I'm SO Flipping BORED

No really.
This is for real.

I'm typing out a blog entry cause I'm just super-mind-effingly crazy bored.
TV sucks. The internet sucks. Chocolate sucks. Books suck. (cowers in fear of le fearsome book gods striking wee little me down)

EVERYTHING SUCKS.
*insert le dramatic 'ugh' here*

^SEE? This is why being bored is bad for me. I start sounding like a California beach blonde/Valley girl who doesn't appreciate the full gamut of expression afforded by the English language.
In other words, I sound, like, stupidly stupid.
*more ugh-ing ensues*

So I did this stupid little thing where I type into Google - I'm so effing bored (only I swore properly). And, Jesus shit, there are others like me out there apparently. Check this out:

I know, right? Isn't it super-cool? Urban Dictionary actually has an entry for it!
I find this alternatively hilarious and depressing. Hilarious because, well, jeez, there's a bleedin' entry for this kind of crap ! xD And depressing cause people think the appropriate cure for boredom is sharing your woes with Google.

Google is a search engine, not your counsellor, people. 
Although, obviously, my brain is not willing to accept this state of events cause I'm crying to Google too. I feel not so great 'bout me right now.

But okay, like then I started doing that thing where I go to a web page and check out weird links. Of course, I'm not particularly enthused about knowing what poopsock meant, nor do I wanna know why you're so bad wanna suck your own d***, so I held back but apparently:
Cenosillicaphobia is fear of an empty glass.
Da da da DUM.
I'm sure that has some deep, philosophical meaning to it, but really, right now? So not in a mood to figure it out. Of course, now I'm stuck with a completely useless piece of nonsense in my head. I wish I could just delete it. *ugh* *yes, the 'ugh' again. let me see you trying not to ugh when you're mindlessly bored*

I wish I was Sherlock and I could just forget all the useless stuff. Who needs to know the Earth revolves around the Sun anyway? Bloody useless for an aspiring banker, you know. (<that was a Sherlock reference, btw. Worry not, I know exactly how the solar system works. Well, atleast whatever they taught in the second grade. Stopped paying attention after that.)
Meh. If I was Sherlock, I guess I wouldn't be able to appreciate his yummiliciousness. That boy is wonderfully yum  and I absolutely cannot wait for January 3rd. (Season 3 preimiere - flibberty gibbets YAY!!!) Come soon  to mamma darling. Oh and if you've been going through Cumberbatchian withdrawal like me, here's something to keep you afloat:

Look at him. Yummy. Adorable. And British to boot.
Really, asking for more would simply be rude.

And now I've run out of things to think about. Maybe I'll lie down and stare at my nightlight. Maybe I'll read something until I fall asleep. Maybe I'll check the freezer for ice cream again (even though I know there isn't any, because really, it might appear in the corner. It could happen. Really)

Gah. I'm just bored.
Are you?

Leave a comment if you are. Perhaps we should revel in our mutual boredom. How poetic that shall be. Ta!

Why Most Atheists are Assholes - And Why I'm an Atheist Anyway

Yes, I'm an atheist.

Yes, that really does mean I don't believe in God.

Yes, really. No temples, no church, no Gita, zilch, squat, zero, nil. Nothing. Clear enough? Lovely?

The thing is right, I don't get why most atheists are so IN YOUR FACE about their beliefs. Jesus. You don't like Jesus. Good. Good on you.

You think Hindus are backward hillbilly retards with no real understanding of the universe? You think Catholics are pseudo-science-spouting, assiduously ignorant zealots who refuse to play into your beliefs of a Godless existence? You think theists in general are all fanatical psychopaths out to destroy your carefully, 'logically' constructed universe where everything is explicable and everyone unlike you is a dumbed-down halfwit?

YOU THINK I CARE?

Honestly, dude, you need to sit the holy crap DOWN and re-evaluate why exactly you think you're the shizz. I mean, man, I like atheists. They have interesting intellectual debates that are purely based on facts and not based on scriptures during a time when Galileo was murdered for saying the Earth revolved around the sun (Yeah, I'm touchy about that). They're good, fun people with a devilish sense of humor and heaven help me, they're all rebels. Who doesn't like a rebel? 

The problem with this generation of atheists is that until now, we've had no mass medium of expression and of coming together. Christians had church, Muslims had mosques, Buddhists had temples, even vampire covens had mansions in Transylvania.

And then, Atheists had le Internet.

And then, shit went down.

Seriously, everyone is ranting and raving their heads off. You meet an atheist and all he'll try to do is convince you of how messed up your beliefs are until he's fucking frothing at the mouth - I've seen this happen, I speak from experience. 

Dude. You sound like a fucking evangelist one of those pro-terrorism camps. What'll you do next? Blow up a bus to prove that people don't actually go to heaven?

I like the cleaning lady who comes over to my place. She goes out of her way to help my mom, she makes my bed on days I feel particularly shitty and she believes in charity even though she can't afford to do much.

 She's a damned fine woman, irrespective of the fact that she has no idea what the words 'biological evolution' or 'quantum mechanics' mean. 

She held my hand, and prayed for me on my birthday a few days back. She prayed for my studies and my classes, my friends and my family, my future and my health. She prayed honestly and wonderfully, and I had tears in my eyes at the end.

Do I believe Jesus - or fucking Tinkerbell in her hot little green number - is going to wave a magic wand and sprinkle fairy dust and make everything come true?  

No.

Did it feel real nice that someone had in their heart to spend 5 minutes of their day just to pray for me?

Yes. Yes, it bloody well did. 

Do Christians organize themselves in masses to send aid and food relief to Somalia even if some of them are racist arseholes who deserve nothing better than a sharp kick where it hurts? Yes. 

Did Art of Living organize lakhs for the people who lost everything during the floods in Uttarakhand and volunteer for weeks in the camps set up there, even if Sri Sri is disgustingly, filthy rich? Yes.

Do Muslims religiously pay Zakat every year because it's right sodding there in the five Pillars? 

Yes, yes and fucking yes.

Shove that up your logical ass, Spock.

We're really, really messed up, alright? Some of us have a pathological need to look up into the stars and believe someone is watching over us. It is a need to be parented and mollycoddled and taught how to live life. Some of us just are that way.

And some of us are smart-mouthed rebels, so if you think you're 'all that', learn to live and let go and just chill dude. He's got Jesus; you got science. He's got Limbaugh; you've got Hawking. He's got the good Christian girl; you got the rebel (thinking of it that way usually helps you to stop caring whatever the holy smoke the religious ones are doing with their lives).

So why you gotta hate, man?

Just don't hate.

Strangers

I met someone today.
I don't know her name, but I know so much about her already.

I know she's a professor at a Lebanese university, where she teaches and researches in genetics and molecular biology.
She's 35 with 2 kids. The older one, a girl of 5 years, who, by the mother's own admission, is gorgeous. Even at so young, she speaks French fluently, and when she went for her new school's entrance exams, they were dying to have her.

The younger one is a boy, 1 year and 5 months old.

She's beautiful too, her skin easily puts mine to shame.
Her husband's a neurosurgeon and is attending an international  seminar in Dubai.
She's been to Dubai twice now, and she adores The Dubai Mall.
She was surprised I didn't know how to speak Arabic after 16 years in the country.
Apparently everyone in Lebanon speaks the language.

And no, I haven't been stalking poor doctor-ladies instead of shopping, so I'll thank you not to make such undeserved accusations.
I found out all this because there wasn't any space at Costa and I decided to share a table with a non-slasher-killer-seeming lady.
Because you know, being killed by someone you shared a table with would suck.

I've decided this is what I like best about going anywhere alone.
Meeting people.

That's the beauty of travelling, do you see it?

It doesn't lie in seeing as many ruins as possible, and taking as many Instagrammed pics as you can.

It lies in the people.
In mothers and sons, and uncles and grandmas.

I remember choosing a seat away from my friends on the flight back home from America. There was an old lady from Bangladesh sitting next to me.
Her Hindi was broken, but her granddaughter was beautiful. She was 2 years old, in a pretty white frock. Her son and daughter-in-law were aisle seats, but she told me her granddaughter's stories, about the peace in going back home.
I don't remember her face, but I remember she asked the flight attendant to get me my first Klondike bar.

The beauty of travelling also lies in little acts of kindness.
I will not forget her.

In all probability, I'll never again meet that Lebanese molecular biologist. I'll never meet anyone who berates Costa so sweetly for not providing balsamic vinegar salad dressing.

I'll never find that quiet easiness of sharing a few moments with a complete stranger who gets me ice cream.

But that's okay.

Tomorrow will come, and I'll explore somewhere new, write someone's story and discover another side to myself.

Tomorrow will come, and I will find the right words. And they will be simple.

But till then, I will carry on. For there are miles to go before I sleep. There are miles to go before I sleep...

Quoted: On the Road, Jack Kerouac; Stopping in the Woods..., Robert Frost

Something about the sea

The sea glitters at 5 'o' clock.

Which is decidedly a rather pointless observation but I hardly care, because it feels bloody fabulous when the sea glitters. I get all those half-arsed cliches running through my head about glittering diamonds and angel tears and other mushy things that'd make  a Hallmark card barf.

There's something wonderful about 5 'o' clocks when the sea glitters. A vast stretch of greenery, the endless ocean dipping down to meet the horizon when the sun sets... Barf, yes, I know. I can't help it sometimes, I do have some oestrogen, thanks.

Really, it's quite pathetic, this whole business of oestrogen. 'Nuff to drive me up the wall. I have better things to day-dream about than boys, thanks very much - not that there are any to daydream about. Unfortunately my head does not ever agree with my brain - yes, I know exactly how much sense that made so here I am, oestrogen-filled and contemplating the seas.

Something clicks when the sea glitters. With cable lines cutting across the bright cloudy skies, honest-to-God crows perched on them in neat little lines, the sea breeze blowing in, - it occasionally stinks like God's been blissfully farting away in heaven - and me, notes in hand, pretending to study while I idly plot new ways to get my friends to buy brownies at the canteen the next day - because God help me, they are the best damn brownies a girl could dream of; honestly who needs boys when you've got rich, chocolate-chipped brownies? -  and John Mayer crooning away about the queen of California, something clicks.

Like some indefinable part of me, that I'd forgotten a long while ago. A part that wondered abut the country where I was born, that I'd forgotten, only to find again. And to find it missing something vital.

God knows what that something vital is. Perhaps it's friendships, found and broken and forged again. Perhaps it's the routine of a school I'd grown to love and cherish and find home in. Perhaps it's the people, the Filipinos - sweet and wonderful and ever-helpful - the locals - boisterous and arrogant, like they owned the bloody country - or the exotic, swoon-worthy Lebanese dudes (and chicks). God who knows?

Perhaps it's just the shawarmas.

And bike rides on Corniche.

And movies at ADM.

And the Jamaica at Khalidiyah.

And bowling at Wahda.

Perhaps, home isn't where you're born. Perhaps, home is just where all your memories were made.

And me? I miss home.

Nowhere Like Here

That's it I'm doing it, I'm finally doing it. I swore to myself that I'd write actually do something worthwhile with my so-called writing skills and maintain a blog, but obviously that hasn't worked out too well. Then again, me and 'maintaining' anything at all is pretty much a lost cause, so I shouldn't have kept such high hopes. Really, I'm such an idiot.

But it's always been there, somewhere at the back of my mind, much like a self-imposed sword of Damocles - god, I'm so hopelessly prone to hyperbole, but that's hardly the point - so here I am, typing faster than I thought I could, which obviously mean there'll be like 5 bazillion mistakes to correct when I'm done typing - that's gonna be a pain to correct, ugh.

Mumbai is.... I'm going to sound like a pretentious arse here so bear with me. Mumbai is exactly what I imagined it'd be. It's loud and sprawling and oftentimes smelly. The shopping is vastly overrated - and I've discovered, so are monsoons. There's more puddle and less footpath, you fret about your bookbag - which isn't water-proof, because you're an idiot who doesn't plan for contingencies - and you get colds at he drop of the hat.

Okay so no that last part isn't half-true. I catch colds at the drop of the hat, but that's just because I have a painfully weak immune system - no bragging rights there, thanks so much God.

And, you know, despite how loud it is - and it is loud, make no mistake; there have been nights I can't sleep till midnight because of the noise, and I live on the ninth bleeding floor, which reminds me, Ganesh Chathurti is com-puh-letely overrated too, no disrespect meant to Hindus - right so even though it is loud and smelly and positively riddled with puddles, it's fascinating.

Fascinating, I swear and I mean that without an ounce of sarcasm. The sea is grey on the best of days, but in the monsoons it's grey and emanates honest-to-goodness serenity and the waves break gently against the shores and the winds whip your hair until you look positively subhuman and it's wonderful magic moments that make Mumbai worth it. Magic moments meant for coffee and friends, and heck, maybe even a bit of poetry.

The malls are tiny and "cozy" and have sales only twice a year - honestly, they are the bloodsuckers, so stop name-calling on the Cullens, folks. Twice a year?! Are you out of your bleedin' mind, you retarded little, dimwits? - but their food courts have more outlets than Khalidiyah or Deira City Centre and you can spend hours lounging away and sipping on your minty Krushers - which is disgusting, I swear, unless you're one of those taste-challenged freaks who likes kaala-khatta (black salt, for the non-Hindi speakers) - even after all the ice has melted away.

And Mumbai is everyone telling you to avoid the yummy, mouth-watering, crunchy delicious goodness that is roadside chaat cause of all the typhoid and dengue and whatnot going around - you might just die by drinking the wrong kind of water, don't you know? - and you go ahead and eat it anyway, because hello? Who says no to yummy, mouth-watering, crunchy delicious goodness? Not me, lady.

And Mumbai is restaurants, ohmyLAWRD, I might just die thinking of the restaurants. Dubai and Abu Dhabi combined ain't got nothin' on this baby - this is the mother of good food. Okay yeah I'll admit, it's pricey but ain't nobody saying no to the best damn lasagna I may have ever tasted in my whole entire life, okay? Okay.

There's Chinese and Japanese - I tried sushi and it sucked, but I tried so boo-yah! - and American - lasagna? Hello? Let's not forget the lasagna yet? And I don't think my credit card has forgotten T. G. I. Friday's either, but that's a story for another day - and so much edible awesomeness going around that I should probably shut up now.

And Mumbai is friends - good friends, great friends, friends that drift away, and friends that stick around. Mumbai is coffee on Bandstand, and six hours at TGIF, and obsessing about boys at 5-star restaurants, and late-night movies with cousins, because that's the only time you get to stay out so late.

It's sneaking out and coming home a minute - or an hour - after curfew. It's not studying for mid-terms, and lamenting about the male population at college. It's breathing in the sea air, and forgetting where you are. Mumbai is Mumbai and sometimes I know someplace deep in my bones, that there's nowhere quite like here.