.. and my Urdu test. All schools have, by now, jumped the ID card bandwagon and for The G particularly it seems to be more of a formal requirement rather than a security measure.

To my absolute pleasure, I got sent back homeward today because I’d forgotten mine and the other option would’ve been to get my dad to fetch the wretched piece of easy-to-forge little identification all the way from Saddar back to Clifton and back again, all the while begging them to let me in. Um hello? Ego issues here. And hell if I’m going to put him or me through all of that just to comply with some school rule which is inflexible enough to cause inconvenience.  Understandable for people who live around the place and have drivers waiting to be summoned, but no thanks. A friend had to say on the matter of ID cards:

“It’s like a condom.. never forget.”

Me: “hahaha.. Or else no entry?”

So I got the day offff – Providence, I call it. And I’m not one to meddle with Divine intervention. So I spent the morning munching on Buttas and catching up on Dr. Zhivago, who by the way is quite the sexy Russian. Ohyes. The reading list runs longer than ever..

Contrary to popular belief, the dweller of this humble cyber abode still exists well within the confines of  This World. I have merely been caught up with a bit of erm.. making lists of foodstuffs and stocking up on doodle paper and things. What the ef for? I is creating a Bomb Shelter. You know, in these trying times where security is hardly an illusion -insert speech y jazz- one must be.. Prepared. And in ways more efficient that what the Oh So Sensible G has decided to employ: hoarding the entire school in one place so that eventually when the attackers get there, which they will, they can hold the entire school hostage and celebrate Christmas. And how do they pacify us? By promising biscuits and water in the case it ever came to being locked in for long periods of time. Wonderful strategy, if I may.

But anyway, back to my MegaPlan. I’ll start with the food list. The policy behind selection was easy and simple; Convenience a:
- Knorr Chatkharay noodles. 2 minutes to cook, what more could a person fearing death any moment (on an empty stomach at that) want?
- Butta (corncob). Lots of Butta. The leftover cobs can then be used to create a fire to cook more Butta. Ohyes.
- Kheera and Gajar. Because I function on organic.
- Pomegranates. Because I function on organic. And I’ve always wanted to experiment painting with the bright red juice – I don’t see when I’ll have more time on my hands.
- Pringles. Boxes and boxes and boxes of pringles of all flavours.
- Vanilla flavoured Jam Hearts. My new fetish.
- TimTams from the Lyceum canteen. The thing has a Wikipedia page. ‘Nuff said.
- Pie in the Sky goodies. I need my cake break.
- All necessary ingredients for coffee and greenTea teabags. For purposes of sanity and extreme health conditions, respectively.
- Nuberol Forte. You know why.

As you can see I’ll be partying it up (down?) while you take cover under stairs and pray your futile lives be pardoned. I got three words to say to you: Mua ha ha.

I am not disclosing the whereabouts of this awesome establishment  just yet, partially because I do not know myself, but might do so later on if I feel generous enough to share. Till then, moar lists to be made.

And for those insufferable douches who will inevitably feel the need to point out the lack of Proteins in my list: Shove Up Your Own.

Thankyou, and stay safe.
Now I’m just waiting for someone to google Jam Hearts and land on my blog.

I’m still overwhelmed by this past weekend that has been ROTMUN. I’m glad I don’t debate, it wouldn’t have been the same participating (as part of The G [that's how it shall be referred to henceforth. Not worth being typed out in its entirety.] team at that. Shudder, pls.) as being on the organization team. Great events, great people, horrible music, great lighter-stealing opportunities, whatta weekend. More detailed posts highlighting certain events once I get more coherent. For now I’ll just say.

Shit yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar.

Mum: So tell your sister to take care of it.

Me: Us se handle nahin ho ga.

Mum: Us se kiya cheez handle hoti hai?

Me: …

I have compiled a list of all the Eid Specimens I have yet encountered in my short life, boiled down to three categories which have stood out most distinctly for your convenience. We’ll keep the Jews and other non-Eidsters out of this, for now. Though I can think of a few things that could be attributed to them, but that’s for another post and another time entirely.. Further species and division suggestions are welcome, unless they fall into an already existing category. Here goes.

The Dawat Hoppers: My parents and the rest of the Khatri Community all fall into this. Having close-knitted families, or just competition in the society, they attempt a humanly impossible number of visitations at relatives/neighbours/friends/acquaintances/or just random people who might *get offended* (read: mull over losing a [SHALLOW]compliment). I don’t know if it’s just to check out/show off Eid clothes (as if they don’t already know each minute little detail beforehand, or they never surreptitiously saw your suit at the darzi’s to make sure they had better ones) or judge culinary skills (like that’s necessary: for some reason peoples’ sense of proportion and sugar get interfucked and muddled beyond edible stages), whatever the reason, Dawat Hoppers feel this fussy need to spring from place to place and fidget worse than.. okay Imagine Spiderman getting an erection in Spandex. Now double the momentum. yeah.
Caution: DO not invite out of courtesy, unless are willing to host a whole new train of visitors.

The Awami Ghar: most families and extended families I know have a certain meeting point, an Open House that welcomes Brothers to Sisters to Sister’s Friends to their Friends to absolute Strangers. Such Houses exhibit a great food storage capacity, or an impressive maasi Brigade, or an unusually large number of females, and more often than not very very good cooks (hence the positive attraction). Also the amount of potential Eidi to be obtained by the Huge throng adds to its appeal.
Caution: Rishta Aunties loiter here. Approach/Avoid as appropriate.

The Gamer Chaddas: So called because their only two commitments on Eid seem to be cruising around the house in chaddas and playing GTA or some other shitty game on a console. Such soles are usually deprived of festive laddoos but they appear to make do with ordering McDonalds or something similar. This just in, jamming is also practiced by this cult of deviants, and they have now added sinful music-making activities to their repertoire. Although entirely detached from tradition, they seemingly get more Eidi than those few who labour to kiss hands by the dozen and wish Eid Mubarak in thee most jovial manner they can assume to perhaps obtain just a little more of that pretty polly handed their way. In other words, they have it easy.
Caution: Do not make yourself known; extreme jealousy may lead to unwanted consequences.

The As-We-Please Diners: Uncommon but not unusual, a rare breed which retains some amount of Free Will on this occasion (Something I can only eternally aspire to), and determines it’s own lunch and supper based on a general referendum or whatever the fuck. I was recently informed of a certain friend dining at a JAPANESE restaurant on the first day of Eid, and feasting on DEEP FRIED ICE CREAM (whatever the fuck that is) and pursuing similar plans for the other two days as well. Like, dude [read: blood boiling envy]. My family assumed a tentative membership into the As-We-Please Club yesterday for my father’s birthday, a situation which is otherwise characterised by no liberty whatsoever to choose eateries over dawats.
Caution: Keep yourselves relatively unknown; mild jealousy may lead to unwanted consequences.

————————————-
*Post might be updated in between dawats as/and new categories emerge/make themselves known/are sent my way respectively

I have nothing but unhealthy, hot hot passionate, frivolous, unabating, filthy anal love for these guys. When’s the last time you saw something this epic?

When’s the last time you saw someone partying this hard? Seriously.
Jiggy like the Kocha? Word.

{Since I’ll never read Harry Potter the same way again:}

<JonJonB> Purely in the interests of science, I have replaced the word “wand” with “wang” in the first Harry Potter Book
<JonJonB> Let’s see the results…

<JonJonB> “Why aren’t you supposed to do magic?” asked Harry.
<JonJonB> “Oh, well — I was at Hogwarts meself but I — er — got expelled, ter tell yeh the truth. In me third year. They snapped me wang in half an’ everything

<JonJonB> A magic wang… this was what Harry had been really looking forward to.

<JonJonB> “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Harry Potter.” It wasn’t a question. “You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wang. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wang for charm work.”
<JonJonB> “Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wang. Eleven inches. “

<JonJonB> Harry took the wang. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wang above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls

<JonJonB> “Oh, move over,” Hermione snarled. She grabbed Harry’s wang, tapped the lock, and whispered, ‘Alohomora!”

<JonJonB> The troll couldn’t feel Harry hanging there, but even a troll will notice if you stick a long bit of wood up its nose, and Harry’s wang had still been in his hand when he’d jumped – it had gone straight up one of the troll’s nostrils.

<JonJonB> He bent down and pulled his wang out of the troll’s nose. It was covered in what looked like lumpy gray glue.

<JonJonB> He ran onto the field as you fell, waved his wang, and you sort of slowed down before you hit the ground. Then he whirled his wang at the dementors. Shot silver stuff at them.

<JonJonB> Ok
<JonJonB> I have found, definitive proof
<JonJonB> that J.K Rowling is a dirty DIRTY woman, making a fool of us all
<JonJonB> “Yes,” Harry said, gripping his wang very tightly, and moving into the middle of the deserted classroom. He tried to keep his mind on flying, but something else kept intruding…. Any second now, he might hear his mother again… but he shouldn’t think that, or he would hear her again, and he didn’t want to… or did he?
<melusine > O_______O
<JonJonB> Something silver-white, something enormous, erupted from the end of his wang

<JonJonJonB> Then, with a sigh, he raised his wang and prodded the silvery substance with its tip.

<JonJonJonB> ‘Get – off – me!’ Harry gasped. For a few seconds they struggled, Harry pulling at his uncles sausage-like fingers with his left hand, his right maintaining a firm grip on his raised wang.

My anti-drug is Porcupine Tree’s Fear of a Black Planet, an album about drugs. Hmmm.

What is cool?

Spotting Gumby while traveling down the Zamzama street then jumping out of the car then running back down the road and crossing over to the other side, into the street he walked in, following him into some obscure juice shop in the corner of that street and ganging up on him like a bunch of squealing fangirls. Ooooh yeah. Personally, it wasn’t so much the thought of meeting Gumby as actually running across that road that brought on the adrenaline rush to my very very uneventful life and high/maila-time deprived self.

My general teacher looks like The Joker. Which kind of sucks because everytime she opens her mouth I end up imagining her with green hair and creepy ass make up which leaves no room for taking her seriously, which sucks further because this is bloody general we’re talking about, which I really do not wish to screw up.

We start acrylics tomorrow. As intimidated as I am by the various most strategically positioned paintings adorning the walls of that school, the prospect is yippee exciting. Andddddd I gottay Palette knife today. Zhomg I’ve always wanted one of those thing dhen-chuuuuuuuu.

New art supplies make me horny.
Want frikkin ramadan to end.

Okay so I’ve had three Urdu classes until now (one double period), and I swear to god I have never hated my being with this much intensity ever before. Love the language, but it’s like fucking Grade-6 Urud classes all over again. Same old topics, same old 12-year-old mentality of students. And since there’s just five of us, and hence all forces exerted are interactive, the room BURSTS with this dawn of the dead kind of a looming gloomy feeling of utter zombie-vada which can kill anything from GossipGirl-loving-dudes to Morse-code-communicating-Einsteins’ brains. AND I FUCKING LIE IN THE MIDDLE ZONE (balance, ho.).

I am going to give it all I have, and I mean All, to convince the headmistress for a switch over to Econ. Pajina may be arranging for a congregational prayer (in this holy month of Ramadan) for my sake (yes that’s how desperate I am), and any added effort on an individual basis will be. kickass.

If I don’t get this by next term, I’m an incompetent little choot who’ll FAIL at life.