You have too much free time anyway….

I have a new experience to add to my resume, and can safely say that it’s not gonna be on my top ten list. Life in India meant, if I was sick (and I mean, past-the-point-of-“I-feel-like-death”) I would go to a GP, have someone look down my throat and spend the next two weeks taking some mild antibiotics. No biggie.

Perhaps I’m remembering it wrong, which will probably lead to having a long discussion with le madre about my medical history, but it didn’t seem all that bad in the third world country where illnesses abide in crevices that shouldn’t exist. Maybe that’s because I was a kid and for a kid being sick = NO SCHOOL! I can sit in bed all day playing on my brother’s gameboy and doing sweet FA!  Being a ‘grown-up’ and unwell is, on the other hand, inconvenient to say the very least. Here are reasons why it’s just a little bit less fun:

– I have more work to do if I skip school than if I down a paracetamol and go to class. The teachers sometimes teach what’s in the book. Mostly, they illustrate information the book doesn’t cover because they believe is important. It’s not, because, like most stuff learnt in university, it’s theoretical nonsense that can only be useful in pretentious conversation. It IS useful because IT WILL BE IN THE EXAM. If I don’t sit there for two hours doing the drone, I’d have to spend weeks running around trying to find a fellow student who has managed to take sufficient notes, find out if they’re willing to let me copy them, hassle to find a moment where I can scan the notes and then swallow all my complaints when the handwriting turns out to be unintelligible. Did I mention the PowerPoint lecture slides? They tend to consist of a basic heading to introduce a topic, and then random words written out phrase-style. It all makes sense when the lecturer is talking, because what’s on the slides are just his primer notes. On their own, they make about as much sense as a recipe without the instructions.

– Naps are mandatory. Since when are naps mandatory?? I would literally stay up all night long to prove to my parents that if they were going to make me have a nap, I was going to make them pay. Now, I get home from uni, sit down on my bed with every intention of finishing up that essay that’s due, um, tomorrow. And fall asleep. Today, I was sitting in class, counting the minutes before I could go home, collapse on my fluffy blanket and take a nap! It doesn’t matter how early I decide to go to bed, how early I have to wake up, or even how strenuous my day has been so far. At around 13:00, my brain starts slowing down and if I haven’t napped it by 15:00, it goes into hibernation mode. That is, I look awake, but you could probably poke me in the eye and I wouldn’t have a single reflex response. Because my brain doesn’t care that I am 20, not Methuselah, or consider that sleeping for more than 10 hours a day just might be a waste of time.

– I have to set alarms… for when to eat. I’m a forgetful person when it comes to food. If I’m not so hungry that my stomach physically hurts, I tend to forget all about eating. Someone will walk into class with a sandwich and I’ll be like “Ohhh! That’s what I was trying to remember two hours ago! I knew I was missing something!” For the most part, I make sure I’m getting three meals a day or compensate with two massive ones. Enter the meds. I’m on a wondrous cocktail of meds that require a stringent eating schedule. One pill with breakfast, two pills an hour before food, or two hours after. Five pills half an hour before food, or two hours after. The problem here is that, my eating schedule resembles my wake-up schedule, which resembles my class schedule. If class begins at 9:00, I’m up at 7:00. If at 15:00, I’m up at 13:00. I have 80 minutes for the essentials (make-up, clothes selection, coffee, making sandwiches, making cigarettes), 20 minutes to get to school and 10 minutes to have a smoke before class. Food is not a factor in these two hours. Which means (remember, forgetfulness) I have to estimate the day before when I’ll be hungry and try to set an approximate alarm an hour earlier to down a batch of drugs. And if I so happen to accidentally take a nap or have a later class and miss the alarm, I have find some way to wile away the time before I can eat again. Like splattering my sleepy, hunger-induced frustration on my school blog.

Sex and the Wolf

“Sex!”

My aunt called out milliseconds before the photo was taken at my graduation ceremony. The smiles on the faces of my classmates and me were more real than those on any other photo I own.

“69!” she yelled at the second one.

We are free to discuss sex, to yell out the well-known names of Kama-sutra positions in a hallway full of professors and award-winning guest speakers. Sex and lust have, for the most part, lost large degrees of their dark and evil connotations. Everyone thinks about sex. Most talk about sex and many, very many, have had sex outside the blessed encasement of nuptials.

30 years have passed since Angela Carter’s The Company of Wolves was published and one would think that in the Western world of today, we can read that short story, admire the literary finesse and put it down with only a vague sense of disturbance, mostly derived from the references to bestiality. I, for one, did not expect the last line to release a sense of horrified awe.

When Carter wrote The Company of Wolves feminism was still relatively new. The Age of Aquarius had brought the sex revolution to an all crazed height, but sex remained one of those question marks on the pages of morality. The protagonist who steps calmly into the lustful arms of the werewolf sheds the norms and paranoia of her society and embraces the naked wolf – she is a heroine of the time the story was written and of every other suppressed woman in every age of the past. You don’t find her stooping to the drudgery of the other women in the village, living a life of child-bearing, cooking, and religious servitude to the men.

Little Red Riding-hood burns her clothes and, simply by being naked, turns the focus away from the ravenous lust of the wolf. She is Naked. She is Sexy. She is unafraid because once a woman has embraced that sexual side of herself she becomes a force no wolf can devour. She is not his meat. She is his mate in the most animalistic sense of the word. And in the end, ‘See! Sweet and sound she sleeps in granny’s bed, between the paws of the tender wolf.’

This is the battle women before the glorious laziness of the 21^st century had to slog their way through: that simple freedom that consenting adults today take for well-deserved granted. It’s just sex. Thank God that old-wives tale, religious, guilt-tripping stigma is gone.

“This is what you’ll look like if you have sex and enjoy it, my dear.”

In Carter’s time, sex was as dangerous as a wolf. Wolves – the hyenas of the north. The creature who’s howl is ‘in itself a murdering’. That was sex. Perhaps I’m just wrapping my head around this a little late, but – a wolf? Sex was that bad, considered that dangerous, viewed with that much revulsion. Now, 30 years in the future, what we have left to deal with are the sticks and stones of ‘female driver’ and the occasional slur of ‘slut’. Instead of figuring out a creative and beautiful way of burning theses tags, we sit around and argue and insult in the YouTube comment section, blasting out an obnoxious case before a couldn’t-be-arsed jury.

PS: There will be no conclusion because I have not thought of a fitting solution. Yet.

Intercities

Ladies and Gentlemen, good afternoon. This is the intercity to Kindhof, Tweenewijk, Volwassen and Jubilar. This train departs at 14:35.

 

 

First stop: Kindhof

 

‘What am I?’ said the voice in the bushes.

The boy tottered back again, still poised to run. ‘Bushes have no mouths,’ he said. ‘You’re a gardener.’

The voice giggled.

‘I don’t like you laughing at me,’ said the boy angrily.

‘But I like laughing,’ returned the voice in the bushes. ‘How would you feel if you weren’t allowed to laugh?’

‘My mum says it’s rude to laugh at someone.’

‘You could say I am a gardener of sorts,’ said the voice with a lilt. ‘I like plants. And how do you know bushes have no mouths? Next you’ll say they have no faces or feelings.’ 

‘They don’t,’ said the boy peevishly. ‘My mum says I shouldn’t be talking to strangers.’ 

‘Your mum is smart. But I am no stranger, you know.’ The voice sounded bored.

 

 

Next stop: Tweenewijk 

 

‘What do you want to be when you complete this course?’ said the counselor.

Amy Pond. ‘I don’t know. A writer?’ I said.

‘A writer for what? A magazine? The newspaper? A political journal?’ he pressed.

A sociopath who makes politicians and children feel uncomfortable. ‘Mad magazine,’ I said blankly and watched as first his eyes widened minutely and then the gutters from his nose to his chin deepened.

‘You know, writing is a very difficult career,’ he began , that patronizing tone poorly hidden behind his words. ‘People rarely get to write whatever they want. Have you thought about perhaps writing for a women magazine?’

I could teach a murderess how to disguise herself without plastic surgery. ‘I could teach a murderess how to disguise herself without plastic surgery,’ I said. After so many different patients each with their own disturbing set of stories, how can he still look so shocked at what I’m saying? This is no fun.

‘This isn’t a joke,’ said the counselor. The irritation that had been creeping into his voice over the last 20 minutes broke from its guise.

I smiled.

‘University ended two years ago,’ he said. He crossed his legs and seemed to age a decade. ‘You have a degree in political science. How can you be satisfied sitting at home all day, doing a part-time weekend job and living off of your parents? Is that how you want to live the rest of your life?’

Shut up.

‘How can you be proud of yourself? Recognise the problem: you have no vision.’

I have poor vision, not no vision. 

‘Now look for a new path.’ 

Ah, enlightenment. ‘I should become a buddist.’

His smile is as fake as Angelina Jolie’s breasts. ‘If that gives you motivation, do it!’ 

 

 

 

 Next stop: Volwassen

 

This is the perfect song to die to. It was loud, it was sharp, the bass made the walls shake, the glass in the shelves ring. To hear it is to live without breathing – it took one’s breath away. Actually, the smoke did, but the music made you not care. Eyes closed against the thick and hazy smell of burning cannabis,  nose stinging, mouth taking short, vacuumless gasps. The bass carrying on and on and on.

It would be so perfect to die like this, the song looping over and over, the bass dragging you through that red door. On the other side, you are the hero. On the other side, your finger is on the trigger, your hand draws the sword, your arm holds the banner. You are the saviour, the hero, the one with all the answers. Your plans never go wrong. Never. You are always the victor. Always.

Air. You had to have air. The music pulls one to walk with it, step with the beat, lift one’s arms with the running and throw the window open at the crescendo. Suck in a deep gasp of cold air as the bridge collapses into chorus, as the drums return to the crashing centre, as the lead leaves a dizzying trail from electric guitar to violin, to piano, to violin, to piano, to guitar, to piano. Where are you? Are you yet standing? Are you wearing the red slippers? The cure for the munchies dinged in the microwave, breaking to flow. The song ended. The door slammed. The smell of chicken.

 

 

Ladies and Gentlemen, we have arrived at Jubilar. This is the last stop for this train. For those travelling with the Intercity card, do not forget to check out. 

My sentiments! Times 97. With a little more deprecation due to the Twilight affiliation.

The Urban Dictionary Definitions

( WARNING: unsuitable for ages 45 and above)

Urban Dictionary is awesome – the most retarded definitions you’d ever find!

 

1) Your name – Amanda: Meaning ‘worthy of love’ in Latin, it has recently become slang for ‘the best sister in the whole wide world’.
Amanda is smart, beautiful, sarcastic, loving, helpful, and supportive. She gives her all in everything that she does, even if she doesn’t know how to do it.
Known for giving great advice, being extremely protective of the ones she loves, saving the day on a regular basis, and corrupting the minds of young children.
She has fantastic taste in anything and everything (especially boys), and looks fantastic without even trying. It isn’t fair.
Immune to criticism and bad weather, they can do anything with grace and perfection. She’s almost too perfect. You could hate her if you didn’t know her, but if you do, she’s your best friend.
She’s the biggest sweetheart you’ll ever meet. She deserves a hug, just as long as you don’t touch her hair. Or feet. If you do, she’ll switch into a Bailey, and roundhouse kick your ass. Anyway, leave the hair alone.

(“corrupt the minds of young children”… how I love it!)

 

2) Your age – 18: You’re old enough to know better, but young enough to not care

 

3) One or two of your friends – Romina: adjective used to describe a woman who has numerous flattering characteristics, such as: outgoing,
wonderful, uniqueness, beautiful, flowy hair, dreamy, smells like delicate flowers, smart, intelligent, knows what she wants in life, wants to pursue a remarkable career…

Emanuel: aka Eco-Man. E-man and his trusty side-kick/love, Nova Kane were called on by General Dove whenever he had a worldwide threat. Eman had numerous enemies whose mission was to destroy him. Juno and Michael powers were highly destructive and Battery was the most dangerous. Eman’s powers converted toxic waste into elements to protect the environment.

(How, just how, does anyone come up with something so utterly random?)

 

4) What should you be doing – School: Concentration camp for children. Set up to teach people to become docile and obedient subjects of capitalism and the state. This is achieved through mind-numbing, attacks on individual identity, and various degrees of disguised terror, usually (but not always) concealed by a double-bind.

Work out: something you don’t do because you spend too much time on the internet.

 

5) Favourite colours – Dark green: A dark green of most tree leaves. Symbolizes wisdom, comfort, and loyalty. Also of a deep, pure, and true love based of faith and honesty, not sex.

White: an adjective, meaning to foresee and act in advance, to be ahead in doing or accomplishing, characteristic of, or benefiting, a friend.

Black: The short name for a Black & Mild Cigar, produced by Middleton.

 

6) Month of your birth – January: The best month of the year with February right behind. When the coolest/hottest people were born. Also the prettiest time of the year… snow & winter time. Who doesn’t love January?

(Yep, gotta love Jan.)

 

7) Date of birth – 25: This refers to a metrosexual male who is suspected of being gay because rumor has it that he has two X chromosomes and half a Y which translates to roman numerals XXV coz a V is half of a Y.

(Ew! My poor birthday! I can’t believe Latin numerology has failed me!)

 

8 ) Last person you talked to – Shanthi: A fun exciting drunk drug addict that will steal anything that is not bolted down, unless she has a spanner – then that is up for grabs as well. That swears like a Cockney sailor with tourette syndrome but she is the most lovable person in the world.

(*blink, blink*… wahahahaha!)

 

9) Nickname – Mandy: Slang for MDMA. “Mandy” is a powder form of the drug ecstasy. Is often preferred to ecstasy pills as MDMA is pure, whilst ecstasy pills are often adulterated. It is a popular drug amongst ravers and people who do not trust the purity of pills, and ecstasy in general has always been associated, often by the police and government, with the underground dance music scene.