This is perhaps the longest gap I have taken after a post. But oh well, my mind was only accumulating angst and more angst to spill onto this page. I will abandon my Austen-ish and Wharton-ish tones tonight and unleash.
Some might say I'm just PMS-ing...'cause it's the 'IN-THING' to say nowadays, amongst us Neo-Imperialistic, Third World inhabitants who dare not step outside their cocoa shells of an English medium lifestyle. Or rather American, considering how Gay Rights strike more of the soft chords of the heart now than the fact that mothers are hurling their infants onto railway tracks as an alternative death to starvation. It's the best kind of excuse, really. The most poetic of it's sort. Haye. (sigh)
What if I tell you that the world around me appears to be involved in this wonky jamboree? YES! Look! They're all shaking their bums in each other's faces and gyrating their delicate waists into each other's hearts. What if I say I'm not the one PMS-ing but it is them? I am not mad North by North-west, I swear! I swear by all the holy books and not just one. I'm a passionate and true advocate of secularism, you know.
So what if my unholy eyes notice the exceptionally low, almost-drooping-down-their-behinds, tugging-at-their-pelvis-for-the-last-breath Pants?! Is it really that my eyes were not baptized when I was born?
Then I'd say, their mind's ought to be exorcised for labeling artists (or rather sculptors, *hint hint*) who possess a peculiar way of walking, talking, hand-gesturing, a "chakka". Now this is the point where I really lose all my sense of secularism, imperialism, literary-ness, modernity, humour, PMS-ing because this is when I realize that society will never change. It will always consist of PEOPLE. People will always talk and churn out labels with their English Medium cum butchered Urdu minds that will go onto to be polished by the liberal arts colleges of the American. Or Cambridge and Oxford. Really, that's as far as they go.
I mean it's one thing to disapprove and it's completely another to catwalk around school with your pants down low, flashing a rolex in one hand and vociferously condemning the YOU-ESS of AY in your World History classes and going around calling a poor old sculptor a "chakka".
My own PMS-ing and imperialistic indulgences go as far as 1.5 gram chunky bar of Snickers. My pants are breathing their last but they're sure not, falling to their (my? *chuckle*) knees and begging my pelvis to let the world take a hormonal peak at my hot-pink boxer shorts.
Hah! I don't wear any!
Some might say I'm just PMS-ing...'cause it's the 'IN-THING' to say nowadays, amongst us Neo-Imperialistic, Third World inhabitants who dare not step outside their cocoa shells of an English medium lifestyle. Or rather American, considering how Gay Rights strike more of the soft chords of the heart now than the fact that mothers are hurling their infants onto railway tracks as an alternative death to starvation. It's the best kind of excuse, really. The most poetic of it's sort. Haye. (sigh)
What if I tell you that the world around me appears to be involved in this wonky jamboree? YES! Look! They're all shaking their bums in each other's faces and gyrating their delicate waists into each other's hearts. What if I say I'm not the one PMS-ing but it is them? I am not mad North by North-west, I swear! I swear by all the holy books and not just one. I'm a passionate and true advocate of secularism, you know.
So what if my unholy eyes notice the exceptionally low, almost-drooping-down-their-behinds, tugging-at-their-pelvis-for-the-last-breath Pants?! Is it really that my eyes were not baptized when I was born?
Then I'd say, their mind's ought to be exorcised for labeling artists (or rather sculptors, *hint hint*) who possess a peculiar way of walking, talking, hand-gesturing, a "chakka". Now this is the point where I really lose all my sense of secularism, imperialism, literary-ness, modernity, humour, PMS-ing because this is when I realize that society will never change. It will always consist of PEOPLE. People will always talk and churn out labels with their English Medium cum butchered Urdu minds that will go onto to be polished by the liberal arts colleges of the American. Or Cambridge and Oxford. Really, that's as far as they go.
I mean it's one thing to disapprove and it's completely another to catwalk around school with your pants down low, flashing a rolex in one hand and vociferously condemning the YOU-ESS of AY in your World History classes and going around calling a poor old sculptor a "chakka".
My own PMS-ing and imperialistic indulgences go as far as 1.5 gram chunky bar of Snickers. My pants are breathing their last but they're sure not, falling to their (my? *chuckle*) knees and begging my pelvis to let the world take a hormonal peak at my hot-pink boxer shorts.
