Friday, July 17, 2009

Hypothermia, Apes, And Inefficient Presidents

The thrill of breaking rules is exciting. I’m supposed to be asleep now. You can obviously guess that I’m not asleep. Unless I’m sleep-typing. Which I don’t think I’ve ever done before. Except when I was writing that report on Waste Management.

That assignment was very stupid, by the way.

Isn’t it obvious?


End of report.

The A/C is on 21 degrees Celsius and I still feel like I’m on the brink of hypothermia.

I’ve just realized something. I think I write better in the night, no? Surely you must have noticed. The stuff I write during the day is so boring that I fall asleep during my validation.

“What? Are you sick of those frisky tablets of Valium? Try our patented sleep-inducers… Aisu’s Day Blogs! Guaranteed to get you the doze and the snores we’re sure you need! Warning- In case of overdose, there is seriously nothing we can do.”

But on a more serious note…

Yeah, I’ve got nothing.

You know, I’ve always found it annoying when people go on and on about how bored they are.

Except when my friends do it. Then it’s interesting, because I can understand how their minds work.

Difficult to catch up with them, you know.

Oooooooh! I know! I can write about my friends! My current friends, I mean. My old friends treated me like water. Taken for granted, potential unexploited, compared to several more popular drinks until…

A huge wave of… guess what?... water comes and sweeps them off their feet and pushes them to an uninhabited island where active volcanoes and evil apes rule.

Yes. I have been known to hold a grudge.

But moving on-

I had better not talk about my friends. Not only would I be totally violating their privacy (although I wasn’t going to name names) I think my fingers would fall off with all the typing and the brink-of-hypothermia-ness that’s going on in my room.
It’s actually pretty cold. I should turn it off, but then the noise of my typing would be incredibly audible, and now that I’ve mentioned evil apes, I’m not feeling very safe. O_O

God, I’m definitely going to hell for sleeping this late.

But it isn’t late in Japan. It’s the afternoon.

So I don’t think I’ll be going to hell after all. Details rock my socks, although I’m not wearing any at the moment.

Which brings me to freezing toes and once again… brink-of-hypothermia-ness.

On a strictly random note, nothing is ever truly our fault, is it? I mean look at this-

You’re late for school, and you go by public bus...


And you say, “Well, Miss. I stood at the stop on time. But the bus was having technical difficulties so it was having trouble starting. I got out and watched the driver fix the engine, which was broken because of the engineer who built the bus. The engineer was hired by the secretary of a business man who owns the bus lines. The business man takes orders from our local council. The council takes orders from the regional assembly. The regional assembly takes orders from the state government. The state government takes orders from the Lok Sabha. The Lok Sabha takes orders from the Prime Minister of India. The Prime Minister of India cannot do anything without the approval of the President of India. Thus, we see that it was THE PRESIDENT’S FAULT THAT I WAS LATE FOR SCHOOL!”


And you say, “Awesome.”

Sorry. My brain just exploded there for a minute.

I blame the evil apes and the brink-of-hypothermia-ness.

A Reason to Follow Your Heart

There’s this voice in my head.

It doesn’t tell me what’s right or wrong.

It just tells me what to do, more or less.

No. I’m not

A) High
B) Suffering from depression

The voice is just THERE.

It’s there in all of us, I think. It tells us who to be, what to say, who to love.

And yet, it doesn’t tell us the more important things- what to be, how to say, when to love.

Either way, you can’t get rid of it.

The voice, I mean.

Believe me, I’ve tried. Politely asking it to go away. Yelling “SHUT UP!” when my verbal filter that I use for normal conversation goes on strike.

But it still doesn’t LEAVE.

Ok, ok. It doesn’t suck the life out of me. The whole thing is symbiotic. We live in compromise. You win some, you lose some.

In any case, I still don’t like it.

It USES me to say the things it wants to say, and to do the things it wants to do.

But as the years go by, the voice inevitably becomes fainter and fainter. You start to miss it, whether you like it or not.

You start to miss the voice in your head.

And on your deathbed, when it’s too late to matter, you’re bound to find out something about the voice in your head.

Because during all the times you’ve argued and disagreed with it; YOU have failed to realize, that the voice in your head was in fact- your heart.

The Man On The Rubble

I’m on the way to school, and I’m writing in my journal. God, these bumpy roads make my already curvy handwriting look like a 1st grader’s-

Oh, wow. Is that what I think it is?

I see a pile of rubble near a construction site, in front of which we have gotten stuck in a traffic jam.

Now there really isn’t anything special about this pile of rubble, except for the tiniest detail that a man is lying unconscious on it.

No, this isn’t one of my stupid jokes. In fact, I think this is the moment the Unconscious Man on the Rubble enters my life.

He’s alive, I’m sure of it. The Unconscious Man on the Rubble probably had an especially “fun” night at the bar.


But the sad part? No one was helping him get up or anything.

Doesn’t the Unconscious Guy on the Rubble have a family? A wife that drags him home after a wild night at the pub? A son that slaps him silly and then hugs him when he finds his father on the rubble? A daughter that cries for help to lift her intoxicated father up?

After coming to all these observations, I notice that none of my guesses has come true. In fact, a little kid is now trying to steal the Unconscious Guy on the Rubble’s bicycle.

Welcome to India.

I look at the other passengers in the bus. All of them were talking and chattering, or listening to music.

But no one has noticed the Unconscious Guy on the Rubble.

I start to wonder, though. How would it be if I was the Unconscious Guy on the Rubble? Would anyone help me? I mean, for sure my family would be screeching for an ambulance, and my friends would be laughing at the stupidity of the situation while screeching for an ambulance at the same time. But what about the general public? The people that DON'T know me?

Do they have an obligation to assist an Unconscious Girl on the Rubble? Or would they be too scared to go against social norms?

I mean, don’t deny it. In India, it’s every man for himself.

Honestly, if I was walking passed the Unconscious Guy on the Rubble, I don’t think I would have helped him.

I mean, if I had the guts to call an ambulance myself and ask for help, then yeah, maybe one day.

But not now, I’m certain. I don’t have the courage to walk up to him, in front of all my classmates and say “Need a hand?”

So… end of story.

But let’s end with a question, shall we? Because I really do like asking almost-rhetorical questions. They’re so… mysterious.


I am possibly one of the few people who find linguistic features “mysterious”.

Live with it.

But getting back to my question-

If you were to make a similar decision, would you choose the one that you think is right, or the one that society has deemed to be right?

As the traffic dissolves, and I pass the Unconscious Man on the Rubble, I finally realize another thing most people don’t like to admit.

Sometimes, it really is too late.

So, try and answer my question.

I’m sure that the Unconscious Man on the Rubble would love to hear your views, assuming that he becomes the Conscious Man on the Rubble once more.


All this thinking and lessons haven’t even started yet.

Puppy Love? Well, It’s The Same Puppy That Got Run Over By a Truck. *sob*

If there’s one thing that has always puzzled me, it’s love, man. The damned thing is everywhere, hurting people, and making people ecstatically happy.

Don’t deny it. It’s legal crack.

I am, suffice to say, more than a little mature in my understanding capabilities than my fellow just-turned-14-year-olds.

Of course, none of that really matters now, does it? When it comes to… luuurve *wrinkles nose*

It’s a whole new level of understanding. There’s true love, a fling, a crush, a love-hate relationship.

If anything, God decided to have fun screwing our heads around when he made it.

I mean, I don’t even know why I think about it! Surely I have better things to do and just wait and see what happens.

Go with the flow.


I have to be surrounded by love sick teenagers whose love lives are usually shorter than the life span of a mayfly. And is worth as much as Bush’s opinion on almost anything.

Ok. Let’s have another look at the matter. I have this friend who's with a new girl every week. He's the "Cool Guy" now.

Nevertheless, I will remember him as the guy who once told me how cool it would be if evil dwarves really existed.

Now look. All I'm saying is how “love” can be skin-deep as well. And that’s just sad.

My opinion on love is final, though. One person. Somewhere. Someday. That’s it.

Then again, I wouldn’t have anything remotely interesting to talk about here, now would I?

So, what are disgusting are the reactions of some people I really wish I didn’t know-

Day 1- “Like Oh Em Jee, Aisu. Look at him.”

Day 5- “Yippee! I’m going out for a movie with him! Yipidee doodle dooo!”

Day 8- “He’s kind of mean. And he didn’t call me last night.”

Day 10- “Oh! I should never have gone out with him. Jerk. *gasp* Like Oh Em Jee, Aisu. Look at him. “

And the cycle continues. *rolls eyes* I should seriously be given a medal for being forced to mingle with people like these.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that people with boyfriends and girlfriends are superficial. Absapalootely NOT. I don’t have an opinion on that. I actually say “Totalleh!” to the people in a long-term thing.

But it’s the people who move from one person to another with crushes and infatuations as excuses that really piss me off.

And this is a disclaimer. This is a pure outsider’s perspective on love. I don’t expect you all to suddenly say “Oh, ok! Let’s do what this Aisu person says!”

Because that would be stupid. Admittedly kind of cool, but-

So. Where do we all stand on the issue of luuurve?

You can be in the deep pool of it, or swimming safely in the shallow area, which, come on.

Is TOTALLY for scaredy cats.

That’s right.

I insulted you.

So stop wallowing in the shallow bit and jump right in.

Because if you want to do the whole “love-gig” at all, you gotta do it right.

Me? I’ll just be sitting on the lounge chair, sipping my iced-tea and watching the fun from a safe and secure distance.

Dying Language

“Forsooth! Thou shalt not advise unto me, for it is known that this humble servant of God art awesome”
“Good morning, Sir! Now, how was your day? Marvellous? Jolly good!”
“Hey, come over to my house tomorrow, ok? I got that new PSP thing you saw. You can totally use it!”
“Dude hi got tix 4 da nu hp flik! 2 cool no? ya gotta go tel me if u wanna go. c u ... l8r k?”
Our language is dying.
It has changed from Sentence One to Sentence Four in what seemed like days, but were actually centuries.
Time flies like the letters in Sentence Four that are officially M.I.A.
In any case, people around the world are committing homicides with every SMS or email they send.
Our language is dying, I tell you! DYING!
If you ask me, if people are arrested for murder, then people should be arrested for this too.

Saturday, July 11, 2009

Momentary Introspection.

I'm losing hope in the world, you know. I thought that my outlook in life would change as I entered my teenaged years. But I still hate it. I don't know why. Not MY world, though. My cushy world, with loving family and friends, a great house, and a well-off future. I hate THE world, in general. Poverty. Unemployment. Murder. Mathematics. Rascism. War. The works. Everyone has hated the world once in their life. Or you will in the future. When you look in the mirror and wish you were fairer, slimmer. More beautiful. When you look at your test scores and want more. When you look at your clothes and notice that they aren't Calvin Klein. When you read the newspapers and read about the female foetesus that get killed each day. When you read about the man who was refused a loan because he was black. When you watch the starving children in Ethiopia, die of thirst and starvation, while the US government decides to dump their surplus food produce in the Atlantic and Pacific. When you look into the eyes of the people you love and see disappointment.

When you look.

When you see.

When you hear.

When you KNOW.

Irrelevant. And yet...

I still remember the first time I read the Philosopher's Stone. I think I was 7 at the time. More vividly, I remember reading the enormous Order of The Phoenix book when I was in the 4th grade. My classmates, bar four incredibly excited guys and three incredibly excited girls, regarded the book with much puzzlement. I remember the hours we used to argue as to whether it was "SEE-REE-US" Black or "SIRR-EE-US" Black. I remember watching the Chanber of Secrets, and completely ignoring my popcorn and coke. I remember the hours we used to try and figure out whether Snape was the bad guy or not. I recall sobbing when I left my copy of The Prisoner of Azkaban in the rain. I recall jumping when I received the book again, almost two months later. I remember waiting patiently in line for The Goblet of Fire in front of Borders in Singapore at 7:00 am.
More recently, I remember delaying my check-in for a flight to Bangalore because I stood in front of Odyssey at 5:00 am, only to get my book at 8:30 am, and to leave on a flight by 9:45 am.
I remember being called crazy. I remember converting my friends into Potterism in a matter of chapters.
I remember reading about a robber who didn't kill his victim because he saw a copy of the Order of the Phoenix lying around. I remember being called to Harry Potter celebration parties and staying up till about 11:00 pm with friends as we deciphered the Prophecy, and why we all thought that Tom Feton was growing pretty cute as the years went passed by.
I'm sure that I'm not the craziest, hard-core Harry Potter fan there is, and neither do I admit wanting to be. Everyone says that the reason Harry Potter is popular is because we can relate to the characters.
This is entirely false. We can't relate to boys that say spells and defeat evil wizards. We can't relate to flying on broomsticks.
But, I suppose, the best part about Harry Potter, is that it makes you believe you AREN'T normal. Makes you believe that you have special powers, and a considerably cooler destiny.
It makes you believe.