1001 Ways to Embarrass Yourself While Avoiding Injuries

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...

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...

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...

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...

The nerve wracking process has begun; the choosing of colleges, the long-list of ECAs to drown the observer, the dazzling scores, the judging expressions of seniors/juniors when you tell them:                                           The disbelief. The questioning. The 'can-you-do-it'? The snide comments. I love it! I love the challenge it presents, the addictive college admissions googling; all of it drove me to do better. I hope. I guess it did occur to me to not post the six colleges I wanted to get in to. I mean what if I got rejected by all of them? The shame! But I also realised, there is strength in honesty and transparency. Even if there were rejections (Stanford, I'm looking at you), the number of people who are kind enough to read my blog (I desperately hope) are surely kind enough not to judge. My American Dream.                ...

" 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 ...