1001 Ways to Embarrass Yourself While Avoiding Injuries

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.

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.

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...

'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...

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 ...

'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

She spits the blood out of her mouth onto the bathroom floor; staining the impeccably white marble tiles a scarlet red. He pushes her down to the floor and kicks the area she thinks her left kidney might be and slams the mahogany door shut. A sudden bout of nausea takes ahold of her and she crawls, with great difficulty to the expensive toilet, and grips the toilet seat. Her stomach heaves a few times. But she doesn't throw up. Too little food, she thinks, silently in her mind. She lies against the wall, a frail hand resting on her throbbing back, the other on her throbbing head. Out of nowhere, or perhaps somewhere, a dark faraway somewhere, there flitted out a memory. Blurred, unfocused and most certainly hazy, but still a memory. She was sitting at her neighbourhood's library and worrying about her university exams, rubbing a spot just above the left side of her temple, where she frequently got headaches.  Her hands were shoved inside her warm purple jacket sleeves as...