UNEXPECTED HIATUS

So I've been away for a while - you have no idea how many times I've tried to write a new entry for this blog, but things kept popping up in the way. No more, I say, no more!

So there's some news - some good, some bad, some just grotesque that I'll leave it out altogether and most of it is just self-explanatory.

Let's start with the best of the best of the news I will update you with since...well, forever?

I'm in love. Yes, well and truly, head-over-heelsy, slap-my-face-and-I'll-say-it-againsy in love, amor, pyaar, etc. And yeah, before you ask, they can love me back. It's not an inanimate object ...well, I'd like to believe that they weren't.

So I became one with my partner in life, the Macbook til the real deal decides to show up of course, but til then, this will accompany me through the colourful jags and the smarmy ball curves of my life.

Ah, the Macbook keeps me happy when life seems dim or when I can't be arsed to put the light on, it makes me smile cause it allows me to see cats on the Internet on the double. It even talks back to me and asks if I would I like it to go to sleep. Secretly, I'm thinking never do I want it to stop showing me the delights of its innovative OS, but hey even Macs need sleep.

But there are tales both grisly and giddy to be told in such a short amount of blogging, so I shall do forward slashes just to speed up the process (unfortunately my lovely Apple system doesn't have a hashtag and tis annoying when I'd like to tweet, but I can forgive it because it's so sexy and it doesn't judge me when I say 'do I look fat in this?' or if I over-caffienate my ass til four in the morning).

So here we go, this is just for the ugly bits in my life since whenever the last time I verbal-vomited on this space.

Ramadan finished and we had small Eid - waheey/Went to Empire Big Screens and made nice cool fulminator friends -woo!/Lost my iPhone to the dome of doom; O2 Arena - boo-fackeen-hoohoo/University started and I got depressed figuring out workload -AH FFS/someone left me for the other world (may Allah grant them Jannat) - weep/I found myself in a hopeless place -soggy crying face and new realisation of the world/Got a radio show at university with my name in the title -RESPONSIBILITY OVERLOAD/I turned 21 -WOOP for a week, WEEP for the rest of the year/Macbook made me look amazing in its camera eye-Laavely/Been Skyping everyone I know to show them how pretty I look on Mac camera-Egogasm/
somuchmorebutIcan'trememberitatthisverymomentasitstoomuchtocrampontohere -BRAIN FART

And that's the end of that little catch-up, time for a breather!

I feel I've accomplished devouring a hefty meat of a meal and now I'm going to have to sweat it off in tiny little breaks. I will try to update this as much as I used to, as I don't like massive intervals in diaries so why have it in a blog? I am getting a degree in writing, so how this is so hard to keep up with is beyond me. Anyhoo trolls - see I miss writing stuff like that, makes me glad to know I have the skill and the charm to curl that one out there - I'll come back later and tell you more about the radio show and maybe you'll get to here it; I'll be having podcasts up on a website I'm designing so just tune in (or remind me to write often) and we'll see some progress for little old, becoming ancient me!

But til then, let me leave you with a song I find quite pumpin' - it's dirty but hell, I like it, especially in the car. No dirty innuendos please, I mean it.

Hunger Manic

Ramadan Mubarak, friends and trolls!

Today is the fifth fast of the thirty I am due to keep in this blessed month of the Islamic calendar. And despite the heat rolling a burn into the back of my neck whenever I step out to the garden, they've been going pretty swell.


But it excludes the one thing I do when I'm at home being a general childish slob - eating.


Now I don't mind not eating, it's fine. I hardly eat much during the day and it's normally a meal I take in the evening but it's a time-passer to be honest. I find I don't extract much fun or pleasure out of reading books or watching television compared to the indulgence of a packets of crisps or a twice-melted-in-your-jeans-pocket Snicker bar.


But even more so, I miss drinking. Drinking water, juice, bit of the fizzbizz Coca-Cola - you name it, I would become parched at the mention of it.


But in the last few days before Ramadan, I began to think to myself: what does it mean to fast and why do we do it?
These were questions I had very vague sketchy answers to, but here's a purplexed guide to Ramadan for those who aren't aware of what is it we do.

A GUIDE TO RAMADAN FOR DUMMIES

A bit of History first:


It was the Islamic month of Ramadan of which the beloved Prophet Muhammed (pbuh) was in the Cave of Hira and the angel Jibrael (Gabriel) had asked him to three times to read. The Prophet (pbuh) was illiterate and said twice he could not read. On the third attempt, he miraculously began to read the first glorious message (Surah 96 Al Haq). It was also the month of Ramadan in which mankind was gifted a beloved Prophet, the magnificent Qur’an, and the beautiful way of life - our Deen - that was, Islam.


When the month of Ramadan starts, all the doors to Hell are sealed and the devils have been chained, thus leaving only the doors of Heaven wide open. Our deeds blessings are multiplied during this time for every good deed we do, so we're pretty lucky aren't we?

So, what do we do?

We get up before sunrise and eat a balanced amount of grub before the sunrise prayer, Fajr, is called for. Then we eat nothing til the sunset, when the fourth calling of prayer of the day, Mughrib, is announced. But go easy on the fried stuff and gut rot fizz, because you've still got a long night of prayer and meditation ahead of you.

But don't get the wrong impression that you should do nothing during the time you're not eating. Remember the gates of Hell are closed and the more good you do, the closer you become to the Almighty! Consider Ramadan a jackpot of reaping the best of blessings (in consideration that you should be just as good for the rest of the year, of course)

Utitlise that time with every good deed possible. Read the Qur'an, read about the Prophet's sayings (they're called Hadiths that give accounts of what the Prophet pbuh did in everyday life) and you'll be multiplying your blessings. Avoid swearing, eating or drinking (chewing gum is also a no, dudes), backbiting, pornography and having sex. It's a hard one for the dirty boys and girls, but hey if you can withstand going near it for 30 days, you can probably do it for 365 days and more ... it's a shaky hypothesis, but hey it could work for some!

What happens at the End?

Well there's a lot more  that happens in between the thirty blessed days but it's a bit hard to explain everything, I'm a flurry writer so I shall end it with telling you it's all a fat happy ending; we have our own version of Christmas but this is part 1; Eid-Ul-Fitr!

Samosas, pakoras, lamb bhuna, chicken biryani - you name every South Asian dish, it's probably on the table in front you on the morning of Eid. I've mentioned Eid in an earlier post about a certain tight-pocketed Uncle, *gleurgh* but as one of the rules to becoming a lean and peaceful Muslim (yes I have placed the adjective 'lean' in the point that you do lose some weight during Ramadan if you have moderate portions), it's best you go through the previous blogs and read the unprohibited rant about my tight Uncle.

Anyways, there's now three hours left so in that time, I gotta cook a feast fit for a beast. Adios until next time, chamoolehs!

The Trail Off.

Things are a-changing. No more blog updates, there must be something certainly wrong you believe. Has she stopped writing? Yes and no. Has something happened? Yes and no. Are these questions pointless and irrelevant? Let's see.

I have encountered the slow slice of flesh of my fingers when I suffered papercuts, and the inching grappling pain in the muscle of my jaw as I sat in front of my window settled in too fast that I got headaches trying to think. I tried to write an original, a never-been-done-before but often found myself pilfering from novels I had read and snatching little frames of Woody Allen and Wes Anderson and tried to get Pinter to sound like a terribly dubbed Chekov play. That shit, you can not pull off as your own.

Music doesn't play in my life now, it hath taken a backseat with the dogged down dreams that were once idea-factory catalyst converters; they made sentences into richly embellished stories and made me a great storyteller when I needed something to flow and fly. But in a much deeper scarring turn in events, concoctions made up of melody and mental images of something that appeared real but in reality impossible had made me turn dark and stoic and incapable of seeing straight at people, but rather straight through people. That shit had made me a surly motherfecker, and now it's gone cold turkey on ME. I need my fix, man.

It has been possibly the hardest months of my life - the months of when I return to university seem to whittling down with time passing, thankfully. Although I sit at home and do almost nothing, everything seems so difficult. Waking up is a dreadful chore, knowing there is unfinished tasks that need to be done around the house. I've lost at the game called Job Hunting far too many times, that I've lost count and my mother has given up on getting me out of the here as she has seen how much she can use me around the housework.

My bullet train trail of thought has been clouded and chowed down by the thick fattened smog that hazes the brain with sleep and everything seems to go slow-mo. It's the sensation equivalent to watching a large wobbly chinned child dribbling and knitting his eyebrows furiously whilst struggling to get down a sour chew sweet.

Sentences don't end with a full stop when this happens, this slo-mo-fo.  They end with a robin ellipsis, and things go from technicolour to a streaky wet black and white. I lose all track of what I set out to achieve and things go flying off from the whip roll of the yellow rubber brick road.

Work experience hadn't even been given a tryout in these precious months that would shape my career after university. It's as if I'm chopping off my own leg. Chop chop chopping, through the failed waste that is my flesh blood and bone.

But now I'm seeing light and I see inspiration in the next coming month; Ramadhan. Those washed away colours come seeping into vision in a pastel faded wash over - it's bleak but it's brightening up as I tap that power into the thunderous thumps I give the keys of my keyboard.

This will be my Resurrection from the flaky bone-idle student I am. I will shed and peel off this dark coat that bears me with this air of sadism and bodes me a reckless manner, and regenerate a sunny skin made from the eloquent glow of prayer and control - what I don't eat in meal form, I will be fed words to the mind and spirit to my soul. Words that relay peace and tranquil, but without the isolated bubble.

Is this a crazy talk ranty kind-of blog? You decide, I'm outta here - trolla-la-la!

Today, I am...

ILL.

I don't want to be, I have no work to attend or school to moan about, I am just a glum sick bum.

It gives me time to think about thinking though.

I'll try to keep you posted about that.

Adios, trolls.

David Bowietry

I've been a big fan of the Thin White Duke possibly since I was 13 and from there onwards my rock and roll teen angst really shot off but couldn't quite make the picket fence jump to become a full-on gothic creature.

But I still want a snake-bite piercing in my lip.

I owned bits and bobs that shouted out emo-ish statements, like odd ripped leather boots and a Kurt Cobain trademark red and black stripe shirt and outlandish fitted coats and too many hoodies and shirts with pretty looking skulls printed on them back in the day - I wore things that most of my Perkistanki friends considered a fashion felony, but funnily enough as soon as High Street shops began to sell them, those same girls were on that trend like a couple of fat girls starved of cake. They know who they are, they read this blog quite often. Bunch of tarts too - they don't mind me mentioning *ahem ahem*

David Bowie's music had done most of the transforming into what made up my music taste and how I wore my clothes and came about interpreting life (other more important things have since helped me see thing differently - religion).

Before Ziggy made an influence, System of A Down were around to assault my ears with some of the most essentially true to-the-point statements about America's war on drugs, worldwide genocide and whose shit stank better. Better than hearing about why Rihanna wants to hear her name and being just a promiscuous glory whore for children to be indoctrinated and poisoned by her whack crud music.

Songs like Oh! You Pretty Things, Golden Years, Heroes, Suffragette City,  Under Pressure, Ashes to Ashes - Bowie's voice is the same but the music was pretty 

But enough digressing for I should introduce a , he's hot. LOOK AT THIS HANDSOME MAN - he's 64 now and he still looks devilishly good and phwoarrrr, have you seen his wife?!

He's taken on so many looks and he's looks great in every get-up. Okay, enough swooning. Watch how he excites the audience one of his best hits, 'Heroes' (Heroes 1977)

Deadlines dead, Blog Neglected

Yesterday (or the day before, I cannae remember), I finished my second year of university with a gruelling exam on law and public administration. But I can't taste the success cause my tongue is numb with the overuse of profane language and my throat is lined with sandpaper, developed from drinking and snorting OUT coke all night. Yes, 'snorting out' - the gas that builds up and kinda sneezes and shoots out from your nostrils all the while burning those tiny hairs. It's excruciating as fa-heck.

It's the worst thing that can happen to you at 4am when you're in danger of waking up the household. And when you have the uncontrollable urge to go to the toilet every 20 minutes from all the sugary carbonated fluid, you're also worried about falling asleep whilst doing the business. The way of the student, unfortunately.

I feel I must give you advice. For I feel a little superior, and I feel I must share valuable information that you may already know, but must be told again for no apparent reason. So here it is:

For you newbies hoping to do all nighters before the hand-in date for work that may define whether you gain a first, a 2:1 or just whatever - DON'T LEAVE ANYTHING TIL THE END UNLESS YOU'RE NOTE-PREPARED.

Notes are important; without them in the university world, you are nothing. They are revision, they are key reminders to knowledge you may temporarily forget.

Choose to not use them, and you will be heart-broken by what happens afterwards. Let's set the scene:

You're at the front door of your home. The post arrives. You see your results, and then you die a little as you open it.

Your body will become as weak as that of a feeble insect and you will be crushed by your insecurities when you see one-digit marks for exams and red coloured Fs for your assessments. Your parents will loom over your shoulder and you'll feel the hot lick of shame roll down your back and all those little hairs your wax or thread couldn't pull or pluck from your face will prick up and make your face look like a shaved asshole. That's cause your mouth is formed into a tiny grey lipped 'O'.

You're told by your dad to look at him, he says 'Look at me right now, betah.'

The heat at this time will be overbearing now and it will billow up around your furiously crimson ears. There's a buzzing sound in your ears and your eyes are blurry with some alien vibration; a fist is punching you inside your mouth but you know it's your heart doing treble leaps to jump ship from this skin tube that's been abused with copious amounts of high caffeinated drinks

and when you feel that 'Thwack' across the nape of your neck and you're suddenly on a plane to your parent's village in Pakistan as their version of rehab, where you'll sit among human cows and milk flinching udders from buffalos and your English will have that tightened ethnic sound whenever you mention anything with a T - in other words, you'd know you've either fecked up or you're living in a constant holiday. But that honeymoon period can only last for so long...

Okay, I've done some tattle-telling. That last bit doesn't happen. To me, anyway. And if anything, my plane will go to Mexico City...

Did I ever mention I was half-Mexican? I'm not. That's probably why I haven't ever mentioned it.

Didn't that throw you off for a second? Amusing. Very mildly amusing, this digression.

Going back to tips for revision - take your make-up off at night. Unless you're planning to be an late-night adult clown entertainer, clean that shit off. It's not good for your skin when you're resting, that foundation will find its way into your pores and make acne babies. And those babies like to make babies with babies, you know what I'm saying? Multiplying like they're mathematicians, them bacteria do. You want to look like a flaky chav? It's like sleeping with mice faeces on your face, in other words.

I cannae prepare you for the dangers you face from Asian parents; each one reacts differently with each grade. I know all of them say 'Mr. so-and-so's son got a 1st, why is it that you-oo-oo have a two-oo-oo two-oo-oo?'

So good luck to all of you, and I until I have any more shit to say, adios amigos!

Since When Did Fat Chicks Become Nudists in Public?

Ew. I've seen more than I've wanted to these last few weeks on the streets of merry ole' England. My recent memory is of slabs of pasty skin rolling over a spotted chunk of badly tanned skin, falling out from underneath a very uncapable vest. Poor Primark vest. You did not deserve such a big boned owner.

The girl was probably no older than 12 and she looked like the unfortunate lovechild of Mr. Blobby and Heather from Eastenders. Her mother on the other hand, looked starved in her tracksuit and goldy-lookin' chains. She even had those pitiful sallow eyes that stared at you pitifully, like that of an abused skurvy greyhound.

It's a cruel world, and I blame the big fatties. And by fatties, I mean the lardie bums who think every air hole is a pie hole - not the blunt smokin' glory that makes this world a little easier to bear. Would you rather the world suffocated on billowing human flesh or jukin' blunts? Well if you say 'human flesh', you can shoot yourself.

April - What A Fool's Idea

This month is cursed. It's the worst on the best of days. Or that I'm just a miserable git. Don't judge just yet.

The sun is out, and girls with fat feet are pulling out the dusty last-year sale gladiator sandals and making that lazy woody slap-slap-slap noise on the pavement as they waddle on, feeling the heat bear down onto their fleshy pink shoulders.

There are some girls already fashioning and restarting the traditional season wear of boob tubes and tube skirts. Some things should legally not be allowed to droop so low or swing so violently as you walk (or waddle).

There are some cheery fellas wearing three-quarter chinos to match with fluorescent polo shirts, drinking a cool beer outside on the patio and having a real laddish banter. At least 1 out of 9 have brought along a pair of jeans in case it gets a little chilly for their hairy wax virgin limbs. Good to plan ahead.So yes, I've painted quite a vivid picture. It's warm and sunny and it's Spring; daffodils are sprouting up everywhere and people are walking around almost naked; what's there not to like?

But I am still miserable as rat's arse. WHY?

I am no further to getting my assignments out the way, and I've been having a series of issues to deal with overall.

Numero UNO - there is no such thing as a 'free car', and so my father should not say such things and keep me at the edge of hope every single day. You can say it about a pony, it wouldn't matter - I don't like horses.A car is different matter, it is the means of transport and liberates me from being a housewife in training, and a chance to possibly elope with a Nigerian looking for a fast visa? Oh ho ho...?

Joke, Daddy... I joke. I'd never get with a Nigerian; that particular word should be replaced with 'African', as you can imagine why. #itsnotaboutracismitsaboutsearchmodifications

I have no idea why I've gotten into a habit of using hash tags where they shouldn't be. I blame society, cause I'm a punk. #thishashtagwasnecessarytoprovemypointofhowmuchofapunkIcanbe

Enough digressing!

Daddy Khan still has not delivered the goods, and therefore I am near to adopting a cockney accent, donning a suit, getting involved in the drugs business down by the South London ports and work myself up the ladder, becoming the owner of a vicious pitbull terrier and a Colt .42, practice how to combine the look and start a debt-collecting business and gain a ring of thugs as my personal bodyguards and collectors and then I'll reign my fist down on my house door, wait for someone to answer it and offer me a hot beverage which I'll decline but secretly I'd want, and I'll talk hard with Daddy Khan and make sure he delivers my car the following day...Or I can just pester him everyday til he's pissed off enough to just hand me the cash. Cha-Ching! Either way, I think I'll be WINNING?

Charlie Sheen is just such a cliché for this, damnit...

So yeah, no car that should belong to me is in the driveway - after many test drives, searching, phoning up, my death trap hasn't come to me yet.

Numero DOS - University work. What a betch, end of.

Numeros TRES - THE SUN. UFF, I NEED SUN. And I need to just complain more about university work one more time whilst the sun is out - for that, it deserves two numeros cause that's how it annoys me. It is not fun when the workload is piling up fast and it's as appealing to me as the mother of all dog messes - not at all, basically.The sun is essential to me, for I am brown; it's like Harry Potter's Invisible Cloak but the powers of being Brown are to be taken seriously, it is afterall a gift from God.

I am nor white or black, and I'm hoping to certainly not to ever become a vampirish dull Twilight-loser gay grey (girls who wear the wrong colour foundation that makes them look like toothy crack addicts, I'm talking to YOU).

Brown is cool -but actually, it's cause we're so HOT! (note: this term can be digested to the average white person for literal purposes in two ways; relative to heat temperature and the slang term for astounding physical beauty. Sorry but it's true; we have it all in the looks, even though it's hidden behind clumps masses of thick matted hair/a sexy shapeless burqa - WALLAHI!).

Right now, I'd say I was a light to medium brown, and if given a little time to frolic in the sun and pay water paddle with some small children - no pedo in case you jips start - I'd be 3 different shades darker to the power of Brown; I'm could be Sri Lankan Brown if I had no work to do and did nothing but let the sun kiss my face - see how it works?I'd be blicked and even be mistaken to be a Bengali (medium to dark Brown, not the best kinda Brown but it's a Brown person's version of being 'Tangoed' or 'Wotsitised'), but shit on it and call it patty cake, I'd be happy!

So this was a rant entry. As if the ones previously before the transformation promise. Feck it, I'll be as ranty as like. I'm done now, so pish off til next time trolls. Blegh.

Radiohead-ism - The King of Limbs

EVERYBODY SHOULD BE ALLOWED TO LISTEN TO THIS GREAT ALBUM

The lucid daydreams I've gotten out of listening to Radiohead were on some of my worst days turned awesome.

Radiohead have formed to share the eccentric dream experience of what appears to start as dark tunnels channelling through at an unmeasurable speed to peak at then end and burst into rainbow sparks. It burns the spray of colourful fireworks onto your retinas so when you close your eyes, you see the outlines and experience something dramatic all over -  a cold sweat breaks out from your clammy skin but it slowly washes over, and it develops into chillingly sweet euphoria. Their music taps your brain with neat tricks and you can hear quiet bottled anger in the symbol crashes and snare snaps. Thom Yorke reaches out with his lullaby choir voice and electrifies your nerves until they tingle, so that the hair on the back of your neck stand up with attention and salute.

I'll be inflicting you with more at-bottom-of-the-'coke'-bottle-there-is-life-somewhere songs from wonderfully insightful bands and artists as I see fit very soon into my blog but this one needed a special mention as Radiohead don't churn out commercial crap like what today's bands do; they've preserved their awkward style and melodious creepiness and tweak it slightly that makes each album truly memorable - and then come the altered strangely pleasant dreams again...

SHOCK HORROR - Legal Permission To Drive? Bad Idea Possibly.

Well, I did not see this coming. I passed my driving test this week. Woo for me!

And all of a sudden, a warm fuzzy feeling came from everyone I was force to tell. It was that natural gushy mushy kind of love and care and astonishment for my success.
At one point it was so sickening, that I saw more teeth and gum than I could handle from the unpleasant faces I felt repulsed to greet and considered future piggy backers.

My dad didn't expect it. My mum prayed and sang good luck from the door but her pretence smile didn't last long. My instructor wore her 'shut the feck up and just drive' look and was ready to boot me out as soon as she had the chance - fair play, it was 8 in the morning, so it made me out to be a real rebel nuisance. I was beginning to think it was gonna be a shite day.

Not very positive thinking, but I had nothing to lose - I had already booked a facial for the evening, my Environ lady was setting up my fix for the month. So whether I passed or not, I'd be in Chesham 6 hours later having my face sweetly walloped with vitamin paste and lovingly squished to softness with warm patty hands and having the stress shrugged away.

So let's rewind --> 5.46AM

Eyes wide open and I see slits of orange light coming through the blinds. I get up and see Daddy Khan is set to go to work so I avoid him by walking into the bathroom, out in my bedroom, looked at my face in the mirror and huffed at my crappy complexion and hit the sack.

6:23AM

I'm still awake but I'm watching the time move like a slug. I jump out and do the morning prayer then consider breakfast but then I don't what the feck happened and before I know it, the time is -

7:56AM

I'm ready. But I keep thinking I've forgotten something so I run totally ninja with my socks on to and from the kitchen to sip on coffee and try looking for something that looks like something that might've been neglected by me. By this time I'm like feck it, and I walk out the door and see that the death trap machine has found itself outside my driveway looking all menacing and all kinds of evil devil. The instructor is non-chalant at its best; she empties herself from the driver seat and plops a booster cushion on it. And off I go.

8:45AM

I've done an hours worth of driving and I've committed the worst possible crimes on the road - driving at 20mph on a 60mph to find out where my BB had gotten to under my seat and doing  twice the bloody speed on a bunch of Red Nose charity wearing schoolkids on their way to a gain a pointless education which they'll drown in drink and drugs anyway.

I almost mowed down a 12 year-old child I'd mistaken to be a red furred squirrel. He was so cutesy and tiny but made the most incredibly annoying noise by squawking swearwords at me as he trotted across over the road.

9:02AM

I'm sat in the car with the examiner who failed me last time. I might as well have given up then and there - he had his leg up against my gearbox AGAIN. It's a pisstake but I tolerated it, until I started to stall.

Throw it in first gear, no second - I had no idea what I was doing but the bloody car was still moving and I forgot to apply the brakes and then I started to shake and OH AAAH feck it, I don't care no more. I really actually don't remember what happened cause I was high on a drug called Charlie Sheen or whatnot...

9:49AM

I passed - somehow. That's what counts right? Not the minors or what I may have done wrong, I'm in the red license driving club now, who really gives a gnarly troll what I actually did, nobody actually expects me to drive after this - especially my instructor of all people jheez, who by the way is a terrible driver herself after we were going home and she had to do the emergency stop twice on different occasions because SHE wasn't looking to the right. And they say karma comes back to bite you in the ass TWICE as hard, right?

***

So I get home and then the fractured storyline staples together - Daddy is ecstatic, Mummy gains a new taxi driver, Sister offers me an ugly 1991 Suzuki Swift and now everybody is scouring the net and scrawling on newspapers for Mini-Jeeps - HOLD UP, WUT?

Yes: Mini-Jeeps - for the short legged driving generation who find it hard to peer over the bonnet and have poor judgement in parking and car distance. I found that my dad's choice for car for me slightly insulting but kinda cool on the basis I'd have a unique choice of car from those first-car-first-choice Corsas, Polos and KAs.

I mean, how cool would  that be?!? Daddy Khan is so cool :)

But I've got my eyes set on achieving a license for motorbikes... EEPS.

Trolls, be honest - am I getting a little soft in my blogs? I think I need to bring back my mean streak, I don't know how to write flowery poncy shit, you wouldn't read it otherwise, me thinks.

For a real blend of lines, friction and bumps to reconnect your brain into the better thinking and possibly the insanely amazing, and preferably listen to when you don't feel like much other than the scum on the bottom of your shoe or you feel like looking down the barrel of you mind's imaginary gun, Radiohead's new album King of Limbs is an amazing kaleidoscope of neat trips and messy movements that will blow your mind and induce you into wanting to dance like a mental patient. 'Lotus Flower' is a personal replay favourite and 'Little by Little' ticks along with my tocks, it's so mesmerising it actually takes you out and apart and then stitches you up again.

It seems Thom Yorke can be the King of Limbs if he can cut me up and put me into the groove.

My God, Why Are You So Dumb, So Really Really Dumb?

People are funny beings. The fat ones are guffawed at and rarely pitied, the skinny ones are beaten down and wound up, and the browns and blacks - well they don't get a word in edgewards do they?

So they express themselves using violence, a form poetically conveyed in tear-inducing curries and strong offensive accents and make whack nut hippity hip-hop rap about bitches and hoes and killing people for being bitches and hoes with their whack nut cracker knife for life, yeah brav.

But some people are so silly, it's beyond belief. Like the other week, I walked past Lidl in my hometown and saw a small child licking a bollard placed outside the store.

It looked as if he'd dropped some ice-cream on it so he was licking it off for all his sweet desert's worth, for his sake I hope, yeesh - only to have his father come behind him and push his face hard into it (possibly by accident, but it wouldn't have stopped me from calling the NSPCC on that dickface dadda) and tells him 'Don't lick bollocks like that, that's disgusting' - WHO SAYS THAT TO THEIR TINY KID?!

I had a right mind to say something, only that I was saying it in my mind. My mouth doesn't function on such fruity 'insert amazing clever wit comment' occasions, but it does feels the need to blurt absolute twaddle-goose when good interesting company is around. I will bitch-slap my mouth sometime, to see if the after affects of the anaesthetic from the dentist last and whether it will sprout some motivational sense into me, so the mouth functions with the ole noggin.

Or I'll wait til my brother goes, he's just as good as a chimp ready to be experimented on. And plus, I can test different speeds of slaps...oh yeah, that's going down in the diary, I'm definitely gonna try that ON HIM.

Anyhoo, some people are dumb as feck. No lie. They should come with special stickers saying 'unfit for speaking in public to anyone' or 'will yap like a freaking loonie if you don't give me a piece of your chewing gum' - the chewing gum act is a personal reference as to what happened in college.

There were some orange-faced girls, there were some nasty-ass boys. Little Miss Wotsit liked the glance of Mr. Hairy-Bum-Hairy-Everywhere and trotted over on her crusty mud dipped heels and tittered if he had any gum.

Mr. Hair (can't be fecked to type whole names, we know they so hairy) did have gum, but he wanted to flirt a little with the little baked creature, so he said in his low grumble 'I'll give you some if you give me yours.'

Yeesh, the sleaze. That was the filthiest bout of flirting to ever assault my ears. Hairy dude wanted a denture chomp test on her mouth and wanted everyone to know about it in the most disgusting way. I'm sure he had hair growing on his tonsils and wanted her to feel em out and - - EURGH! *violent vomit*

So yeah, Cheesy Hoe starts to flap those rubber dinghies she had for lips and repeats what Hairy Dude said in a nasal mimic 'I'll give you some if you give me yours' and then it all kicks off - Hairy PERKISTANKI mans don't get no rest from her mini-Wotsit friends who resembled little orange pigs in shorts and stiletto trotters.

They're all going on about how pathetic he was and how sexist that comment was and how Orange Piglet No1 only wanted a piece of gum for her porky breath but no, oh no no no - Hairy mans thinks it 'fillurting' and tries it on with the whole lot of them. They took him to the trough, never mind to the cleaners. They squealed and trotted around him with dirty delight (and in danger of indecently exposing themselves) and snatched the Wrigley's packet out of those hairy plant hands. It was all harmless fun until Hairy man accidentally pats one of them on the bum; one of the ugly angrier ones.

What a stinker of a day that was for Hairy man. Everything was fine, it was the unethical teenage chav was to flirt, but that ugly angry pig was an Angry Bird. (feckin' great iPhone app - I had to plug it, cause that's how awesome it is). She got pissed, and her piggy trot friends were ready to poke his eyeballs out. The noise that came from them on the third floor of the college whilst I had just entered the building was feckin' incredible. Like pig banshee hybrids. The trouble amounted to the point of fierce insults, attempted assaults and gang members hissing on either side of the floor plan.

I remember that day and thinking how fecking dumb are people? Some have unfortunately lowered themselves lesser than animals, which is a deepening shade of shame each passing day. It's sad what the world comes to when people can't get over the fact that they have terrible breath and are just as ugly on the inside as they are on the outside. Sick world. Sick times.

New Reasons To Procrastinate

I feel like I'm in a caustic rut right now. It's slowing sinking beneath me in a grey marbling vortex specked with all kinds of chaotic, depressing, droll, mundane things that could possibly only amuse an aloof badger for mere seconds. Only because it's found something in common; being boring.

And I'm only waist down in. In that mucky muck. In that depressing grey matter muck that my own monotone reveries. That awful boyband Nsync comes to mind...

I'm currently in a Twister-esque limbo; there is no rush to work, no push to finish and sad to say, no care for anything. It's very hard to push the lid off from the inside - look what happened to those 80's kids in Honey I've Shrunk The Kids - wasn't so easy for them now was it? Except I can happily say (I'm thinking positive to ward off the negative) that I'm glad I don't have that hair, yikes for dykes.

So this week is all about reconstructing myself, bit by bit, part by part.

This is the new me. Environ, baby. Gives me the face as smooth as silk and as clear as day and it's costing me an arm and a leg to fund this beauty treatment, which involves vitamin pizazz up my ass (not literally but it rhymed, don't whine about political correctness!).

It is the new regime treatment that will kick me off the addiction for coffee and have me lurch for the rich bursting bouts of life! There will be less procrastination, more nicer conversation, a radical overhaul of everything in the past coming weeks. Trolls, beware - there will be change; are you ready for it?

THE NEW ROSIE, COMING SOON.

Marry Marry or Marry? No Snogging Or Avoidance Allowed

I hate weddings, and thankfully I don't get dragged to these sick-on-happy plastic and paper cutlery occasions as I have my wonderful studies as my alibi to wrench me out. Sly like a fox, I know right?

And it's not that I'm not happy for the couple, cause on most times than not, I have no freaking idea of who they are.

I'm there cause of the parents we are invited, so my ass gets hauled into my best clothes and clownface slap and off we go to a hall to see running-on-sugar children and fat cows in skinny dresses.

But I hate weddings for other reasons, but one of them is particularly embarrassing.

My parents like to think themselves as prize breeders; we are their human trophies in need of a partner trophy to sit with in the family cabinet. But they get to pick the prize and we just get our cake and eat it (if we like it, of course!)

Yes, I am talking in euphemisms about marital match-making, in case you didn't pick it up.
The cringe humour and sadism are results from having disappointing films to watch each Xmas and spying on drunk people outside my house at 2am.

So anyway, the mama-papa team begin their scouting. They look around the hall, they meet and greet old and recent friends, they stare over at their foes' table and whisper cautiously a little gossip, and then they begin to discreetly search for the 'others' whilst the dinner is served/finished.

Most evenings they come back chuffed on fluffy compliments, for example:

"Oh, such pretty children you have, oh look especially at Rosie so pretty oh MashAllah" *spit on face to rid me of beauty curses*

Yeah. That does happen to ME. I get spat on for being alright looking, jheez.

So after the spittle is wiped off and a little banter is conversed, they may exchange numbers and emails, then leave. Secretly, I believe that in my dads head, his brain is knuckle-bumping the inside of his skull with victory.

It means one thing when dad mutters the littlest praise to us kids. That means they've scored for us and we might be having a strange family over for dinner to examine and interrogate us. Damnit.

But as moods dance up and down with excitement and possibilities then gossip emits from them on the drive home about the bad hospitality or what the sister-in-law had mouthed off about to the caterer, they're just overjoyed mainly on the part that we behaved and that they're one step closer to getting rid of us.

The seemingly important people at any wedding; if they're impressed by the prize pugs acting like prissy poodles, it means they want relations. They wanna get with. Have some marital ones. SHIT.

When I was younger I used to start the whining and moaning pretty early, but now I easily recognise that nobody is paying attention to me. I thank the Lord for iPhones. Distraction heaven.

Sometimes I feel bad for the suckers up on the stage all prim and proper and getting married, knowing that they're not the only ones tied in holy matrimony. The two families also get chained in.

The mammy jee the baba jee the massi jee and soap-opera grouch sister-in-law who wanted the bride to get hitched in a hut in Pakistan to a sleazy baller moustache man.

Here is an example of most every moustache sleaze ball looks like, but remember they're not worth photographing cause they so .... *shudder* - shan't explain but hope the word 'grotesquely hairy' is self-explanatory? - so here's a diagram instead:

Of course that sleaze ball would come recommended highly but every other scheming aunty or uncle, but no matter when you'd love to think the best of anyone's attention, there's a thin revealing film of lies dusted over it.

So now you know how it happens, the whole marriage shuh-bang if you go through your rents. For some lesser-minded people who don't really understand their child's idea of happiness, they've already promised their hands over to some village idiot back in the gorgeous cow patty lands of Pakistan.

But never mind, they make it work in  the end... council benefits, ennit? Talk about winding the EDL up about immigrants, psssht.

Please, I mean no offence towards marriages to fresh street mongrels of Islamabad or goat grabbing fielders from Kashmir ("because my description for them isn't offensive at all, just truthful(?)"), for I admire the strength of both the married men and women for putting up with nonsense from their oversea in-laws. The whole land disputes, and the "When's the money coming, where's the MONEY!?" conversation.

But as someone who is currently studying at degree level, I have a little more expectations in life than for it to just turn out to be that I become a fussy militant multi-child holding squib of a housewife *shudder*

OR WORSE, THIS:

******

Most friends I know have had previous relations with other Muslims, and it's was all a little alien to me because I was brought up to be told it was wrong and shit, I never realised half the girls in college had boyfriends.
I'm glad I missed out on the pissy trend of getting all excited over a boy talking to them flirtatiously and being heckled by spotty-as-feck boys for having a 2 hour fling in the car park with one of their homies, a short squat Bengali boy that all the 'peng as dog shit is delicious' girls fancied.

His spiked up hair compensated for the final inch on his height, overall being 5 foot. Girls back then had short standards, if you'll pardon the pun.

I get to uni and the games are bigger and nastier, all of them are at it, even the ugly ones. They're chasing game and wanna grab it in the their mouths and take it home to the rents; it's their partner prize trophy but it's all tattered and broken and clearly, rejected. That's what a tarnished reputation looks like when they've let it off the lead and given to false losers and dishonourable faggets.

Uni sometimes is known to most for studying for 2 hours then dossing like a mad hatter in clubs for the other 22 of the day, but for Asians it's match-making heaven.

Most uni-made couples get passed the GO sign and get married, and some get really unlucky and don't. That's mainly because the families don't approve. So in the end of the day, you can find yourself someone whose as educated and from as a good respectable family and that you get to know them before you go straight into the whole matrimony thing.

The game got boring for me early in, I stopped paying attention to guys around me as much. I wasn't getting any good ones anyway, most were a bunch of farts who were looking to get their sleaze on. Farts and sleaze is what I get up in the morning for, in journalistic terms, yes, in choice of men, oh no no no, HELL to the NO.

I would never know whether I gave false hope to fatties, hairies, dopeys, drunkies, gym junksters whenever I glanced at them as I whipped of my hijab back and probably blinked a couple of unintentional winks if I poked my eye with a stubby finger.

Sometimes we'd do silly girly stuff for a cheap laugh, and doesn't mean it was right. I knew there were consequences. I knew where the line was, and if I hadn't a good company for friends to console and advise, I would've crossed it by now, blindly as when the production crew for the 1997 Batman film didn't really think out the nipples on the costume so well.

So now that you know how the Perkinstankis roll... I must leave this confuzzling shizzle on a less lethal bizzle, ya know wannam sayin'?
Let's leave this shit on a positive note, in good English, folks.

I AM Pakistani, and I AM proud, and I understand my way of life as a Muslim and I intend to follow it out through my last breath on the earth. But the guy I finish it with cannot be an asshole. I may kill him. With puns. Many of them.

Aaaooh , goodnight my pug-faced friends - don't judge, don't hate, just really really appreciate and masticate ...your dinner.

At least 20 times, that's the average the doctors ask you for each swallow. Hope this information isn't misleading at all. Eeps. Um, bye.

*run out of room avoiding all accusations of sexually inappropriateness and/or perverse nature*

Itchy Eyes Are Back & I'm Talkin' Smack

Yes, several resolutions have been broken already.
My friends one was this:

GIVE UP SHEESHA - THE FILTHY A-RABS ARE TAKING A CHUNKY FULL OF MY MONEH!

I can confirm I made her break this on the 3rd January. I just high-fived myself cause I got her broke ass even more broke on that steamy stuff.

Another one was this: 

I'M GONNA QUIT DRINKING COFFEE LIKE I'M GONNA QUIT TAKING DRUGS, AHAW HAW!

It didn't take long till I broke that dumb resolution. It was stupid really, and I only thought of enforcing it when  I just wasn't getting any sleep and I was erratic and ready to whack the preppy shit out of the 'morning people' who bother you for no apparent reason and claim they were striking up friendly conversation.

Go beg a friend request on Facebook, not me.

Which brings me to another thing:

GIVE UP FACEBOOK - IT RUINS YOUR LIFE WITH REAL PEOPLE

It makes you lose connection with the real human side, it slurps up all your energetic brain juice, scoops out any remaining intelligence of the real world. And all you do is write a status about your sordid exaggerated fake-ass or your ridiculously boring life as a beat-up seperated housewife or houseman (they  do exist), like someone actually cares and you stupidly wait for someone to 'like' it or to comment on it so you can strike up a conversation you've never had the whipped balls to have in real life.

Oh man, that's weak. Totally non-homophobic-related gay. Hang on. Problem is, if 'gay' without the homosexual meaning means golden ye olde times 'happy', does that mean the stuff said above is a little stupid? Ahhh, crap.

This is why I need to lay off the smack - I mean coffee. Smack, haw haw - say what now?

I ain't tried smack...I've been smacked, if that clears anything said here, up? By whom, that shan't matter - but some cases of domestic abuse are necessary to teach some a lesson (not to ME, I apply that rule on others, the POWAH! that arises in me when doing so is GREAT! Take THAT little bro! WHOOPAH!)

Confused? I know - forget the domestic abuse confession, that's a strongly truthful lie - all the more reason to stress why I don't need the three above in my life.

Right, all I needed to type or say was typed or said. Finito.

Erm. Awkward now. You're not gone yet. Or should I stop typing? Okay, I'll stop. Now. No, now I'll stop. Stopping now?

Talk about talking of digging your own grave *dying laugh* *DROP DEAD*

New Year, Already New Tensions

What am I like, 45? This is so much like a mid-life crisis, I'm wondering if I need to start buying anti-wrinkle products for my invisible but-nearly-here crows feet and those worry lines I'm deepening with every high brow glance I make.

I've lost a fish to fishtank cancer, I lost the house I wanted for the semester, I left my job cause I couldn't do the hours, I've gained weight on my chin which my friends think is lovely but I do NOT, I haven't got a cool watch no more, and I've forgotten to do any revision for the test I have next week - oh the woe of me!

This week has been such a fagget, that I want to murder it for being so gay.

I will begin fixing it on Monday, when I return as the prodigal child to university. I will kick some law and public admin ass, some roody pooch doc practice butt and flykick the damn special feature writing with literal poetry in a can of whoosh! and thunk! phoowah! (cool Kung Fu noises in dialogue, ohh yeah)

But this rant has been what I've needed for a while so I will go on as long as I need to.

Ok, I'm done. Don't have much else to say, other that I'm in my pyjamas at 2:23pm eating biscuits in my room, alone. The upside of this is that I really dig my pyjamas, they look like those pink wafers I used to eat when I was a kid. Its unbelievable how strikingly awesome I am considering how lonely I am in here...

New Year, Same Old Ways - YAH Or NAH?

Today is the 01/01/11, people!

That could only mean... HAPPY NEW YEARS!

Ahhh, NYs is like my second birthday cause I get to spend time with friends get to stay out late - it's the closest I'll ever get to clubbing; the plasma TV blaring tinny bhangra and us, all cramped into the small living room with Wotsits and stale popcorn swinging our arms side to side and us switching our salwar-kameez-&-trainers swagger up to the max til the Abu-Jee comes storming in through the front door from a taxi break. 

From then on, it kinda just goes flat and we all complain about having a headache (oh, it's a splitting headache!) from drinking (sigh, tis sad) coke and swinging our arms a little too much and how we'll never make it to work on time tomorrow.

When your friends do that, you got yourself a pooper of a party. Damn.

But enough about some sad little Pakis who really DON'T socialise with me, I'm just working off from some other people's experiences...ahem.

...

...

Lets talk about the White folks NYs!

On every NYs, some of you white folks are funny as freaky feck. You guys start your night by drinking shots of what looks like cute fruity cups from a friends house, just to fill up the little post-Xmas cheer and you then drink the little heavier stuff, the good ole' Vodka.

That's not the funny part. Yet.

Then it's a little more drinky-drinky before getting into a hired van that'll take you to a muggy student-esque club, and you're taking irrelevant pictures of yourself and your few 'good' mates, taking more than necessary to prove to your Facebook fake mates what a grey-hey-hate time you're having riding an ugly bus that has pee poo puke stains scattered across the vehicle matted carpet and upholstery.

And then you're in the middle of the dance floor skanking in the midst of some very ugly-by-nature-made-beautiful-by-beer horny people. Mainly of them fuglers are your 'few' friends making the crowd uneasy and appearing horrified at the stench of BO coming from y'all who refuse to use Sure deoderant let alone shave your armpits properly.

You're hoping to go away with friends who'll Ping! you and you're gonna brag to your besties you've pulled and boisterously say you won't call them, when in fact the only thing you managed to pull is a muscle and break a heel and have a whiny cry in the toilets. This applies to men/boy/groys too.

And then comes my favourite part. Drunk dancing in the roads at 2am. It is like The Night of the Living Dead, but the title would be appropriately changed to 'Night of the Pissheads' where sleeping secrets are awoken and shattered by the sound of a bottle breaking, and that's when you know it's cause it's a  piss poor aim at somebody's partner soon-to-be ex cause they've slept with the 47-year old neighbour. How exciting to hear at such a time, hmm?

And it's guys like YOU that make me consider making those stupid breakable New Year resolutions. I want to do more when I see dumb ass shit like that happen outside my house, it annoys me on most occasions but weirdly enough never on New Years eve through to New Years day.

It's a time to rethink our values and what we want to achieve this year from relationships, work, health and the way we live life. It's a horrid tradition, making resolutions, but the feeling you get when you set a goal and want to make a fresh start with it, well we all a little excited don't we?

Keeping a promise to ourselves? For the better, for the greater good, hmm?

IT NEVER WORKS. Anyone who tells me they've stuck to it this year will be branded a liar, and they will find themselves punished by a size 5 Converse trainer travelling halfway up their butt. And don't think I won't retrieve it and go for another try, cause you won't believe what my NYs reso is...

My New Years Resolution: KICK SOME ROODY POODY ASS. Nice and easy, very flexible to do whenever. Have a good year, you freaky Troggs!