I’m writing this post on the loo, for a lot of reasons. Most prominent of which is the fact that it’s about the only place a sanaweyya 3amma student can have time off and not have parents screaming the sound of conscience at them on how to better implement the precious remaining fragments of their time. Another is the fact that it’s probably the core of everyone’s comfort zone, even tho they may not get themselves to admit it. So now that I’ve jumpstarted your imagination to this beautiful mental image, I will now proceed to rant about things you equally don’t give a fuck about.
My birthday is originally on the 11th of December, 1992. It’s also on the 7th of January, 1993. It’s one of those family conflicts that never got settled, my dad insists it’s the latter and my mom states it’s the former. As unsettling as the whole matter is, I’m more inclined to believe my mom, because I don’t know about you but I think in this context, it’s a lot more disturbing to believe that your mom was confused about the day she gave birth to you as opposed to the more digestible decision of ‘hey, maybe my dad just completely repressed that memory for a month until he got himself to like babies and admit that one exists in his own house, just not enough to register that it has for a month now.’
Also, 11th of December sounds more in tune with how my life seems to be about, a near-miss, or how George Carlin chooses to put it, a near-hit. It’s a day away from being memorable yet has a mathematical air of symmetry about and gives off the feeling that something’s off. It’s like a huge analogy of everything that my life is and has been about since I knew how to call it for what it is.
I don’t know what got me to think about that, but then again none of these posts make sense so suck it moron. However, I think my train of thought got derailed right about where I ran into a diarrhea of baby posts on Facebook with chicks typing theatrically prolonged and admittedly squeaky awwws everywhere in sight and it got me thinking about how much I hate babies.
My mom’s a piece of work. Most would argue that goes for everyone’s mom and embark on hour long debates whose mere objective seems to be about showing just how much their mom’s more of a cuckoo than yours, and you grow up having it as one of those unsettled bets with your friends that you tackle when you run out of conversation one day, and they’d always try to win with the same passion as every other day.
Let me further elaborate. I woke up this morning to the news that my mom got me the sheets I missed and had trouble procuring since I got bullied senseless at school and none of the chicks are really helpful if they can help it. On asking how she managed to do that, she says that she hit it up with a guy about my age that she didn’t know, and was sure I didn’t know either, and convinced him to let her copy the papers for a juice box and the promise that she’ll introduce us the next class. That was about 18 hours after the heated argument where she decided that all of my problems would be solved if I managed to flirt with one guy per class because they’re a lot easier to take advantage of than the more experienced and vicious chicks. Now, in her defense, cultural gaps have treated her to worse ditches. And, to be honest, the comic relief is worth the trouble really, but no matter how much I try to make her understand how it works around here, the conversation always has the same pattern and I find myself always coming to the same punch line: ‘Oh my god mom why mom why did you do that mom you don't..alright, okay thank you mom, okay, thank you, great.’
It got me thinking about life again, and how maybe they’re more of built-in, free of charge anger management courses that are integrated as part of your training into becoming a functional adult and maybe one day someone else’s parent. The logic went as follows. Nine times out of ten, you always get the irrepressible urge to take a baseball bat to your mom’s head. Ten times out of ten, you’re not allowed to by the natural course of things and the fact that you really can’t help how much you love her regardless of the numerous cringing opportunities she ladles onto your plate 24/7. And then you get to that aha moment where you go: Life, I see what you did there.
Maybe twenty or thirty years from now, if the blog host handles it and I still manage to have these entries when I’m some oblivious turd’s mom and stumble upon this post, it will make all the sense in the world.
Along the lines of culture shocks and what they may get you into, I’ve had quite an odd morning. I’d like to break the news to all the fellow coffee addicts in the world that I managed to sleep for the uninterrupted impressive number of 16 hours last night and I have no idea how that happened or how to maybe make it happen more often. I’m not very happy about the fact anymore because it got me into a tight corner with a couple of friends where my deep seated comforting sense of the hold I have on my own linguistics was shattered when I failed to understand a friend’s status, link it to spoken English, and misread one of his friend’s last name as Biebers. And for the life of me, I couldn’t get them to empathize that I meant no harm but rather genuinely couldn’t spell his last name.
And for now, since my glorious mug of coffee is done, I leave you with a post that I’ll undoubtedly regret 2 seconds after I click publish and get back to work. Top of the morning everyone.
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