Stranger Danger

I knew a place once.

I met a lady there - on a bus that she gracefully helped me find. She had a squinty smile with a pure heart,  always looking to talk to people. I mean, really talk to people and get to know what makes them tick. She was small, she was adorably uncomfortable, but her curiosity is what stuck. It's what made her tick. Como se llama? "Chakti" she'd say, "Shakti," I'd smile.

I met a man there - on a train that I'd not so gracefully found. He had tall limbs and wise eyes that were rested on this new place he called home. He started life fresh with an optimism that made me question how a former lawyer could become so zen. His empathy was overwhelming, his calming aura infective.

I met people who weren't afraid to talk to people they didn't know. They were open, and free, and loving. They were funny, funky, and fresh. It was a place that was theirs, now is mine, because they let me learn it. They let me say, I know that place.

I want this place, right here, to be a place I know, surrounded with people I don't.

RIP Harsha Maddula

People tell me things that shouldn't effect me, shouldn't effect me. I'm so disconnected, why does it matter and why am I upset and calm down!

But I can't. Because how dare I go through the motions of life, being unaffected by every joy, every tragedy, every commonplace thing that happens to everyone outside of me?

How dare I live, oblivious to the way a mother feels when she holds that cooing baby in her arms, the first time their fingers meet and the first time those wide eyes smile?

How dare I live, oblivious to the possibility that it could have been ME goddamit who got killed for no reason who got thrown into that river who got no explanations for why my brother is DEAD.

How dare I live, in any way other than to the fullest? How dare I assume I'll have time to do something great tomorrow? How dare I make myself feel better with these lies, make excuses for my faults, find ways out of doing the hardest thing but the only thing to do which is LIVE.

How dare I see these joys, these tragedies, over and over and over again and not once put myself in those shoes. Not once pretend it's happening to me. Not once think - shit, that can still be me.

No. Don't tell me it's distant. Don't tell me it's unlikely. Don't feed me the shit I already feed myself to feel less crazy because it's here. It's close and it's breathing down my neck. It's death whispering warnings in my ear - how dare I refuse to listen.

My One True Love: Thought Catalog

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2012/youre-alone-all-the-time/

Just Me & the Girls

People struggle with their body image everyday. Too fat, too thin, too this too that. But my sympathy goes out to ma people - the big boobed - and our specific struggle with this so-called "gift."

When I was younger, I was told to do weird arm exercises in attempts to reduce my bra size. Mind you, I am by no means enormous - but I remember my chest being compared to a curse that I'd be damned with for all of eternity, unless I got the Girls under control.

Obviously that never worked. And I was okay with this, because despite the ominous warning, at that blissful time in my life boobs were not all the rage for girls and guys alike. I'd wear tank tops and dresses and the only decision I had to make before buying a shirt was which shade of blue to buy it in. (My wardrobe was very diverse).

And then I grew up, and something changed. My body, the most consistent part of my life, had suddenly been redefined. Everything I wore was scandalous, promiscuous, indecent. If I bent over and my shirt shifted, I was yelled at. If a picture was taken and my cleavage was visible, I was teased. It was like an obsession over this one part of my body, and the unwanted attention was stifling. I became accustomed to slyly erasing any trace of sensuality - "for the sake" of everyone around me.

But you know what? I'm done feeling guilty, or dirty, or whatever else these comments are meant to make me feel. Fuck. All. Of Y'all. We teach girls to be comfortable with their bodies, and to love the skin they're in. We fight the shame that women shouldn't feel for showing their curves, because it is not their responsibility to control the urges of a leering man. We chant these apparently empty mottos, and I'm tired of the hollow sound. This is not the 1800's, people, it's time for a damned shift in perspective.

The hypocrisy echoes to the beaches - where it's acceptable to dress in the equivalent of a bra and panties. It echoes to the Indian weddings - where the norm is to show an entirely bare stomach. Hello, moral relativism, how do you do?

So please, if you are not going to be consistent, then kindly leave me and my body alone. And if you still don't understand, then I hope that one day you are blessed with a big-boobed daughter. And I hope that she fights just as hard as I do. And I hope that maybe, just maybe, she will get the privilege to walk down the street in a tank top and flip-fops, feeling like nothing but a regular pedestrian.

Stay Beautiful

Hey you. Skinny girl with the middle part and the long black ponytail. I see you walking there, arm-in-arm with your cutie little grandmother. She looks like most Indian grandmas - rockin' a tiny, yet perfectly formed white bun and a soft, soft sari draped around her effortlessly. I see the way you look at her, like you have so much to learn but so little time. You like having her around because hey, she's your grandma.

Please do me a favor. Will you please stay that way? And by you, I don't mean the collective you, I mean YOU. Remember this moment - when you're walking down Oak Tree Road as one of the five thousand people who inhabit this one street, and you pay no attention to that fact. Remember that your awkward little hunch does nothing but bring you a little bit closer to the top of your grandma's slicked back hair. In a weird way, you like that smell. Keep the skip in your step in your old navy shoes - loving the weather and the sunshine on your face.

Remember all of it, because before you know it, you'll grow into your lanky form and straighten out that posture, straighten out that hair. After 8:00 PM, you'll want to do things that involve no one over the age of 16. You'll be angsty and weird and because of it, your grandma will be old and weird.

A couple years later, you'll try to fool me. You'll take pictures with her because it's cool and you'll thrive on these moments where you feel so genuine and so real, even though your skinny arm is dominating the picture - your 90-degree head-tilt a close second. You'll help her through a crowded room and glow when you feel the eyes of a million aunties praising you.

What you don't know is that I will see right through you. I will remember the nights when you yelled at her to hurry up so you could go to the mall with your friends, even though once upon a time, she was your friend. I will remember when you made fun of the oil in her hair - the same kind she would massage into your scalp. And I will never forget when you gave your biggest performance, the greatest atrocity of them all: pretending that you cared about her as anything more than a stage prop to this pathetic little monologue.

So please, skinny girl, PLEASE. Just stay the way you are, because the world needs more people like you. And I know that because after I saw you, I felt things, and I rushed home to blog about it. It seemed exciting, as inspiration usually is, until a rock hit the pit of my stomach. Because it was only when I realized the rarity of these inherently beautiful things - like a girl strolling with her grandma - that I was reminded of how unbeautiful our world has become.

Real eyes Realize

Look into the mirror. Put your palms to your face and wipe it. Rub the tops of your eyelids in circles to steady the swirling happening beneath them.

Now look at your pupils, one by one.

In the left one, see the newly-formed wrinkles on your father's neck. The veins popping from your mother's forehead.

Blink.

In the right one, watch the twinkle slowly fade. See your life slowly morphing to match the army that surrounds you.

Blink twice.

Now breathe on the mirror. Draw an S in the fog.

S for the Strength your dreams once had. For the Simple formula each day used to come with. For the Singing you would hear in every place your eardrums landed.

When you find yourself wondering how these once indestructible, curvy S's got slashed, draw it. Humanize that straight path that leads vertically through the S, and you'll have your answer.

$

$

$

Blink.

Ma

I was a little too old for this morning routine, and a lot too stupid to never question it.

7:00 AM - My mom makes her way towards my room for a preliminary wake up call. I am so accustomed to this that I unconsciously start to peel myself out of my dreamy state as her footsteps approach my door.

7:10 AM - My mom comes into my room for another wake up call. A little more urgency in her voice, a little more consciousness in mine. She asks what I want to eat for breakfast, and I reply the usual: banana milkshake. She asks what I want to eat for lunch, and I reply the usual: I don't care.

7:30 AM - My mom comes into my room for the last and final wake up call. I moan and I groan, feeling as though I was being damned to Satan. (Thank God I wasn't one of those dramatic teens).

8:00 AM - I grudgingly slump down the stairs to find her making my lunch.  I sip on my just-now prepared banana milkshake and glare at the boring sandwich filled with freshly washed and recently cut vegetables. She never did this the night before for fear of compromising the taste. After cleanly cutting the crust off, she packs the delicate concoction in aluminum foil and then in a plastic bag. This bothers me even more - TWO layers to peel off? How annoying! She then carefully picks only the reddest grapes off the stems, and pats them dry on a paper towel. My brown paper bag is now complete with a box of orange juice, a water bottle wrapped in a separate plastic bag so that the condensation doesn't get anything wet, a sandwich, and fruit.

8:05 AM - I am pissed. All I want to do is shove greasy french fries and millions of cookies down my throat like a normal high schooler. Why am I guilt-tripped into taking this lunch everyday? I concoct a plan to give parts of my lunch to various friends throughout the day. That way the food doesn't go to waste, and I get the fatty foods I am entitled to.

8:07 AM - I decide I am a genius.

I was right, you know. You would probably act the same way if your mom was crazy like mine. So crazy that she couldn't stand the thought of me having to use the ounce of muscle strength it would take to rip the crust off. So, so crazy that she believed her food was unworthy unless it was so fresh that the juices needed to be held in by two layers of protection. So INCREDIBLY crazy that when she wasn't able to do this for me on that one blue moon a year, she would line up all the ingredients on the table so that all I had to do was put them together.

I think about how many years I went on like this. A self-proclaimed martyr, "dealing" with the fact that my mom loves me so much that it drives her absolutely crazy. It took me much too long to realize this, because she was a sneaky little minx. She wasn't big on the 7th Heaven-style "I LOVE YOU BABY"'s. She instead packed her sacrifices, thoughtfulness, and dedication into these tiny little morsels of love that I never let my taste buds experience properly. And now, there are no amount of sorry's I can say to make it up to her. What I can do is remember - constantly, potently, painfully - everything she has done and everything she will continue to do for me.

There are things that we will never see eye-to-eye on, Ma, but know that you are the Queen of my heart. Every time I chop up vegetables, I see your pink nightgown grazing against the kitchen counter. When I Swiffer the floors of our house, I think of your calloused feet walking faithfully between the rooms. And when I feel myself becoming lazy, I imagine your relentless love that isn't finished with the world - now being injected into your newest granddaughter.

If the apocalypse comes and I someday decide to have children, I hope they are bratty. I really hope they are the worst possible human beings ever. I'll smirk and say a quiet thank you to karma, because I'll finally be getting what I deserve for treating the world's biggest CareBear like just another stuffed animal.

Writing Prompt, 2

Dear Dream Guy,

Are you out there, sweatpants-wearing, messy-haired boy? If you are, please holla at your homegirl. I promise to love the tailored-fit black suit in your closet. The one that only comes out when both you and I are feelin’ real fancy. Don’t worry - I promise I’ll love the scrubs you rock way more.

You get to me when you say thank you and smile at the cashier in that way. You know, the way that makes your skin wrinkle by your eyes in the shape of crow’s feet. The smile that reaches up to your large, gleaming pupils that tear into mine like a pleasant tornado.

If you exist, I know that you care about the world, but don’t take it too seriously. You recycle and help strangers, but you also laugh - a lot. And when you aren’t, you’re making me laugh - even more. Lost luggage? Whatevs. Late arrivals? All good. You hop, skip, and jump through our days with an inflatable energy that bounces me to the sky.

Know that because you have no societal shame, I'll egg you on. You don't notice when people stare and I'll smirk because I don't care. Naturally, we look like a couple of goons walking hand in hand– mine adorned with neon green fingernails, yours with a giant scrunchi from the 1980’s.

For a guy, you're not really a "guy." You love midnight coffee-time and unsexy pillow-talk about things we can change and things we can’t. Maybe, if I’m really lucky, you’ll study my face as hard as I study yours when you wake up last.

If you are out there, dreamy boy, make yourself known. Until then, I’ll be here. Chillin. Waiting for the day when I’m walking down a deserted street and accidentally bump into a scrubby boy who giggles through his squinty-eyed smile with a “Sorry! Didn’t see you there!”, somehow still managing to keep his latte intact.

Flash Forward

I walked past the Quad today and saw men constructing a stage. After a brief moment of confusion, my gut plummeted: Graduation.

I pictured the Commencement day that I would miss. All of our friends like an army - in uniforms that matched each other, but didn't match the images we have of them in our minds. The rest of us on the periphery - looking around wondering when it will happen to us, trying not to trip in their hand-me-down shoes that are too big for us to fill.

I pictured the hugs and the tears, and the half-hearted words of consolation. No, it won't be the same. We won't be able to lie around watching Bridesmaids while we paint our nails in the midday sun instead of going to class. There will be no more nights where "I'm just gonna stay in .... actually #YOLO LET'S DRINK." Gone are the days that we spend midnight hours on the library roof talking about life, instead of actually going inside and trying to plan it.

I then pictured myself with the diploma, in a year's time, failing miserably to kiss these things goodbye with even a tinge of grace. The anticipation of the void didn't help with ways to fill it. My hands were still shaky, my heart still nervous, and my mind poked through with, Are you sure you're ready?


I don't think anything will properly prepare me for what my friends must go through in two weeks time. So as I picture these things, I quickly hit the delete button. I change the focus to taking millions of snapshots everyday, so that when that times come and suddenly I am looking back, I won't have missed a thing.

Don't Look At Me

I think we have something to learn from our middle school selves.

Back in the good ol' days, it didn't matter if you were wearing Michael Kors glasses, because at the end of the day, you knew you would be getting ripped on for being a four-eyed fool.

Got a really bad sweet tooth? You're screwed because someone WILL rob you of your cookies during recess.

And God help anyone who was not the little nerd who aced all his tests. That dude was getting laiiiiiiiid for a study date. And by laid, I mean with intense bribery and compliments.

What's crazy is that we didn't care about the fact that Michael Kors meant money, or that the cookies meant unhealthy weakness, or that the geeky nature was equivalent to bad in bed. And beyond all of that - we couldn't see something that often drives people towards and away from one another - physical appearance.

It didn't matter if you were the "hottie" on the cheerleading team or a unibrowed beast. Because middle school crushes don't see all of that crap. They saw the best in a bad situation (because let's be real - even the cheerleaders were busted), and really fell for the inside. The only thing left to scrutinize was humor, spunk, and how someone made you feel beyond the cheez-its they offered you during lunchtime.

There's something majestic about this innocence. It's powerful, because it makes us forget all of the silly things that we have somehow been conditioned to look for. By being blind to this, we could see something far more beautiful - the inner confounds of our classmates. And even though we couldn't understand them, or analyze them, maybe that was what made young love more pure than the "sophisticated" things we experience today.

What I would give to be blind again, and have more people in this world share in the beautiful darkness.

Writing Prompt.

Warnings for my Future Husband:

-       I become very obsessed with very specific things. Do not oppose them, or you will ignite a monster in me that might end our relationship.

-       There will be days when I am excitable for no apparent reason. Don’t ask me why, there really is no reason. Go with it, and keep up. I did not wed a Debbie.

-       If you are messy, get out. My mind is messy enough, I don’t need my house to be too.

-       Mentally prepare yourself for an impromptu dance party at any and all times.

-       I cannot cook. However, I am an excellent sue-chef. If you can direct me in a kitchen, we can make grand meals together, and I am not afraid to pig out. Which brings me to my next warning – eat fast.

-       Showers are incomplete without blaring music. You’re not invited to the club – it is reserved for me and my cool shower dance moves. See you in 45 minutes…maybe an hour if I’m feelin’ frisky.

-       Date nights are cute, let’s do them weekly.

-       Often, you will do something that has me so smitten kitten, but will have no idea why. This is normal – I will find your tiny beauties whether you know they exist or not.

-       At some point in our marriage, I may try to put mascara on you while you’re sleeping. Please don’t be alarmed, it’s just a fantasy of mine.

-       Sometimes I take therapeutic drives to clear my head. Hopefully gas prices drop by this time, but it might be something to factor into our budget.

-       I like to spontaneously revert to being a 5 year old by coloring, watching cartoons, or pretending to be a flailing monkey. Join me, why don’t you?

-       I fell in love with your eyeballs, so don’t you dare taint them with colored contacts.

-       I can’t write, choreograph, or do anything creative in front of you. So don’t hover, or offer to help – if you see me in the zone, leave me there alone. Also, please think it’s really cool when I spit out a rhyme like that.

-       I will make you stay up obscenely late with me, probably to do some quality bonding, and then expect you to let me fall asleep first. C’mon, it’s cute of you to watch me sleep. Oh and P.S. I drool. 

-       There will be a point very early in our relationship where I will render “hair-care” useless.  This is a good thing – you will be pleasantly surprised when my legs are smooth. Win-win-whaddup.

-       I am calling infinite dibs on little spoon.

My dearest, after reading this, you might be a little scared. But seriously, if we’re married, you’re probably frickin crazy too. So, we’re cool right?

Yes. A million times YES.

Thank you, Shreena Brahmbhatt, for bringing these words into my life. One of the best snippets I have ever laid my eyes on.

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2012/why-being-in-your-20s-is-awesome/

The Dangers of Spring Cleaning

The trouble about growing up is that it entails losing bits of our past. Out with the old, in with the new and improved. This all seems fine and dandy - except when we stumble on something from days long gone, and realize that maybe it was a part worth keeping. 

In high school, we had to volunteer. It was an unspoken requirement that everyone put on their Resume. To me, it didn't feel like something I was obligated to do. At first, sure, I dreaded helping old people and didn't care for the greater-good clubs at school. But suddenly, I started having fun. I looked forward to seeing Mary's eyes light up when I read the news to her. I realized what I was actually doing when I told people to come to the blood drive. Something clicked, and I finally understood what it meant to care about something way bigger than yourself. 

Somewhere along the way between high school and college, that part of me was placed in the garbage. I lost faith in people, I forgot the feeling of volunteering, and I became jaded. I still had random sparks of wanting to do good, and participated in events here and there, but my primary emotions were put towards other things. College happened - and my priorities were switched to worrying about people over projects. 

Maybe I did have to throw it out temporarily to make room for the new. But now that the new is here, developed, and comfortable, I'm back-tracking. I'm regressing and rejuvenating at the same time. I'm going back to my causes, and hoping that they will continue to effect me in the same way they used to.

1) Random acts of kindness. This means anything. Leaving positive post-its in obscure places. Complimenting strangers. Writing cards - yes, HAND written. Helping someone with a broken down car, and maybe not breaking the spoiler this time. 

2) Listening. I mean really listening to a cause that passes my way. I already know what I care about and how difficult it is to make others feel the same way. For that reason, I should be more empathetic to what other people stand for too.

3) Watching TED talks, reading, and attending samaritan events more regularly. Better yourself to better your environment. 

4) Saying please and thank you. Not just smiling when someone holds a door open, but verbalizing it, and feeling it all the way up to my eyeballs.

5) Remembering that no matter how hideous someone may seem on the inside, they will ALWAYS have something, even if it's tinytinytiny, beautiful to offer. And learning from that.

6) Keeping in touch. Letting people know that you are thinking of them, even if you don't know them that well.

7) Smiling at pedestrians. It makes no logical sense that we are on a street filled with humans who pretend that none of the other ones exist. Acknowledge someone's presence, but don't be creepy.

8) Being open to influence. Whether you're moved by a lecture, a loved one, or a leaf on the ground, keeping an open mind and an open heart is the most pleasant way to go through the day.

Of course, this is just me. These are just small steps to start with that have had the biggest impact on my energy. I hope that if nothing else, I will radiate more positivity from this, and it will make people around me feel better too. This is all very "The Secret" of me, and I didn't care for that book, but whateva 'cuz I'm feelin' good 8)

I have no clue what brought on the sudden realization that I almost lost such an important part of myself, but I am so grateful that it happened. Next time, I'll think twice before taking out the trash.

Humor Me

"Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry. But why on Earth should that mean that it is not real?"
-Albus Dumbledore

It's weird. We shout a few token phrases to make us think that we have control: Mind over matter! It's all about willpower! Learn to prioritize!

What does that even mean. Do we need to harness our thoughts instead of humoring them in order to be happy? So things like Body Language, Vibes, Gut Feelings - these guys are criminals. Supposed to be behind bars with Rationale and Reality guarding a close watch?

If we are told to have faith in our future, which is so completely detached from us, it seems silly that we shouldn't have faith in our own core, which we can feel pushing against our hardened chests. Those emotions, however vague, come from somewhere within us - this much we know. What we lack is a solid reason to ignore our own instincts.

And yet for some reason, the best we can do to offer a stark contrast to the shouting of our peers is a faint whisper: follow your heart.

My Little April Fool

After dodging my bio classes because I couldn't stand to hear another word about birth defects. After running out of the library with goosebumps when any relative called me, only to hear that they needed my school address. After walking into baby stores and resisting the urge to buy every tiny hat that would look hilarious on a face with huge eyeballs. Somewhere, somehow, between the daydreams and nightmares, the little one FINALLY decided to peek-a-boo and say wassup. And to my surprise, even though she has forsaken the umbilical cord, she still clings to my heartstrings.

Over the course of nine months, my sister's belly grew alongside the range of thoughts I had about this future infant. I went from worrying about her comfort in the womb to fantasizing about future Friends marathons (yes, it will still be that loved in fifteen years). And as the belly popped, so did my little bubble. I know that my life has officially changed, forever.

At first, I thought the excitement would subside. But even though the wait is over, my thoughts still circle around this baby. I don't plan out what she will achieve, where her interests will lie, because these expectations are dangerous to both parties when they aren't met. Instead, I wonder about things like how funny she'll be, having been born on the silliest day of the year. Or if we will ever get the chance to chill at the park and discuss life over Taco Bell. Or if she will think my extreme emotion towards her is borderline creepy.

I already picture her presence surrounding me. Despite the ocean that will forever separate us, she is here - watching me dance, even though she is only two hours old and it is probably nap time. This little fetus has somehow gotten under my skin, even though she isn't mine. My co-captain was also confused by this, and asked the earnest question, "How are you this excited, if you don't even want kids of your own?"I struggled with the answer.

The only thing I can come up with is that it doesn't make any logical sense. I'm not supposed to feel this attached to a baby that isn't mine, and I have absolutely no idea how handle such a new, raw feeling brewing inside of me. But for now, I will let it consume me. Because something about it feels too natural to ignore. Soon enough, time will be escaping me, and I will look back on this post. And with any luck, I'll smile at the fact that all of the love, stress, and wonderment I'm feeling, hasn't changed a bit.

"Don't compromise yourself. You are all you've got" -Janis Joplin

Fooled by B/Hollywood movies, we often forget the things a woman shouldn't be. Dependent and Distracted among the Dont's, Disenchanted and Driven among the Do's.

I'm not talking about single ladies. I'm reaching further than Beyonce and telling all the ladies in the house to put your hands up. Why? Because you can. Because you came into this world as an independent female with your hands way up, reaching for your new life, and there is absolutely no reason to stop that now.

Why do people try to tell us otherwise? Why is being single something that causes people to say, "Don't worry, we'll find you someone"? And why is this something we never seem to grow out of? Don't tell me that I need someone to make my life complete. Don't tell me that someone else, better yet a stranger, can help me better than I can help myself. I don't buy that - sorry I'm not sorry.

Don't get me wrong - I think relationships are great. Marriage can be cool too. Heck, as humans of course we need some companionship. But there's more to that, which is what people forget to tell us. When was the last time you saw a movie about a kickass chick and her crazy independent life? No love, drama, or relationships attached? Why aren't we being fed this kind of soul food - the kind that gets you off your ass and doing you day in and day out?

That's the kind of sista-friend energy I'm looking for. A world where females know that these irreplaceable hours are not your partner's or your crush's or your whatever's. So be a little selfish, act a little coy, and don't be afraid that the right guy won't come chasing after the whirlwind you leave trailing behind you. Because this is YOUR time on Earth, so make it younique - if you're going to share this precious gift with someone, they better be damn well worth it.

What's black and white and red all over?

In the 5th grade, I told a lie to my teacher.

Well, maybe not a lie. But I definitely "withheld the truth." It was indoor recess and I was playing with one of my best friends Jonathan. We were playing who-can-make-it-on-the-desk-first. The opponents? Him vs. the nifty teacher's pointer I held in my hand. We laughed and we dueled until his butt met my stick in a way that is not as dirty as it sounds. The pointer cracked, and we both froze. "It's cool, don't worry, I'll just put it back like it's still together and she'll never notice." I ran to the chalkboard, carefully lay the pointer down and arranged it to look whole.

Naturally, when Ms. Whatshername returned and went to use it, she only picked up one half. Glaring at the class, she demanded a confession. This was her favorite pointer, she said. Her 5th grade class from 12 years ago gifted it to her, she said. My heart wrung with distress. How could I confess now? After that sob story, who wants to be responsible for such an insensitive move? I kept my mouth shut and my eyes open, my palms creating an attractive little puddle on the wooden desk in front of me. No one answered. I was in the clear.

The next day during outdoor recess, I was held in by my teacher. Someone had spared me the trouble and confessed for me, and I got a yelling that is still horrifyingly vivid in my mind. I stood and listened for thirty minutes. About why lying was wrong, about how it is a nasty habit to fall into, and about how hurt and surprised she was by my deception. As tears filled my eyes, I couldn't meet hers. I stared at the colorful border lining the wall, trying to find some happiness in its cheery demeanor. The effort was to no avail - I felt disgusting, ashamed, and angry at the tacky little tattle-tale that ratted me out. As if I needed any more evidence that stupid boys had stupid cooties.

For the next month of school, I cowered in my teacher's presence. I wasn't as participatory, I played it very safe, and avoided all eye contact with her unless absolutely necessary. I was a pathetic excuse of a human in my mind, and I vowed to never lie again.

I went on to middle school, leaving the incident behind me. But one day, something strange happened. Having the opportunity to cheat with a classmate, I politely refused his offer and felt good about doing it. I immediately remembered the day of the pointer, the talk in the hallway, and the impression it left on me. I emailed my teacher, thanking her for instilling the lesson of right and wrong. Though I resented everything about the period when I was that guy, I was grateful for her words that knocked some sense into me.

As I look back on it now, I'm not as grateful as middle school Avani was. Of course I understand the gesture - to teach me that lying is wrong. But what I'm not quite sure I can parse is the notion that there is always one wrong that opposes one steady right. I was so shaken up that day, that the idea of a white lie was blasphemy to me, for a really long time. I didn't get it - how can there be exceptions to a rule? That's not what I was taught in the 5th grade.

And here lies a fundamental problem. The world, as full of color as I love to see it when I walk outside each day - is somehow always black and white to me. Hidden beneath the hue of the trees are roots that are grounded in either good or bad soil in my mind, and I can't seem to shake that idea. It is always one extreme or the other, and the grey lines of moderation are constantly blurred. Why can't I seem to find this balance? Because I always try to follow a rule. A safe set of steps that logically lays out what things mean, and how to proceed. Instead of finding the middle way between "you're approaching the grey" and "you're just kidding yourself," I push towards the polars. Something about staying as far away from the middle ground as possible makes me feel safe. Like I am either completely off, or completely on, and that's more appealing than being neither one of the two.

And sure, maybe that's just an issue that stems from an obsessive personality. But a part of me thinks that the red rage in her eyes 10 years ago left me too scared to ever try to approach color again.

Home, Interrupted.

Have you ever felt like you were trapped in your childhood? I'm not talking about the fun days when you'd swing on monkey bars - or if you were like me, hang on the first one as your potbelly weighed you down. I mean like you are unable to shake off whatever this "immaturity" is, that makes people look at you in that "Oh, honey" kind of way.

I feel it most when people ask me certain questions. With a cocked head and a look of impatience, "When are you going to stop dying your hair?" "Do you really need to paint your nails 3 different colors?" Or a disgusted glance followed by intense ear-contact, "So...have you thought about taking out those piercings?" Sometimes it's more generalized, like, "You got this out of your system, so are you going to calm down now?" And sometimes there are questions hiding behind questions, like, "How many hours a week do you dance?"

Separately, these things seem small, irrelevant even. But together, they hit a nerve. Collectively, they make up who I am, how I choose to live, what makes me feel like me when I walk into a crowded room. Why? I have no idea. Why not? I again have no idea. But for some reason, the why-not is answered with a because-it's-childish. Because it's not something grown-ups do, and one day, I'll have to grow out of this phunky phase of mine.

The problem is - this doesn't feel like a phase. No, this feels like exactly where I'm supposed to be, and exactly what I'm supposed to be doing. The problem is, this childish cage that everyone thinks I'm trapped in, is actually pretty cozy.

So maybe I'll rub my belly like a bowl full of jelly and just hang on this monkey bar for a while. Because It feels like home. And I'm not okay with being evicted before I even move in.

Once Upon a Time

We like to think that our lives are like storybooks. Each stage posing as another chapter in our interesting and unique novels that we can call our own.

Sorry to all the Cinderellas and Huck Finn's out there - it's not.

Our life isn't a plot that's waiting to unfold. It's guided by a couple of sentences. Not a lot, just a few that somehow snake their way into our brains and plop down, budding into a million more snake baby sentences that work off of it.

Let me tell you how this works. Take the sentence, "The dog is brown."

Now, imagine you are looking at Clifford the Big Red Dog and uttering that to yourself. Of course at first, you laugh at how stupid it sounds. It's nowhere near brown, and probably never will be, no matter how hard you squint your eyes or say the words.

But then, your homie comes along and says she can see a speck of brown amidst the red. She points it out, and you inch closer despite the reluctance to approach something so absurd. You may take a step, even two if you're feeling ambitious. But then you stop, because let's face it - this dog ain't gettin any browner.

You're chillin. You're satisfied. You know you're right and your friend is a dinkus.

But what about the cousin? Your cousin surely knows better. After all, he's your blood, so he must be a genius, given how smart you are. He sees the brown too. "You're not looking hard enough. I'm telling you it's there. Get your head out of the clouds. This dog is brown." You take a couple steps closer. You think you might see it! But you stop yourself - are you just seeing what you want to see? Filling in the missing pieces to make yourself seem less insane?

You stop a good 2 inches away from the dog. You're holding your ground, however shaky it feels underneath your feet. It's red, it's red, it's red. Wait...it's brown?

All of a sudden, by some combustion of surreality, the dog has become brown. You're smiling! You're not stupid! It's right there in front of your face. They were right, you just had to get real to see the surreal.

You're grateful that they pointed out the truth. You tell your friends about this brown dog, and suppress any shred of doubt you might have about its validity. You arrange to make a life out of this giant brown dog. You can make millions, billions! Come on - who the hell has ever seen such a thing? It's the perfect plan that makes perfect sense.

This seems like happily ever after, of course. The protagonist overcame her obstacle and finally saw truth to reach a lucrative "the end."

But it's not.

Because you'll never see it, but Fairy Godmother is singing Bippity Boppity CRAP right behind you, with a look of melancholy on her face, and the snake inside your head is smirking.

The dog is red.

Ego, Superego & It

There are moments in your life when you realize that you are not like other people.

I used to think there was one specific instance. An "AHA!" moment when you finally understand that you are not understood. But I'm beginning to think that this isn't true. This realization comes in spurts. Those few moments of clarity when you realize your vision isn't so clear.

Like when you become so passionate about a part of your life that is so incredibly insignificant to people around you, it drives you to insanity and you continue like a crack addict anyway. Or when you immediately become attached to a person you barely know, or haven't even met yet. Or when you are consumed by any sort of feeling, really, that your psyche tells you is totally irrational, but somehow also utterly and completely real.

Maybe It's these moments, or maybe it's other, smaller ones. Like how watching an old woman serve you coffee makes your heart fall out of your butt, but when she smiles with recognition, you want to fly. Or when an acquaintance sends a thoughtful text, and you want to run and befriend her and thank her for being a beautiful person. Or when the barista says that they still have Caramel Brulee Syrup leftover and you want to jump over and attack her out of complete joy.

Maybe It's the things you do. Like color to feel like you have the control to keep your life inside the lines. Or make arts and crafts to remind yourself in a tangible way that you have the power to create something real. Or take solo walks with your iPod and let the music raise your skin as you confront everything, or everyone, you have been running away from.

Maybe It's stubborn, and everytime you try to suppress its evil, it comes back with a stronger vengeance than the last time. Maybe It's suffering, and each time you fail to nourish its potential, it partially dies. Maybe It's condensed, and each time you try to unpack it, you come a little closer to its core.

I can't tell you what It is. But I can tell you that above all, it's patient. It is something deeply rooted, waiting, to rise up into the sunshine.

From the inside of 26 heads

Avani.

Ew. Look at that. That tiny biddie “a,” always creepin in the middle. No matter how many times we try to tell her to speak up, she doesn’t respond. It doesn’t make any sense! She makes herself known in every other group we put her with, but for some reason she wants to be mute when she’s with them.

Who even put her there? I mean clearly it’s because she’s pretty and ups the “group hotness” level or whatever. It wouldn’t make any sense otherwise.

She probably thinks she’s so cool. Rolling with Avni and having everyone stare at her as the mysterious silent chick, always trying to figure her out. 

What really pisses me off is how she plays so hard to get out. Seriously? Who wants a clingy Alpha at your side all the time.

I guess we do have to give her one thing though. She knows when to shut up. I mean it’s weird at first – a letter with no sound, but I guess sometimes, you have to really know the power of words before you choose to partake in them.

Nicomachean Ethics

"For single and straight is the road of the good; the bad go bad in every which way."

Sorry Aristotle, the 2nd one sounds like way more fun to me.

Quest For Completion

She peeked into the portal to everything she was hiding from.

She let it all in. Conceding to the irrational emotions about silly little things, the fears big and small, the nightmares and daydreams of a tiny little girl who doesn't know any better. She knew that sometimes, you had to be consumed by these ridiculous sensations in order to move past them. She knew this in theory, but in practice, it was much larger, much scarier than she thought.

She let each thing hit her - one by one, taking their best shot. They came in random order - no ascension or pattern to keep her somewhat stable. She stood and braved it - her inner self.

Then suddenly, amongst all the straws, she encountered the last one. She curled into her soul and shut her eyes so tight as if they would fall out with any less pressure. Her mind swirled with mayhem and her core cringed with disgust and cognizance of everything she is and everything she isn't.

And then, she ran.

She runs faster and faster until her limbs are robotic and she can't feel her own motion and her sweat becomes dry and her fingers are cold but she doesn't care because she's running and she's running and her cheeks are jumping with every thump she hits the ground with and her legs feel as though they could go on like this forever and her chest feels harder with every pump of her arms and pump of her heart and she RUNS.

She runs, because she realizes, it is the only time she is truly, and (in)completely, on her own.

Hilarious

What girls want:

What guys don't want:

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/this-britain/why-men-dont-fancy-funny-women-525001.html

What I conclude:

Advice most parents would hate...

"So do put your daughter on the stage, Mrs. Worthington. She may not always make a decent living there but she will be part of an ancient and honorable mystery, and it is on the stage that she will most likely be able to find herself." 

- Robert Brustein

...but that I love.  

When the stress, rage, passion, and exhaustion is culminated during that routine - it combusts into an electrical energy that is static. Tangible. Something I feed off of like a drugged up animal. When I'm on stage, nothing else exists. Hell, even the stage beneath my feet doesn't exist. It's just movement and music that pump through my veins. I'm slicing through the spotlights but cruising between the dancers. It's everything and nothing in the same heartbeat - self-destructive in more ways than one but gives my life meaning. 

If I'm lucky, I'll continue to find that feeling either on the stage or elsewhere. That feeling when you're waiting in the wings, filling your body with the rhythm, and there is that brief second before you start - just a second and no more - that you know you're about to create magic. 

Fact.

Some of the world's most beautiful people will love you more than you could ever love yourself. You are not confident without their encouragement. You are not comfortable without their acceptance. You are not you without them. And as hard as that is to accept, it is not a fact to be feared. Because it's one of life's most attractive peculiarities - to feel such strong, natural emotions for a body external to your own.

To you, who know who you are. Thank you. All of you. I love you.

Well this is awkward.

I'm no longer in Barcelona, but I am keeping this blog. And the title. Because we all know how much of a paradise Medford is.

It seems like everyone is moving forward these days. Getting jobs, or married, or pregnant (seriously - not over the shock yet). And for some reason, I'm moving backwards. I thought I made some headway with my whole law school plan. But now, all of a sudden, people from all sides are asking me the same pointed question that makes me think they see something I don't. "Are you sure you want to go to law school? It just doesn't seem you."

What. I really thought I was done with people laughing in my face after telling them what I'm studying (special shout out to that douche at CMU), by following it up with "But I'm planning to go into law." Now all of a sudden,  the sentence might just end with "I study Philosophy and Religion"? That's terrifying.

They ask me what I would want to do if I didn't do law. And the pathetic part is - I have absolutely no idea. I am one of the few people who don't have a dream job, and I'm not sure which part of this equation is more concerning. I know what makes me happiest - dancing, writing, traveling, helping people. But do I love these things because they take me away from my life, or do I want to make them my life? Would they begin to lose their beauty as they increased their frequency?

I don't know. And ironically enough those 3 little words are the only thing I'm certain about right now. They say I'll figure it out, and everything will be okay. But having faith in the future is so much more difficult when it's an amorphous blob that you can't mold yet. It smacks you in the face every time your friend gets an amazing internship opportunity, and you don't even know what field you want to apply to. Or when your immersion in the class' conversation about Happiness is interrupted by the realization that this stimulation isn't exactly a resume builder. Or when you talk to any Indian person, and they are completely and utterly confused by you.

It's not easy, but for now I have to trust that the difficulty means I'm doing something right. That maybe I'm not supposed to lead a structured life, and that this rocky road just might be the right flavor for me.

The End-ilogue?

I thought I'd be blogging the most in my last couple weeks in Barca, exaggerating my job as a writer by putting emotions into every little inanimate object. Turns out it was such a whirlwind that writing anything seemed inadequate to convey my last minutes there. Regardless, I have to spark note something to keep the memory pungent.

Istanbul. Street bazaars everywhere you turn, with vendors that have hilarious pick up lines in just about every language you can think of. Cheap, delicious eats in all 3 parts of this country separated across 2 continents. People genuinely interested in welcoming you to their land, and giving you free apple tea just to have a conversation. Hookah cafes like coffee bars, packed with laid back souls watching the silky swirl of raspberry ribbon caressing the air. A skyline of mosques that are blue, pink, white in the daylight - but all unite under an amber fighting against the black of night. Birds that circle the tippy top of Galata Tower, reflecting the gold that lights the cylindrical monster, creating an image that is chiseled into my mind. Two people met through couch-surfing who showed us around the nooks of the city, reminding us that people are beautiful. Turkey.

Between 8 finals and 4 classes, I spent my last days walking the streets alone or in small groups. We reminisced about our trip in a reminiscent way - by finding new cafes, boutiques, and spontaneous performances. The last night, my roommate and I put on "Bollywood Night" for our host mom with makeshift dance attire (harem pants and a scarf used for a chunni) and performed our respective styles. Needless to say she was wilin out, taping us and clapping - laughing in that way. You know the look - when your head goes back and your eyes are still focused, teeming with an emotion you have to surrender to, like you know it's a moment you'll remember for the rest of your life. We played videos for her and shared pictures of our families and crazy Indian dresses. The "Indian twins" soaked it up alongside their adopted mother, and even though it wasn't vocalized - we all realized this was it. This was the last night in the first city we've ever truly loved.

The next morning was filled with tears and goodbye notes, followed by a cab ride to the airport with only sniffles breaking the solemn silence. With a Barcelona playlist illegally blasting in my ears to try to numb the sound of the engines rolling away from the gate, I looked out the window and said goodbye to the buildings, which from so high above looked like the individual squares that made up my Barcelona Box, the winding roads creating the confusion that pushed me out of it.

The transition was made easier because of the London detour. Expecting this trip to be like most others - I was pleasantly surprised when it became much more than a normal family visit. Partly because of the nightly adventures with my cousins that I missed out on in previous years, "baby of the fam" that I am. Partly because I had friends my own age there, and didn't need to rely on anyone to navigate the city. Partly because of the tears that couldn't be held back after being in my mother's arms after 4 long months away.

Mainly, however, because I met someone new. Someone truly special who is constantly changing, moving forward with a raw desire to live. Someone with a little spunk, a little kick. Someone to care for, who would lean on me and keep that beating heart pure. I thought to myself - this could be it! This could be the person to make me want to be a better human being.

Yes, this person has grown to be an extremely important part of my life, quite unexpectedly and quite immediately.

To the unborn baby in my sister's belly - you make me believe in love at first (lack of) sight. I love you, even though (to quote Bublé), I just haven't met you yet.