If this post were any more hip, it would be wearing a skirt.

Hello.

It’s been so long since I’ve last posted, my blog is practically underground. Why, Mainstream (that’s you, by the way), because I’ve been too busy bathing in golden afternoon light, drinking at that coffee shop with a particular air of pretentiousness and filtering my amateur (albeit ridiculously artistic) pictures of arb objects to worry about such carnal frivolities.

Blogging = Self loving = Carnal Frivolity.

In fact, I do not partake in any carnal frivolities. My dress sense does not hint at the slightest bit of sensuality, just try finding my boobs under this vintage waterfall t shirt, I dare you.

Expensive brands? NO WAY HOMIE. I fashion my own wares. I call this one “Whimsical”:

 Notice how I avoid eye contact? I’m portraying “ethereal” which is just a lank fancy term for “too good for you”. Please, don’t ask me why I’m wearing pointless knee pads, if you have to ask, it means that you have no hope of being as awesome as I am.

See this? This is what awesome looks like.

Sometimes I dabble in music. By dabbling, I mean collecting names of pointless bands that sound a lot like another famous band but are too busy rolling in grass and drinking conflict free green tea to bother with pointless things like making money.

Money? Who needs money? Who needs a career? I am an adventurer of life. I write my poetry on coffee stained napkins and throw them to the wind!

I’d recite a poem here but I threw all my napkins away and frankly, I don’t think you’d get it.

Have you lived, Mainstream? I mean, really lived? Have you ever looked at the clouds with the soundtrack of Simon & Garfunkel playing in the background? They made some good shit, those Simon and Garfunkel fellows. So unlike this poppy, flashy trash that you hear on the radio. I don’t even own a radio, I just make mixed tapes. Don’t ask me for a copy, I’ll cut you with the splinters from my wooden iPad case. But listen, cut down on the voilence please, this is not an xBox game. The only game I play is the game of life, and I’m so winning. Not that I care about winning…

Gravity doesn’t even phase me. Just look at this lovely photo. Does it look like I’m concerned about that pendant hitting my face? HELL NO! All I care about is the feel of the wind through my recently washed (organic avocado shampoo only please) hair.

You know who really had it going on? Those people from the 70’s. They’re like, totally my idols, or something… If I allowed myself to have idols.

I don’t even watch that crappy Idols show on MNet, that’s how anti-idol I am. Your life just sickens me, Mainstream. I can’t even stand to blog at you right now.

Hey… your dad is from the 70’s…

Is he single?

A picture is worth 1000 words. This blog is worth 1325 words. Pending advertisements.

Sometimes my brother is very clever and does nice things like this:

He did this using a wicked ‘leaving the shutter open for 40 seconds’ trick, two sparkles, and a helper. A helper I shall not name because he’s actually a (somewhat) famous person that makes nice doof doof songs and he’s family and I don’t want people to think I’m being ‘indian’ by endorsing him. That doesn’t make any financial sense.

On wednesday, out of the blue, the brother mentions that he came up with a totally brilliant and original idea that could change the world or something momentous like that. He made it seem so blase, like it was one of those things that happen to him daily. I stared at him in awe, nodding my head at the moments when it seemed appropriate. To be honest, I don’t think I understood most of what he said, programming jargon only made sense to me when I was 17 and thought that I’d take on a life as a hacker like Mr Anderson from The Matrix before he died and became Neo. See, he’s sometimes clever this brother of mine. Clever in ways which I am not.

In short: I’m jealous. I don’t have it in me to come up with visually/artistically/conceptually brilliant ideas. I’m only good with adding numbers and looking like a vaguely attractive person and talking about nonsense and phrasing sentences with the flair of a bull fighter finesse of an orchestrator… GAH!

Well not jealous per say… maybe a ‘pinch of salt’ jealous, unless he gets famous and stuff, then it could be ‘a pinch of salt in an old wound’ jealous. Unless he buys me a car of my choosing then I’ll love him forever 😀

Not that I won’t love him forever, just saying.

P.S: Damian, you owe me one trillion dollars for advertising your shit on my blog. Thanks.

Either way, I’m still getting a car of my choosing 😀

The theory of the toasted cheese sandwich.

This is a blog about love. I don’t usually write blogs about emotional-touchy-feely things because I don’t like to read these type of ramblings, but I’m not having an eventful day and I figure that maybe I’d take a swing at revolutionising the way we view love.

So here goes:

There’s this guy see, his name is Daryll*. He’s hawt, like seriously hawt, super intelligent, he patiently smiles at you while you try on the 7th pair of shoes,  he cooks, he’s sensitive (but not in the Mommy’s boy way), he’s every girls wet dream, the kind of guy girls want to marry.

Now I want you to visualise this Daryll…

Meet Gary*: He’s a nice guy. He’s not like Daryll*. Fact of the matter is, Daryll* is not what you would call a ‘real’ person. Forget about Daryll*. He’s a figment of your imagination.

So Gary* meets Ali*.  They hate each other. He thinks she’s an elitist. She doesn’t like the way he tears up paper napkins and makes little balls, flinging them in her general direction. Two tequilas later, they’re exchanging numbers.

They go on dates. They watch movies together. They have sex, and its always good. ALWAYS. They call each other 6 times a day. They giggle, together. They make people sick. Their friends all hate them.
They fight. Its terrible. She thinks its over, he does too. They have more sex. Its nice. They fight more.
One day Ali gets sick. She looks terrible. A hot-wet-mucus-covered mess. Gary* takes care of her, its his job as caring boyfriend. They have more sex. Gary* gets sick.

Some time passes, they get more comfortable in each others space. They’re not so sickening anymore. Everyone is happy, their friends decide to let them back into the sanctity of the friendship-hood. Ali shops alone. Ali is fine with it because she finally realises that you don’t HAVE to do absolutely everything together.

Sometimes she thinks about Daryll*

Light bulbs flash. Gary* will never be Daryll*. Everyone is happy.

Gary* comes home from work. Its been a dismal day. All he wants to do is lie on the couch in the fetal position and watch CSI in the dark. No such luck. Ali* is home, the stench of her nail polish hits him like a blow to the head. She enquires about his day, he grunts a response. She smiles…

…and says: ‘Since you’re up… Can I have a toasted cheese sandwich please?’

Gary* removes his tie in a rapid wrist movement akin to that of a seasoned sword fighter…

He turns around…

and makes the toasted sandwich.

 

^ THAT is love.

And they all lived happily ever after. The end.

 

Theory of the toasted cheese sandwich: Love is when someone makes a toasted cheese sandwich for you even though they’ve had a crap day and really don’t want to.