Rants on Being Single and Death

SINGLE PEOPLE OF THE WORLD.

spice up your life.

I guess.

Listen, isn't it amazing how you go through your life, having people, society, whatever, tell you that there is no way of predicting the future.  That life is this giant, uncertain road!  Who knows where you'll be ten years from now! You can never know what tomorrow will be, reads your aspiring meme.  Don't stress about the uncontrollable future, the older folks will say!  And it is very logical advice, you know. There is absolutely no way of predicting what will happen to you - just think about how surprised you are about what has happened to you.  Life unfolds, and you unfold with it.

And yet.

When you are single, you are surrounded by people who suddenly ignore this very real, very concrete, normally understood, fact of life, by saying things like, "Yeah, for now..." and, "It won't always be this way..." and "Call me in 10 years..." and, "Of course, you'll get married someday."  Why is it, that on threats and anxieties about dying alone - society decides the future is totally predictable, totally controllable, and totally evident.  Where is this evidence?  Where did your understanding of how time works go, non-single, individual?

The only thing that is guaranteed is Death.  For the un-philosophical, this will seem depressing.  For the philosophical, this will seem honest enough.  So what is this "for now..." business when it comes to single-dom?  What makes you as presumptuous about marriage, as you ought to be about death?

Single people are single.  They are not stupid.  They know that there is no real validity in your futural assumptions, and that is why they are mad.  If happiness with another person was guaranteed, there would be no TV, no movies, and definitely no music.

The only thing you should be concluding, "for now..." with, is, "I'm alive."

And Best of Luck, with the rest.

dopeness

sex songs #2739204702

WHY IS BEING A 20-YEAR OLD GIRL, SO GODDAMN SCARY AND HORRIFYING.

I KNOW THEY WROTE A WHOLE TV SHOW ABOUT IT, BUT I'M SCARED AND SAD.

YOU HAVE TO SIT ON STOOLS WHILE A LADY LOOKS AT YOUR VAGINA, AND TELLS YOU YOU ARE "PROBABLY FINE" BUT HERE ARE SOME PILLS, EVEN THOUGH THE PILLS ARE FOR YOUR KIDNEY, SO WHY IS SHE LOOKING AT YOUR VAGINA.

AND THEN YOU HAVE TO COME HOME AND SMILE AT YOUR PARENTS AS THEY ASK YOU HOW ARE YOU, BECAUSE TELLING THEM THINGS IS HARD TO DO WITHOUT TELLING THEM ALL THE THINGS AND YOU CAN'T TELL THEM ALL THE THINGS.

GOOD, I'M GLAD I WROTE THIS, I'LL NEVER FORGET THAT ONCE, I WAS 23.

THE GIRL INFRONT OF ME AT THE PHARMACIE, IN HER CUTE, HIPSTER, TWENTY-YEAR OLD GEAR, ASKED FOR PLAN B, AT THE COUNTER.

OBVIOUSLY.

CAUSE THAT SHIT'S LIKE ADVIL TO US NOW.

BECAUSE UNPROTECTED, CASUAL, SEX IS LIKE ADVIL TO US NOW.

BECAUSE MONOGAMY IS DEAD.

IS IT OVER YET.

but that was... great?

so why did.

well.

and here i am thinking it is my fault.

honesty2012

HAHAHAHAHAHAH

AHAHA I FOUND MY ELEMENTARY SCHOOL CRUSH ON FBOOK AND HE INBOXED ME AND SAID "...you're looking good" and AND THIS IS THE BEST

HAHAHAHAHAHA

remember, when this was my SECRET FANTASY

"RORY: I mean, I know it's kind of cliché to pick Moby Dick as your first Melville but -- hey how did you know I was reading Moby Dick?

DEAN: Uh, well, I've been watching you.

RORY: Watching me?

DEAN: I mean, not in a creepy, like "I'm watching you" sort of way. I just -- I've noticed you.

RORY: Me?

DEAN: Yeah.

RORY: When?

DEAN: Every day. After school you come out and you sit under that tree there and you read. Last week it was Madame Bovary. This week it's Moby Dick.

RORY: But why would you --

DEAN: Because you're nice to look at, and because you've got unbelievable concentration.

RORY: What?

DEAN: Last Friday these two guys were tossing around a ball and one guy nailed the other right in the face. I mean, it was a mess, blood everywhere, the nurse came out, the place was in chaos, his girlfriend was all freaking out, and you just sat there and read. I mean, you never even looked up. I thought, " I have never seen anyone read so intensely in my entire life. I have to meet that girl."

RORY: Maybe I just didn't look up because I'm unbelievably self-centered.

DEAN: Maybe, but I doubt it.

(They smile at each other.)"

it's your fault, really.

you hate me miserable, and you're bored with me put together.

oh, did you want to know how to bring me to tears world? did you? oh well, here.

CRYING.

conversations, with friends

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ibgrsYD_Flc

this is in the UK?

yes DON'T TALK TO ME

WATCH IT

k i figured out what i'm doing tonight

watching two beyonce live shows.

then i will be ready for tomorrow

baby, baby, baby.

‎"People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will not forget how you made them feel."

- Maya Angelou.

Obviously.

Four Hours.

there's lots to talk about, but today might want to think about what entitlement means.  you know, i know, i of all, people, know, that at twenty-something, if there is one thing you are entitled to it - it is this: nothing.

these are the years of one shitty job after another, and another.

every job i struggle with, i wonder why on earth i am left to surround myself in a place (and it is important to note, that the note of leaving "work as work" as a very difficult task, when it is where you spend 80% of your life), that seems to eat away at my soul.  be it in, the tasks at hand, or the people i'm surrounded with, or the, just lack of anything that feels worthy.  but it is worthy.  because it pays the bills, and slowly, (so, so slowly) but still it does try to add up the savings.  the deposit for the future dreams.

i like how i say i can work a shitty job for awhile so i can save up money and afford to do unpaid internships.  as if i'll even get unpaid internships.

because we are entitled to nothing.

long story short, i got a second job (and the goal, was for it to be a new full-time gig), that would allow me to leave, the gross, festing, infection that has been my past six-year job.  both are dumb, and for part-time students, though the new one sounds arguably more professional than the last.  at least for any future writing aspirations.

go read rakoff's, half-empty, and then you will understand why i never, ever write here.  but i always, always want to.

anyway.  so yeah, there it is.  what i've been whining and begging for this whole time, and it's in my hands!  a little cubicle, where i can bring a coffee, sit infront of a computer, and do my tasks, where no one bothers me, as long as i do my tasks.  and i don't have to talk to anyone that resembles a customer.  you know, the apparent dream.

but it's mindless, and my boss is scary, and my eyes hurt, cause all i'm doing is copying and pasting for 7 hours.  scratch that, 4 hours.  i cut my 7-hour shift to 4-hours, cause i'm genuinely afraid about what i'm gonna do, working at a job i hate, for one more hour.

because i have been paying my dues.  i have.  for 6 years, while my privileged friends have traveled, and eloped, and i don't know what, i have been slaving away at the shitty job.  and no, i'm not the only one.  and no it won't last forever, i don't think.  which is why someone needs to take this sense of entitlement i have, away from me.  it just makes the days that much longer, and the hours that much more dreadful.

no, it is not that bad, but no, i cannot, DO it anymore.  haven't i already??  i have.  and then there's the harsh reality, where really, i've only just begun.  i'm only just graduating, now.  in 2 weeks.  what do you mean, i've paid my dues.  another seven more to go, if not more.

none of you will take this seriously, nor should you.  because i'm complaining about sitting in a room for 4 hours, copying and pasting.  i'm complaining.

because other people don't have to work this hard, and even more people have to work even harder.

how dare i be upset that i have to spend 4 hours in a room looking at a screen?  my mother and father spend 8 hours a day doing something they have 0 passion for, and don't even have the luxury of spending their (minimal) extra time with their friends, smoking j's, eating out, and just shooting the shit.  and they really have no choice.  it is fucking gloriously amazing that they have mastered the necessary skills from their, less-educated, non-technological, immigrant, non-english speaking background, to develop into fluent english-speaking, almost fluent bilingual-speaking, computer using, workers.  and they don't fucking spend an entire blog post whining about it.  and it is not their dreams.  but that is not the point.  they love their home, and they feed themselves and their daughter, whom they also love.  and only once in awhile does my mother sigh, sit down, and say, "i wish i could travel more."  and the sigh is heavy, and meaningful, and oh, how she painfully means it - but it is only once in awhile that she even gives that moment of self-pity to herself.

have you forgotten, sruti?  calcutta, that early morning.  you catch dad staring, peering through the window, and you fumble over, in your mid-sleep, and say, "what are you looking at?" and you see.  that is early morning, and a group of 20+ people are huddled around a puddle in the middle of the street, using any old pail to bathe themselves in.  they are naked, and huddled around each other, shivering.  my father says, "look.  look at how other people live."  and there, in a quick flash, my father shuts the blind, and says, "let's go.  they deserve their privacy."

what?  am i not supposed to think about poverty when i complain about my developed world?  because there's nothing i can do about that right, and i have every right to complain about shitty things, because they are just that, shitty.  i know.  my reality is a reality, too.

but i'm going to go take a hot shower now, before my shitty shift at my shitty job.

thank you, gnite.

hello, now you know what it's like to ride the metro, as me.

On asking, "Why Me?" - David Rakoff

""Writer Melissa Bank said it best: 'The only proper answer to 'Why me?' is 'Why not you?' The universe is anarchic and doesn't care about us, and unfortunately, there's no greater rhyme or reason as to why it would be me. And since there is no answer as to why me, it's not a question I feel really entitled to ask.

"And in so many other ways, I'm so far ahead of the game. I have access to great medical care. My general baseline health, aside from the general unpleasantness of the cancer, is great. And it's great because I'm privileged to have great health. And I live in a country where I'm not making sneakers for a living, and I don't live near a toxic waste dump.

"You can't win all the contests and then lose at one contest and say, 'Why am I not winning this contest as well?' It's random. So truthfully, again, do I wish it weren't me? Absolutely. I still can't make that logistic jump to thinking there's a reason why it shouldn't be me.""

at the bottom of everything, conor

i'm happy just because

i found out

i am really

no one

oh!

and i can't believe last... thursday?  happened!  what WAS that.  glorious, is what.

went to grab my favourite chili, as a little lunch before my one and only class of the day.  sat in front of the cafe for a bit, and pulled out my laptop, to read what the internet had to say.  a Chinese Canadian girl, i knew through a friend sat to my right.  we have waved appropriately to each other, but had been the length of it.  she sat besides a brown girl, wearing high waisted pale denim, and a grey t-shirt, crop-top.  i instantly noticed this.  as i was peering at my screen, i overheard them discussing issues i never hear anyone discussing, outside of the internet and my own brain.  the brown girl was incredibly caught up in her discussion, and i heard them discussing racial representation, inherent white privilege, and how difficult it is to explain that reality to even your closest, white friends.

eventually i involved myself, and passed on as many references as i could.  they enjoyed this, and it seemed to delight the brown girl in particular.  i discovered, later, that she identified as an Indian Muslim.  and so, suddenly, sitting at those white tables, burst a spirited conversation about our racial anxieties.  a "go ask alice" for coloured folks.  the Chinese Canadian, the Indian Muslim Canadian, and the Culturally Muslim, Bengali Canadian.  Girls.  I should add, girls.

later in the conversation, a white, tom-boy, visibly women's studies student sat in the corner overhearing us as well, and began participating in the conversation.  she was very understanding, and kept saying, "this is so awful, that this happens to you.  i don't know anything about this!  how could i.  it's your lived reality."

"thank you!" we appreciatively shouted.

later, a Persian Canadian girl sat down in front of us, prepared to have her lunch.  She spoke with a soft voice, but with determination.  she too could not keep away from our discussion, and started to chime in on stories about getting stopped at the border, on numerous. occasions.  the reality of what was going on back home.  she said her grandmother kept flying back to see their Canadian family, just so she could bring food back home.  food.

and oh, how we all had white friends!  hahah, and we all were so clearly westernized!  and the joys that come with that!  and the pains.  we all had a specific angle from which we were approaching the subject, and though we did not necessarily all agree on everything, we could agree when most things were just "not okay."

"oh god, liberal white people hate it when you use the 'R' word."
"I KNOW."
"you can be as liberal as you want, honey, but the colour of your skin is inherently, uncontrollably, and absolutely, a privilege.  no, it may not be your fault, so we don't ask that you take blame, instead all we ask is that you recognize, that you can write all the prose you want about equality - but honey, honey, honey, it ain't. no. thang."

laughter.

we went our separate ways eventually, but oh the way we inherently knew, and clung to each other!  i walked to a class, refreshed.  looking forward to progress.

i've been tackling instances of authenticity, lately.

as well as the perception of others.

there's a whole group of people who think i'm simultaneously Daria, a Beyonce fan, and hip-hop aficionado.  these people rarely see me smile, and have only seen me truly happy once.  they think being quiet must be easier on me, my habitude, that most people know i always look unhappy.  these people know nothing about the kind of literature i read, or the existential thoughts i have.  they are the common folk.  and maybe they know i can't talk to them, because i can't speak their diluted, deluded language.  they share facebook memes, and twitter statii about being cynical, and wishing our western population had more intellectual and cultural, artistic, depth.  and then they see me as a snob, for rolling my eyes at their bieber excitement.  it is hard for me to interact with that kind of phoniness - it's a millennial suburban delusion.  a numbing kind of happiness, that's fronted with perkiness, and yet, a constant espousal for sarcasm.  they want to be me, and so i can't talk to them.

do you think i'm egotistical?

i think i'm egotistical.

a girl who i was best friends with, in pre-kindergarden and elementary school, in all her mainstream saturation, recently posted this facebook status:

‎~ You have enemies? Good. That means you've stood up for something, sometime in your life ~

and I responded:

man, i couldn't agree with this more.


i miss him.  his touch, his softness, his smell, and his warmth.

see?  i am just like you.

i believe that i am so admirable and likable that when you adopt my characteristics, you are not trying to be something you are not, but rather, are recognizing something out there, in The Structure, that you want more of, because it feeds you.  or you like the way that looks.  that's how i construct myself, after all, why shouldn't you be allowed to do the same?

a friend recently pointed out that my high school best friend was simultaneously my high school best friend, and high school bully.  we were both so insecure, and admired each other all at the same time.  this caused a toxic relationship, one where we were never truly happy for the other.  and loved each other just the same.  a team against the phonies who denied their unhappiness, but a challenge to each other's validation.  all the boys i liked, picked her, because she didn't have the weird acne, and didn't sport the baggy pants.  but the creative, funny folks picked me, because i was creative.  and funny.

i guess what i'm saying is, i can't tell who anyone is anymore.  or what anyone is anymore.  sometimes i think i can tell, and i find solace in that.  of course, that's a problem as well.  if the only time and space i can feel security in, is the one where shit makes sense, i will only find happiness and comfort in rare, random, uncontrollable, temporary, mili-seconds.

i'm a snob.  let's just say it!  i'm a horrible snob.

that's what i say sometimes.  and then i make a 5-step plan, on how to be a better son, daughter, or real good friend.  and i make a real good effort, real good try at it, and it makes me feel good to be good for others.  and i do good.  and then a little cape starts to grow on my back, and we're walking on productive territory, folks.  but the cape eventually slips off, like most things on pedestals do.  i do not belong there.

older folks, and people who met me when i was 16, all fall into the same category.  and they all perceive me from the top of the staircase.  i recently re-acquainted myself with a person from this past life of mine, and she looks at me, with a total incapacity to take me seriously.  and if i tried explaining myself, and who i was now, i would still come off so absolutely trivial and small to her.  like a child complaining to an adult about a bad dream.  the adult never takes the kid seriously, and the kid is always seriously scared.

i hate talking to those people the absolute most.  they see weakness in me, because for years i've been weak.  i'm stronger now, so it's refreshing to meet people now - but oh, old friendships.  you've truly seen me at my worst.

and i hate that he cape falls off - always falls off, because i can't shake it.  it's franny and zooey, it's a fear of being an absolute nobody, or is it an acknowledgment of my alienesque quality?  born different, born insecure, born sadder than most (thought not all.)

i should note, there are different, contextual kinds of sadnesses.

goddammit, cultural studies.

my experiences are not meant to be yours.  do not take them from me.  my identity is not meant to be yours.  do not take them from me.  my language is not yours.  my wit is not yours.  my intelligence is not yours.  my race is not yours, my racialized gender is not yours.  my passions are not yours, and so my art is not yours.  my heart is not yours, my face is not yours, my breasts are not yours (they are gloriously, mine, mine, mine).  my insecurities are not yours, my alien-ness, is not yours.

yours are yours.

i can't tell if i truly hope that no one ever gets me (inscrutable, sruti).  but i find a quiet comfort in knowing that absolutely no one fully does.  and a total frustration when someone tries.

i guess will be sixteen forever.

when sixteen ain't enough

heavy, heavy, weight in your heart, after stressful day.

dad, "is everything okay?"

me, "yeah."

dad, "it doesn't sound okay?"

me, "no, no, it's fine."

long pause.

me, "i'm just never gonna get a grown up job, ever."

then your south east asian dad jumps to worrisome conclusions, and starts inquiring about your current part-time job, whether or not your financially secure, and starts reaching into his wallet pre-emptively.

me, "no, no, no.  that's just it.  i've got retail now, but i'm graduating in 3 weeks, and... yeah.  it's not a big deal, it's just... hard."

dad continues stirring curry on top of stove and is silent.  "oh," he says.  "well that's much more serious," he implies.  he begins to fear what he's previously experienced with his oldest daughter.  hoping for the best, but settling for their unfortunately reality, of prolonging years of retail.  this is why he says nothing, because from what he's seen in the past, he can't guarantee that i would be wrong.

this disappoints him, and i'm not sure if the disappointment lies in my own worth, or in the structures and standards of western, individualistic, "success."

i see this all occur within a single furrowed brow, say, "it's fine.  don't worry.  it'll be fine.  anyways," realizing that i've made my burdens, his.

i head straight to bed without dinner.

"sruti..." he tries.

but i'm asleep.

today is one of those days,

where i absolutely have 0 interest/desire with/for men, because really all i want to do, is call in sick to work and fucking get all this shit that i have to get done, done, so that i can go ahead and fucking BE somebody.  

can't tell if you're being self-deprecating cause you're self-deprecating, or if you like hearing me say i like you. either way, falling for it.

stupid fucker that is me and life.

hey, don't forget

death is imminent.

i have a new crush.

he spent all evening telling me about how in love he still was with his ex-girlfriend.

 we kissed once, but apparently that doesn't matter.

he said he finds me attractive, and thinks i'm awesome, but apparently that doesn't matter.

 then the boy i have been kissing the most often, told me he slept with somebody else the other night.

 lindsay says she wishes i'd stop looking for self-validation in boys.

 me too.