air-conditioned room. The air conditioner is broken, both in life and in my apartment.
I hate summer! It is the worst of all seasons. I can't bear the heat. People argue that winter is the worst. I disagree. In winter, we can wear layers of clothing to keep ourselves warm. But how many layers can we shed off in summer? There is a limit to the number of nudist colonies we can have.
Because of the heat, I have no control over my temper. I keep snapping at everyone. I turn into this dehydrated monster that lashes out at anyone who isn't carrying at least a pint of ice cream for me. This is not a good side of me.
And not to forget, summer is the time when bugs of all shapes and sizes come out to make our lives miserable. Nasty little buggers buzzing everywhere. They are in my clothes, in my bed, they are flying into my ears. I hate them, I loathe them. I wish instant death upon them. Horrible, deplorable little critters. I keep squishing them and their relatives keep coming back to avenge them. They buzz in front of me and they taunt me. You just can't get rid of these bloody spawns of satan!
Everything's melting. Lipsticks, eye liners, chap sticks. Everything has to be placed in the refrigerator. Our refrigerator has contents consisting of every kind of cosmetic one can think of. There is hardly any space for food in there. So we eat everything we buy the same day.
Summer also ruins my appetite. I eat ice cream for breakfast, lunch and dinner. For dessert I have a gallon of water.
I'm taking three showers a day. At this rate, I fear I am gonna wash myself off the face of this earth.
It's so hot! I cant go out during the day. So I'm sitting at home, melting away in front of the computer or the TV. I cant keep the windows and the door closed because it gets stuffy. And when they are open, heat from all openings from all corners of the apartment pours in, with me sitting in the middle absorbing it all, my blood pressure rising constantly. With each passing minute, I look more and more like a giant tomato. I am going to explode one of these days, leaving a black mark on the carpet in my shape as the only proof that I ever existed on this planet. Summer's going to kill me.
And that, dear diary, is not where it ends. It's only the beginning of May. The worst is yet to come.
I fear I have no other choice. I can't bear to spend another month like this. I have made up my mind. First thing tomorrow, I shall start looking into accomodations in a colder climate. Maybe move to the east coast... or Alaska..
Monday, May 7, 2007
Orkut
Dear Diary,
Orkut's a great service. A cousin of the likes of Friendster, it is a great way to keep in touch with old friends, make new friends, and when in the mood, to go into some controversial community and argue to your heart's content with people you neither know nor would ever lay eyes on. Sweet deal.
So it has now become something of my daily ritual to log at least once a day into Orkut. I sign in, scrap a few friends with the customary "How are you?" and "What's new?" They respond with the equally customary "I'm fine, what about you?" and "Nothing much, just work (or study)," and that's that. My contribution to online socializing. Done.
Then I take a quick peek into the communities I own and see if there haven't been any "Hey I earn $20,000 a week by working from home!Leave your jobs and families and join me!" kind of spam messages. If there have been, I promptly remove them. That's fun too, removing junk and then banning the culprit who posted it. Ahhhh, the thrill of power!
Then if I have some more time, I go into random communities to enjoy some discussions. Very interesting stuff sometimes. Rarely anything intellectal though. Pakistan Women's Issues has a variety of cat fights on all the time, ranging from mild clashes to downright bitching. Then there is Religion is a Personal Matter where a group of people are found passionately arguing how it's not. Issues of Men and Women is a boxing ring for all the feminists and male chauvinists around the world. And so on and so forth.
So just like everyday, I sign into Orkut today. I take a look at my homepage and see some new scraps. The "Recent Visitors" to my profile include "Faizan Laadla, dr virus, Dilbarjani, mAngAl pAndey, and ßLòÖÐ §Ü©KéR."
I am a magnet for losers.
Moving on.. I get done with the scrapping and the community maintenance. I then move on to surf some other communities. And I see a post titled "Soccer Match between Christian and Muslim Clergy" in the News Room community. It instantly captures my attention. The image of men in neckbands and beards chasing a ball flashes through my mind. And I end this post here, dear diary, to give this intriguing news item my full attention.
Orkut's a great service. A cousin of the likes of Friendster, it is a great way to keep in touch with old friends, make new friends, and when in the mood, to go into some controversial community and argue to your heart's content with people you neither know nor would ever lay eyes on. Sweet deal.
So it has now become something of my daily ritual to log at least once a day into Orkut. I sign in, scrap a few friends with the customary "How are you?" and "What's new?" They respond with the equally customary "I'm fine, what about you?" and "Nothing much, just work (or study)," and that's that. My contribution to online socializing. Done.
Then I take a quick peek into the communities I own and see if there haven't been any "Hey I earn $20,000 a week by working from home!Leave your jobs and families and join me!" kind of spam messages. If there have been, I promptly remove them. That's fun too, removing junk and then banning the culprit who posted it. Ahhhh, the thrill of power!
Then if I have some more time, I go into random communities to enjoy some discussions. Very interesting stuff sometimes. Rarely anything intellectal though. Pakistan Women's Issues has a variety of cat fights on all the time, ranging from mild clashes to downright bitching. Then there is Religion is a Personal Matter where a group of people are found passionately arguing how it's not. Issues of Men and Women is a boxing ring for all the feminists and male chauvinists around the world. And so on and so forth.
So just like everyday, I sign into Orkut today. I take a look at my homepage and see some new scraps. The "Recent Visitors" to my profile include "Faizan Laadla, dr virus, Dilbarjani, mAngAl pAndey, and ßLòÖÐ §Ü©KéR."
I am a magnet for losers.
Moving on.. I get done with the scrapping and the community maintenance. I then move on to surf some other communities. And I see a post titled "Soccer Match between Christian and Muslim Clergy" in the News Room community. It instantly captures my attention. The image of men in neckbands and beards chasing a ball flashes through my mind. And I end this post here, dear diary, to give this intriguing news item my full attention.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Mattress
Dear Diary,
My back hurts. I believe it's my mattress. The wooden table in my kitchen has more flexibility. I can break an egg on my mattress. I can crush a ceramic plate on it. I can smash a glass by dropping it on my mattress from a height of 3.5 feet. I have done two of these three.
But maybe I shouldn't complain. Maybe this is what you get for free. I got this mattress from the girl who was living in my apartment before me. Maybe that's why it was free. I should have gotten suspicious when she gave away the mattress for free and was charging $25 for a 2 feet high shoe rack. But I didn't buy that. Maybe I should have. I would have slept a whole lot better on that shoe rack than on this godforsaken mattress.
My friends suggested that I place a few soft throws and comforters over it to make it softer. I tried doing that. But it needed a lot of layers to make it even remotely comfortable. In the end, I didn't want to be able to touch the ceiling while lying on it. The money I'd have to spend to buy a ladder to get on top of it, I decided to spend on something else.
Yes, dear diary, I have decided to buy a new mattress tomorrow.
My back hurts. I believe it's my mattress. The wooden table in my kitchen has more flexibility. I can break an egg on my mattress. I can crush a ceramic plate on it. I can smash a glass by dropping it on my mattress from a height of 3.5 feet. I have done two of these three.
But maybe I shouldn't complain. Maybe this is what you get for free. I got this mattress from the girl who was living in my apartment before me. Maybe that's why it was free. I should have gotten suspicious when she gave away the mattress for free and was charging $25 for a 2 feet high shoe rack. But I didn't buy that. Maybe I should have. I would have slept a whole lot better on that shoe rack than on this godforsaken mattress.
My friends suggested that I place a few soft throws and comforters over it to make it softer. I tried doing that. But it needed a lot of layers to make it even remotely comfortable. In the end, I didn't want to be able to touch the ceiling while lying on it. The money I'd have to spend to buy a ladder to get on top of it, I decided to spend on something else.
Yes, dear diary, I have decided to buy a new mattress tomorrow.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Spiderman 3
Dear Diary,
What a disappointment Spiderman 3 turned out to be! So long and so stupid. They should have re-run bits of the first two movies and that would have been more captivating. True that such movies are usually liked by people who are young at heart, but I guess the filmmakers confused "young at heart" with "idiots at heart". This movie was way too dumb even for a dumb comic-inspired action movie.
The whole movie seemed to be a haphazard puzzle forcefully put together with pieces that didnt quite fit. There was no story. There was, however, a convict on the run that fell in this huge bucket and was either molecularized or demolecularized, I dont remember which exactly. Suffice it to say that the process messed up his molecules. End product? Sandman. Yes, he became Sandman which was essentially a man that could turn into sand and bring on loads of sand storms on his enemies. The sand storm was his mode of transportation as well.
Then there was the Goblin, that scientist's son who wanted to get back at Spiderman for killing his father. This guy started off with being a vengeful person but then got knocked on the head and lost his short term memory. This turned him into a happy butterfly-like creature who liked painting pictures of flowers and making cheese omelettes, until his evil dead father again started egging him on to "avenge my death" through his portrait. The idiot son threw his dish towel in the sink, wore his tight black clothes and got on the glider again, back to being an evil villain. You couldn't make head or tail of it.
And then of course there was this gooey-black sticky substance that came and landed on earth out of nowhere. It would stick to any person and wont let go no matter how much they pull it away from themselves. It reminded me of a couple of people I know that I'd rather not name here.
Spiderman himself was busy trying a new hairstyle and black eyeliner and shaking his thaaang in clubs while his girlfriend was sulking in the corner about her failing career. And the all-too-familiar Aunt May from the first two movies visited about 3-4 times, each with a different colored lisptick. That's all I remember of her, the lipstick.
All in all, a huge disappointment, dear diary. Now I'll have to watch the first two movies 20 times over to wipe out the disappointment of this one so I'm not completely turned off Spiderman. Damn!
What a disappointment Spiderman 3 turned out to be! So long and so stupid. They should have re-run bits of the first two movies and that would have been more captivating. True that such movies are usually liked by people who are young at heart, but I guess the filmmakers confused "young at heart" with "idiots at heart". This movie was way too dumb even for a dumb comic-inspired action movie.
The whole movie seemed to be a haphazard puzzle forcefully put together with pieces that didnt quite fit. There was no story. There was, however, a convict on the run that fell in this huge bucket and was either molecularized or demolecularized, I dont remember which exactly. Suffice it to say that the process messed up his molecules. End product? Sandman. Yes, he became Sandman which was essentially a man that could turn into sand and bring on loads of sand storms on his enemies. The sand storm was his mode of transportation as well.
Then there was the Goblin, that scientist's son who wanted to get back at Spiderman for killing his father. This guy started off with being a vengeful person but then got knocked on the head and lost his short term memory. This turned him into a happy butterfly-like creature who liked painting pictures of flowers and making cheese omelettes, until his evil dead father again started egging him on to "avenge my death" through his portrait. The idiot son threw his dish towel in the sink, wore his tight black clothes and got on the glider again, back to being an evil villain. You couldn't make head or tail of it.
And then of course there was this gooey-black sticky substance that came and landed on earth out of nowhere. It would stick to any person and wont let go no matter how much they pull it away from themselves. It reminded me of a couple of people I know that I'd rather not name here.
Spiderman himself was busy trying a new hairstyle and black eyeliner and shaking his thaaang in clubs while his girlfriend was sulking in the corner about her failing career. And the all-too-familiar Aunt May from the first two movies visited about 3-4 times, each with a different colored lisptick. That's all I remember of her, the lipstick.
All in all, a huge disappointment, dear diary. Now I'll have to watch the first two movies 20 times over to wipe out the disappointment of this one so I'm not completely turned off Spiderman. Damn!
Laundry
Dear Diary,
Today was laundry day. As I reached the laundry room with all my clothes rolled up in a bedsheet, the sight of the lined up washers and dryers did to me what they do everytime I see them since I had "the dream": the soundtrack of 'Psycho' started playing in my mind.
You see, I had a dream a couple of months ago. In my dream, I was in the same laundry room, doing my laundry. After the clothes were done, I opened up the dryer and took out all my clothes. I then took a peek inside to see if I had missed anything, and saw a sock at the far end. I reached in to get it but somehow ended up tumbling inside the dryer. Yes, for some wierd reason, the dryer was, all of a sudden, big enough to accomodate me. Inside, I realized how roomy the dryer actually was. It all even smelled of my detergent, the dream was so real.
Anyway, I picked up the sock and was just about to step out when suddenly the door of the dryer slammed shut and the dryer started. To avoid being tumbled round and round just like my clothes a few minutes earlier, I started running in the opposite direction of the motion of the dryer. So there I was, running like mad in one spot, with a sock in my left hand, for I dont how how long. Just when I thought I was going to collapse of exhaustion, I woke up.
So you see dear diary, since that dream, I have this phobia of the laundry room, especially the dryers. I mentioned this dream to a few of my friends, to ask what it all meant. I got very diverse analyses, which just goes on to show the diversity of my social group itself. Remarks included "You are chasing something in the wrong direction", "Your life is at a standstill while the world moves around you", " You should change your detergent", etc, etc.
So today, as I stood in front of the dryer, watching in horror as my clothes tumbled round and round, seeing glimpses of my own face among them, I wondered... Will I ever get over this phobia? Will I ever be able to do my laundry without this sense of dizziness enveloping me? Will the 'Psycho' soundtrack ever stop playing in my head?
I worry about myself sometimes, dear diary. I really do.
Today was laundry day. As I reached the laundry room with all my clothes rolled up in a bedsheet, the sight of the lined up washers and dryers did to me what they do everytime I see them since I had "the dream": the soundtrack of 'Psycho' started playing in my mind.
You see, I had a dream a couple of months ago. In my dream, I was in the same laundry room, doing my laundry. After the clothes were done, I opened up the dryer and took out all my clothes. I then took a peek inside to see if I had missed anything, and saw a sock at the far end. I reached in to get it but somehow ended up tumbling inside the dryer. Yes, for some wierd reason, the dryer was, all of a sudden, big enough to accomodate me. Inside, I realized how roomy the dryer actually was. It all even smelled of my detergent, the dream was so real.
Anyway, I picked up the sock and was just about to step out when suddenly the door of the dryer slammed shut and the dryer started. To avoid being tumbled round and round just like my clothes a few minutes earlier, I started running in the opposite direction of the motion of the dryer. So there I was, running like mad in one spot, with a sock in my left hand, for I dont how how long. Just when I thought I was going to collapse of exhaustion, I woke up.
So you see dear diary, since that dream, I have this phobia of the laundry room, especially the dryers. I mentioned this dream to a few of my friends, to ask what it all meant. I got very diverse analyses, which just goes on to show the diversity of my social group itself. Remarks included "You are chasing something in the wrong direction", "Your life is at a standstill while the world moves around you", " You should change your detergent", etc, etc.
So today, as I stood in front of the dryer, watching in horror as my clothes tumbled round and round, seeing glimpses of my own face among them, I wondered... Will I ever get over this phobia? Will I ever be able to do my laundry without this sense of dizziness enveloping me? Will the 'Psycho' soundtrack ever stop playing in my head?
I worry about myself sometimes, dear diary. I really do.
Friday, May 4, 2007
Netflix
Dear Diary,
The Netflix guys have been pissing me off lately. Usually they are very good at sending me movies that I want. But this is the third time they have messed up the delivery.
The first time this happened was when I had requested the movie "Fantastic Four" and they sent me the cartoons.
The second time I had requested "Garfield - the Movie" and they sent me the cartoons.
Why do they keep sending me the cartoons?
And this time, I had requested the movie "Alexander" and they sent me the documentary instead. Although depressed and heartbroken at first, I decided to sit through it since I had nothing else to watch. Also, I thought I'd probably learn a lot more about the man from a documentary than a semi-fictional movie. And I did learn a lot.
First of all, Alexander the Great was a great gay. He had a thing going on with his male friend. But I wasn't surprised. For one thing, all Greek men wore frocks in those days. And for another, it might be the result of Alexander's issues with his mother. Because, in the documentary, the woman was doing things with a snake that were not natural.
I was so grossed out that I decided not to watch the movie even if I got my hands on it later.
This shouldn't be happening, dear diary. Netflix shouldn't be turning me off movies. I am disappointed.
The Netflix guys have been pissing me off lately. Usually they are very good at sending me movies that I want. But this is the third time they have messed up the delivery.
The first time this happened was when I had requested the movie "Fantastic Four" and they sent me the cartoons.
The second time I had requested "Garfield - the Movie" and they sent me the cartoons.
Why do they keep sending me the cartoons?
And this time, I had requested the movie "Alexander" and they sent me the documentary instead. Although depressed and heartbroken at first, I decided to sit through it since I had nothing else to watch. Also, I thought I'd probably learn a lot more about the man from a documentary than a semi-fictional movie. And I did learn a lot.
First of all, Alexander the Great was a great gay. He had a thing going on with his male friend. But I wasn't surprised. For one thing, all Greek men wore frocks in those days. And for another, it might be the result of Alexander's issues with his mother. Because, in the documentary, the woman was doing things with a snake that were not natural.
I was so grossed out that I decided not to watch the movie even if I got my hands on it later.
This shouldn't be happening, dear diary. Netflix shouldn't be turning me off movies. I am disappointed.
Music
Dear Diary,
Music speaks to me. It has immense power over me and can take me from sad to happy with a single track. I can't live without it. My iPod is one of my most darling possessions on this big, bluish, blob of an earth. With some great music on, I can walk for miles without realizing it. I realize it when I get home though. Because then it's my throbbing legs that speak to me.
I have, on accasion, gotten into trouble because of music too. Some near death experiences, some near expulsion incidents, all attributed to music. The latter because no professor likes their student listening to music while they are passionately lecturing about some stuff that happened to some dude who was important or something.
And the former, well, let's just say that being lost in music while crossing roads is never a good idea. I have been known to completely disregard traffic signals from time to time.
About two weeks ago, I was again jaywalking, crossing a road near the library, and to my horror, saw two cops standing on the other side. As I reached the other end, one of them asked me where the hell I thought I was going. I would have come up with either an apology or an excuse but Justin Timberlake was busy "Bringing Sexy Back" in my ear and I couldn't think of anything. I could barely hear the cop. He, probably taking my blank expression as a sign of regret, warned me not to do it again and went off. My close shave with the law because of music.
I have also been known to pass my destination and then come back to it after making a U-turn about a mile away, just because I am so lost in music that I dont realize I have passed it. If there is a short cut to get from one spot on the campus to the other, I usually take the longer route just so I can listen to more music while walking. And why not? While Ludacris is "Pimping all over the World" in my ear, why can't I pimp all over the campus listening to him?
My love for music will never die. I myself might die in a car accident while jaywalking one day though. But when the paramedics will come to pick me up, Akon would, even at that time, be telling them to "Smack That" through my iPod. That, dear diary, would be a blissful death.
Music speaks to me. It has immense power over me and can take me from sad to happy with a single track. I can't live without it. My iPod is one of my most darling possessions on this big, bluish, blob of an earth. With some great music on, I can walk for miles without realizing it. I realize it when I get home though. Because then it's my throbbing legs that speak to me.
I have, on accasion, gotten into trouble because of music too. Some near death experiences, some near expulsion incidents, all attributed to music. The latter because no professor likes their student listening to music while they are passionately lecturing about some stuff that happened to some dude who was important or something.
And the former, well, let's just say that being lost in music while crossing roads is never a good idea. I have been known to completely disregard traffic signals from time to time.
About two weeks ago, I was again jaywalking, crossing a road near the library, and to my horror, saw two cops standing on the other side. As I reached the other end, one of them asked me where the hell I thought I was going. I would have come up with either an apology or an excuse but Justin Timberlake was busy "Bringing Sexy Back" in my ear and I couldn't think of anything. I could barely hear the cop. He, probably taking my blank expression as a sign of regret, warned me not to do it again and went off. My close shave with the law because of music.
I have also been known to pass my destination and then come back to it after making a U-turn about a mile away, just because I am so lost in music that I dont realize I have passed it. If there is a short cut to get from one spot on the campus to the other, I usually take the longer route just so I can listen to more music while walking. And why not? While Ludacris is "Pimping all over the World" in my ear, why can't I pimp all over the campus listening to him?
My love for music will never die. I myself might die in a car accident while jaywalking one day though. But when the paramedics will come to pick me up, Akon would, even at that time, be telling them to "Smack That" through my iPod. That, dear diary, would be a blissful death.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Starbucks
Dear Diary,
Starbucks is one of my favorite places to hang out when I am bored. And I rarely like the company of anyone except a cup of coffee and my laptop when I go there. There is something about its atmosphere, with all the college students and executives sitting, sipping and typing away. Makes you feel important, even if you're just playing a game on your computer. But no one else needs to know that.
However, it was not always like this. I remember my first time there. I ordered my coffee and the barista asked me for my name to put on my cup. I told her. She, of course, didn't get it. So I spelled it out for her, M-A-H-W-I-S-H. She scribbled it on the cup and I waited on the side for my order.
While I was busy examining the coffee samples displayed where I was standing, I heard the barista yelling, "Moweeeeesh." That wasn't me, so I went back to my admiration of the cute little coffee packets. But then again, "Moweeeeeeeeeesh?" This time I noticed her looking straight at me. And then I realized that it was MY name being mutilated at the order stand.
But you know what? Always an opportunist, I saw this as a wonderful way to explore all the exotic celebrity names I had heard. So from that day on, whenever I'd go to Starbucks and the barista would ask my name, I would tell her one of my picks, and feel like a celebrity when called. Usually people would look as well to see if it was that actual celebrity. Hehe.
It usually went something like this..
Monday:
"And that's a tall java chip frappuccino. And your name..?"
"Madonna."
Friday:
"So that's a grande caramel mocha with extra whipped cream. And your name is?"
"Ashanti. "
Sunday:
"Ok, a tall white chocolate frappuccino. And your name please?"
"Shakira."
And so on..
But today was not a good day. Starbucks was packed. The line was reaching the entrance. So one of the baristas started going through the line, with cups in hand, jotting down people's orders and names so she could get started with the drinks while we waited for the cashier.
It was as usual. I had my drink picked. I was getting in the mood with the special coffee house music that Starbucks plays. I had also spied a sitting place even in all the rush. While I was still staring at that spot, making sure no one takes it, I felt the barista right by my side.
"And what would you like to order today?"
"Oh, uh, a tall caramel apple cider, please."
"Ok. Tall caramel apple cider it is. And your name is?"
"Telulah."
"Tea who?"
Oops. Too exotic. I dont even know where that came from. No celebrity as far as I can recall.
She was staring at me. "Can you spell that for me?"
I came up with the next best thing. "You know what, scratch that. Sarah. My name is Sarah."
Even she looked relieved. However, that name was a mistake. Because just as Telulah was too uncommon, Sarah, I found, was too common. Three people in my line had that same name. So we had some confusion when the drinks came.
At the end of it, my sitting spot was taken by the time my drink came, and instead of my cider, I had some watery asian tea in my hand. All of a sudden, I wasn't in a Starbucksy mood anymore. So I came home, brewed some coffee and started whining about it all to you, my dear diary.
Starbucks is one of my favorite places to hang out when I am bored. And I rarely like the company of anyone except a cup of coffee and my laptop when I go there. There is something about its atmosphere, with all the college students and executives sitting, sipping and typing away. Makes you feel important, even if you're just playing a game on your computer. But no one else needs to know that.
However, it was not always like this. I remember my first time there. I ordered my coffee and the barista asked me for my name to put on my cup. I told her. She, of course, didn't get it. So I spelled it out for her, M-A-H-W-I-S-H. She scribbled it on the cup and I waited on the side for my order.
While I was busy examining the coffee samples displayed where I was standing, I heard the barista yelling, "Moweeeeesh." That wasn't me, so I went back to my admiration of the cute little coffee packets. But then again, "Moweeeeeeeeeesh?" This time I noticed her looking straight at me. And then I realized that it was MY name being mutilated at the order stand.
But you know what? Always an opportunist, I saw this as a wonderful way to explore all the exotic celebrity names I had heard. So from that day on, whenever I'd go to Starbucks and the barista would ask my name, I would tell her one of my picks, and feel like a celebrity when called. Usually people would look as well to see if it was that actual celebrity. Hehe.
It usually went something like this..
Monday:
"And that's a tall java chip frappuccino. And your name..?"
"Madonna."
Friday:
"So that's a grande caramel mocha with extra whipped cream. And your name is?"
"Ashanti. "
Sunday:
"Ok, a tall white chocolate frappuccino. And your name please?"
"Shakira."
And so on..
But today was not a good day. Starbucks was packed. The line was reaching the entrance. So one of the baristas started going through the line, with cups in hand, jotting down people's orders and names so she could get started with the drinks while we waited for the cashier.
It was as usual. I had my drink picked. I was getting in the mood with the special coffee house music that Starbucks plays. I had also spied a sitting place even in all the rush. While I was still staring at that spot, making sure no one takes it, I felt the barista right by my side.
"And what would you like to order today?"
"Oh, uh, a tall caramel apple cider, please."
"Ok. Tall caramel apple cider it is. And your name is?"
"Telulah."
"Tea who?"
Oops. Too exotic. I dont even know where that came from. No celebrity as far as I can recall.
She was staring at me. "Can you spell that for me?"
I came up with the next best thing. "You know what, scratch that. Sarah. My name is Sarah."
Even she looked relieved. However, that name was a mistake. Because just as Telulah was too uncommon, Sarah, I found, was too common. Three people in my line had that same name. So we had some confusion when the drinks came.
At the end of it, my sitting spot was taken by the time my drink came, and instead of my cider, I had some watery asian tea in my hand. All of a sudden, I wasn't in a Starbucksy mood anymore. So I came home, brewed some coffee and started whining about it all to you, my dear diary.
Goldfish Funeral
Dear Diary,
Yesterday I went to my roommate's goldfish funeral. It was held in our bathroom at 10 AM, Pacific Standard Time.
The event was attended by me and my 3 other roommates. At 10:02 AM, my roommate who owned the goldfish took the stand on the edge of the shower tub and mused about how the goldfish, Goldie by name, had made all our lives so much happier and how much we are going to miss her going round and round in her little glass bowl in our living room.
At 10:04 AM, we witnessed it going round and round the same way in the toilet when we flushed it. It was fun. But touching at the same time.
The funeral ended at 10:05 AM sharp, and then we served little goldfish crackers to ourselves.
Later, as I was just about to pop my 25th cracker in the mouth, I noticed it's coloring. It was the exact same shade as Goldie. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with emotion. I wanted an outlet. So I decided to start an online blog where I can go on and on about my day to you, my dear diary. :)
Yesterday I went to my roommate's goldfish funeral. It was held in our bathroom at 10 AM, Pacific Standard Time.
The event was attended by me and my 3 other roommates. At 10:02 AM, my roommate who owned the goldfish took the stand on the edge of the shower tub and mused about how the goldfish, Goldie by name, had made all our lives so much happier and how much we are going to miss her going round and round in her little glass bowl in our living room.
At 10:04 AM, we witnessed it going round and round the same way in the toilet when we flushed it. It was fun. But touching at the same time.
The funeral ended at 10:05 AM sharp, and then we served little goldfish crackers to ourselves.
Later, as I was just about to pop my 25th cracker in the mouth, I noticed it's coloring. It was the exact same shade as Goldie. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with emotion. I wanted an outlet. So I decided to start an online blog where I can go on and on about my day to you, my dear diary. :)
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