1001 Ways to Embarrass Yourself While Avoiding Injuries

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!

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.

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...

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...

*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...

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...

'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

JAYSUS! When I first encountered CF, it seemed like a perfectly fun, Jesus loving thing to do. I mean, every brown person's secret dream is to be a) white b) say the words "I'm Christian" c) marry a hot white person and d) have mixed milo-coloured babies.... #truth So, can you really blame me for wanting to join? At least the second one would be kind of fulfilled... (something is clearly so appealing about wanting to say 'Hail Mary') because the only white people in our school, are a) intellectual girls or b) the 50 year oldteachers (one of the white girls isn't fully white I think) . But, for your exclusive perusal *shoutout to the SATs, which I probably WONT TAKE because CF ruined my life, I'll get to the point* -5 REASONS WHY CF RUINED MY LIFE ^GG^ #Reason 1: The FIRST maths test I took after I joined CF was a. BARE. MINIMUM. PASS. Like, legitimately *coz computer doesn't understand what legit-ly is* the worst grade ever at KT-Blog/jai...