HO HUM. [UPDATED]

I might have a guest blog for the person with the most staggering number, depending on whether there’s a good enough response, so be truthful, OR witty enough to cock up some fine bullshit if you throw in something like 67. Vote away ;)

UPDATE: I should’ve done this earlier, but people voting more than 6 should please leave a name (or at least a pseudonym) with an e-mail address (it won’t be published) so I can contact them in case I do decide on that guest blog. And specify the number of slices please. Much thanks.

The Team16 Video.

Voting time’s up, but you should still watch the video if you want

http://www.facebook.com/walltowall.php?id=534167272&banter_id=1025473181&ref=mf#/video/video.php?v=104473111738&oid=222465835470

When Uninspired..

.. Climb the KDA Hill.

A photographed chronicle  of One of the Many Climbs and What We Do Once We Get To the Top because:

1. The Hill is Happy Place # … Meh just one of the Happy Places,
2. I have nothing else to do,
3. I need to procrastinate with whatever I do have to do,
4. If you live in KDA officers’ Society, should definitely go there. Although it’s private, so I don’t know.

You jump onto a ledge from the highest ground level, then make your way onto the platform through THIS godforsaken tree, towards the end of the hilly side where the slope is easiest to travel up.

Try to avoid the tree by going around the ladder behind it. Smarter than being smacked and/or tickled by the branches of the godforsaken tree.

andd climb!

TREE HUGGERS :D

The intention was to deliver empty McDonald's bags to peoples' houses (we even had McDelivery badges), or leave them on the doorstep and run. But *someone* left the packet under the godforsaken tree, and it was too much of a bother to retrieve it.

My idea, HiraWasif's execution TEAMWORK YO. From closest to farthest, Amreeka, Amreeka, SUNDAY BAZAAR i.e. $50, $50, RS. 300 ;)

Poser girls -_-

Inspired by The Sniper <3

ladeedada

Chichorapan

We da my$t!cz

Breaking into cars KHIKHIKHIKHIKHIKHI >=) Okay fine so the window was down I just had to open the lock.

sexy gaari yaaaaaaaaaaaaaar <3

We had an icecube fight when we got back. Because it was hot. And stuffing icecubes into shirts is fun. Oh and by the way, rubbing an ice-cube on your face is awesome therapy. It makes it less oily, is good for your skin, AND feels awesome. Honestly, try it.

Aaaaaaand we played dress-up with HiraWasif’s Funny-Clothes-Which-Noone-Wears. The pictures of which I will not upload.

THE END.

ICan’tBelieveI’mDoingThis

Pre-Script: NO, I am not pleading on behalf of Jazz Icon. Or whatever it’s called.

Please Vote for a video n-b made for the YLC by smsing “Team16″ to 2121 JUST ONCE because further messages will not be counted. Erm, if my word is credible, then yes it is worthy of the vote. if it’s not, plsvote?

I’ll try to put up the video soon as I can. good watch.

x_x

———————-

It’s the fifth day that my sister’s been gone to the YLC, and I had a nightmare. I dreamt she came back yester-night, and she was slowly taking over my peacefully secluded life. My personal space, the bed.. and what’s worse, the computer. Now, I take pride in the fact that I am not as dependent on this vile thing as a lot of people I know, but this was a special occasion see. She was using the “I-haven’t-had-access-to-the-internet-for-so-long” excuse to hog the early morning hours of  Sunday, i.e. today, very vital because I was supposed to be having a chat with this dude on this very very important artistic revolution.. But when I insisted and demanded to be allowed just a while because it was important no-one listened and my mum just kept feeding me buttered toast…

It was very bad, you see :/

SHE’S COMING BACK TOMORROW PLEASE SOMEONE MAKE HER NOT COME BACK PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE.

Tomorrow, I start praying she goes to LUMS. Oh yes I do.

Don’t Look for a Point Here.

Shopkeepers should not expect you to buy something from their shop just because you entered it.

Okay, so CERTAIN type of shopkeepers should not expect you to buy something from their shop just because you entered it. This be decided by the articles their shop specializes in selling. I should get to the point.

The moment you enter Liberty Books, the swarm of seemingly pubescent acne-infested Shopkeeper’s Minions buzz around you and never leave. Well, there’s so many of them in that tiny dhabba I really don’t blame them, but for the sake of this post..

SO I’m greeted by the familiar Salaam, and then I ask if they have Russian authors like Ayn Rand. He shows me The Fountainhead, and I say Thankyou Very Much.

.. But no Thankyou Very Much. It seems he’s going to be my loyal watchdog till the very end. So I ask him for Dostoevsky, and when he says no I say thankyou once again and start randomly surfing through books, which is what I went there for initially. He still does not get the point. Now I think he’s trying to turn me on by tapping his feet and swaying his nonexistent arse to the Indian number playing through the speaker. Okay. kinda not something I want amidst my book-surfing kthnxbye. But Uncle does not seem to get the point. He’s expecting to escort me to the cash register and claim appreciation for having aided the sale of that book in my hand. Even after I put this back on the shelves. And do so with half a dozen other books. Long story short, thankyou for your services, you may leave now, I’d like to book-surf in peace, and I’ll let you know if I need any more of your assistance.

My birthday breakfast was Toast with Chai.

My birthday Lunch was khitchdi and lassi.

My birthday dinner was.. erm. Never you mind.

Screw luxuries, live the simple life. Huzzah.

How the Monster Became Hairy and Subsequently Scary: Second Attempt

Last Summer, or was it the summer before, Cousin from America visited with her two kids who are Pakistani by breed, hybrid by behavioral habits, and Amreeki by nationality [Fuck that's gotta lead to some serious identity crises]. So these kids, the girl four and the guy two I think, of all the fascinating (assumption) sights their eyes had beheld in The Land of the Free, apparently, had never seen messed up hair. Or been in close proximity with a human bearing them anyway. So upon introduction to me and my bird nest, the little girl scrunches her nose and ponders, what on good earth is the matter with my hair. It befuddles her. It makes her young head, not yet accustomed to thoughts of such strange nature, spin and diverts attention from the latest Dora episode to, me. So she gives up on the effort.

Now a little while later The Cousins, as usual, take up the awami bed in the room which serves whoever’s in it at whatever time, and mingle (i.e. GOSSIP). This young lady decides to join us. Now that my charmingly passive (ahem) introduction facade has vanished, she realises that my hair isn’t the only thing about me she doesn’t like. I think I scared her. That was the experimentational-period. The flashing-kids-with-the-hard-cold-stare-to-see-how-long-they’d-hold-out. So yes. She, very calmly and with almost a regal air, Knights me with the holy title of Hairy Fucking Scary Monster. okay so she just said Hairy Scary Monster. Whatever. Now I entirely did not care what a child (ignorant, ignorant child) of four decides to dub me, I dismissed it as mildly amusing with a wave of my Holy Hand. But the Cousins, they seemed to think it was the wittiest remark they’d heard in their virgin ( with regard to HUMOUR, although otherwise as well I should presume. hope. ) lives. ANYHO:

Okay don't get many pictures taken so this'll have to do: So this is what it looked like around then.

See? Not all THAT Hairy Scary (that’s not even close to the worst of me). So anyway.

This year, said cousin came once again along with her children, for a longer duration so we’ve spent more time with the kids. The older as much of a Dora as she was last time (she even says “Let’s Play!” in that annoying squirmy tone), and the younger cuter than ever:

And these holy children of god STILL FRIKKIN REMEMBER THE HAIRY SCARY MONSTER SCANDAL. They won’t remember my name, oh no, but they’ll remember this. Maybe my face induces revelations.

Whats more is that it’s been renewed and branded on their memories with molten hot brandishing tools (can’t seem to remember what they’re called). SO it goes like this.

Me: “Hi A/O”
A/O: “AAAARGH! HAIRY SCARY MONSTER!” *runs away*
Me: …

After a few such encounters I decided what the hell and agreed to play along, with the whole monster-chase and shiz. So then finally the younger kid, O, realises I’m not all that monsterous and says to his mother:

“Well from the outside she’s nice, but the inside she’s evil”
TheMom: “huh?”
“Her mouth is evil!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Yes it is! From the outside she’s nice, but in her mouth she’s evil! her teeth are evil!”
“chup karo itnay achay to daant hain..”
me: “erm. Thankyou?”

So my mouth is evil. Beware?

Anyho. It’s been about a month if not more since both kids are here, and they’re lovely. Once you get past the Dora-ness. Buh anyway. So the title “Hairy Scary Monster” stuck, and that’s what I’m referred to as despite the fact that they’ve gotten over their initial erm, fears. (It’s either that or “fi fi”, an intervention by my diabolical sister). So normal conversations now go like this:

(O and I were wanted to go to my house from an aunt’s house, which is another apartment in the same building, same floor, to retrieve His Highness’s Wand [explained later] while his mother was leaving at the same time)

TheMom: “O where are you going? We have to leave.”
O: “But I’m going with the hairy scary monster, to her house!”
TheMom: “We’ll go some other time, alright. We have to go home now. Say goodbye to the hairy scary monster.”
O: “Bye hairy scary monster, make sure the wand is charged okay.”

——————————————-

O was over and playing with the Harry Potter Toy Wand my sister had as a kid. Expectedly, a fued developed over who should be the Highest Wizard and in control of the wand. So we decided to put the wand away altogether. Now doing this while avoiding the wailing of freakishly high-pitched banshees around the house was somewhat tricky. So we let on the following:

Me: “You see, Wizard O (he’d zap you into a frog if you didn’t say that) the power of the wand has been exhausted, we need to recharge it. Here’s it’s charger see. You put it in there like that, hanging part of it in the beaded necklace up there.. *puts the wand in a half used toilet roll and lets the magic-spurtings part of it dangle onto a beaded necklace hanging luckily from something overhead, in the most gentle manner so as to show the wand had to be Dealt with Carefully* There. now it’ll charge..”
O: *awestuck. watching he wand, gaping* …
Me: “.. We must leave now.”
O: “But why?”
Me: “Because it won’t charge if someone’s looking at it”
O: “But I’m not looking at it” *turns away*
Me: “but you can’t be in the room either, see. It won’t charge in the presence of humans. It has to be perfectly alone.” *drags him out*
O: “But whyyy?”
Me: “Because.” (his own line thrown back at him, huzzzah!)

So he child is pacified. Phew. A while later..

O: “Wands don’t charge.”

Sister and I exchange looks of Fuck.

Me: “Um. But this one does!”
O: “No it doesn’t!”
Me: “yes it does, it’s a special kind of wand you see.”

He does see, thankfully. And runs off with the other kids to play. Some three-and-a-half-year-old.

How The Monster Became Hairy and subsequently Scary.

Last Summer, or was it the summer before, Cousin from America visited with her two kids who are Pakistani by breed, hybrid by behavioral habits, and -

GODDAMMIT. Parents are dragging me out somewhere. I WILL DO THIS WHEN I GET BACK. Worry not, Padawan. Somuchforimpact >.<

And my iPod’s not even charged.
:(
Boohoo.

If You Never Bothered Watching Any of the Videos I Post on My Blog..

.. watch these two, IN SUCCESSION. Bonnie Tyler gives me goosebumps. I’m currently going gaga over her.

For douches who don’t listen, DO NOT WATCH THIS VIDEO until you have seen the original above.

Get’s kinda lame in the middle, but yeah.

In other news, I’ve been reading trying to read Roald Dahl’s
“My Uncle Oswald” and either that or the cake I had before is making me terribly sick in the stomach. But it’s amusing nonetheless. But it’s like coffee shots. Not too much in one go. Never too much in one go. AND I’M HARDLY FIFTY PAGES INTO THE BOOK. Get yourself a copy and see why. And if your mother asks, I did NOT recommend it.

Back to regular blogging once I sort out my life (I.E. READING LISTS, MOVIE LISTS, DOWNLOAD LISTS, DRAWING-PROJECTS LISTS.

Daddy Criminal (Faint Hearts Keep Away)

I Came Here to Make You Dance Tonight

Now that the pain’s gradually retreating, I feel myself slipping into my !!P@rT@yY!!  MoD3.

BLAH.

I’ve Been Busy..

.. being Creative, thou seest. I’ve been sanctifying blasphemous HannahMontanna shirts.

Before the Abuse (a very bad picture)

After the Abuse

Slightly muddled, could’ve been much better yeah. The attempts to cover that cunt Montanna and make a kickass design simultaneously seemed to conflict beyond my unfucking(verb) abilities. But meh, it’s wearable. Swear to God am never painting on another shirt which isn’t plain white/coloured. Covering shit up takes a lot of time, patience and paint.

Oh wait. Almost forgot the reverse side. Previously empty, it now looks like this:

Huzzah \m/

Erm, a close up:

THIS, droogies, is what I did during the O's as a means of distraction. Covered it from top to bottomwith these lyrics in miniscule handwriting. And now I want to kill myself for having done it with a cheapass Dollar pointer. So either I'll have to never get it washed (haha) or somehow remove all traces of the writing (seemingly impossible) and rewrite with the newly purchased fabric marker. Bloody Hell.

A bit of the jazz is stolen from a deviantArt merchandise design, but most of it is my own. Don’t listen to anyone who tells you otherwise. -_-

I’ll take on commissions for customized T-shirts, so contact me if want/know someone who wants. Not counting too much on that though. meh.

I’ve started reading A Clockwork Orange, you might’ve noticed if you’re observant enough (refer to the “droogies” on one of the picture captions). Bloody hell, I’ve read hardly a chapter so far. It sucks to keep turning back to the glossary to translate the gibberish. Apart from that it’s great. But that very thing kindof kills the joy of reading.  So I’ve decided I’m going to learn up the glossary first, it’s not too long. So don’t be surprised “nadsat” influences in the “slovos” I use.

heehaw.

Revelations

Amidst longer-than-welcomed paroxysms of straddling-the-suicide-inducing-border PAIN, it’s that time of the month again, I observe with great amusement that my most read post is this. Proof of what lovely readership I have. It stands unchallenged right on top with 109 views. I suppose the subject is.. of much fascination and interest to certain “categories” of people (not labeling here). But what do I care. I get kicks out of knowing people get kicks out of reading it.

I had three nuberol fortes today. And expectedly enough I feel fucking sedated right now, like I’m on tranq or something. And just watched Charlie Bartlett a while back. So am inspired by the effects of Ritalin.  heheha. Have to finish reading The Outsider anyway. But meh. I think I’ll just go roll about the floor a bit till I sleep.

But anyway, I have found an alternative to nuberol. Well, not really an alternative, but basically something for the pain when it transcends nuberol’s curing abilities. And that happens often, dear friends. Anyway this alternative is called “Trashy Brain Damaging Movies Along the Lines of Bride Wars and 17 Again and Devil Wears Prada” Highly distracting, and effective that way. Zoning out also helps.

My blog stats also show that most people come across the aforementioned post after googling “nuberol forte”. So I ran my own quick google search and, rightly enough, it pops up on number three of the first page following druginfosys.com link, dull enough to arouse interest by a contrasting headline screaming “I DO NOT WISH TO BE A GIRL” in BOLD LETTERS. I wonder what they think when they come across what they do come across.

I was recently musing to my sister about the futility of living at all if it has to be in dread of this pain every month. Mental torture anticipating the pain, and oppression you know, coupled with a complete inability to think straight let alone carry out simple everyday tasks like opening the freezer to look for Ice-cream. What kind of a life is that?

And before this post becomes any more suicidal I will sign out with a little bit of advice: Mind your arses in Sunday Bazaar because the Hazara Boys with their innocent and defenceless expressions are very subtle at brushing buttsies.

I hope you have a nice life.

Imagine this is a post ranting on MotherFucking KESC. They get a capital MF because they’re just that glorious.

We bring the bump to the grind, uh huh.

You know exams are getting to your head when your dad calls you upon arriving at a friend’s house to pick you up and says “Haan beta, I’m here come down” and you reply;

“haan beta, aa rahi hoon”

It’s always the Jews -_-

Disclaimer: I love yo-hoodis!