My heart is beating pretty fast right now. I just sent a text to this person, whom I consider very important in my life. I don’t know what to expect, but whatever it is, I’ve prepared for what’s going to happen. We’ve been on “silent” terms for almost a week now. Can’t even find out why, this person keeps on asking me to be honest, which I did, but nothing comes along well after that.
Ok whatever, enough rambling.
I’ve been working here for 3 months now, and life has never been as hectic. I’ve wanted a holiday since forever. And I’ve been waiting for a night out with my girls, but since we’re all busy with our stuff, work, studies and shit, I just have to wait a little while longer.
I don’t even have time to read anymore.
You know what they say, life happens when you’re busy making other plans? Well yeah, it doesn’t work that way. At least not for me.
Toodles.
Some of my pros and cons. Go ahead, you be the judge, that's if you wanna be shallow. :)
Cons:
Pros:
So. That’s me, really. Put up or shut up, I don’t have time to play games anymore.
Another writing assignment of mine. Purely fictional. And please don't laugh.
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Nothing close to comparison of giddiness, when you first set your eyes on a person that makes your heart beast faster, your butterflies in your stomach aflutter. That’s how I first felt when I saw him. He was at the fruit isle where I was working, a grocery shop 5 minutes away from campus.
His hair was jet black, neatly brushed back, he had these glistening brown eyes and heavy eye bags that made him look naturally broody and mysterious. I wondered where he stayed, what did he do, and his voice, oh how I long to hear his voice.
3 months passed, and I realized there was a pattern with him; he comes in every Thursday to buy Lemons, and only lemons. Nothing else. He rarely spoke, but when he did, my whole body just went into autopilot. Silent and robotic. I was that nervous around him. I was convinced he was a chef, mainly because I saw him walking in once in the clothes of a cook. Today, I am determined to talk to him, find out who he was, and ask him about his habitual lemon purchases over the past 3 months.
“Hey, ‘Sup” ohmygod ohmygod. My heart raced.
He looked up and wore a weary smile, and replied “Long day. How about you?”
“Well, nothing better than to waste my time staring at produce and packaging” I found myself saying, and threw a cheeky smile. Why the hell did I just do that? Ohmygod ohmygod.
His eyebrows furrowed, and I thought he didn’t get my reply. Well duh, you talked nonsense, idiot! But then his eyes lit up, though I wasn’t sure what for, but little did I know, my wonder would soon be answered.
“You know, you should smile more, your face just lights up, made my day, thank you very much” And grinned as he took his paper bag and made his way out of the store. I can feel blood rushing to my cheeks. And I found myself saying “Well, thank you, hottie” What the fuck is wrong with me, seriously? I hope he didn’t hear that, aaaargh.
To my horror, he had heard it, he turned back and winked. I nearly died.
After a few weeks of heated cheeks, and flirty conversations, he asked me out. I was ecstatic. My heart was pounding, my thoughts were wandering, and my palms were sweating. You must wonder why am I acting like this, point one, he’s hot. Point two, he’s a cook. Yes, my guess was true, a hottie who can cook, yummy. Point three, probably the most crucial part of all, I AM A GUY. Point four; he will be the FIRST guy I’d date after I came out as somebody who’s homosexual.
Not so much of a guy with balls now am I? Thought so.
……..
I am now into my 6th month of dating Pete, the man of my dreams. I’ve found out that he buys lemons every Thursday because he made lemon squares for his grandma every Friday. Awwww, such a sweetie, I know, right? I’m so lucky. Who says being gay is taboo? I’m living my life well, with a hottie who’s an expert in the kitchen. I consider myself luckier than the ladies, if you know what I mean.
I would stand out in the crowd, but what most of you think about me is pretty generic. Who are you to judge me with that limited knowledge of yours? There are selective people who appreciate my curviness, my boldness, my distinctive taste.
I bring life into dull ingredients. I sometimes even become one of the key ingredients to your life! If you think I’m pretty dull, boring and just another lump in the market basket, think again.
Why would Fool’s Garden write a song about my origins? Why would Passion write a song inspired by what I can do, how I can affect people? Yes, I might have a little attitude problem, but that’s what that keeps me interesting, a kick in your mouth, the zing in your taste buds.
Oh Hi, I’m Mandy. I’m yellow, and I come from a family of smooth skin and bumps. I sort of skipped the introductions there, didn’t I? I’m a lemon, a member of the citrus family, no I’m not as vibrant as the orange, and I’m not as exotic as the grapefruit. But listen to this;
I might look average on the outside, like any other fruit in the market. But have you actually seen my insides? I’m juicy, you can tell by just slicing. I have intricate pulps, a juicy flesh, and oh boy I’m full of Vitamins!
Lemons are different from Limes and Oranges, you want to know why? Though we all have that sour bit in our juices, lemons just kicks ass. If you didn’t notice, English folk uses us in their tea, they don’t use oranges. American people drink us during hot summer days, not lime juice. Don’t ask me why we’re oh so fabulous, but we’re just built that way.
Thanks to us, the human kind have been blessed with our acidic features and decided to use us, and our components to make their lives easier, our juice can be used to remove stains on your clothes. The oil that we produce? It’s being used in your perfumes! It is our pleasure to tighten your pores, and bleaching your freckles.
Our essences and flavors now becomes a vital part in the culinary industry, our flavors can be found in poultry dishes, desserts, meat marinating flavors, and to get everything going on? We even can get it on with liquor. Yes, liquor, not liqueur. Us lemons are pretty useful and handy, eh?
See, who says lemons are generic and boring? I say otherwise. We’re the fruit with attitude.
found this on tumblr, and thought it was worth sharing and spreading.
You Should Date An Illiterate Girl, by Charles Warnke.
Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.
Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.
Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.
Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.
Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.
Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.
Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.
Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.
Found this article here.Nothing beats the pain than the suffering you’re going through. No matter how hard you try to deal with it, the deeper the scar cuts into your skin, revealing raw flesh, blood and emotions. No matter how you try to nurture it, take care of it, the more you realise that everytime you revisit the scar, the more you feel the pain, and how unsightly the image of the scar bring your painful bitter memories back. No matter how you try to ignore it, the more it reminds you of thei stinging pain of the incident that caused it, reminding you everyday how it happened and why it happened. It hurts, it will always hurt, but no one else can feel your pain but yourself. This is all on you, how you deal with your pain is entirely up to you. Even if you consult a professional, or a dear friend, the suffering that you go through is totally on you, the pain you feel is totally on you. I know I should not be too negative, but right now, I can’t deal with being hopeful and having faith, maybe in a couple of moments, days, weeks, months, years, I would be okay, who am I to say? I can just put a brave face and get the fucking on with life. This is just what I feel now. So disregard my ramblings, by the time any of you read this, I think I’ll be fine. Insya’Allah.
Here's to trying, Bismillah.
