1001 Ways to Embarrass Yourself While Avoiding Injuries

Her dreams were beautiful, they were solid and coloured vividly, as if carefully drawn by an artistic hand on the whitest, purest canvas. And they were always about America. Umrika. Oh, America. Land of Milk and Honey Freedom God Guns Bible thumpers Immigrants Emigrants Hollywood Burgers New York honey You Gotta Say it like Ya mean It Ellis Island Democrats Republicans Trump Clinton Obama You Gotta Vote Are Ya kidding' me? How d'ya werk this damn thing Eileen? Collard Greens Black Lives Matter The Latino Vote Catholics Muslims Christians Sikhs Hindus Jews Buddhists I can't say I guess I'm atheist Wow that's progressive. Umrika. The Real America was hidden somewhere outside her small bubble of posters, irascible like a fever itch in the dark nights. Sometimes the itch was so strong even after she'd thrown off blankets she'd toss and turn , slapping at the slippery sheen of sweaty skin the damp heat swelling everywhere. The Real America was not POS

Dear Boys, I don't know if this letter will pass the Bechdel test or not, but seeing as I am currently grieving for my lack of you in my life, and given the other unfortunate circumstances of rejection, I believe I am granted the rare pass to focus one scion of my attention onto your affairs. Or, rather, my lack thereof. Pardon the pun, although it wasn't really a pun, not really sure what it was. Whatever, um, just, ignore it. Okay! You know how, according to Hollywood archetypes, there's always the 'Cool Girl'. Yeah. Her. The nonchalant, effortlessly blasé girl who doesn't give a damn but yet can do everything under the sun whilst still looking hot. (Examples: Jennifer Lawrence, Mila Kunis, Olivia Munn, Olivia Wilde, my best friend-cum-acquaintance S) Buzzfeed explains this phenomenon well! Yeah, you know what sucks? Like legitimately second-world problems middle class bougie sucks? Being friends with that girl and being the DUFF. Designated Ugly Fat

Dear Ben, Thank you for everything. I never thought I could love someone as deeply as I love you, so completely it overwhelms me. Ben, you make me smile everyday, and laugh and forget my worries, Ben! Ben you are my everything! You are not only a great friend to me, but also a great husband and father to our five beautiful children. Jared and Jesse tell me everyday after school how much they are proud of you, that you fight everyday for  tikkun olam , for acts of kindness at your job. Jessline wants to be like you, and fix the world, Joshua, to think like you and possess your brilliant mind. Jacob, our baby, has your self-deprecating sense of humour that puts everyone at ease. Even our dog loves you, and Vern is such a picky affection-lavisher. You are the reason we all get up everyday and have faith in the world, my social justice warrior, feminist, egalitarian, liberal, Democratic love of my life. Happy 10th anniversary, M.

'Sorry, Q, Mama said knock you out.' I imagine myself saying this to the tall, ginger Q. She has an upturned, ski-slope nose that is somehow in keeping with the rest of her careful, precise features- the small off-purple lips that seem devoid of oxygen, the sparse red eyebrows plucked almost to non-existence, the storm of freckles that dominate her sunken cheekbones that are vaguely reminiscent of a Viking forefather. Sharp chin, angular face like the rest of her, even her personality like her body seemed to be filled with hidden edges, sharp angles, no soft crevice. She'd be shocked, tucking her long hair behind her pointy ears, pressing her folded arms against her chest. Then it would turn into subdued annoyance, at my obstinance, for she hated anyone questioning her authority. 'You what?' she'd say, the words blasé from her puckered painted pink mouth, not like a rosebud but a plump pomfret mouth, the fishy lips quivering indignantly.  Her uppe

Married to Josh Blumenthal, who works as a college professor at Yale, lecturing on archaic Akkadian idioms, I am a Pulitzer prize winning author, who works languidly from home. We'd have 6 lovely children, named: Veronica Yael Blumenthal Victoria Rivka Blumenthal Joshua Herschel Blumenthal Jared Moshe Blumenthal Vanessa Noya Blumenthal Jesse Levi Blumenthal Veronica, the oldest, would be the musician. She would have red hair, flaming like her father's. She'd be gifted at piano, and probably learn how to play the violin soon after. She'd be like her father in his jovial and genial nature. She'd be an engineer though, because her talent at physics would be unrivalled by even the most studious peers. Victoria would be exactly like me, short with a comically loud mouth. Brown hair, freckles and a connoisseur of literature, especially Nabokov and Tolstoy. She'd become a comedienne, probably act alongside Jerry Seinfeld on SNL if she could. Josh,

And oh how I hated my father's turban! Visible, and loud, and proud, on his head, it spoke volumes about a pride I clearly dearly wished to shed. I could not be more forthright, and honest when I gazed with some apprehension- I hated it! Guilty looks abounded and I hounded My poor father, passing snide remarks for things he had no control over my poor father, I'm sorry for your loss and every time we ate out I would tremble and quiver and fear the frowns, the laughs, the sneer of ignorance and pestilence of hate- Sorry, father, sorry, I hope not too late. Now I understand, older but not so much the wiser but enough yet to understand why you wear your turban- and so much love in my heart for it. Selfless service, I am humbled, By your commitment to your turban, Daddy, mainu maaf karo,  I am sorry For running away from who I am. Daddy, I am sorry for how embarrassed I felt at your accent, Daddy for your loudness, your Punjabiness, your blue collar

Go home, he said, with a glint in his eye, and a bat in his hand, begging me to disagree so he could take a swing, and by hitting me dissolve all his problems. Go back to your country, he hissed, with the weight of his words hanging in the air like a wall between us and it was painful to think that But for the shape of my eyes and the scars on his hands, we are the same, marked by the same stamps and regulations- We are both, for better or worse, Malaysian and we both sing everyday the pledge to die for king and country and in our own Perverse ways, we mean everything we say, and that is not a lie. Stop, I wanted to whisper but the scent of his hate choked my reply. Step by step, foot in front of another, I said to him, YOU ARE MY BROTHER, This country is as much mine as thine, This land of plenty is too my mother. He faltered, hand wavering, I back up, slow stammering, and we fall slowly to the ground crying for this land of our birth! Forever connec

The troll appeared at first a normal man, Short and fat, and a jolly lamb! But alas, when the sun sunk deep, His warts and green skin began to peep from out under his false face disguised , and I am honestly truly quite surprised. Waving above his head a stack of papers and a truncheon, He was perhaps on his way to an English luncheon. Sipping tea quietly, the troll hides himself, amongst us normal humans, despite ourselves- who would tear him to pieces if we knew, or he would, and bite and tear and on us, chew. The troll had a rotund belly, and a blondish beard which sat tragically on a weak chin, Defeated in his subjugation to his prey, The troll lashes out, rages, beats and disintegrates any form of disagreement, his dreams crushed now he crushes. Poor,  poor, old troll, he never was on a roll, that angry jolly old troll.

She sat on her rotting throne, Queen Gwyneth, like a crone, She grew bitter with time, Watching the joy of mine. And when one foot entered her domain, She cackled- thunder, lightning, rain! She rose from her chair, Pushed me into her lair. Wherefore art your manners, she hissed, Her beaky nose birdlike and missed my heart, luckily, narrowly, for she flung a knife, Writhing around in her robes, full of strife. Then I apologised, cowering slightly, For not calling her Queen, but she took it lightly! Her long, twisted nails, she lifted a finger, The smell of her dirty heart, doth heavily linger. I ran , the door to freedom closing fast, And when I looked, she was not there alas, And when I looked again, It was all in vain.

Stepping forward into the darkness, she takes a RISK. Her hair messy and somehow coiffed, Her clothes elegant and scruffy at the same time- a gilded mess of purple and yellow flowers. This boy-child, hallowed, have the tables been turned? I who was Lolita have I become Humbert Humbert? What a risk, this angelic creature. I am angel too... Oh, what a risk.

The fat cat lay on the rug, Reclining and declining, My love and hope for it- Somehow saying it was not my equal. The cat had green eyes and the eyes were wise beyond its years and kin. The cat was me and I was the cat. In a flash of similarity striking like lightning, a scene replaying before my eyes, Titled deja vu by the believers, Madness by the sceptics. My hand is reaching out in time to touch the cat but when I come close, it disappears, into a bell jar, Down a tunnel, A rabbit hole? You cannot become yourself if you already are, the cat was running from me, and I became lost, In a forest of trees, like Alice, I saw a door, and stepped in and the door closed and cake I took a bite! The door disappeared and the fat cat was gone, and when I woke up, I was here.

This will be one of the more honest posts I've probably written, and what I'm about to write I genuinely believe in a 100%; and I hope you will too. I hope no one will read this, actually, because I am rather fragile after the breakdowns. I want a safe space to confess all my weaknesses and my sadness and my hopes and my dreams. There will... there will be no pictures, no catchy headlines, no interesting tag-lines, no witty stories, no creative writing, no plays, no commentaries, no social critiques. It is not the author's work you will see here, dear reader who hopefully does not exist, but just the author who does, very much exist. The first thoughts were the worst, dark and threatening, literally, to push me off the edge. I couldn't move, I was so, so, sad, depressed and angry. The stress ate me alive. I couldn't keep up with the high expectations. All my life I'd set myself goals I wished to achieve, higher and higher they reached until I could not rea

How did you get caught? (Or not caught, as the case may be.) Gnawing desperately at the slab of turkey breast I had hacked off the Christmas turkey in near delirium with a plastic fork, I ceased to pay attention to the surroundings. All I could think about was the turkey, the stuffing and my stomach. If ever there was a person fated to be caught doing the rare wrong thing at the exact, precise, worse possible timing… I suppose it would be me. And so, it happened. He walked into the kitchen nonchalantly, and I balked in horror, strips of whitish turkey meat stuck in between my teeth, one finger greasy from the stuffing, the others caressing an especially sumptuously plump mince pie. Dropping the remainder of the turkey in one hand into my cavernous and ravenous mouth, I pushed the pie as far away from me as it would physically go across the slick, faintly oily marble kitchen top. I had been caught eating the leftovers from the Christmas lunch we had … that we were supposed to

Ertika, Pahel. "I used to be darker, see. Do you see, Ertika? Then, I started staying indoors and reading about the Party. Kauben Wrinfida says I look much better. She says the Party really is doing me good." Ertika yawns absentmindedly. She feels vaguely disturbed by her friend's words, like something inside her is dislodged a little but she cannot reach inside her heart and place exactly what is wrong. "I really liked your colour, Pahel. You looked like my mother when she was younger and everyone said she was pretty." Pahel squirms at the compliment, both pleased and annoyed. She has always been slightly under the shadow of Ertika's goodness, Ertika's selflessness, Ertika's studiousness without her even trying. She hates the thought that Ertika is so politically correct without even meaning to be. She, the child of exiled rightists, she must try so hard to erase her father and mother's harmful legacy and prove her devotion to the Pa

" There is only the State. If you remember nothing else, remember that. The State, the State, the State." "There is only the State. If you remember nothing else, remember that. The State, The State, The State." POLITICO revolves around two friends who grow up in the future, a dystopian totalitarian state called Malistan founded by General Kristang Malistan, who was Premier when the country was created in 2084. Malistan is officially ruled by the “Official Communist Party Of Former Independent Southeast Asian Republics”, known in short as “Stagov” or the “State Government”,  the only party allowed to exist and it has complete power. STAGOV consisted of 2 representatives from each former republic. It was made up of 5 ministries, Education, Welfare (religion, housing, healthcare, pleasure etc), Industry , Innovation and Bureaucracy. At the age of 18, the children will be given the chance to choose which industry they work in, and thus become a party member. I

*Note: This is a fictionalised account of events. Any resemblance to any living persons, animals, things etc are purely coincidental. The long drag of a cigarette brings some brief respite from the swirling thoughts in her head. What did it all mean? The anger, the joy, the pain, the depression? Surely, it must have had some significance? There must have been some difference from her actions to the actions of the many, many middle class maniacs before her who'd have done the same things? Look, she types, banging it out on the keyboard. Look, you idiot. The key to being profound is to be depressed. Not sad, but depressed which is essentially being sad with the flab cut out. No crap. You look the world in its eyes through your tears. Being deep, her fingers spell, being deep is . She doesn't know. Everytime she tries, she is told to stop lying. Her mother has read her work, the work she is proud of having created, from veiny hands and sallow skin, but her moth

Readers, readers. I have previously and continuously mentioned colleges. Indecisively, I must add, which has continually being annoying for both myself and various family members around me. *cough, cough, MOMMMY* JK, except not really. I've seriously been stressing about it and the words: "Best Fit". Like EEEwwwwwwww. "Find your best fit college." "Let _______ quiz tell you exactly which UC you should attend." "Discover which Ivy League is best for you." Instead of TV shows and embarrassing videos of cats and the Jeremy Kyle show or WWYD episodes, my internet history consists mostly of such titles, which can often be more embarrassing than Jeremy Kyle shouting at a poor, weeping man/woman. I have, my friends, perhaps for better or worse decided to post which colleges I hopefully am applying to. Ish. Hoping to declare my major as political science and end up working as either a diplomat for UN or in finance, I will be happy

Hello, readers! If you're out there, that is. Is anyone out there? Well, if you ever read any of my posts and do like one, even A LIIIITLLEEE bit, please comment down below just so I know I'm writing relevant things that people want to read and hear about! And please don't be afraid to leave some recommendations. Like, one I heard from one of my good friends, best friend even, was that my site was kinda ugly. Yes, well, in more subtle terms. Probably something along the lines of 'quite hard to read'. Okay, so anyway, I was thinking about representation and I immediately thought of Mindy Kaling. Look, cliche or not, Mindy represents what every major Hollywood TV show doesn't. DIVERSITY. Exactly. She's a main character, messy and unsimplified, she is so far from the typical 'model minority' stereotype that we've, as a general global society, come to accept and unwittingly expect. She's loud and funny, stubborn and frustrating s

The child's loose curls doth bounce so lightly on his head, Causing a tight pain in my strange heart. Oh, how could it not! How could this babe not bring back a humorous, paining memory? It was... The Mukherjee. Tall, be-pimpled, gangly, tennis god, deep of voice, shy of girls, You-who-seemed-to-never-speak, I adored you! And that adoration translation became silence, hiding behind my fringe! My conquest of you, had, in, my mind, Failed. So I rushed for a glass of water, Oh fateful, Christmas day. The baby reminded me of future we could have had, Amit Mukherjee. Remember? Remember, with trembling hands, I beseech, Look upon my face, and the hands, which so embarrassed me. The tale I must grudgingly and happily tell. Christmas day, I had not eaten, my stomach as bare inside as the manger we didn't have, I went into the kitchen, swearing to this day, for a glass of water, WATER, If only I had just water, sipping demurely, We might be Mr and Mrs Mukherjee

" There is only the State. If you remember nothing else, remember that. The State, the State, the State." POLITICO revolves around two friends who grow up in the future, a dystopian totalitarian state called Malistan founded by General Kristang Malistan, who was Premier when the country was created in 2084. Malistan is officially ruled by the “Official Communist Party Of Former Independent Southeast Asian Republics”, known in short as “Stagov” or the “State Government”,  the only party allowed to exist and it has complete power. STAGOV consisted of 2 representatives from each former republic. It was made up of 5 ministries, Education, Welfare (religion, housing, healthcare, pleasure etc), Industry , Innovation and Bureaucracy. At the age of 18, the children will be given the chance to choose which industry they work in, and thus become a party member. If they choose not to become a party member, they will be forced to live on the outskirts of Malistan, amongst the 'ri

BEST. SHOW. EVER. Literally about students living their messed up lives in a uni house because they failed to get into halls, and it's a masterpiece. *This pseudo-review is only about the first season. First off, there is VOD, or VIOLET NORDSTROM (pic above) my favourite character. Talking about breaking gender stereotypes. Usually given to a male character, Vod embodies the typical or in this case atypical 'leg' or 'legend' in uni-speak. Promiscuous and snorting, and sorting drugs all over campus, she is viewed with almost a respectful awe. Unexpectedly becomes very close to OREGON, a high strung, secretly posh girl who is determined to hide her bourgeoisie roots, as we all are. Interesting fact- she's also sleeping with Professor TONY SHALES, the middle-aged English teacher. Then there is JOSIE, the bubbly, nice Welsh girl doing not only dentistry but also JP, an openly posh arrogant boy with a secretly good side, and KINGSLEY, the snooty, precocious

As you all know, unless you have been living in seclusion for a while, the application deadlines draw swiftly nearer and I am unbearably anxious of my results. Please pray and pray I discover my 'best-fit-colleges'; whatever that means. I shall be blogging frequently about my exploits, rejections and decisions. Hopefully, some acceptances. Thank you.

Reading about Buzzfeed being ev-eel just topped the my day. Like a soggy, purple cherry on an already rapidly collapsing cake, just like Uncle Joe's 80's hairdo. Cringe. Like yeah. Totally cringe. I thought Buzzfeed was all over supporting minorities and making minorities HEARD, you know? Like all those 'Children of Immigrants Thank their parents', 'Things That ______(insert ethnic minority) parents say' made us, the gullible, faceless Internet netizens think. Turns out they do provide a platform to up and coming young people, certainly young people of colour; they just don't get paid very well at all. This news sort of wormed its way into an already strange day. I was researching , or more aptly, obsessively googling which colleges were my best fit. Constantly torn between applying to liberal, women-only colleges and applying to more practical, business-oriented, co-ed ones . People never tell you how hard choosing colleges are! I literally was left o

WHAT IS CULTURAL APPROPRIATION? Cultural appropriation, just like any of the other myriad of politically correct topics that surround the youth of today, is a hugely controversial and potentially touchy topic for many people. I myself experience unexpected resistance when trying to educate my fellow comrades on the importance of understanding what cultural appropriation is.  First, let's begin with a definition, from the website, 'hercampus.com', : Culture Appropriation results in the act of members of a dominate culture  take  or  borrow  things from another culture belonging to a minority group without their concern nor completely understanding its genuine value and originality. Just to back this   up, I'll quote our completely trustworthy friend, Wikipedia.  “appropriation” or “misappropriation” refers to the adoption of these cultural elements in a colonial manner: elements are copied from a minority culture by members of the dominant c

She rolled the cigarette between two calloused fingers, savouring the feel. A wisp of smoke from between her chapped lips floated into the air, a silent song of something. 'Vol vol vol.' Indila's 'Derniere Danse' played in the cafe elsewhere, the melancholy song filling her ears and slowly falling into her. This is France, she thought to herself, a twenty five year old Malaysian immigrant with a baggage of hyphenated identities sitting in an isolated French cafe smoking a Chinese cigarette listening to a French-Algerian-Cambodian-Egyptian-Indian singer. As Indila works herself into a beautiful tragedy, she puts her head in her hands then takes a drag of her cigarette. There is a certain delicious irony in that ,she feels, especially with the rise of the National Front in France, people looking at her funny because of her name, the fact that she doesn't go to Church, mostly reads East Asian philosophers instead of Satre, eats neither pork nor beef, has a

The grateful cockroach waits till everyone has left the room, He is waiting for his inevitable doom - I think, to subside. The grateful, he loves to abide, by anyone's rules but people who look like him, The grateful cockroach plays the game , He has played and has been played, unknowingly. Stupid, grateful, precious cockroach, Come out, come out, wherever you are! They are calling, and calling and calling, And the cockroach emerges, smile on his face. He would answer 'yes' in his high pitched voice, but they can't understand his clicking language full of vowels. They wouldn't want to anyway. Look at me, they say, look at me! He looks. He sees. A huge shadow rapidly coming closer and closer and ! The cockroach runs away. He hides. He laughs, nervously. They do this every time. He can't decide if he hates it, really, because he has known no different. 'Awaken, depth of depth of your soul! ' The grateful cockroach startles....

This would have been entertaining, had it not been said so very many times before- This story of a cockroach, told once now, once then, so many times- it has become folklore, Everytime I tell this story, I think it gets slightly weary, of being told, Over time, this story feels like it is getting grey, and little old, But yet the story must go on- Just like the show. How many times we go down the

Oh, beta , why do you weep so, How has it comes to this, lo  Take this handkerchief and dry your tears, Where are your mama papa to calm your fears? Oh, beta , don't cry na, Why do you carry such bloody rags? Ja dekhlo What is your name and where do you come from, You know, na,  look just like my son, Hanji,  I had one once, and he looked just like you... And daughters, daughters I had two. Chal, koee na,  How about I tell you a story? This story starts long ago, Nobody really knew its beginning and no one really knows the end but everyone remembers what came in between, I called it the blood fields. Shhhh, beta  , Did you come from the blood fields too? They told me to run and I think you must have come from there, Did they tell you to run? Its alright, beta , Come we'll go together. And together we'll go, I think sometimes you need to leave to find yourself, but sometimes you can never really leave, you know? If they ask us where we're

Standing in front of the flag, the national anthem playing somewhere, the flames burning, bodies charring against the backdrop of a blood-red sky , she is alone crying. The tragedy has not allowed her to realise until now, when the blood-streaked dust has settled on the lifeless bodies, when last screams have become last words muttered softly into the ground, she who has never known tragedy begins to understand it now. 'Who am I?' she thinks, salwar kameez drenched in blood- what godforsaken hell has she stepped in, why has she survived out of all the others, why do they hate her so much, why kill my mother father brother sisters? This has taken away something from her- a part of her will never ever be whole again- this ache in her that will pass on to her daughter and her daughter's daughter. "Remember me to them," her brother said, his turban gone, his hair all shorn cut off bald desecrated humiliated painful. Blood blood blood trickled down his face lea

Dear All, (referring to the possibly imaginary readers I have), This blog will currently henceforth reflect my desire to read PPE at university and my journey to getting there as well as describing my journey to the States through my US applications. I plan to read PPE in the UK and a possible double degree in the US- e.g. History/Economics/ppe at a liberal arts college/ public university. Wish me luck. I guess the end goal Goldman SACHS

With a whoosh, And then sploosh, the milk fell on the table leaving me quite , unable, to face my fears- without shedding tears. Clumsy child, they all whispered, Hedonistic romantic , said my sister- Why are you crying over spilt milk? You'd think we weren't of the same ilk! She exclaims, clutching a purse delicate hand flailing- she makes things so much the worse... I try to speak the words but sentences I cannot form, Instead I think of opportunity cost- choice foregone- A possibility of another me is undoubtedly irrevocably false. I loved pretending- but there was honestly just a very big part of me that could not help but be crying over milk, I couldn't explain sobs wracking my frame why this milk which had split was driving me insane! She's never like this, my sister, always sun-kissed- and not spilling things and delicate and dedicate-d echo, echo and echo, when it calls my love, my youth- Up in the mountain, down in the plai

I stood, with my lips slightly parted, at the crossroads of my life, finger upon plump pink lips. The fig trees grew ripe and huge and fertile with fruits. I longed to pick each but each time I drew closer to it, the fig winked and disappeared like a Chesire Cat- the mere hint of its smile lingering in the air, teasing whilst I wasted away to a skeleton longing to choose but failing to do so. Back and forth I went, aiming for everything and achieving nothing- a phrase burst into mind that had no meaning, proclaiming proudly in my mind's eye, 'Verily, with hardship, comes ease.' Having no idea where the idea came from, perhaps from a corner of the mind so rarely engaged I had forgotten its existence. Picking the fig I loved the most was dangerous- beautiful and sweetly seeping juices of illusion that you would enjoy and then when it was done, leave you feeling like Kafka's hunger artist. Ripe for the picking- and ripe for the killing it would leave me vulnerably stre