Monday, August 31, 2009

The Idiot Box

I remember when I was five I would get up at like six a.m. to watch cartoons. Now I get up at six a.m. to watch my computer. Albeit I usually go to the cafe, but how is it really any different? When I was in kindergarten, during nap time I would stay awake and day dream, imagining how cool it would be if I had a small TV that would fit into my pocket on which I could watch Scooby-Doo.

What I’m trying to say is: I invented the iPhone when I was like five.

Remember when you didn’t have a cell phone? Remember when the only way people could get a hold of you was on the land line? If you weren’t home, you’d miss the call. When I was real little we didn’t even have an answering machine. So if someone called and we weren’t around, it’s like it never happened. It’s like when a tree falls in a forest, if no one is watching, did it happen? Is that how it goes?

When I was a kid, if we watched too much TV my dad would get mad. He called it the idiot box. Is the Internet the new idiot box? I saw this little kid on Oprah who, when his computer privileges were taken away for like a week, he cried, “I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT IT!”

This is kind of scary, don’t you think? Don’t you think you should shut down your computer and go garden or something before summer is over? Or maybe play? How come adults don’t play?We’ve got the toys, but we don’t just want to go outside and play. How about talking to each other? What happened to that? Now we ‘chat’ online instead or ‘text’ crappy lines communication.

The world is changing, but is it changing for the good?Is it taking us away from the moment? If you are taking a walk, why not just look around and be alone with your thoughts rather than talk on the phone or text people or surf the Internet? And do you want to be available all the time for others to contact you? Don’t you want a little peace?

In Hinduism people used to run away to the woods to get enlightened. Now if we go into the woods, I think our cell phones will still pick up some kind of signal. “Can you hear me now?” You’ve seen the commercial for like Verizon or something.

Can you hear me now?

So I asked my dad if he thought that the Internet was making people as dumb as the TV did. His response was, “No…that Friends show…that one you watch….that will make you stupid.”

Friends? Really? When I was a kid, we as a family we used to watch Three’s Company every night, where John Ritter (God rest his soul) acted like a gay guy, lived with two women, tried to sleep with any woman he met and had a creepy friend named Larry.

My parents thought that Jack was hilarious. Those were the days, they will say, when TV was good. They also enjoyed the bigoted Archie Bunker. My professor once said, “America is all about nostalgia.”

I wish I was around in the sixties, since I believe in reincarnation, maybe I was around then. I mean where was I before 1975---December OK? I’m not 34 yet. But really what was I DOING before I was born?

Anyways…My favorite show to this day is Six Feet Under. It’s off the air now, but it really was brilliant. It’s about death. It’s witty and real…I think you can get the DVD’s at Blockbuster…I wouldn’t know.

I’m not really following anything right now, but occasionally I watch re-runs of Boston Legal. (I’m in love with James Spader, I wonder if he’s hitched). We don’t have HBO or Showtime, where all the brilliant shows are. Oh and The Office, that’s pretty entertaining. I do like Kathy Griffin; her stand up is hilarious. And Brothers and Sisters is decent. Oh and Lost. I like the Daily Show and Ali G. as well. (I think both Jon Stewart and Sasha Cohen are hot).

Enough about that. I wonder sometimes what TV has done to my brain. I also wonder what this very computer is doing to my mind as we speak.What’s the next revolution after the Internet? I vote for flying cars. Doesn’t the world look more like The Flinstones than The Jetsons?

Whaever dude, when are they gonna come out with a Sheera movie? Princess of Power, right? My middle name is Kaur, it means princess. You can call me Princess Nina. All Sikh women have Kaur after their name. (I’ll explain why LATER).

Sikhs are saints and soldiers. We are supposed to carry a small sword (kirpan) with us everywhere we go to be used for self defense ONLY (kind of like Sheera). It symbolizes strength. I don’t wear one but I have thought about it for protection. Protection from bad men and a few bitches I know. I'm not kidding.

But like I said, I’m not a good Sikh.


Sunday, August 30, 2009

Reality TV vs. Reality

Reality TV vs. Reality

Ok I’m not gonna talk about those people with all those kids, if you want to read about that go to the grocery store, look to your left…and it’s tabloid mania about Jon and Kate plus eight. However I’m really not interested, whose life is so interesting that it could be a TV show? It’s this weird voyeurism. And those people, don’t they want privacy, isn’t anything sacred to them?

If I wanted to see reality wouldn’t I just look out my window, why would I pay for Comcast Or the Dish Network or whatever it is you have in your neighborhood? Why are we paying for REALITY? Last time I checked it was the only thing in life that’s free.

The thing is: you have a neighborhood, why don’t we hang out in that instead of watching other people hanging out in their neighborhood? (Remember Mr. Rogers, “ It’s a beautiful day in your neighborhood…Would you be my neighbor?” The man was psychotic, am I right? He was so nice. Yet he may have been on to something).

If not mistaken The Real World by MTV started all this. That was when MTV used to play music.

That was a good show, but it was staged. Now it’s like reality, reality. I mean the Housewives of Atlanta got it goin’ on, I agree with you, but are they real? They’re like married to football players, they live in mansions, their biggest concern is this weird chick named Neneh, if I’m not mistaken. I’m not even gonna look that up. Some things aren’t worth it.

How about we watch people in line for food stamps? How about we watch what’s goin’ on in Iraq on a daily basis? I mean I know it comes on the news, but I want to see what really happens instead of just reading about it in some guilty memoir twenty years later. I mean don’t get me wrong, I’m gonna write a pathetic memoir and things like being in New York on September 11th will be in it…but…I didn’t watch a moment of TV news when I was there the weeks and months after. Reality on TV and in reality was too much for me.

Except one time I watched Oprah and there was this woman from Minnesota or something who said she was too scared to walk outside after the attacks. I was so pissed off. Fuck her. I’m not saying that the only people that were affected were the people there, but come on. I look Muslim, I lived next door to a Jewish cultural center. My brethren wear turbans, you know that about the Sikhs, right? The men wear turbans….And I walked outside, proudly, every day.

I didn’t have to watch it on TV, I watched TV to escape the reality of it. (Did you notice all the shows pretended like there was no 9/11, even like Sex and the City? I find that fascinating). The signs on the subway platforms for missing people…The candlelight vigils…and anyways…I live in the suburbs right now. I don’t’ even talk about it because there ain’t that much goin’ on outside my window except professional lawn mowers.

If you want reality from me you aren’t gonna get it. These words just don’t come out spontaneously out of my head. I think about it. I edit it. I add to it. I subtract the shit. If I just sent out what was at the top of my head you’d be bored out of your mind (assuming you are not bored right now).

Is art mimicking reality or vice versa? Art is a lot of work. Reality Bites (good movie though). It’s also fun and beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but if the seventies was not like Three’s Company and more like Woodstock, I’d like to know from Ang Lee’s perspective rather than seeing some guys youtube video of it.

I don’t know, that’s just me. Anyways, on a lighter note…ummm…what am I gonna do today? Go shopping with my sister and then get my nails done and hang out at the bookstore then have dinner… Yup…then I’m gonna…see how boring this is? See how boring I am?

Maybe you have a more interesting life. Maybe you I don’t know, what do you do that could be worth us watching? The truth is, maybe you abuse your kids, maybe you are plotting something dangerous. The REALITY is it’s a sick, sick world.

I’m Sikh, not sick, though. That’s a stupid joke I tell people. It’s not funny, I know.

None of this is really that funny is it?


Saturday, August 29, 2009

Spansh Harlem on my mind...

Did I ever tell you how I ran a coffee shop in a Jewish Nursing Home in Spanish Harlem for like a month? The writers told me it would make for good material. It definitely made for a good headache.

First of all I look Hispanic so it didn’t help that I don’t speak a word of Spanish. People would have long conversations with me as I was walking to work. I think they thought I was a snob or an uncultured Hispanic woman. I don’t just look Mexican, I also look Middle Eastern and Indian…etc.

Sometimes people can’t place me. (Why don’t I have a photo up so you can see for yourself? Because I look like a FREAK OF NATURE in photographs. I mean I don’t know what happens to my face, the camera totally distorts it. It’s true…I’m too vain to take pictures anymore).

Maybe I’ll put up an artist’s rendition of me. Any artists out there interested? I would have nothing to pay you but my gratitude. I’ve always wanted to have a HUGE ASS portrait of myself painted before I got old. Or get old. Whichever one suits you. (I was carded last night, YAY!)

I really fit in the Jewish Nursing Home though. I have respect for the elderly but these people were bitter. Some of them were flat out mean. They were tough though, they had seen the world and I was an annoying waitress to them that wouldn’t give the Diabetics sugar in their coffee when they asked for it as they rolled in with their wheel chairs.

One old man loved me, another hated me. Some of the women looked as though they weren’t scared of anything and didn’t trust anyone.

The man who I was working for was a recovering drug addict. I judged him for that back then. Now I judge myself for judging him. I’ve never had a drug problem but I have this feeling it’s like other problems, half of it’s your own damn fault and the other half is someone else’s fault. Like maybe a world that makes you want to hide from pain by getting high. A spiritually devoid world where you don’t know how to get naturally high.

Someone once told me a there is a book about Hippies in the sixties who stopped doing LSD for the obvious reasons and started meditating. They claimed they reached the same high as LSD. I know a guy who is a recovering addict as well who started doing meditation and was cured of his withdrawal symptoms. If you want to see some scary withdrawal symptoms, god what’s the name of that movie about Heroine addicts, um…damn…it’s with that guy from Star Wars. Anyone? Google, I guess, here I come…Trainspotting. Google is my new Mantra. Maybe Google is God.

Anyways, this guy that I was telling you about, he did what Sikh’s call NAAM SIMRAN. Or repeating a mantra WA_HE_GU_RU. Waheguru is the name of God as well as a breathing technique. When repeated over and over again it is rumored to lead to bliss because of the concentration and breathing and connection to the oneness of the universe. Although Sikhs believe you can recite any name of God.

I’ve tried it. It works for me. I could be imaging the bliss though. Imaginary happiness can be just as good as the real thing though, perhaps though, like wealth and beauty, are imaginary happy things. Maybe oneness with the universe is real happiness…I’m sorry if this sounds hokey or preachy.

Anyway…You’ve heard of the pleasure principal, there is now a Pistachio Principle for dieting… I don’t…

Look I’m not the poster girl for Sikhs, I’m not a good Sikh. But I like Sikhism’s spirituality or Sikhi as it is properly called. That’s all I have to say about that right now.

As for Introspective writing: The thing is, get over it. If you are going to write you have to put yourself out there. It’s a really cathartic and beautiful experience; I don’t know why everyone doesn’t do it. If you want, write fiction…then you are not directly putting yourself out there. I never write in a diary because someone will read it, I could die tomorrow. There are many thoughts that I keep to myself.

A reader said writing is good for your soul. I think she is right; it is a meditation I think it makes me happy. One last comment I must respond to. A woman named Nina asked me why I thought I was such a bad person. If I had a ‘Secret.’ I do in fact have many secrets. I don’t in fact hate myself.

Irony is funny thing ain’t it?

Friday, August 28, 2009


Thank God It’s Friday (I don’t know if this is a copy-written term by the restaurant but they don’t have a good diet selection).

JUNKMAIL and BACK TO THE FUTURE (Lovely Old School Film…Micheal J Fox is now very ill…remember when he could move on that skateboard? Those were the days).

“These are the Days to Remember,” I think that was my class song in high school. Don’t know why I can’t remember for sure. I’m worried about my brain.

Let’s talk about Internet Junk Mail for a second. My name is nina, why do they ask me if I want to enlarge my manhood on a regular basis? This psychic woman’s after my ass after I mistakenly checked out my future for a hot second on her site. Every day she’s got a new vision for me. Have you ever been to a psychic? I have been to a few. I even called one once.

Let’s see the first time was when I was like eighteen. I went with a good friend. It was her idea, okay? The psychic told me I wouldn’t go to law school but failed to mention that I would ‘pretend’ to take the LSAT for the sake of my parents after college. (I wanted to be a lawyer way back in freshman year). Then my Pops wanted me to become a lawyer…"What is this writing stuff? I did not pay for an English Degree for you to turn out like this.” “Oh Daddy Daddy if you could only see,” just how much that hurts me. (Pappa don’t Preach)-Madonna.

The psychic told me I’d become some kind of healer around the world. He said I’d struggle with my weight my whole life. Phony Bastard cost me fifteen bucks.

A Healer, huh? I have yet to heal my own wounds.

Oh and another thing that keeps showing up in my junk mail folder is ads for Viagra. What would happen if I took a Viagra? Where would it go? Hmmm... Then there’s Potty Patch, The indoor doggie restroom. Need I say more?

The Government keeps sending me these notices, apparently when you borrow money from them you must return it. Then there's this weird concept called INTEREST!!!!!!!!!!!
I skipped that day in math but simple or complex interest doesn't seem fair, I mean the government is acting like a loan shark at this point, don't you think?

See I took out the MAXIMUM amount that a human being is allowed to take out for five years for a Master’s Degree. It took me that long to write my award winning novel and finish my thesis for my MFA (Masters in Fine Arts) degree from Columbia University, my novel was my thesis. I’m not sad. No, no, people, I’m mad. (For those of you who thought I had a PhD it's because I lied to my parents and told them that I was getting one. I'm sick...I know). My betrayals are all cleared up now.

Who am I mad at? Do I even have the right? "They" didn’t tell us it would be this hard, they didn’t warn us. Our professors just said, “Keep writing.” Were they right? The commercial aspect of the writing was ignored, because the Editors, Agents and Publishers can ruin you. I wouldn’t know, but I’ve heard.

Car Mail?
Anyways… there was junk mail on my car. One was a parking ticket that I forgot to pay that day so will go to daddy’s car company I think…I don’t know if I can still pay it without him finding out. I’m like fifteen, I know. I’m trying to become fiscally responsible but I have a LONG way to go.

Oh and there was a note on my car the other day as well. A pink slip that said: YOU PARK LIKE AN ASS


I lost weight! If you want numbers, well, a lady never tells. I worked out four days….not good enough…need to work out six days. I ate OK, not great. Not enough fruits and veggies. I have to start cooking again. I’m not like Julia Child or anything but I can boil water. I mean I can cook.

Made one good job contact after hounding all contacts. Can send more resumes out. Shamelessly promoting my blog to anyone I talk to, trying to find readers on the web from other blogs etc.

FYI: If I contacted you after many years it was not my intention to USE you as a reader, but I’m learning how to socially network. I’m not very good at it. Apparently it helps with employment as well. That does not mean I don’t like you or don’t care about you, whoever you are…I just need to learn how to do this web thing. I refuse to do Face Book…we’ll talk about that LATER.

Realized I’m OK, you’re OK, never read the book but realized it. Learned how to turn a potential guy I could have dated into a friend, we’re better off as friends. I’m not like on the prowl or anything, but you know, I am. Realized how important music is in my life (coincidentally music is a vital aspect of my religion, Sikhism). I find that music dictates the trends of my thoughts. Song of the week: “Oh baby, baby it’s wild world, hard to get by, just upon a smile girl.” Cat Stevens is a beautiful man.

First of all if you are reading this, Thank you. It means a lot to me. I’ve gotten great responses from friends, family and even a few strangers . Thank you. One response was that a man stopped blogging because it revealed his vulnerabilities and insecurities and self doubt for the whole world to see. I don’t know how to respond to that and I can respond to just about anything. So I will consult my two Bibles of writing…Writing Down the Bones and The Artist’s Way. I’ll get back to you on this one.

DISCLAIMER: If you are offended by my use of profanity, well a wise man once told me that “Profanity is the language of the heart.” If you are offended by my spirituality and use of the notion of “God,” all I can say is I hope He’s not offended. Karma’s a bitch…

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Aleins: The Sequel

I’m stupid.

It’s because I’m a part of the borge-wah-zee. (Hell knows I will never be able to spell that word).

Yesterday, I said a guy who had a shoe fetish was like too weird for me. Like I don’t “understand it” my god I’m so above it.

I’m not. I am crazy. I’m not joking. I am also very strange. If you knew what really goes on in my head you would think I am an alien. I think many artists, writers, musicians and the mentally ill etc. feel like aliens and are treated like aliens. We’re often very different than mainstream culture.

There is so much more out there than what is in popular culture, but I’m sure you know that. You aren’t stupid.

But the only weird stuff we accept artistically is visual art. How did they, visual artists, get so ahead of the other arts? You can’t write stories without endings or sing songs that have no beat. But you can throw up on a canvas and it’s totally “art.”

If a man starts chanting vowels on the subway platform and thinks it’s music he is deranged and we are very scared. However, if you are into “yoga” and you are taking a “yoga” class you can chant whatever shit you want to chant because chanting is a form of meditation.

Maybe that guy on the platform is Schizophrenic, as many homeless people are, but maybe he’s also attuned to something higher. Maybe insanity is something we should finally try to understand. Something we should try to RESPECT. Like we respect monkey art.

“My grandma and your grandma sittin’ by the fire, my grandma to told your grandma gonna set your flag on fire…Iko, iko…anay…” Remember that song? What does it mean? I assume it’s too beautiful to describe but it’s very crazy.

The first thing the Women’s Movement did was clean up the Mental Hospitals, or more appropriately the Insane Asylums. Women know about disrespect. “Lunatic” patients were being beaten, electrocuted and denied food and basic human needs. Women have been raped, beaten and denied everything and then called crazy, for ages. It was time for a change.

They were all absolutely mad you know, the Einsteins, the Hemingways, the Van Gos. Whereas on the other hand Hitler was probably not an insane person, he was deliberate, conscious of what he was doing, probably “normal” in many ways.

What I’m trying to say is, the Mentally ill usually don’t want to hurt anyone but themselves. Most violence against other people is done by very “sane” individuals.

Though I’m not a psychologist or psychiatrist, maybe I don’t know enough about it. However, I am a crazy person. I know enough about that.

I don’t want to hurt anyone. I have, hurt a few people very badly, but I never wanted to. I have hurt myself the most.

Enough emotional jargon. I’ve made mistakes, you’ve made mistakes…I assume if you are a human being.

If however, you are an alien, maybe you don’t fuck up. Maybe there’s this whole other world out there where people don’t fuck up and go insane.

In this world however, I don’t think I’m alone when I say. I messed up. More than once.

I’m sorry.


Wednesday, August 26, 2009


Do you believe in aliens? I don’t care if you do or not, you know a few.

Let me refresh your memory. Women like, say, Cindy Crawford, who are like forty and look better than they did when they were sixteen, are ALIENS!!! (Yeah I’m jealous and I want her dead) but it’s for the good of HUMANITY that I say this. See she’s like super smart too. I don’t care what kind of “magic” cream she wears, I could wear that cream until the cows come home and her ass still looks better than my face.

Alright I’m a little bitter.

See, it should be illegal to be THAT kind of Alien.

Why am I bitter? Let me tell you why I’m bitter: she makes human women look flawed. See the “Most interesting man in the Universe” or whatever is like this weird old guy, have you seen that beer commercial? I mean he looks like a rich bastard who bangs strippers.

Again with the women have to be beautiful and men have to be rich syndrome. Come on you have to admit some of these women are like beautiful freaks of nature and the men look like aliens.

Speaking of freaks of nature and possible aliens, I’ve been browsing the web, which can always lead to alien interaction. There is a man with a shoe blog about women’s shoes and how they give him shoegasms.

Alright, I shouldn’t judge. To each their own. C’mon shoegasms?

So you wanna know how I’m doing with this self-discovery thing? It was hot excitement for like two days, two days later it became just nice and comforting. Today, it just feels like another day that I’ve got to get on that treadmill of life (literally the treadmill as well at the gym).

But about the calories, I’m consistently being good (I’m lying…is it the truth if I’m telling you I’m lying?) I’m being OK, we’ll see if I’ve lost some weight on Friday. I do my weigh-ins on Fridays. I’m working out like an animal, but not every day, my heart rate was like 160 at one point, that’s good right? Could I die though? You know, like moving this much is scaring my body.

I’m scared, scared I won’t get a job I like. I’m scared I’ll lose the job because I hate it. I’m scared I’ll unintentionally kill my boss through the power of intention.

I did get a lead for a very good job. I’ll probably fuck it up but I’ll let you know what happens.

I’m scared that I can’t make it on my own in this world, that I’m not a real adult. If I’m a fake adult, does that make me an alien? “I’m an alien, I’m a legal alien…” My parents were called aliens when they first got here. Do you think that's a fair word?

Does it feel to you like words were created by a different species, possibly aliens? I don’t even know what I’m saying... I’m scared that I have nothing special to say so who do I think I am writing in cyberspace, assuming anyone gives a shit?

Besides all that, I feel like I have a purpose…not clear what that purpose is. I feel good and honest.

This is hard, but it’s good.

So if you are an alien and you want to come out of the closet, I think you should write a blog. There has to be at least one alien roaming this Earth. C’mon we won’t kill you. I promise. As long as you don’t look like Cindy Crawford.


Tuesday, August 25, 2009

If I had a gun...

OK let’s talk about guns. OK not really. Let’s talk indirectly about guns. Let’s talk about imaginary guns.

I met a guy, OK, “met” is not exactly the word. I once encountered an individual who was stark raving mad crazy and owned an imaginary gun. It was the first week I moved to New York in the year 2000.

See the things is; imaginary guns have always been legal. That guy with the finger in his pocket, the one you saw in a movie on TNT, he’s real. A gun is easier to fake than an orgasm.

Me and my gay neighbor were in the subway, he was the first friend I made in New York. But he had just moved from Oklahoma and I had just moved from Michigan. Do I need to explain that statement?

I never called my gay neighbor back when he called to see if I was OK on 911. He was a good guy and I am not a good person.

Besides the point, but fake guns were made to be shot at people like me. Oh I deserved it. I don’t know why, I just get this feeling like I deserved it. Is that low self worth or the truth?

“If I had a gun,” the crazy man sitting in front of me on the subway at night said directly to my face, “you’d be the first person I’d shoot.”

I sat there and said nothing. Did nothing. I was sitting in the handicapped chair and he was handicapped and he was mad that I, an able bodied woman, was sitting in the handicapped chair. Mind you I was in the wrong, I have a father who is blind, I understand disability.

But he threatened to kill me, really loudly, over and over again, he kept saying the same thing, “If I had a gun you’d be the first person I’d shoot.” He clearly had no gun. No access to a gun. There was no violence in his crippled body. His voice, his voice I will never forget.

The disabled are brilliant…my blind father can recognize a person from their voice. That man recognized an idiot by the way I was staring into space, stone cold. I was sitting my privileged beautiful ass in the handicapped seat.

Did he somehow know I had a Blockbuster fine of thirty dollars that I NEVER intend to pay? Did he know I don’t recycle? Did he “Know that I’m no good..."(Say what you want about Amy Whinehouse but she is a genius).

I’m sorry I don’t know why I’m such a horrible human being.

But the man knew my secret self. He knew I was egotistical and wanted to be a real famous writer one day. He knew I wanted to make lots of money. He knew people like me.

And if He had a gun…

God who would you shoot?

I mean excuse me, who are you gonna shoot next?


Someone in the world just died.

Don’t fuckin’ tell me guns are good.


Monday, August 24, 2009

Midlife Monday

Ok to not be exact but I’m in my thirties, early thirties, OK, earliesh thirties. I’m not middle-aged am I? Because I was planning a rather elaborate crises. I even had a soundtrack in mind, Whitney Houston’s SHRIEKING rendition of I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU.

See I want the Diva in me back. I feel like she went downtown to buy some high-heels and she’s still in line. I’ve gained some weight in the past few years, and it’s just made me less of a Diva. I’m losing the weight, and with each pound I shed, a little attitude comes back.

Is that even a good thing? I’m a vain bitch. Yeah, I want men to look at me. But I want something more than that from them.

But then you know, some days, I just want to be pretty. I remember being looked at and admired. It’s so sick isn’t it? Even if I lose all the weight, one day I’m gonna be a wrinkly old hag. I read somewhere that really only plain women truly understand men. That could be true.

Men can get fat. And wrinkly and old. They however, cannot get poor.

Speaking of money…um yesterday I used a four letter word, today I will use a three letter word: job. I have to get one. A full time one.

I hate jobs. OK, I don’t hate jobs, but to an artist or writer, a job is a little like The Holocaust, or I mean something bad (I overstepped a little). What’s something I can compare it to? And don’t say that I’m a writer and I ought to know how to like create metaphors. Don’t say that because it’s true.

Look, I swear it’s not because I’m lazy. I used to think it was because I am lazy, until I went to grad school and met a whole bunch of writers. Jobs weren’t exactly created with us in mind. I want to teach writing, ideally. I’m not certified, I’m out of student loans, so I’ll settle for a writing job. I want like journalism or something…Do you believe that like it’s fate or something, whatever profession you end up in? Kind of like God put us on the Earth with a specific occupation in mind. Do you think God’s that specific? I don’t know, He did pick out the exact length of my eyelashes.

You know I was reading an essay a young very brilliant kid wrote about how he stopped believing in God at one point. I think this happens to everyone, but I don’t know why, it never happened to me. I did normal stop-believing behavior. I stopped believing in like the tooth fairy and the Smurfs (that was a hard one, I had a crush on Handy Smurf).

I’m weird, right? I’m not imagining this? Anyway, as I was saying….I have no proof there is a God. I also have no proof in reincarnation and other things I believe in (We’ll get to that LATER). But I don’t know; if you’re gonna roll the dice, maybe it’s better to be for rather than against. I understand why really intelligent people think it is a complete waste of time. I get that. I respect that.

It’s just that, I feel like this spirit inside me sometimes. I don’t know, it’s Monday dude, it’s garbage day. I gotta take out the trash. Why did god create trash? I DON’T KNOW. I mean He’s kind of a weirdo Himself. (No offense) dude I believe in Karma. I gotta enough shit stalked against me.

And the He/She thing is not a joke to me. I use the pronouns interchangeably because I don’t think God has a gender. But some days I don’t even think I have a gender (I’m being serious) we sort of made up that concept...I don’t know.

I don’t know much, but I know if I don’t get the trash out in time the garage will continue to smell like dog shit.

That’s it right?

That’s all we can count on to be true.


Sunday, August 23, 2009

The junkyard of my brain...

Oh, you haven’t seen nothin’ yet. There is actual garbage in here.

You know what I’m afraid of, really afraid of? That I’m gonna write a bunch of junk and you’re all (assuming there is more than one of you) are gonna laugh your asses off. At me, not with me. At me.

But I made a commitment to write 365 of these things. A very wise woman (my therapist) once told me that the commitments that you honor to yourself create integrity. So I’m gonna be like integrity girl here and even promise I won’t lie on this blog. I’m really gonna show you who I am and I’m scared to death you’re not gonna like it. I got the idea for this blog from watching the film Julie and Julia, it’s an amazing flick. It’s not a chick flick even though it’s about two chicks.

I can’t believe I told all these people about my new and wonderful blog and now I have to perform.

Sometimes writing feels like juggling. Sometimes I feel like a circus animal.

OK totally off the wall random question, who DECIDED that a table was gonna be called a table? I’ve had this question in my mind for so long, who named things? There was no Noah, I mean if you believe there was then like maybe you know I have to respect that, but where did this dreadful language come from?

Anyways, here’s a very bloggy story. (You know I’ve never really read any blogs---what the hell am I doing? People make plans and shit before they do things. I just do things). Anyhow a few years ago, I was sitting at a table at a cafĂ© with five young celibate priests I met that very night. Oh, you think I have trouble meeting men right? No, no, you are wrong my friend, I have trouble meeting non-priest men. Five. I was flirting with them, it was weird they had what appeared to be sex drives…just in a flirty sense. I don’t remember how I ended up at the table, but I can tell you what I was wearing because I am woman, hear me roar. My pink chiffon shirt that doesn’t fit anymore.

So as I was sitting there…NOTHING HAPPENED!!!!!

I was with five priests, besides their dirty thoughts of converting me, there was nothing sacrilegious about that night.

Sorry the story was so lame.

But it got me thinking, why was I so confident, cool, and witty that night? They say boys will be boys. But it’s like these priests were looking at women like we were these adorned statues that needed to be worshipped. I swear I could feel something like idol worship in their eyes. Like, wow, like a woman is talking to me like I’m just like everybody else. She moves? She talks? So I’m thinking if normal men are staring at Playboy or Internet Porn all day, when they see a real woman, who thinks and has opinions, well is that why they always look so surprised that we’re mad at them for not understanding us?

Did that make any sense? I didn’t think so. Don’t feel like fixing it.

OK, so This is not a Priests are People Too Campaign.

This is a fucking Blog. There I said it, Fuck. I’m sorry dad…. “No daughter of mine will use that language.”

I’m sorry dad, I’m sorry I f--ed up, that you got this f--ed up kid. (It’s the Priests, they want to make you confess, you can see it in their eyes). I know, this is not T.V. I don’t have to bleep it out. I’m trying to respect my father.

My father is blind, so he can’t read this blog and I take advantage of that. I’m sorry daddy. I’m sorry you’re blind. I’m sorry I say bad words sometimes.

You see, the thing is, I should have asked those Priests, if God is so great than why did He make my daddy go blind?

I don’t think Priests are better people than us, but do you think God’s a better being than us? Maybe He’s a lot more like us than we think. Maybe He’s got flaws. Maybe He cries for my daddy too.

We have to think that He’s just like this Great blob of great nothingness, don’t we, because there’s got to be something better out there than this garbage.


Saturday, August 22, 2009

Chronicles of, Part one:

Ok, look, I realize I need therapy but I can’t afford it at the moment. I was thinking about putting a Paypal link on this blog to see who would get exhausted with me enough to pay for my therapy.

Anyways, and but, I must tell you about It’s an Indian Dating website. Currently it’s my only venue for dating. Currently I’m going insane.

But let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, I must reveal the insidious, neuroticness, and fantasy of this very valuable marriage site. The word shaadi means marriage. Look, I’ve been on for like three years and ain't nobody put a ring on this finger.

I know, I know, I’m relentlessly annoying, I’m bad at life very often. But I’m not hideous, I’m not thin, but I’m not like an elephant or anything. Not that there’s anything wrong with elephants (you heard about the animal rights group got real pissed because Obama swatted a fly). Well let me let you be a fly on the wall while I describe men exclusively from

Bachelor #1—I swear on the Bible or whatever, OK the Guru Granth Sahib (Holy Scripture of the Sikhs) (We’ll get into that later) anyways as I promise this is the truth this guy asked me to, how should I put this knowing my father could read this one day…this guy asked me ON THE TELE---If I would perform certain acts with another man that he would find from the newspaper (he chose a black man) (this is not about oppression, I swear to you) he wanted me to perform these acts in front of him with this other character. Apparently he had done this with a previous girlfriend. !!!!!!!!!!!!
Yeah, I know, I know, you have questions. Concerns. I feel dirty even talking about it.

Bachelor #2—Tells me on our very first date that a Kiss is a commitment. Apparently he does not kiss anyone unless he is sure to be committed to them. See the thing is the man was born in the United States of America. He was good looking, charming, good job…I’m not saying you need to be going around kissing every tom, dick and harry (those are the right names right?) but people please. Then HE proceeds to reject ME. I couldn’t even get a I –reject you-back-right- back-at you-word in.

Bachelor #3—Tells me I’m the one. We had two dates. I told him I wasn’t the one. He proceeds to tell me in July 2009 that this could set him back months. He won’t be dating again until 2010. He also says he doesn’t understand why someone wouldn’t want to be with him. My good friend said she felt the same way about herself. Fine. Good. Feel that way, it’s good for your, you know, self and shit, but do not tell ME that line of garbage. He was a whiney two year old when I told him our two date love affair was over.

God this is making me tired. This is what we women have to go through. OK, OK, they are not all like that. I have met some really cool guys. I haven’t stayed in touch with a single one of them, but well, bygones. Tales of shaadi are not over, but this is just really pissing me off.

So why do I still do this? Why do I still date? Why do I still use the Internet?

Alright, I’ll say it: I believe in love. (Is that the name of a cheesy song by like Cher or something?)

It’s a really difficult word to say out loud without feeling like you’re a jerk. Love.

I have no idea where it is, or how to find it, or if I’ll ever really get it. But I’ve been there. And there ain’t nothin’ like it. Hell I even believe in true love.

Don’t ask me what that means, I barely know how to spell it.

So you tell me, where am supposed to go? I go to bookstores, a Muslim man once asked me to be his second wife after stalking me at a Barnes and Noble. There are real winners roaming the bars as well. I go to coffee shops and usually end up in conversations with gay men for some reason. I love my gays but, c’mon.

So I’m gonna try some other stuff…since I promised myself that I would try to find myself and the one…I’ll be creative. It’s just hard. It’s so hard. It’s hard to date, it’s hard to be single, it’s hard to be in a relationship and I don’t even want to know how hard it is to be married.

Does it ever get easier to love? (I predict that to be Cher’s next comeback song).


Friday, August 21, 2009

I can't sleep anymore today...

It's around six a.m. (ignore the blog clock I think it's showing India time). I've got nowhere to go except for the gym. Everytime I skip the gym I've promised myself that I will make an articulate excuse on this very blog as to why I haven't gone. I'm very creative.

This last hour or so I couldn't sleep because I discovered something, tossing and turning. I don't understand sleep. I have vivid dreams about failing math tests and I don't understand how this is restful. I wonder if God sleeps and like in what time zone? Has She ever dreamt of me? And if She doesn't sleep or dream, than why did she make us this way? Bailing out of life for like eight hours a day. Doing absolutely nothing for eight whole hours. It's kind of weirdly interesting. Whatever.

Oh yeah, for those of you who assumed I was Mexican or something because of my name, I am Indian. I wonder if this changes the way you see me. Do you see me as someone who is really good at math? I failed math, not only in my dreams but in highschool too. I don't think I was rebelling against being Indian really, I think I was rebelling against numbers. Now those very numbers are rebelling against my bank account...on the scale....

Us "creative types" us "insane types" us who don't follow the mold, if we are Indian or Irish, know one thing, the mold was so contsticting it gave us scars. I walk around with those scars inside me. I dissapointed my parents by not getting married, not having a stable career, and not having children. Hell, those things dissapoint me on bad days.

There's a part of me that wants to be exactly like everybody else. Then there's a part of me that knows better, knows that if I wasn't so alone some days, I would not understand my life. Knows that people with kids and a house are so alone some days they don't get it either. A part of me knows that a part of me is exactly like everybody else.

So it doesn't matter that I don't have a man, a mortgage and a child (Damn it I was trying to go with the M theme, the poet in me). That's it, Me. I have myself.

Enough of this.

I have a master's degree in writing and I can't spell. What does that tell you about college? I thought college would get me a career in writing, I even went to the Ivy Leagues, I can't even spell their name correctly. That's not my school's fault. I should have read the dictionary or something. They say geniuses can't spell. Well idiots can't spell either. Idiots can use a treadmill. Sometimes idiots are skinnier than you. ---I know irrelevant right?---but before i go to the gym I need to be reminded that any idiot can lay around...even monkeys like to move.

I don't move enough.


Thursday, August 20, 2009

So this is today...

Maybe you know what it feels like to be stuck in tommorow or yesterday and if your like me you like to avoid the present like the plague. They tell me you won't read this unless I say something to "Die For." They tell me I need a topic, a point of view, something. I am coming to you with nothing. Nothing but myself.

I don't know what category this fits into but I know I'm looking to say something or to be something but I'm in my mid-thirties and it hasn't happened yet. Perhaps you know this all too well, maybe you're eighteen or forty-five and you still aren't "there" yet, that place where you can finally breathe and say, "I lived."

I'm giving myself 365 days to find the woman in me I can respect. I want to take you on that journey. It's not that I don't respect myeself or love myself, but maybe I don't know myself enough, or know anything enough to take this journey alone. I need you to say that you heard me. I need someone to talk to in the middle of the night when everything, including my eyes, are closed. Maybe I need a friend in cyberspace as kids need a friend in outer-space. You, the reader, are my alien and my alibi.

Readers are like ghosts, but they are the reason I keep calling myself a writer. Even though I have been professionally trained as a writer, I'm still nobody. Even though I wrote a novel that no one wants to publish. And that's ok, maybe if I was somebody I would not have the time to think or to otherwise be bothered by this nagging narcissitic need to communicate with invisible strangers. You are my strangers, and hopefully my saviors, as I trespass into a journey of cliche self discovery.

So my goals are this, I want to be healthy, weathy and wise. It means I need a full time job as a writer that can support me, I need to get in shape, and I need to like meditate or something. Oh and I'd like to find a man in the midst of all of this. Or maybe just learn how to be happy without one. I've emailed, chatted, dated and now blogged on the Internet. If God isn't a computer than I don't know what I'm doing.

It's 11:44 p.m. In sixteen minutes it will be tommorow. Why do I love tommorow so much and what promise it holds. Promise you'll think for a moment, promise me you won't wait till tommorow, promise me you'll believe that we can do this today.