I hated everyone at 14

The world will tell all,
Yet will never be told.

Deeds will be forgotten,
Your sins carved in gold.

Don't tell a broken heart to heal when it can.
None know a broken heart but a broken man.

They shall pour till they cannot,
And their tears, they will dry.

They will build a tower of rage
And keep their fire alive.

Don't name their murder for the poetry of angst.
None but them know the words they had sang.

Anti, Matters.

I am very anti-drunk.
I hate their guts and the fact that they let themselves lose their mind over an inanimate glass of foul smelling rotten staple food of some third world country.

I hate the way they talk. How they develop an extreme urgency to let the world know who they are. How every sentence after Peg #3 and Excuse #57 must begin with "But, I.." And how every "I" will and must be stressed, italicized and underlined every single time because the listener must and should know who he/she is listening to.

I hate lone drunks, too.
I hate how they ridicule their existence by getting drunk staring at their ceiling/television/feet/computer screen/pets feeling miserable for needing to get drunk to kill time and find hope or scope for thought in being drunk staring at their ceiling/television/feet/computer screen/pets.

I'm probably also racist.
I am very anti-fairness cream advertising.
I hate how the dark girl is always rejected by the geeky looking, formal clothing clad bastard because she thinks he believes she's too plain. And he always looks like he'd rather marry her father. Or being fair to him, he probably hated the copious amounts of oil the director smeared on her face. Who'd want to marry an exhausted Arab oil ring?

No, that doesn't make sense. I'm very anti face wash.





I've just realised, I'm very anti, right now.


*Hic* to that.

My Lord in the attic.

"We'll manage." they apparently said, six years before my birth, when my grandparents asked my parents what they'd do about their unborn, unplanned (and yet unconcieved) child's to-be religion.

Ms. Mom and Mr. Dad belonged to different belief systems, and each was more in love with their respective religions than the other. Also, their measurement of love for religion was directly proportional to how much they hated the other religion they were marrying into.

When I was eight, every Friday, Dad dropped me at a large creepy gate which led to a narrow staircase to an old blue room where children moved rythmically to noice and reading what they didn't understand. "What does this mean?" I asked once, the result of which was one week of aching knuckles and bamboo ring marks. I blindly followed and believed.
On Saturday, mom dropped me to an organization dedicated to drowning children in undecipherable, sing-song chanting. "What does this mean?" I asked again, and recieved a horde of coded expletives and a letter to my mother, which resulted in losing out on my favorite side dish at dinner for a month. I blindly followed and believed.

Every Sunday, I was confused.

One day, at school, I was introduced to moral science class, where my teacher, a woman with angelic wings on her shoulders and a forked tail in her backside asked me to tell her what God was to me.

Oh, man.

I told her I knew there were two Gods who switched roles on Fridays and Saturdays. And on Sundays he was off duty.

The girl sitting next to me, who once a while treated me to her lunch, then invited me to attend a spiritual gathering on Sunday at her place.
I went.

They gave me sweets when they were done moaning.

MAN!

I blindly followed and believed.

So now, there was a different God for every weekend and weekly holiday of the Gulf. Also, everyone reiterated there was only one God.


One day, when I was sixteen and confused, I decided, "I will have a religion".
I discovered marijuana.

You know what? Ms. Mom and Mr. Dad were right.

They managed.

'Mama' Calling

I wish the Caller ID technology had never touched my life.

(Some polyphonic tone, would be lying if I said Tring Tring)

'Mama calling', my phone read, blinking at me brightly like a psycho killer would, I'm guessing.

'What did you eat?'

I knew that was coming. It came five times a day, everyday, for the six years I've been living away from my parents.

Probably, I wouldn't be this irritant if I didn't know who was calling. I'd just give into the call like you give into fate.

Look, don't get me wrong. I love her, I mean, its a biological liability. You can't help but love your mom. She'll nag, she'll bug, she'll even rearrange your furniture, but well, she's Mummy.

“What did you eat?'

I will not answer that phone. I will NOT answer that phone.

'Mama calling'
My phone was still blinking at me brightly like a psycho killer would.

I've tried to talk to her, you know.

I've said, “Mama, I'm not a kid anymore.. I mean.. I know you think I am.. But trust me, I can look after myself.. You needn't keep calling to find out where I am, or what I'm doing. Or what I ate! You've gotta trust me!”
“Okay, okay. I know. You had food?”

Once, my mom said, “You know, Rae, our phone bill's gone too high this month.”
MUHAAAHHAAAA!!!!!

“I know, Ma. You know what? Don't call me five times a day. Call me once. Or twice. Maybe in the morning and then once at night to begin with.. then we can cut down after that?”
“Why?”
“Your bill's high 'cos you keep calling me..”
“So?”

“No, mama, I mean we can cut on costs.. I mean, Even I can't pick your calls all the time.. I'm in a meeting.. or at work.. so, we'll speak twice a day..”

“Hmm.. What did you have for lunch?”

There comes a time when you realize you've moved on. You still love home, but its now your parents'. Mom and Dad are now individuals, they have names besides 'Mom' and 'Dad'. And you begin to consciously see how you are pretty much like them in many small, significant ways, whether you like it or not.

In case you're wondering, my phone was still blinking brightly at me, like a psycho killer would, probably.

Its sad. Sad for her because she loves me so much she can't let go. Sad for me because she loved me so much I realized I can love myself more. Sad because she's holding onto me so tight, I can't breathe anymore.

But, dammit, I love her. I can't stand giving her details of what my digestive system has been through since morning, but, maybe I should tell her she means a lot to me, and if she wants me to be the grown-up she keeps idolizing, she needs to let me grow up, by myself.

“Hi, ma.”
“What took you so long?”
“I didn't see my phone ring.”
“What nonsense! You didn't pick my call even in the afternoon!”
“I didn't see it.”
“Rae, you're being very careless with your excuses. What were you doing?”
“Nothing, mama.”
“Talk to me, Rae! You don't talk to me anymore!”

Damn.

“Mama, how many different things can I tell you in a span of two hours everyday? You call me five times!”

Shouldn't have used that tone.

“Sorry, mama. Just worked up.”

I was glad she'd probably ask me something else now. But NO!

“Hmm. You handle your issues. You're too big for me to tell you what to do. What did you eat?”

I hate the Caller ID.