When I think of you and me (and 'us', and 'we'), I don't feel overcome with
burning passion like we're a house on fire or a blazing comet or
anything like that - rather it feels good and warm and constant; like a
cup of tea after a long day, or digging your toes into sand at the beach, or like hearing an old song you thought you'd forgotten
about on the radio. It's less like furious sex and more like
holding hands and quiet smiles and sticking my feet under your bum
because my toes get cold. It's less like going out an exciting adventure
and more like coming home.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Saturday, November 3, 2012
An e-mail rant about god
Apologies, feel free to not read this. I am mostly ranting because I spent a couple of hours (weeks, actually, if you count all that election crap) watching Americans debate religion. Love and miss xox
ps: How are your lives? The sun set at 3 today. It was traumatic and made my tummy-clock go haywire. I ate dinner three hours early.
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A rant about evolution vs. creationism:
I spent a while watching vids/reading about the evolution vs creationism debate. The problem is, they only pit extremists against each other instead of moderates who are able to compromise their views and come to some sort of agreement - if only the agreement to disagree. Though I suppose that doesn't make very entertaining television. Most of the creationists' arguments were bullshit - I'm not even going to bother questioning the authenticity of the bible, or the existence of Jesus as the Messiah, or the fact that any kind of extremist is a lunatic (because they indisputably are) - however I have one question:
Even science believes in certain laws that govern physics, and certain trends in the biological design of organisms - the simplest example being that all material occurs/is formed in layers, from skin structure to rocks to planetary crusts - THEREFORE is this repetitive design/laws of movement not evidence that there is something larger out there influencing the formation of life and the universe?
You already know that I personally believe in God - though I feel that my understanding of 'God' corrupts the canonical belief that he(?) is this merciful father-figure and we are his(?) favourite babies.
No, my understanding of God is this:
Every living thing - ie: every organic existence in the universe - is connected. Rocks and planets and stars and snails and humans are all linked together by repeating elements, chemicals and genetic makeup. This connection; this sense of unity between all things; this energy that is recycled and becomes us - this is what I call 'God'.
However, in light of my understanding, consider this dilemma: which came first, life, or God?
Most people will call me retarded and say that God (whatever that is) created all life. Even scientists who agree with my theory that God is essentially some form of energy (spiritual or otherwise) will say that the energy that exists in life needs to come from somewhere to begin with.
But by this logic, the argument becomes cyclical, chicken-or-the egg and Escheresque - where did 'God's' energy come from anyway?
The only way I can explain this to myself is thus :we exist; therefore God exists - and vice versa. Both life and God need each other to survive. Energy and information is transmitted back and forth in an endless loop. We are part of a massive self-sustaining system.
I am not trying to disprove the existence of 'God' - rather I am saying (and please lets not burn me at the stake) that we are a part of God because we are a part of the system; the endless loop of every organic thing existing together that as a whole make up the system known as 'God'.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
The miracle of life, or: Shut up about babies already
Something terrifying is happening and there’s nothing we can do about it. As surely as Steve Buscemi’s teeth have been steadily fossilizing before our eyes, my demographic has been busy procreating. To this I say: WHAT THE HEY-HEY, PEOPLE?
Have we reached that age where we are mentally competent enough to raise little clones of ourselves? How does one determine mental competency? Is there an IQ test involved? If not, why? I spend half an hour struggling to pick out shampoo at CVS – how on earth am I to make an informed decision on child-rearing? Perhaps I should just remove the ‘informed’ part and things will be much simpler? Is that how it works? Having been a whoopsie-baby myself (whoopsie-baby…whoopsie-daisy - get it? Get it? I’m hilarious!) and given the lives of my parents, I have three things to say: CONDOMS, CONDOMS, CONDOMS! (Also yeah, that was a very awkward conversation with my mother, in case you were wondering).
I’m personally terrified of becoming a parent. How could I be, when I’m practically a child myself? Thankfully my boyfriend shares my sentiments on the matter, possibly because he may be watching too many teen-pregnancy shows on MTV or simply because his family have been cursed(?) with overzealous swimmers. He informs me that at least two of the members of his family are pregnant at any given moment in time. He says that they are maniacal baby-making machines.
A very good book suggests that we all wind up as parodies of our parents. In light of this revelation, allow me to illustrate: how would YOU feel if Weird Al were trailing behind you for the remainder of your existence, mocking your awful life decisions and generally fucking up an already terrible thing and how would you feel knowing that there was nothing you could do about it? TELL ME!!!!!
But I digress. So, babies.
Having babies is scary. How do people know they’re ready for that kind of responsibility? Don’t try to tell me that no one is ever really ready – I’ve watched Oprah too, buddy. What I want to know is how do people consciously decide that they want to spend the next twenty-odd years of their lives running behind a snot-nosed twerp? I’ve been doing it on and off for the past two years as a daycare teacher, and as much as I love those kids, I can’t imagine ever taking them home with me. Okay fine, maybe some of them are fun and awesome and I’d love to have them for a weekend. BUT NOT ALL THE TIME FOREVER. Which brings me back to my point: why willingly take on such a huge responsibility, especially when it’s not necessary?
Biological urges aside, raising kids is hard – it requires patience and money and love and money and planning for the future and money and the ability to not burn water (which, incidentally, would be the worst super-power ever). Being the kind of person who can’t even be relied on to trim her own nails, I am slightly perplexed. Actually, I only ever remember that I have nails when I can no longer play the guitar, get a hangnail or start unearthing week-old playdough from beneath them. Yeah. Slightly disgusting, I know.
If only kids were like hamsters…like you could just keep them in a gigantic wheel for the rest of their lives and they’d be perfectly content just running aimlessly. You could bring them out on special occasions to show off to your friends or pick up girls (“OMG, TOO CUTE!”)… but otherwise they’re pretty unobtrusive and keep to themselves. No? Perhaps you think this takes all the joy out of parenting? Feh, what do I know? But either way you need to be a poop-scooping master. THAT’S RIGHT. POOP SCOOPING = THE JOY OF PARENTHOOD (Why not get a puppy instead?).
Let’s take a step back for a second. Imagine you are not yet housing a parasite in your uterus. Firstly visualize the amount of time, money and resources you would spend raising a child. Now imagine that you’re spending all this on something productive that will actually benefit the global community instead of facilitating overpopulation. Imagine how much we, as a species, could achieve? We could have already defeated the impending robot apocalypse by now. Maybe we could have solved the energy crisis. What about creating a masterpiece? Devoting ourselves to becoming the next Beethoven or Leonardo Da Vinci? We could probably afford to restart the space programme! Maybe we’d finally get to casually throw around phrases like “let’s put this baby into hyperdrive” and maybe we’d all be driving Millenium Falcons? You know you’re dying inside with the secret desire to be Han Solo. Maybe you could just use this money to hire an army of minions and become Emperor of the universe? THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS AND YOU ARE HOLDING US BACK, BABY-MAKERS OF THE WORLD. How’s that for some perspective?
So start inventing lightsabers and shut up about babies already.
Weddings : A celebration of love or cruel sport?
There comes a time in every Asian girl’s life when her relatives start pestering her about marriage. You know those meddling Indian parents/aunties you see in Bollywood movies? Or maybe even Raj’s parents on the Big Bang Theory? THEY EXIST – and they are like Pit Bulls in the sense that they will never let the subject go even when your dignity is mangled beyond recognition. It seems like the more young people get married, the more vociferous these aunties become, as if all this young love and potential for baby making pumps the life back into their own shriveled uteruses – you’re welcome for that mental image.
(For the sake of clarity, let me just say that “Aunty” is a generic term of respect for any woman over thirty. “Uncle” refers to any man with a beard. It’s an Asian thing, and it’s pretty convenient, especially if you’re the kind of person who never remembers anyone’s names.)
How many of you hate weddings? I can't be the only one. They’re just such a gigantic pain in the ass – why on earth would people inflict this kind of pain on themselves? Don’t tell me it’s to share their happiness with everybody else, because by the end of it they’re ready to unleash some grievous freakin’ bodily harm. Or are weddings our version of the Hunger Games, where we forcefully put people into an uncomfortable situation and watch them try to survive?
I went to a friend’s wedding a while ago. She is a lovely person, but this didn’t alleviate the fact that I hate weddings. (I mean, maybe some of them are okay, but for most part, especially in Sri Lanka, where I’m from, weddings tend to be massive, exhausting affairs that start eating away at your sanity like bread-mould). This wedding in particular was not too overwhelming - however as it transpired I was not allowed to bring a date (I suspect it’s because my boyfriend is going through the boho-hobo phase of his life – something to do with the novelty of facial hair and all that. It’s to be expected). Unfortunately this meant I’d have to hobnob with strangers, awkwardly guzzling champagne and praying that my sari would not unravel. Socially, I am my own worst enemy; I'm practically handicapped*. I am terrified of strangers. As this realization began to sink in, I admit that I panicked. I then proceeded to do the cowardly thing - I phoned my boyfriend from a dark corner of the Taj ballroom and practically begged him to pick me up. He did so, calling me rude for running away from a wedding that wasn’t even my own. I was like a lame(r) version of Julia Roberts or something. But holy heck I was free and it felt amazing because there was still another three hours or so until the guilt would set in. This was when we passed a movie theatre. Tin Tin was playing. I had nothing more to do that evening, and neither did he…so that’s how I wound up in a dodgy cinema in my fancy gold-embroidered sari, caked in make-up, decked in glittering jewelry and sitting next to my hobo boyfriend, watching Captain Haddock scream ‘blistering barnacles!’ every five minutes and trying to align my big toe with the inside of his nostrils.
*(with apologies to those of you who are offended by my analogy. Give me alternatives and I will use them. I couldn't think of a single way of rephrasing this without changing the meaning of the sentence.)
The most annoying things about Sri Lankan weddings, in no particular order, are:
1. The guests
In order to have a truly traditional Sri Lankan wedding, you must invite EVERYONE you’ve ever met in your life. This includes close relatives and friends, people you can’t stand but you want to show off to, people your uncle worked with when he was seventeen and that one guy you once hired to fix your kitchen sink. Every aunty you’ve ever tried to avoid will corner you at this event, asking awkward questions about how much money you’re making and when you’re going to get married. There is no escape.
2. The venue
Having now accumulated a guest list three times your height, it is time to cram everyone in a claustrophobic hall with little to no ventilation save for a lone air conditioner/fan that circulates the same stale air over and over and you think: this is how it feels to live in an armpit.
3. The food
Fuck moderation. Get every kind of CHD-inducing food you can get your paws on. Fuck themes or the notion of complementary dishes. You’re going to do this buffet style. In fact, you’re going to kick buffet’s ass and have a MEGA buffet! Order curries and dosai and put it next to the tempura. Get some freakin’ biriyani going and make sure it’s next to the pasta. You want people to know that you’re a well-travelled person and nothing says ‘well-travelled’ like smoked salmon roses surrounded by pittu. Make sure plates are piled higher Amy Winehouse’s hair. When you see people taking only as much as they can eat make sure to berate them and accuse them of being anorexic.
4. The clothes
Your aim is to out-do the bride. In fact, your aim is to out-do everyone. Every part of you should glitter. There’s no such thing as too much gold. Your makeup should be five shades lighter than your complexion and your lipstick must be toxic pink. Rhinestones can never be too big. Ensure that your sari is tight enough to cut off the feeling in your arms, allowing for only shallow breathing. Whenever you see someone prettier or more glamorous than you, loudly comment that they are vulgar attention-whores. Whenever you see someone who is not a walking disco ball, stare at them unsubtly and tell them that this is why they aren’t married yet.
5. The drunk uncles
Inevitably, all your embarrassing drunk uncles will feel like dancing. They have been boozing loudly in a corner of the wedding hall, suspiciously devoid of females, and are now ready to party. They will attempt to sexually assault anything with a vagina (or anyone with long hair, depending on how drunk they are. My boyfriend is usually molested at these gatherings). They will then proceed to do the uncle-step, a bizarre ritual accompanied by shrill whistles and shouts. Their awful behavior will eventually drive everyone away from the dance floor and the DJ will bring the romantic Peter Gabriel stuff to an abrupt halt and play Baila for the rest of the night.
Cool things about Sri Lankan weddings, just to be fair:
1. The booze
Rest assured there is enough alcohol at this event to turn people into walking Molotov cocktails. Not to mention it keeps the creepy uncles busy for hours.
2. The spectacle
Flowers and shiny things everywhere. Traditional Kandyan dancers doing some crazy shit. Elephants, if you’re lucky.
3. The fire-hazards
With traditional lamps lit everywhere, these weddings are a pyromaniac’s wet dream come true.
4. Seeing people you only ever seem to meet at weddings and funerals
Even though they’re on your facebook.
5. People-watching
Because bitches be crazy.
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