1001 Ways to Embarrass Yourself While Avoiding Injuries

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...

Dear Boys, I don't know if this letter will pass the Bechdel test or not, but seeing as I am currently grieving for my lack of you in my life, and given the other unfortunate circumstances of rejection, I believe I am granted the rare pass to focus one scion of my attention onto your affairs. Or, rather, my lack thereof. Pardon the pun, although it wasn't really a pun, not really sure what it was. Whatever, um, just, ignore it. Okay! You know how, according to Hollywood archetypes, there's always the 'Cool Girl'. Yeah. Her. The nonchalant, effortlessly blasé girl who doesn't give a damn but yet can do everything under the sun whilst still looking hot. (Examples: Jennifer Lawrence, Mila Kunis, Olivia Munn, Olivia Wilde, my best friend-cum-acquaintance S) Buzzfeed explains this phenomenon well! Yeah, you know what sucks? Like legitimately second-world problems middle class bougie sucks? Being friends with that girl and being the DUFF. Designated Ugly Fat ...

Dear Ben, Thank you for everything. I never thought I could love someone as deeply as I love you, so completely it overwhelms me. Ben, you make me smile everyday, and laugh and forget my worries, Ben! Ben you are my everything! You are not only a great friend to me, but also a great husband and father to our five beautiful children. Jared and Jesse tell me everyday after school how much they are proud of you, that you fight everyday for  tikkun olam , for acts of kindness at your job. Jessline wants to be like you, and fix the world, Joshua, to think like you and possess your brilliant mind. Jacob, our baby, has your self-deprecating sense of humour that puts everyone at ease. Even our dog loves you, and Vern is such a picky affection-lavisher. You are the reason we all get up everyday and have faith in the world, my social justice warrior, feminist, egalitarian, liberal, Democratic love of my life. Happy 10th anniversary, M.

'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...

Married to Josh Blumenthal, who works as a college professor at Yale, lecturing on archaic Akkadian idioms, I am a Pulitzer prize winning author, who works languidly from home. We'd have 6 lovely children, named: Veronica Yael Blumenthal Victoria Rivka Blumenthal Joshua Herschel Blumenthal Jared Moshe Blumenthal Vanessa Noya Blumenthal Jesse Levi Blumenthal Veronica, the oldest, would be the musician. She would have red hair, flaming like her father's. She'd be gifted at piano, and probably learn how to play the violin soon after. She'd be like her father in his jovial and genial nature. She'd be an engineer though, because her talent at physics would be unrivalled by even the most studious peers. Victoria would be exactly like me, short with a comically loud mouth. Brown hair, freckles and a connoisseur of literature, especially Nabokov and Tolstoy. She'd become a comedienne, probably act alongside Jerry Seinfeld on SNL if she could. Josh, ...

And oh how I hated my father's turban! Visible, and loud, and proud, on his head, it spoke volumes about a pride I clearly dearly wished to shed. I could not be more forthright, and honest when I gazed with some apprehension- I hated it! Guilty looks abounded and I hounded My poor father, passing snide remarks for things he had no control over my poor father, I'm sorry for your loss and every time we ate out I would tremble and quiver and fear the frowns, the laughs, the sneer of ignorance and pestilence of hate- Sorry, father, sorry, I hope not too late. Now I understand, older but not so much the wiser but enough yet to understand why you wear your turban- and so much love in my heart for it. Selfless service, I am humbled, By your commitment to your turban, Daddy, mainu maaf karo,  I am sorry For running away from who I am. Daddy, I am sorry for how embarrassed I felt at your accent, Daddy for your loudness, your Punjabiness, your blue collar ...

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...