1001 Ways to Embarrass Yourself While Avoiding Injuries

Nina Bhamra- Meet Nina, the bubbly life of the group whose love life never quite seems to work out as planned. The Psychology major of the group, she's constantly trying to give the rest of her friends advice on how to deal with their lives. Accidentally gets them in trouble when she steals cocaine from her local drug dealer. Ping Pong Jones- Athletic, attractive and a 6'1 ping pong player (in more ways than one), Ping Pong is the wisecrack and smartass that you've been waiting for. Gets her friends out of trouble all the time. Jacob Jacobs- the stereotypical hot white boy that befriends said drug dealer and fucks everyone over. The only reason that they ever get into frat parties. The Chingster Chong- the lesbian musician who is slightly problematic and coincidentally successfully hacks into the North Korean nuclear arsenal and is recruited by a top secret army base in Bakersfield, California.

Chicken salad garnished right you want to be white If you open your eyes I promise you will see The very best parts of me down down down with the revolution and wear an apron make urself palatable to the MASSES. Does it sell if SO call 911 and what's your emergency? cultural barrier language breakdown you are prettier with your hair down... No he's not single, he's got a white girl she's looking for some chocolate swirl she bends like a reed to his will I hate your eurocentric beauty standards. Chicken salad garnished right tomatoes cherries; they don't bite. Have you loved a boy so bad he's good? No, you say, I LOVED a girl.

Yay. Today is great. Got internship but left on read by C. Is he even into me? Doesn't seem like it. I wish that my love life was abundant with attractive men who are super interested in me and unafraid of commitment. Is this going to happen? Maybe. Maybe not. IDK. This sucks. Stay tuned for more perfunctory but relatable content.

oh god, I thought to look at you your head was brown, eyes blue. your whiteness was the problem here it made me want to disappear. you were, Mein Gott, so good so right you even asked if you could take a bite so fragile so wondering and I understand if you don't want this again I'm haunted by the thought of you inside me outside is cold, you tried you put it inside my opening I like you I said you said I'm sorry I had a bad breakup it's - "NOT YOU!"I interrupt. I know where this is going! No no no you say not like that you hug me before you leave. wunderbar Wunderbar you are what a lovely lad come again please i'll open up and this time it'll be better, so fun so tight so wet so much to give Mein Gott oh oh OH!

He had a nasal voice that somehow retained its deep timbre, which produced in me a flurry of sensations. He had broad hands, with tapering fingers that were neither elegant or artisan, but very nimble. He had a way with words that made up for his eclectic arrangement of features- a too big smile with extremely straight, pearly white, surgically perfected-looking teeth on ebony skin. He was not too much taller than 5'7 or 5'8 at most, with broad shoulders and a narrowing streamlined torso. I was deeply attracted to him, and his callous manner, well-oiled like the future politician he would become. There was a sense that he was constantly waiting for something to argue with, to expend his charming sleaziness on, his plateau of well-worn platitudes that he had carefully chosen. There was one he was particularly proud of, his controversial opinion on civil war statues. "I mean," he said, lubriciously, palms on the table then clasped together, "I always think of t...

I did not want to be angry at him. Did not want to let him preoccupy my mind, did not want, desperately, him to hate me. Wanted him back by my side, even though he was only here for a brief period. Goodbye, sock boy. Good bye. Goodbye. Goodbye!

Rahul Simran Rohan

i hated your smile crooked white on black straight teeth wavy walk almost gone but almost not it's a good look for a bad person. your absence when i just wanted your love i dont know what u want tell me or not, ignore ignore me fall in love with her. i bet she has a nice slim body which you dream of, her no ass but tits galore i bet you love her or think you do but guess what i loved you too' with my jungle rage passion and my commitment and its not entirely you im angry at its me for letting you do this to me i hate you i hate the you i liked touch her in your dreams in your sleep awake i dont know why i expected any different why do i like you even through hate i hate this feeling good bye fuck you its fucking over

In this increasingly neoliberal world where everyone is trying to run away from their cultures and roots, is it the pertinent move to migrate, metaphorically, back to one's roots? Should I date an Indian boy? Or more specifically, an Indian American boy? Plus, there are so many different sub-ethnicities to navigate, like are they North indian or South Indian? Are they Punjabi, Malayalee, Tamil, Telegu? Do you they even curry? Well, I'll let you know on the next segment of: Indian boyfriend??

Lenin is floating down a fucking river, Trump is in the White House, there are people dying more and more, there are bombs and global disagreements and people have started feeling things-in-their-bones again.  I've learnt that I really hate questions. I hate having to listen to them and I definitely despise answering them because everyone likes to think that they've come up with something deep and profound when really it's a regurgitation and rearrangement of what someone else has said.  I don't like facing facts, they're cloying and annoying. No one can get jobs anymore, least of all me. I'm tired and idealistic. I believe in a single payer healthcare system and college-for-all but look where that got Bernie. Most of all, I'm hungry. How did I go so wrong? I started out on a full stomach, and I had good intentions. I wanted to help people now I'm just another blue-collar dispensable fucker with no convictions or concerns besides when I'm go...

Money is a many splendored thing. I spend time worrying about money like someone who cares about the planet spends time thinking about all the ways Mother Earth could combust or collapse from all the fucking terrible stuff we're pouring into her. I dream about money, all the ways I could spend it, the clink-clinking sound of coins dropping onto cold, hard marble-topped counters ringing in my ears. Man, nobody wants money like I do. I dream of holding it in my hand, the green dollar bills crisp and tight and smelling like Wall Street Greed, which to me, smelled like bagels and lox. It smelled like high-end sofas and shit like that. It's a pity when when Gordon Gekko said, '' Gimme guys who are poor, smart and hungry," he forgot the girls and he definitely forgot someone like me. I kept a copy of the Wall Street Journal under my pillow at night and I read it like the Bible. People around me always aspiring to be doctors to cure cancer, engineers and lawyers- sure,...

I'm so indescribably happy; it's as if someone has put me on the highest cloud and allowed me to glimpse upon humanity. Somehow, from up here, I can only feel tenderness for how frail and fragile we humans are, and ebullience at how perfect we are. How we can FEEL, and love and hurt and anger and sadden and then gladden our hearts again and again. I can feel the connection between my soul and whoever I am meant to meet, their happiness pumping vibrantly into my own bloodstream. How red and beautiful the union; and suddenly I am aware. Hyperaware of the world. I can almost see the light rays split into the spectrum, is he listening too? Can he hear my heart beating up-down-up-down like I can feel his? A breathtaking moment suspended in time and space, and all the anguish is gone. I love you, I whisper into the air, and I know the wind is carrying these soft words of love to his ears somewhere in the distance. The human heart has felt all this before, and still, every t...

He's a professor, but not mine, of history and Classics at my college, with dark brown hair and dark, deep-set eyes and a strong squarish chin. He never talked to me until the day we were stuck in the elevator in the Hirsch Humanities Building, and he was trying to light a cigarette. He asked me for a lighter which I had kept in the back pocket of my jeans under my winter coat. "Thanks," he mutters elegantly into his palm, with the Marlborough dangling between his teeth, a hint of his pink tongue showing. I smile for too long at him, when he had stopped looking. "How long do you think we'll be here?" I ask, a natural deference to authority, or his natural gravitas. He looked deeply intelligent, as if his Oxford education had imprinted itself upon his brows, cheeks, forehead and eyes. His eyes look so dark, so black that you could scarcely see the pupil. They were opaque eyes that frightened me and because of this, intrigued me. He fiddles with his co...

Someone has cut the flowers, trimmed the stems, slashed the bushes upon which they grew and still though I try- I cannot seem to forget you the bright creature so nymph-like and tall. My very own Sappho has bloomed before me stuck in betwixt and between youth and age with your long black hair and liquid pools of the darkest ermine as eyes. Summer is coming and the ripe autumn leaves and fruits are bursting with indecent passion, We used to roll around the fallen flowers and then a kiss from me to you. Neruda is romantic, but he forgot to describe  the unknowing beauty of those he cannot possible ascribe to, cannot see, hold or touch. My darling, he hath nothing to compare you to, Not star not moon not sun nor sky you surpass all in your Beauty it is like singing to a bard your conquests How pointless, how pitiful no words can describe my Sappho in bloom like verdant green in an abundance of brown You alone are there. When you smile it as if there ha...

Fintan Whelan sat at the table, nursing a beer in his smooth Irish grip, looking down at his empty plate, his long thin fingers silently tapping as if searching for something to do. I watched him intently, memorising how unlined his face remained despite his approaching the threshold of middle-age, that forty marker, stealer of youth. His hair had remained a medium brown free from any trace of grey, almost black but not quite, and his skin was clear, his mouth sufficiently pink and eyes still blue though they were no longer piercing in gaze. 'Mr Whelan,' a voice volunteered, a thin, reedy voice, my own, 'what about one last story?' He looked up from his plate, glad to be rescued from his condemnation of silence. His voice is soft and smooth, like good wine, yet still masculine. It was once seductive to me, though the words he speak seem jarring to me now. 'Alright, one last one. The strangest thing Ms. Reddy did,' he begins, animatedly now. The tensi...

Dear Me, Understand that you will be fine. Absolutely fine. I promise. Plus if it all doesn't work out, there's always a book to be written. God has a plan for you and you just have to have the faith to see it. Dear Lord, please show the way. Amen / Waheguru / Amin / hallelujah / gambateh / kumbayah / Sincerely, Me. :) Whatfore is faith but a blind spark in the dark wanting and waiting to be lit and thrown about  in the universe looking for a response what is love but the trust in faith itself to sustain you and carry you through the art of the artist himself herself themselves yes a duality in a microcosm

1) Family 2) Friends 3) Books 4) Religion- just not sure which one 5) Baskin Robbins 6) Boys who like feminism & are feminists 7) South african accents 8) Eggettes 9) 70s music 10) pretending to be a hippy

So basically my post on the fb group got rEally few likes :( idk why?? I'm so fahny rite? RITE??!! Also I'm gonna get married to a South African and live in Capetown. Also Jhumpa Lahiri sucks. Sorry. Not sorry. OK she doesn't suck she's amazing but I suck at analysing the Namesake so IDK.

Okay so basically I have so much to tell you!! I found out that Ling Ling is a jealous and super-fake girl, and her best friend Ursula is also pretty fake. Ling Ling is so extra but she calls me extra? Like waddafk? It's really weird because whenever someone gives me compliments she's always like, "What? It's just(insert denigrating statement here)." Like today during colour run everyone was complimenting my eyes and Ling Friggin Ling was like, "Oh it's just the sun." Like, BEYOTCH, the sun don't shine on you coz you repel light. Coz you evil!? And apparently, Jane told me that Ursula said that I repel dick?? Well, she's super fake and guess who's not going to help her barely pass her homework anymore? Me. That's who. On the plus side, which was a lot, roomie is back and it is lovely as always to see her and found out that R. the gappie might potentially be Jewish. According to Ursula, I repel dick so she thinks I have terribl...

Erasmus knocks on the door, three knocks, each loud and resonant. The insistence is clear- he is here for business. Inside the darkened room, she is waiting nervously chewing her pale, off-purple blanched nails. "I want you to tell me what's going on," he states in a calm voice, the tenors in his throat quivering only slightly. "I don't know, E. I don't understand why the program doesn't work." The ends of her sentences lift up as if in a question, even though it is not. She is telling him clearly, succinctly, confusedly. But honestly. "Come outside please," he says, patiently. She has a feeling that he's checking his watch, or tapping his foot. She imagines that it is the left one, going up down up down tap tap tap on the shiny waxed floor.  She opens the door, and discovers she's wrong. "Oh, I thought you. You brought the-" He raises a sparse eyebrow. She shakes her head, never mind. He's thumbing throu...

IDK why but I'm super obsessed with Kanye especially N**gas in Paris & Gotta Have it. I don't really like Jay-Z's songs besides this but that might change. Quite stressed about Trials, must end up studying more Economics i.e finishing my micro cons and starting macro. Re-do essay about labour markets, went rather badly, finished first and that's always a bad sign!!!

Interestingly, she did not mind having an unfairly, unconventionally beautiful family. It made no difference to her, and in fact was beneficial though she was undoubtedly pretty but it was unlike the eccentric beauty of her brothers and sister. She was proud to announce to her friends, their presence because indeed for an ordinary person the mere presence of someone beautiful who is related has a positive beatific effect on that person, who possessed less extravagant beauty. She was certain that by pointing out her sister, Simran, she would too gain some of this benevolent halo-ic effect. Perhaps the beholder would see a similarity somewhere in there- the same curve of the lips, the same hollow of the necks, the tilt of her nose. It was now then established that she too was elevated. And wonderfully, with minimal effort.

IDK but it's a possibility. Kosher's too much work.

I find this person called Alice Garden supremely annoying. Who does she think she is? Why, I mean, does she imagine herself to be better than me, that is very rude. She never responds and is quite cruel.

Amit Ahluwalia + Me = 5kids Simranjeet Tarsempal Gursharan Harvinder Ishpreet

It was a warm sunny Tuesday when my mother decided we should fly the Union Jack in public. And by public, she meant in front of our otherwise inconspicuous suburban house in Penang. Lucky was made to grab the rusty ladder we had in the backyard and climb it to fix the crisp, orange-y smelling flag above the house. Preparing for social stigma was something all the children in my family had learnt from a young age. Why even the dogs didn't bark when they saw people coming. Instead, they hid their faces in the failed apple garden. "Now, children," she declared imperiously, "we will do our fortnightly assembly on Friday. Mr and Mrs Mukherjee will be there, and so will their children. I expect you to be on your best behaviour." Mama stood on the gardening bench to make up for her lack of height, and squinted uncomfortably at us four children sitting on the verandah, for the Stupid Sun which was Not British At All was shining in her eyes. Papa nodded his head in a...

She fingered the cross around her neck. Quinn Chan, the devout Christian, the most faithful, the good Protestant fundamentalist daughter- she it was who now had no faith. Looking at the bible on her table, she turned her face away and stared at herself in the mirror. Her once long, thick black hair had been cut short, close to her chin. It was now more fashionable, as Mr. Quentin said, her Geography teacher, longer at the back and short at the front. Like a horizontal upward sloping slash. She watched carefully the gap between her two front teeth, her pale almost purplish lips, her mole just above her chin that stuck out slightly. Where was He? She'd sat with Cosima, crying her eyes out. Her sallow hands clutching at darker ones, wringing them again and again. Where was He? Cosima shook her head, I don't know. I don't know. She'd always felt this inescapable sense of people leaving , always leaving her life. Johnny had left, and for months afterwards, she saw ch...

The heretic alone stands, innocent, Condemned yet with no blood on her hands- Who is guilty and who is just? God will not ask who did not cut their hair? What is so hurtful and cruel about your words that seek to damn and scald and wound are not your words themselves but the fact that they are coming from you. You who this apostate loved, loved so deeply too much sometimes that she couldn't open her mouth for fear that tears would fall out. The world outside rages in war and conflict and pain but the apostate's beloved ones are too busy sentencing This apostate for her sins. You are not a proper not a whole not a true Sikh how Can You be if you do not, it's because you do Not! Goodnight, the apostate says, I am going to seek something deeper I love you still, dear ones, I cannot forsake you And I am apostate Like you have forsaken me.