today.

morning final friday class, while older, adorable, sentimental professor recites greek poetry, and screens home videos. tells us all to cry more, and that if we don't dance, we're emotionless.

regular 2 dollar lunch.

impromptu sit in lunch with lovely friend, followed by santa claus hug.

latte to go.

mint tea, jazz m usic, and three books on bangladesh and india.

spontaneous lecture on the "the panoptics of the womb" via a favourite professor. was infiltrated by horrid woman, who actually said the words, "the myth of the pain of labour." girls in back giggled at my very visible disgust and frustration.

twin peaks and ice cream.

i realize the hyperbole surrounding me (self-inflicted, at that) but this is all i'll ever want:

alright so i gotta share today, apparently.

lunch with your sister-friend happens, and she's telling you about dominic pettman, and you note it down, and finally get into that japanese restaurant everyone's always been raving about. lunch and analytic conversations. how do we complain about our twenties? today's topics include: the Vicodin Effect of Traveling (when stupid decisions seem perfectly rational), whether or not one should measure their happiness in accordance to how successful a crush is going (i think the conclusion was that, yes, this is justifiable, and more importantly, uncontrollable), and then spend half an hour analyzing each other's cultural cuisine, and what that says about identity.

OH MY GOD, MY TWENTIES ARE SO HARD.

this is followed by a comfortable sit down at the library. fistful of (academically irrelevant) reads in your hand (you've just printed articles that sounded so interesting, and have nothing to do with your major, probably), and are camped out in a cubby reading up on the taxonomy of bruises, and mindy kaling's new book. give it a text message or two, and you will find yourself walking down the street, towards your fellow twenty year old girlfriends apartment.

earlier, you will have said, "today is gonna be a good day."

sunsets without your having realized it, as you pull your knees to your chest, watching red painted toes gaping through your black wool socks. beer bottles on the table, and hearts on sleeves, two girls (who are very bad at being girls), delightfully spill repressed secrets on boys, sex, and the remarkable transition one makes from a weird high school nerd into an intellectual college babe. "you're a girlfriend, and i still like you" one shouts to the other. "you're really cool and totally hot" the other shouts back.

stumble across to the hip side of town, and share evening lattes and muffins with your best friend who just got off work. take a walk through said hip side of town, and up at the local vegan-feminist majority-lesbian cafe, and wait for an old third-party friend to arrive. chili. grilled cheese. cookies. memories of a couple years ago, of the future, of the friends we love, and hate to love, but love when we hate. "what is wrong with people?" is the layer that blankets the conversation (it tastes bitter)

and then we get to some weird, hip loft, with christmas lights clung by authentic spider webs, and a chalkboard sign that has the word, "BEER" earnestly, half-heartedly, genuinely, scribbled on. friends in a corner, bundled together in a couch. wit and laughs, and then your friend notices something allen ginsberg on the table, next to something asimov. "i'm going to steal this" she says with a giggle. she stole it.

skinny hipster, collared shirt, black sweater friend, leans over the couch, and whispers in your ear to suggestively advise you that, "there are a lot of boys here" and you look around the various jean jackets, black skinny jeans, and striped shirts, simultaneously think, WHERE? and god, i love this city. and then it begins.

one by one, some various twenty year old, or other, with their scraggly legs, and obnoxious hair, and oversized everything, tumbles onto the floor with the same pathetic story. born and raised in bumfuck, somewhere, of this northern country, and they've come to educate themselves in the artiest city they've heard of. teen pregnancies, fumbling sex (they call it frantic fucking though, alliteration is important), and an inclination to holler at their fellow colleagues, and say things like, "right on" instead of, "okay." they are enthusiastic about the state of the world today, and they laugh at the wreck they see in it. so they go, and they read, and your brain is having the most wonderful time figuring out what's happening. because what's happening is that these kids, and their simultaneous pathetic backgrounds, are coming together to channel something in them, that wants out. something that burns when all eyes are on them, and breathes when the applause begins. so they sit there, and some people read your mediocre secrets (it's no fun if you're lying to us, and some are lying, and we can see right through the-), and some let out real secrets. but all are letting it out. in that loft, in space, at that time, with that train passing right bye, right behind the goddamn window, as she's standing their reading a poem. and as you spot the crowd, girls in tights sitting on the ground with various scarves tied around their heads, boys with ties, and necks, and collars, and a disdain for showering, and the pillows and blankets that have been set behind the self-constructed stage, featuring gear for a band that's labeled it's drums with, the words "man + legs," you are thinking how obnoxiously transparent, this total, total, love for the "golden age" (the age that was never yours), is, and you think, my city is alive, and weird, and creativity has a home here. it can be harvested, and spawn truly, weird, weird, things. (have you heard our music?) but these are just kids. kids with the same fears, who wake up with the same shock of having just had sex. and some of their shit is kind of gross, and self-indulgent, and kind of bad, and kind of good, but they are cultivating something you feel in you every single day. at least these losers are touching theirs. no one, not even i, am touching mine.

so you tell your friend about how the girl kept looking straight at you, and how it's a thing white hipster girls do, when they see you in your dark skin, nose piercing, and blood red lipstick. how they, "see something in me, that's just not there." "yeah, excuse me, but i don't have a loft party to go to" your friend says. she laughs.

and in that deadpan voice your friends have been encouraging through out the night, you continue, and say, "i mean, all i want is to be eating cheese. even when i'm eating cheese."

then how come i feel so ready.

i cannot do apocalyptic settings. i think about them all.

the.

time.

my older, wiser friends say that's the source of my anxiety. that i think ahead to that which isn't yet here, and then feel a total loss for anything that isn't in the future.

last night was sweats, and anxiety, and a tightness in my chest i can't ever get out of. and it wasn't because anything new had happened. the bad is never new. it is always there, but i make do, when i repress it. when i ignore the constant shaking fears that threaten the value i put to my life, and i try to make people laugh. but just because i ignore them doesn't mean they disappear, it means i am trying to continue, regardless. regardless. as in, they are always there. i can feel that tightness under my breasts, like a rock pushed up against my lung cage. things are not better or worse, they are either forgotten or remembered, and on the rare occasions where they are the only things i can remember, then i shake, and i can't breathe, and i sit up suffocating in the silly fear of my own skin.


i had a real nice moment with a boy today. it was cute and sweet and he gave me chocolate and listened to me talk. everyone keeps saying nice things about me and ending it with, "but you're not ready for that yet."

before any of that happened,

on the metro ride home, i ran into an elementary school bengali friend. she was dripping with fake conversation, and i hated every second of it. but i went along with it, because that is the polite thing to do. she tried to poke her business into my sister's married life, and i didn't give her an opportunity to criticize. "he's one of the nicest people i know," i said.

and then she mentioned a local bengali boy, who, a couple of days ago, had been shot in the head. he had gotten himself involved in the drug trade. i was horrified - that's terrible, i said. she nodded and then said, "but at least he died in the month of ramadan. that's good." seeing my reaction, her words stumbled. "i mean, it's not good but it's a silver lining."

she was a fucking idiot.

watch the stoop.

everyday can't be a party, which is a damn shame. did i mention my birthday ruled? got dirty, dirty, drunk, and so many people i loved showed up in the same bar. grabbed ketan and said, "everyone is SO nice" and he laughed and said, "everyone is ALWAYS nice" and i wish i could feel like that all the time. kyle says that's called alcoholism.



i saw Sir last week, thank god. he was so happy, so i was so happy. we're going to be friends forever, and he's going to remain one of the most important people in my life. friends come and go and vary depending on what you're going through in life, but we've got a thing. a bond sounds lame, a friendship sounds corny, and anything else sounds misleading. he laughed that time we were in the car, and i said "you're my best friend" and then he got all sullen and said, "before you forget about me anyhow" and i slammed that car door shut again, turned over in my seat and said, "WHAT. that's not even a fucking thing. NEVER, you idiot." that's how you know i love you. the angrier i am about it.

because it overwhelms me. because i'm so ridiculously sensitive, that all i want to do is spend my entire time loving you. i want to drown you in it, and tuck it in to every corner of your being, so you get it. so there's no doubt in our non-linear lives, that i respect and adore your existence. and no matter how much i try to get that across, you will never truly understand. because it is too grand of a feeling - i get overwhelmed just trying to be accurate about it. so i fucking love you, you idiot.

this went somewhere else.
my poor mother gets sad and doesn't know what to do with lying-in-bed/mazzy star-sruti.



in honour of our simultaneous lives, sitting on the steps of our favourite cafe at school, anna and i have decided to release our own hip hop record: "watch the stoop."

meanwhile, i got all bashful and anxious, and let my stupid self remember that supposed lingering attraction.

in other news, at the end of my class this morning, a couple of us were contesting the epistemological reasoning behind "reality" and one dude suggested that if life was just a dream, how come we're all dreaming the same thing? our professor smiled and paused and said, "that's right. welcome to the collective delusion, folks."

christ, sorry for the neglect... in the mean time: i like what twitter does with my life.

i can never really accept the ways in which my life chooses to balance itself.

arrive home in order to a face a really heavy and upsetting discussion with my family. mostly i sit on my self-imposed pedestal as Official Organizer of Everyone's Happiness, and wonder how i'll tackle this one. my god, do i have a temper. poor surrounding recipients.

and as nice as it is to be good at something, or just generally appreciated, it's even nicer to have carol say:

"you deal with a lot
everyday of your life
of course you lost your shit"




earlier i will have exited my friends apartment in the hip side of town, to running into my barista crush on his bike, in the rain. there i am with an umbrella, and as we recognize each other, i smile, say hi, pull up my umbrella to include him, and say, "for two seconds" as the stop light flashes red. he smiles, "two seconds." then, "where are you going?" "home." i say. "so you mean the hip part of town?" he raises a playful eyebrow. impressed, i say, "i live in the suburbs?" "OH!" he says, truly surprised. the light turns green. "gotta go."

so today, i finally saw x's crush

in real life. meaning i've obviously only ever stalked the shit out of her online, so as to study to her apparent beauty/appeal/general aesthetic, cause i'm a girl, you know. she stared at me with her perfect skin. for a bit. and i know that really she was staring at my awesome swag, but a little part of me jumped the gun and wondered if she wasn't looking at me IRL, as if she knew my online persona too. you know, as if i was that significant in x's life. when i'm not.

whatever, she has manly broad shoulders.

so i went to a park, smoked a j, downed a bear, and told the unfortunate dude sitting next to me how "fucking dope i am, though." he said my legs felt real smooth.

louie.

everyone watch that. it is fucking great. and in that last episode, with the masturbation etc? okay, when that bible thumping chick starts describing the concept of "waiting" to share sex with someone after having formed a mental relation with them, or whatever? that writing was just so good. never came off preachy or the least bit like louie was slipping in some proselytization. just sharing a genuine sentiment about what sex develops into vs. what it starts off as. and the very fact that that was even being argued, when the show's being written from the perspective of a horny male? i don't know, it just made me think of that daniel johnston line, "respect love of the heart, over lust of the flesh."

too many feelings.

josh.

i have a friend. named josh. he is the best. josh and i are the kind of opposites who get along the best. josh would find my current writing voice both annoying and endearing, but only actually tell me it was annoying. josh likes to skateboard, hip hop, shoes, and aesthetics. i like josh. he is stupidly confident and relaxed. i guess that comes with being 25. josh treats me like a kid, and tells me to, "stop being fucking neurotic, it's annoying." josh says i'm, "high-strung" and, "nice." he smiles when i say silly things and then refuses to answer me. josh also thinks i'm smart. this is a big deal, because josh thinks, "most people are dumb." we have coffee and talk about culture, religion, and when i came back from the bathroom and said, "where were we?" he said, "existentialism" and shrugged. josh shrugs at existentialism. josh says he has me pegged and can predict the things i'm going to say, and then i say the things he's predicted. josh is really creative, used to be a punk activist, and now likes to play board games.

"i'm sorry, hanging out with me is intense."
"yes," josh sighs.
"i'm sorry."
"it's okay."
"i just like talking about this stuff."
josh nods, "i do too."
so, it is ok.
"stop being fucking neurotic, it's annoying."

so we sit on the edge of the highway, and i tell him how much i love the sunset, and he asks me if i know what the cheesiest thing he's ever heard is. i don't care, it's the prettiest kind of pink. a fox runs by. then he says, "i know you so well, and i don't have to tell you. that's the thing, you know it already (it being this abstract thing)," I nod (because I do know), "but," he continues, "you're just not willing to accept that you know it yet." i smile.

hey josh, if you're reading this: fuck you.

josh is nice.

i cannot better encompass my existence then with this current moment:

laying on my mothers knees as she combs my hair, the house smells of Amla oil (so very distinctly brown), and i lay in my bed with my laptop, and pop cultured tumblr, listening to:

on the past.

"i was fuckng weird is all i can say
tv raised me so when i entered highschool i had this deluded american sitcom expectation of it
and i was determined to be daria
fuck everything else
so i went through a weird metalhead phase
and then one day, i joined the school play and life changed for the most amazing better"

20 year olds are fucking useless.

twenty years olds are these people who (for the most part) don't contribute to society. they are (and here, i should preface, that this discussion is referring to the "general" but rather, the specifically north american, and privileged), in a sense, the most useless people in the world, (except for the much-too-depressing concept of the elderly). and i know that they say that the youth is the future, and that's just because they are. you won't breed generations or keep that cycle going if it weren't for the youth, yes; but they are only a silver lining by virtue of their reproductive capacities. they hold the potential to press the refresh button on this evolutionary cycle, and that is a nice thought, but beyond that, 20 year olds are fucking useless.

they are in a certain grid of the social sphere, in which they are both considered old enough to be held accountable for their actions, and yet young enough to exist with as little responsibility as possible. this means that they're old enough to literally do whatever they want and yet young enough to not have to do anything. this is why they say you should do things in your twenties. now is the time. now is the time, to revel in the fact, that you are living an existence, that mostly consists of sucking up an excessive amount of resources. if you are in your twenties, we could probably do without you. life is great and i encourage you to stick with it for as long as possible, both beyond and within the 20 year old sphere, but i have to tell you, that for now, we really don't need you.

when i say that you suck up excessive amount of resources, i mean that you are the only ones who have time for the internet, and your technologies, and the arts. of course twenty year olds find the arts appealing. everything, music, painting, literature, film, whatever. we're the only ones who have time for that shit. we're the ones who actually have time to BE existential. little kids don't care about why they exist - they're too busy enjoying it. and older people don't care about why they exist, because they have bigger problems.

i swear, sometimes, i just find myself really conscious - unintentionally so, of the very happenings of my life. (duh, cause i'm fucking 20). but the amount of shit that i don't do on a daily basis is overwhelmingly disproportionate to the amount of shit that not only needs to get done in the world, but that i, myself, hold the very capacity to get done. instead of burning out with purpose, 20 year olds burn out on drugs, and snacks, and the fucking internet. and this isn't just applicable to your drop out stoners. even the ones who actively participate in an academic culture, spend most of their time, sucking up resources regardless. chances are, you fit the description of a full time student, part time shit-job holder, and all that means is that you get to spend most of your time doing stuff according to your own schedule, and then on the occasion that you have to submit to the economic structure of the world, you work a couple hours at some shit job, so that you can continue to participate in luxuries, like shopping, and, i guess eating isn't a luxury, but eating whatever you want, whenever you want, seems to be.

and yeah, louie ck is right. even the ones who think they're contributing, are really only taking advantage of opportunities built for themselves. go ahead, build those homes in those third world countries. of course, it's better than not doing that, but the reason you get to fly over, under the umbrella of that particular organization, is because the social system constructed that concept with your very useless existence in mind.

now, of course, i encourage the youth to be active in society, and for those who feel driven and genuinely tired with the amount of effort they put into their, hopefully, worthwhile existence, i encourage you. but i remind you, that you are a small percentage of the general.

going to class, is a fucking luxury. i don't want to position education as a privilege and not as a right - but just think about how it works. you take a social system and you get the opportunity to restructure it according to your own comfort and needs, and then you get to spend your days sitting in giant rooms with loads of other people, like you, listening to someone talk about the things you find interesting, and if you DON'T find that concept appealing, you don't have to do any of it! you can walk out, with the unrealized comfort of crossing the street into any fucking neighbourhood you want, really, and if you stop, and you think, mmm, i want a coffee, you go, and you get that fucking 4 dollar latte, and you continue your existence as a resource sucker upper.

twenty year olds are the one's who sit on steps of various buildings, pass snacks, joints, and jokes around. twenty year olds are surrounded with empty coffee cups. twenty year olds get to say things like, "i don't know. i'll see if i feel like it." and the crazy part is, this little detail is kind of applicable to twenty year olds from all spectrums. from lower income households, to higher income households. even if you can't afford that vacation plane ticket every month like others can, you can still probably afford to pass your days in a sort of mutually liberated and boring rhythm. you don't have to have a pace, and that's a luxury that twenty year olds carry over from their childhood, into an aspect of their adulthood.

and i don't say any of this to discourage twenty year olds from existing. in fact, i say this to reaffirm those moments when you find yourself sad, and you just don't know why. because that's what twenty year olds do. everything is awesome, and they know it, and then they get sad, and they don't know WHY, because they're also grown up enough to know that there's nothing to be sad about.

and i think, maybe, when that happens, it's cause we might be sad that we're useless. it's something that's sort of out of our control. all we can do is take advantage of these amazing opportunities given to us, and not just because you're western or possibly white, but because you're in your twenties. what the fuck else are you going to do?

"it's kind of unbelievable how we're not all dead."

she is blazed. the most blazed she has have ever been. and out of indifference, and a curious intrigue in riding the bus, she hops on with the rest of them. we arrive on a central summer night in this fucking city she loves so, and she's starving. always has been, always will be. as usual, she ends up at the boys table - the boys club, and as they voice their oder for the greasy grub, she responds to a call from the other side - the girls table. a group of teenage girls who think she's just the coolest. they offer her a cigarette, and she begrudgingly accepts. with her gaze focused on a blur between the edge of a table, and a chair leg, she exhales, drowning out the noise of youth and laughter, trying to stupidly breath in the summer air like it's a cigarette. it's not. she catches a look at the corner of her eye, and group of men are staring straight at her. she has caught the words, "i could stare at her all day." and like an animal who hears a noise in the woods, she is startled.

"yeah, YOU" they say.

the tables surrounding her quiet at this new, disruptive and loud development.

her friend from the boys club is looking directly at her with a stupid grin on his face.

"i am sorry," the first man of three says, "but you are so hot."

in her drugged stupor, she pretends he has said the words, "stone cold fox" and elongates her naked legs.

"really, truly, goddamn... a total fox," says the second man of three.

the tables surrounding her, friends and strangers alike begin howling out on her behalf.

"what's your name, gorgeous?" calls out the third man of three.

she squirms at his directness. smiles like she is pleased, when mostly she is overwhelmed with a surprising degree of humility. "there's a name, it's not important," she says. "look! there's a whole other table of pretty girls!"

both the crowd and table of three dismiss her attempts, "yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever, you are HOT."

she pouts, but the night carries on.

things.

i don't even remember days when they're done. do you? i go through them, marking down thoughts and moments, because i've been blogging from the womb (slight exaggeration, stop that, nobody likes that guy), but then i come here and i honestly don't remember how a set of tiny lovely things can just sort of build up into a whole day.

what a lame thought.

see, that's my problem as a, "writer." talking like this, like a plane-ride-carry-on-chick-flick-diary-writer - this is the voice i'm the most comfortable writing in, and also the least challenging. the most challenging is when i try to abstract my thoughts, which isn't any less legitimate, but transforming the meaning of my words with this seemingly incompatible imagery often pinpoints the reality and honesty i'd like to really know, you know? so i try to say things i see, and sometimes, i really like it. one of my favourite things i've ever said have featured the words moms and vagabonds. and maybe i should challenge myself more.

to say things.

okay, grass-fun has been pretty epic, but we're turning this around to Productive Summer now.

\m/