Why I’m Not Married

I am 32 and still yet not married. Why? The answer is very simple: I chose not to be. In most Pakistani households this would be the worst kind of evil. A 32-year-old woman collecting dust on the highest shelf with no rishta (proposal) from a potential suitor coming her way? Something must be wrong. FYI: there isn’t. Yet, questions inevitably arise. What will become of her? Why are her parents sitting back and not alerting the elders so they can fix her up? How will she, god forbid, survive if she remains single for the rest of her life? The answers to these questions are easy: I will be just fine.

The absolute shit show of marriages I’ve seen in my lifetime is enough to put anyone off. To be in love is entirely different to be stuck in a loveless marriage where you convince yourself what society expects of you is much more important than what you expect for yourself and your own happiness. I’ve often argued that twenty-first century Pakistani culture resembles nineteenth-century English values especially in how marriage is viewed: a circumstance that is unavoidable if you are to survive. Women must marry in order to be looked after financially – particularly in rural villages in Pakistan. However, this should not be the case. We are more than capable of surviving by ourselves. Yet, I still see women pressured into marrying young, their first cousin or, worse still, the assumption that if you are not married then you are secret lesbian, not pretty enough for marriage or too outspoken for a man.

There is an expectation that you will marry at some point. It might be after your degree, after you have saved enough money or when you buy your first house. However, the expectation remains. You are expected to marry at some point, but would if you don’t want to? Perhaps if we are shown loving relationships where husband and wife were united and one then maybe we would be more inclined to partake. But if all we see is an unequal gender balance in our cultural society, who would ever want to commit themselves to a ‘unity’ where you are constantly scrutinised? Some might disagree with what I have to say and that is fine, but until we are all allowed to express our truth and have honest conversations about what really takes place then nothing will change. I was once told because I was not married I don’t know the way of the world and therefore not seen as mature. Having an opinion that carries creditability is not determined on whether you said ‘I do’. This is not the world I want to live in let alone a world I would want any girl to grow up in.

My grandmother is my inspiration. When my grandfather died in the 1950s, leaving her to raise two small children, in a rural village in Pakistan she decided not to remarry. In fact, she threw a man out in the street (literally) when he came round to propose and subsequently tell her he was doing her a favour in asking a widow to marry him. Instead she became a potter, selling her work on the street until she built up a business acquiring contracts to sell them in shops. This is my background and it is with this story that I stand today, defiantly and boldly, against the cultural norms of Asian society.

Asian society seem to be fascinated with the fact that my parents have allowed me to reach the spinster age of 32 and not introduced me to anyone lurking in the shadows who needs a cook or, better still, covertly wants a passport (yes, this still occurs and is quite possibly the sole reason for most marriages). The silent conclusion society has drawn is that I must be hiding a secret partner – it seems impossible for them to comprehend that to be unmarried is actually my choice. And it is a choice that will only change if I meet the right person for me.

The Rambling Chronicles IV: Penned To You

It’s happened again. I’ve thought of nothing, and rambled my way into writing this blog post. For those who take the time to read it, I urge you not to read too much into my words and allow yourself to be taken through the journey of my mind. Whereas to the one it’s clearly aimed at: you better analyse the shizzle out of it.

There was nothing but the gentle breeze of the wind and birds chirruping in the nearby trees. My heart was tied up in several knots and I felt this emptiness, which made the pits of my stomach churn like a windmill within a hurricane. I could accept any emotion and gladly move on with my life. However, rejection, humiliation, regret and worthlessness were all types of emotion that could turn me into a desolate being that I yearned to be free of. I wanted to be liberated from this feeling of emptiness, yet every time I tried to struggle free the black shadows would ensnare me back and I could not escape. My life is an optical swirl of emotions: each one vivid, each one gleaming, but not in harmony. It feels as though the deity of naturalist life constantly tests my capacity of strength and hopes that I will shatter into a million fragments. Yet, each time I have managed to unequivocally conquer my weakness, it comes back into my life. However, is it not astonishing how amazing the human body and mind is? Throughout life we struggle with our emotions but we adapt, do we not? Even when we feel that we cannot go further, we somehow manage to, and we do so with more strength, courage and dignity than we thought possible. I’m not sure when my journey will end. I’m not even sure if my journey has truly begun. All I do know is –

The roses looked overwrought, swaying slightly from the gentle breeze of the morning. They had grown rapidly since I had seen them last. The shrub too had grown amply – it needed tending to. The roses impaled through the greenery and the image was atheistically pleasing to his eye. He was mesmerised by the sight of them. The roses; it is the key. The clue is in the rose; it trickles with blood. The roses were embedded deep and they were starting to weave through, encompassing the spirit of all the foliage. Closer, closer still they came. NO! The red glare envisioned my optical senses and I felt that I could not breathe. It was too much; too powerful for me absorb. Moving my gaze to shield my eyes, I saw the shiny bright red double-decker bus stop before the building. Rushing to move from my spot, I impetuously leaped onto the near departing bus. I could hear something familiar. What is that? Ringing. The phone? The ring. He must have it back. I must see him. The noise – it was back. It deafened my ears. The ringing continued but still I did not answer. He sighed and hung up. I will never answer.

The Rambling Chronicles III: The Playhouse

I wish to begin by stating that although this post clearly has political attachment, it is by no means a political message. It is merely the fragments of my mind. The corners of my soul. The depths of my heart. No biggie.

It was a warm summer’s day and I sat on the stone steps listening to the world as it passed me by. I find that the sun’s warmth immersed the good senses of most people, and I could see them now walking along the cobbled stones in a happy daze: the handsome men dressed in tailored dinner suits whilst the ladies tottered around in their heels. The Thames’ water glistened under the sun, and I felt the gentle breeze of the wind, which smelt stale from the mixture of the sun’s heat and London pollution, but it was still a welcome refreshing dose of reality upon my skin. There were no clouds in sight and, with no fear of raindrops, the clear blue sky was peacefully calm. It was almost as if it too were enjoying its artistic creation. The bell chimed. Nine times, I counted. I looked up, but could not see it. The Clock Tower must be close, this I knew. The noise bellowed in my ears, blasting my eardrums with years of tradition, pride and deceit.

 I had seen the reflection of the fragmented universe over the course of the day, and in its centre he was the rotting core. I stared at the man. His face resonated heinous crimes; his falsity of a sincere heart was apparent in his merciless sphinx eyes. He spoke with careful precision as he stared into the television screen, knowing his sheep will follow him in name sake, in flag ship and in oath. He breathed deeply and began:

‘It is with deep regret that the actions of these savages has given me no choice other than secure our freedom, our liberty and our safety. It is with these sentiments that I decided to send our service men to fight against oppression, fight against dictatorship and fight against evil.  The hearts that have walked into battle today, it is these hearts that we will forever remember, for they serve our nation proud; not only us, but our children, our children’s children and their children, will look back at this moment in time, for bravery upon those who require it, and remember that had we not done so, then would they have their freedom, their liberty but most of all their safety in years to come?’

To rid the world of a necessity, one must point their eyes in another direction. Who will remember his actions tomorrow, I wonder? I heard it roaring up high in the sky. I did not give it the satisfaction of my glance. It soared higher up, leaving a white puff of venom. The age had come; the destroyer had arrived. The world was, had been and always will be his playhouse.

The Rambling Chronicles II: In A World of Opposites

I have been at that pen again. Upon reflection, I feel my mind is alluding to something far greater than the dribble I have written. I fear it is making a stand – at least in my own mind. Although isn’t that how it should start? In your own mind where you let your thoughts roam freely, and strengthen your courage in self-belief and your own ability.

Again, welcome to the vortex of my mind. This is my trigger:

I must speak quickly for I have little time left. I must tell my story to those who listen, for those who have no voice. The world in which we live in is but a rarity, sacrifice has been bestowed upon the fair sex to live their lives in a manner which can only be described as turbulent. Everything we have come to know as a way of life has been determined for us by greater intervention. Whether you choose to believe this to be God, or other sources. The demise of my existence had long ceased before the world of opposites penetrated to exist. Did you hear that? The footsteps come closer; I must be quick.

The incantations that have been placed upon the world – from the greater powers – have entirely been the fault of that dreadful, debauchery treacherous kind: women. Their bewitching nature beguiled Eve’s manner, for Adam could not resist the sweet taste of an apple, and consequently damned all mankind.

Damn, they are coming nearer. I now cannot live, I simply exist. If I were to live my life again, I would wish to hark to a bird, indulge upon a midnight feast, count the blessings of an angel’s wish, cease the debauchery of a frog-tail gambit. However, in doing all this, I would never forget to gaze at the twinkling stars, the smidgens of sunbeams or the glow of moonlight. I urge you all to marvel at this beauty, but revel in your own. My story is one of understanding and dates back to the beginning of time where my ancestor damned us all. My life has been immersed by the opposite. Yet, dare I dream anything will change? In a world of opposites, she might be King. In a world of opposites, the minority would still be the fool. In a world of opposites, oppression would still rule. In a world of opposites, nothing would change. In a world of opposites, everything would still stay the same.

The Rambling Chronicles I: express yourself

‘How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?’ How many times has this been the case in my life? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never entertained the notion of pulling the trigger on myself – far from it. These intolerable, infuriating and incompetent people, who I have had the misfortunate of meeting, have already been killed in my mind twice over. However, there’s something to be said about that pen or paintbrush…So, with this in mind, I have decided to experiment with words, clear my mind of all thoughts and write whatever comes into my head. It’s amazing what your mind thinks when you consciously don’t. I challenge you all to do the same, although I take no responsibility for what you may discover.

Welcome to the vortex of my mind, this is my trigger:

Humour my good senses and read the following tale that I tell and embark on a journey of wisdom. The world of lust is like a pinafore whose sole aim is to cover up a body most treacherous. They hoist the guise high above its head, while viewing the world through a rose coloured looking glass.

Ever since I was a child I dreamt of sugar plum fairies fluttering in the gentle breeze with twinkles of light upon their wings – that ray of hope floating in the blue clear sky, always hovering in sight, but forever out of reach. I would often try to touch the sparkling embers, but they would glimmer and fade, toying with my affections and mocking my innocent nature. My mind has always been imaginative, but since become inquisitive. I find myself drifting more often than not, and questioning decisions that I have made. I feel trapped and pressured by society, and often smile to the world while I’m bleeding from my heart.

I should begin my journey at the end for it is always the best place to begin, is it not? Although let me not allude myself into believing this is the end for I am not yet dead and therefore painfully aware that I must tell my version of events as they unfold. I would like to think upon my thoughts as an experiment. I really have no idea what I hope to achieve other than the satisfaction of thinking an endless numbers of words, but still they would be my words, would they not? You see, I have been brought up in a society where the sole emphasis on life is on doing the right thing. But what is the right thing? I question this as I question why cats have tails, dogs bark or why the sun rises in the East. In this great nation that I live in, I am bound and restricted within my bones. I sit here, on my little table, writing these words and yet I know nothing will change. Will it? If I am to write these words, my words, will it make a difference? Am I to live forever bound to my bones, following society that binds me to stick tape over my lips and pins in my eyes so I am not to talk or see? The revolution will come; mine will come. I will induce freedom and be at liberty to do whatever I shall please to do so.

Ever since I was a child I dreamt of sugar plum fairies fluttering in the gentle breeze with twinkles of light upon their wings; that ray of hope floating in the blue clear sky always hovering in sight, but forever out of reach. It is only now that I can touch the glimmering light; I can now see hope; I’m not scared anymore.

An unconventional response to a conventional institution

What is in a label but misery, forlorn and responsibility? What label am I? What label do you perceive yourselves to be or, better yet, what label is bestowed upon you by the people who think they know you? I am categorised into many labels: woman, Asian, short, geek, total and complete heartless bitch. These labels have dominated (most of) my existence. Do you question your worth? Do you question your life? Do you question your decisions? The classification of labels whirl into a cesspool of involuntary insanity whereby you temporarily do your best to smile and disguise the disgust you feel when that inevitable label comes up time after time. However, what good is any of these titles if I lose myself along the way?

The world in which we live in is but a rarity. Sacrifice has been bestowed upon the passionate amongst us to live our lives in a manner which can only be described as turbulent. Everything we have come to know as a way of life has been determined for us by greater intervention. Whether you choose to believe this to be God, the educational system or other sources. The demise of my existence had long ceased before the world I live in penetrated to exist. The incantations that have been placed upon the world – from the greater powers – have entirely been the fault of that dreadful, debauchery treacherous kind: institution. Their bewitching nature has beguiled our manner and consequently damned all humankind. I now cannot live, I cannot write, I simply exist. If I were to live my educational life again, I would hark to a bird, indulge upon a midnight feast, count the blessings of an angel’s wish, cease the debauchery of a frog-tail gambit, but in doing so never forget to gaze at the twinkling stars, a smidgen of a sunbeam or the glow of moonlight. I would marvel at all this beauty, but revel in my own mind. Henceforth, my journey through time in a world that has been immersed by the conceited, arrogant and scholarly.

I bestow the blame of my penned being (or genius if you will allow me to indulge my own vanity) to the Romantic writers of the past. My writing is what I am, and it is for this reason alone, I have decided to write this blog. I need my ‘story’ to be told. This is the only way I know how. No-one may read it, but at least I have the freedom to express my pent up frustration. Therefore, please permit my story, and be patient with my humble nature, as I attempt this on-going blog to help come to terms with myself. Why should we have to change ourselves to accommodate someone else? As Laurence Sterne once said, my writing ‘is neither here nor there why do I mention it? Ask my pen, it governs me, I govern not it.’ For this reason, I have decided to take charge. I have considered myself to be an adequate writer. I am not excellent, far from it, but nor have I considered myself to be completely inept. My mind process is very simple: when I have an opinion regarding a topic, I write about it. I use naught else but my words, and if my structure of words are not enough for you then I simply must apologise for my personality.

Institutional fondness begins at a young age and, over the years, by the time we reach university, we hope that our teachers have put aside their egos in the hope that they are there for the same reason we are: for the love of literature. Yet, this is not true most of the time. Their love for the subject has disappeared and in its place is a conceited arrogance that is often mistaken for feign concern. I love literature. I love reading, writing and researching. I love individuality, something that all authors (I know) represent. Yet, as the years pass me by I have come to understand one thing: the institution is somewhat cracked and wearing.

Students of literature nationwide, if I could entrust my words to have any means of influence than I would happily part with them. However, they do not. They are solely an expression of my own thoughts, but if my thoughts are good enough for you then I shall merrily write them. I offer any reader my distinct individuality and my inventive sincerity, which my jovial heart provides, so that I know that every word that I have written comes from my earnest heart and soul. To conclude part I, I have only one thing to say to any writer: write how you feel you should. Writing is a form of expression, and if you are not expressing yourself, then who are you? If someone cannot appreciate this then this reflects more on their foolish nature, not yours.

Time for me to blog off.

Noughts and crosses

 

 

Moonlight Feast For A Starving Night: Lent, Ramadan And Yom Kipper Come Out To Shine

Warning: religious content ahead

Disclaimer: I express my own opinions

It has been a little under a year since my last blog. Time flies when you can’t be bothered to type, doesn’t it? I started writing the following blog last May. However, it was abandoned for other shiny and far more interesting things at the time (most probably forgotten after I discovered – and became slightly addicted to – Doritos Chilli Heatwave tortilla chips. They were good times, good times).

This blog contains far more serious issues than I have previously written about, but don’t be surprised if it reads like a mish-mash of complete random gargle that has been slap-dashed in a non-linear kinda way – this just reflects the madness of my mind’s thoughts. However, please rest assure that my standard sarcastic, bitchy remarks will still be incorporated within somewhere…somehow.

I start with wise words written about the English poet Robert Southey. His mind was described as being peculiar because it was marked with the features of uncompromising independence. He was particularly characterised by an inquiring and original spirit, and both his political and religious creeds differed widely from the orthodoxy of the time. It is for the tens of thousands, who learn as they are taught and think as they are instructed, to pursue the beaten track and imagine they are right when they follow the multitude. Such a course could not satisfy Southey. What do I mean by this I hear you asking while jumping up and down in anticipation? Well, why do we – as a society – always dance to the tune of the collective one and never listen to our own inquiring and original spirit? Why? Why? WHY? Goddamn, why?

Well, kid, religion is the answer. It is not surprising that there is so much segregation within the system of this world when we learn at face value what we are taught and instructed to pursue this. Religion can tear and rip a nation limb from limb; kill innocent children and slit the vocal chords of the powerless. We let it happen. It’s as simple as that.

I have come to question the meaning of religion: was it simply put on this earth to control the masses? Are the three religions of the Holy Book (Torah, Bible and Quran) not simply the same with a few (minor/major – take your pick and viewpoint) discrepancies? For example, take Yom Kipper, Lent and Ramadan – is it one and the same?

Yom Kipper, Judaism (established first): Performed on the 14^th September every year, Yom Kipper is the most sacred and solemn day in the Jewish calendar. It means Day of Atonement, and it is a day to reflect on the past year and ask for God’s forgiveness for any sins. Jewish people fast for 25 hours – no food or drink is consumed. However, children under thirteen and people who are ill and pregnant do not have to fast. No make-up or perfume is worn; no sex; no bathing; no leather shoes.

Lent, Christianity (established second): Lent constitutes a period of six weeks leading up to Easter, and it is considered to be the most important festival in the Christian calendar. During the 40 days of Lent, Christians remember the time when Jesus went into the desert to pray and fast for forty days before beginning work for God. During this time, it is suggested that Jesus had been tempted by Satan on numerous occasions, but resisted each time. During Lent, you are expected to give up one of several things, so for Christians it is a way of remembering the time Jesus fasted in the desert and a test of self-disciple.

Ramadan, Islam (the last established): Ramadan is the ninth month of the Islamic calendar and a time when Muslims across the world will fast during the hours of daylight. Fasting is intended to help teach Muslims self-discipline, self-restraint and generosity. It also reminds them of the suffering of the poor, who may rarely get to eat well. It is common to have one meal (known as the suhoor), just before sunrise and another (known as the iftar), directly after sunset. The Qur’an was first revealed to the Prophet Muhammad during this month.

To start, there is Yom Kipper – this lasts for one day. Then you have Lent – 40 days of giving something up. Finally, Ramadan: one month of forgoing food and drink during daylight. Can you see a pattern emerging? All acts of self-disciple, and each one becoming stricter than the last.

Can I point out that sometimes, just sometimes, religious (sorry, did I say religious? I meant hypocritical bell-ends) people bring it upon themselves and give the rest of us a bad name. For example, the local Moulvi’s wife (a ‘Moulvi is religious scholar – religious equivalent to that of a Priest) gives the rest of us a bad name. I’ll never forget when she told my niece (six years old at the time) that because of the fact we celebrate Christmas (I mean, come on, who doesn’t celebrate the wonders of commercial Christmas?!), she will automatically go to hell. I entertained the notion of smacking her around the face with a leg of lamb that was not halal, and the two minutes that that thought conjured into my mind were the happiest two minutes of my life – absolute bliss. I do not profess to be religious, for to admit such a thing would mean that I pray five times a day and abide by every word of the Qur’an. How can I do this when I don’t actually know what the Qur’an says? I do not understand Arabic, I cannot read Arabic and any English version I have read is exactly that: a translation – it is someone else’s interpretation. Yet, when I have researched the meanings, I am told I am wrong. I will dispute this for I have a voice and I shall always use it (with anyone but my mum, in whose eyes I am an infidel, but I have learnt to accept this because I love her cooking and I’m always hungry).

I will boldly declare the following: the core principles of any religion (or any person for that matter) should all be the same. Can I not just respect everyone, tolerate most things and abide by my own set of peaceful morals? Do I have to be labelled as an infidel, who will die a thousand deaths in the fiery depths of hell? I wholeheartedly believe that religion should not define a person but that a person (or people) should define religion. Peace, tolerance and respect are all that you need – does that make me a ‘bad’ Muslim? As Mohandas Gandhi once said: ‘I believe in the fundamental truth of all great religions of the world […] I reject any religious doctrine that does not appeal to reason and is in conflict with morality.’

On that note, I’m off to eat NY Cheesecake and get fat. Please God, don’t kill me for my beliefs on my way down the stairs…

Blogging myself off until next time!

Noughts and crosses

‘Yo Baby, Yo Baby. Wha’ you sayin’?’

There are a lot of things in this world that confuse me: why is there so much famine and poverty in the world? Why are we polluting our planet? Why did Pampers introduce Union Jack nappies? (what’s their slogan? Buy a nappy, shit on Britain?). However, the most confusing of them all is the manner in which most men speak to women. When the question ‘what you saying?’ was shouted at me once, I was quite confused because I hadn’t actually said a word. I’m not as ignorant now. I understand the majority of slang words, however, it just takes me a while to register and realise the meaning of them. I might be from the old school of persuasion, but being told that you are a ‘buff ting’ just isn’t as flattering as being told ‘you are beautiful’, is it? However, let it be known now that I personally do not suffer from this problem. The last time a man said either of these things to me was when it was socially acceptable to like reality television shows (as opposed to now secretly watching them and moaning to everyone about them). Nowadays, I’ll take whatever I’m given and smile. I have no vanity, just bad skin. No, it was just my general curiosity that initiated this rant. What happened to good old fashion romance? What happened to the innocence of love? What happened to girls actually wearing clothes when they go out?

At the risk of sounding like an old woman with no life, IN MY DAY, relationships constituted a ritual of courting: taking your time to get ready for a date, making an effort for each other, getting to know one another, so when that moment of disappointment finally descended upon you, you liked him too much to care. Now all I see is men shimmying up to women, whispering someone in their ear and (quite literally) BANG, away they go. Many people will regard this as a man simply being ‘the man’. However, many may remark this as being the consequence of a woman’s licentious behaviour. I mean, isn’t a female always the downfall for any male? She is the strumpet of evil and a Jezebel of a nation surely? Hell no. I refute this claim. If a male’s cluttered mind and weakness of spirit has fallen pray to a female’s appetite for lust then this indicates one thing only: both are as well suited to each other as two people that I will not name in fear of the creation of political correctness. If these boys and girls wish to lark on the playground and forsake the ribbon of responsibility, then let them. They are a hindrance to themselves, so let them revel in their own demise. A woman cannot be anyone’s downfall just as a man cannot fall pray to a woman. Make sense?

I have been told that I am quite old fashioned when it comes to matters of the heart (prime example being I just said ‘matters of the heart’), but if this means that I find someone who is deluded into believing that I am ‘beautiful’ rather than a ‘buff ting’ then I’ll take my chances. I’d rather succumb to the charming, alluring nature of a man like Gregory Peck than the aesthetically pleasing countenance of someone-famous-I-can’t think-of-at-this-moment-in-time any day. Life, I hope you’re listening to me. Remember the words: ‘like Gregory Peck’. So, you know, whenever you’re ready mate, bring him my way. Now, come let us all adore him:

So, what was I saying? Oh yeah. To any hopeful fool in love, if you want to ask a woman out, go over to her and talk to her with respect and honesty. However, above all, do it in a sincere manner (we don’t ask for much, do we?). Unless, of course, you’re a fucking creepy weirdo then just stay away and hack yourself unconscious.   

You hear me? Sort it out, bredrins.

Blogging myself off.

Noughts and crosses.

 

What Is Madness? Part I

I salute you for your future patience, understanding and suffering whilst reading my rant. However, if you allow me, I would like to indulge you into my crazy world of words. I might be a mad goat. I might be a mad goat that rambles. However, these are my own words, and I shall never allow anyone to take my words away.

What is madness? To the generation of my forefathers, I would seem mad enough to be carted away for marriage to my cousin. To the generation of my parents, I would be deemed mad enough to be laughed at, posing no threat for I will eventually succumb. However, to my peers (I hope) you can see that I am mad enough to openly and freely speak about my true thoughts and opinions about people who should first fight against oppression and injustice, and for equality, within their own misconceived minds before judging others. Alternatively, if you think everything I have written to be utter madness and tosh then consider me to be mad in whatever sense you deem it valuable. Mad, funny word isn’t it?

This rant is regarding the overbearing arrogance of the Asian male’s disconcerting nature, which allows their unreasonable behaviour to refute an Asian woman’s step into independence, or quite simple put: why Asian men are so irritating.

The remnants of the male mind are (at best) bewildering, incomprehensible and irrational. For centuries, they have imposed the blame of irrationality upon my own fair sex, and we have been subjected to suffer from their laborious unrelenting taunts. Why do men (and in my cultural experience Asian men in particular) consider themselves to be above and further than their wife? They live life like they are owed (I suspect even they don’t know what exactly) because they have decided to get married and, for this reason, they expect dinner to be served promptly upon their return, so that they can spend the entire evening locked away in the TV room and not speak to their ‘significant’ other.

These men will marry whoever their mummy and daddy choose for them, but still go out flirting and shagging other women. Why do they do it? They want to get their parents off their back, and show the community that they listen to the elders ‘wisdom’. Makes you sick, doesn’t it? They are willing to stake the institution of marriage and, ultimately, life, so that the old gossiping woman who lives 5 minutes away (the one that they never speak to) still respects their parents. As long as they have spent the standard £20,000 on their wedding, it doesn’t matter what happens behind closed doors afterwards, just as long as they have shown to the world that a) mummy and daddy make their decisions for them and b) they don’ t have a backbone. Stupid, isn’t it?

What happens after married life? Well, the majority of the time the husband will go out and cheat. The wife will stay at home and cook, occasionally producing an offspring to let the community know that all is well and happy. Sometimes it is a wonder to me why these people were not born in the nineteenth-century as they are clearly living repressed lifestyles and acting as though they are the lead roles in a Victorian melodrama. Clearly they do not consider marriage to have any value. To them it is a union, but not one of love and romance. It is one of satisfaction. Not for their own of course – perish the thought – but for their parents, so that they install their good name and respect. They have married within the family, for the family: well done, children (!)

If the debauched lives of these people have taught me anything, it is this: I want to be a woman first, I will be branded nothing else and I choose to love everyone equally second. Most Asian men condemn being a husband and list it last, while the majority of Asian women allow themselves to be a wife first: there is no unity. If I am ever to have the good fortune to find my compatible (whatever colour or religion he may be from) then I pray that he cherish and love me as I would him – equally. Am I mad for thinking this? Probably.

Blogging my inane wisdom off until the next time.

Noughts and crosses

Behold Your Beating Heart! ‘Twas Twinging For A Twit Worth It?

WARNING: read at your own peril and waste the next ten minutes of your life away.

Love can consume your heart, it is a desire that is a welcome excess. Too little will never be satisfying, whilst too much can make your sanity turn into a delirious state of bedlam. It is the only drug that is free and legal, but it is the deadliest of them all. Beware, for when caught you will harbour it forever, and it will fester within the depth of your heart for a lifetime. So, why do we do it? Such a simple question garners such a complicated answer. If we allow our hearts to love freely, we must suffer the brutal tears that do not subside when it is pierced through the middle with a relentless spear. Our swollen hearts are mantled in poison ivy, and we long for a soothing remedy to comfort our inflamed hearts. When the pain and torment can no longer be contained, we lash out in different ways until one day we wake up a stone heavier and realise that our self-wallow has become a permanent tattoo on our heart, soul, mind and living. Those tears we cried will become droplets of poison, which we will then later regret when we reach that crucial stage in the grieving process when we ask ourselves: was he truly worth our time, effort and tears?

In my humble opinion, tears shed for gentlemen are rivers of joy whilst tears wasted on boys are worthless streams. My truly inspiring, creative -and not at all irrelevant – analysis will be accompanied by, and compared to, the animal kingdom. I have devised three typical examples of beings you may encounter in life and compared them to their naturalistic counterparts: bluebird bastards, German Shepherd gentleman and sparrow hawk sluts (I know. I’m like Charles Darwin reincarnated, right?). I have known each one either intimately, conversationally, very well or within my imagination.

Let me begin by introducing to you a bluebird bastard that I once knew. I shall name him ‘bluebird bastard.’ He displayed typical characteristics similar to that of a male bluebird because being a bluebird was clearly in his blood, for he represented everything that is evident within the behaviour of a bluebird (I don’t think I’ve used enough words to emphasise my point, so I hope you understand what I mean).

Bluebirds are territorial and prefer open grassland with scattered trees, cementing their freedom by nesting within cavities. Bluebird bastard was very territorial about himself, his family and of course his BMW. He defended all these aspects of his life with the utmost integrity of any hypocritical scoundrel (and self-complacency of a man who was compensating for a tiny penis). Preferring to walk within the open night air, he despised being tied down to the boundaries of discussion and was forever (secretly) nesting his beak within many female cavities.

Male bluebirds identify potential nest sites. Once they have done this, they try and attract prospective female mates to those nesting sites with special behaviours that includes: singing and flapping their wings. Bluebird bastard was a charming fellow who wooed his way into many ladies hearts. He would do so by courting her, indulging her needs and wooing her, while being slightly aloof (which we ladies secretly quite like). So why would an animal (I refer to both the bird and man) go through this trouble? To get laid. Simple. After the wooing, the man takes the bird back to his place for sexual gratification. To bluebirds, this is all that matters.

Sparrowhawk sluts. Well, what can I say? We all know one. They are littered everywhere. They ooze confidence and swagger about the place to compensate for the fact that they have no personality. Female sparrowhawks are up to 25% larger than the male. Now, I’m not saying that these women are heifers, far from it. What I am insinuating is that they are too big (figuratively speaking) for any man to handle. However, it is always these women that get who and what they want. Female Sparrowhawks are capable of killing and eating birds that weigh 500g (18oz) or more, reflecting the fact that the human equivalent have no qualms in chasing a man who may be considered out of their league (you know, nice, friendly, normal, not a gigolo) because in the end, chances are, they will have him. Thus, supporting my view that life is not fair. Oh, life, how thou mocks me.

Right, I’ll now make this next comparison brief. German Shepherd gentleman. We all want one, don’t we? They are self-confident, intelligent, lively, safe, strong, loyal and protective. However, above all, they are obedient (HA!). I have yet to meet a German Shepherd gentleman, but I know one day I might. I long for this day, just so I can prove my theory is correct.

There is a fourth kind. What do I call them? Ladybird ladies. The personality is in the name.

Blogging my randomness off until the next time.

Noughts and crosses