1001 Ways to Embarrass Yourself While Avoiding Injuries

'Cha.' 'What?' 'Cha,' I say calmly, stirring a cup of thick, milky brown tea and gazing into her cornflower blue eyes, hoping she would understand. She doesn't. As expected, really. I almost want to withdraw into my dream land, filled with a starry cosmos and interesting fairy-people, with names like Dylan-Bob and Mary-Jo, and grass that looked like gold and nearly end the conversation. But I don't. Instead, I tuck the ends of my shoulder-length black hair behind my ears and try again, to explain the intertwined concepts of family honour and chai. Which is, by the way, pronounced 'cha'. She sits behind her desk, hair up in an untidy blonde bun, mascara evidently clotted on her sparse Nordic eyelashes. 'Could you explain? I'm confused,' she says with a self-satisfied smirk on her face that doesn't really annoy me. I drag a plastic Ikea chair over by her desk and try to sit gracefully down, hoping to God I do not spill the...

Im so ready for life/take take take take. shout out to ADAM

As I have unrelentingly been unproductive besides a few SAT questions, I have decided to grace the internet, once again, with my awe-inspiring virtual presence. "You cry like a little girl!" This blog is probably going to become a lot more academic since I am so caught up in the 'A-levels' and 'SATs'. (HAHA KIDDING. WHAT IS 'ALEVELS'?) Okay so now to address the elephant in the room, or rather the webpage, little boys cry too. Two words; watch Whiplash. The drum teacher, JK Simmons, yells at Miles Teller and says something along the lines of 'You cry like a little girl' or 'Stop being such a nine-year old girl'? IDK. (#shoutout to my cousin, Mansheel Kaur Randhawa from Kuala Lumpur who gave me this idea) Moving on... Why is this such AN insult? #FEMINISM My cousin said she felt really uncomfortable when she watched the trailer with us, 'us' being a bunch of my male cousins' male friends (one of which I really rea...

New Girl This quote is actual goals. Nick is me.

" L 'enfer, c'est les autres"- Sartre The camera pans in, on an eye. (the eye is black irised, as opaque as possible) I want the eye to blink; sounds of footsteps , high heels.  Cut to a woman walking the empty corridor (front view)then cut to her walking from side view. Her phones bleeps, she draws it from her side pocket and breaks into a run.  *Full Moon - The Black Ghosts*/ 'let me know-silver swans' the camera follows her , alternating between angles. She reaches the hill outside dorm house.  It's raining, and she sits down on the hill. Pulls out a map. *Camera sees the red line she draws on the map. Map labelled with 'dreams' untidy writing' Zoom on her smile  her bag, the grass.  -she throws out all the things that have held her back.  *books *glasses *picture of her boyfriend *money *lithium looks up at sky, bites lip. turns to the sky, camera does 360 around her. she says silent prayer. Mouths the wordS ...

The brilliant Margaret Cho For months now, years even, I'd been fantasising, like every other budding teenage novelist, of writing THAT article, THAT blogpost, so quirky, so authentically raw that I would soar out of the depths of being unknown to being the greatest individual to yield virtual pen over nonexistent paper. One could be forgiven for calling me out on my dreams to be a slightly less whinging, less millennial  Suzy Weiss . You'd probably be right! But it wasn't just words. I unashamedly admit, I wanted to be the next Mindy Kaling, the Malaysian-Indian Margaret Cho. The precocious teenager who questioned whether her identity should always be hyphenated, and thus alienated. The one who produced, at a startlingly fast pace, mini documentaries about poverty and socioeconomic justice to the background soundtrack of 'Talk Show Host' by Radiohead.  I longed to come up with brilliant ideas, quotes of the century or even, worse comes to worst...