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...

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 ...

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...

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.

Tariffs can be considered the economic buzzword of the 21st century. Thus, it should come as no surprise that Donald Trump claimed that tariffs and free trade were perfectly compactible, after condemning Chinese steel producers for 'dumping' cheap, excess, subsidised steel in the market. While this statement was politically genius (we hate China but trade is good), it is an excellent example of how tariffs are often misunderstood in the name of poor economics. First, let us define what tariffs are; tariffs, often called import duties, are taxes on imports. 'Dumping' simply means to sell a good for less than the cost of production. Therein lies the problem; does Trump have a legitimate point? Should China be condemned for essentially fully supporting and subsidising its relatively infantile but no doubt burgeoning steel industry? Some might argue that it is totally within a country's sovereignty to help its country's industry; but then again isn't it...

'Wrong   does not cease to be wrong because the majority share in it.'-Leo Tolstoy The train rattled along, the three girls stood facing each other, clutching the same pole that gave them support. They stood close but in truth, there were oceans of circumstance separating them.  It is plausible that they might never have met, were it not for some trick of nimble-fingered Fate hoping to create some change in the world. 'It's unfair,' the tall girl whispered. She had ebony skin, and short black hair. Her strong legs were sturdy against the rocking of the train. Bangles jangled noisily as they slid down her hand. The girl with dyed red hair and an unpronounceable name pursed her lips. The unspeakable words had been said, and worse, she agreed with them.  The other becomes distant and listless. She longs to disregard the words, to say they are not true, to condemn her friends as ignorant but she is afraid to. She is afraid she is wrong. xxxxxxxx...