Transatlanticism

Than to be Under It.

My mother turned 40. Two days ago, my mother turned 40. Which officially makes her an old person. It isn't much of a difference, actually. She doesn't look different. However, she has taken to smelling different, somewhat like acrid plastic. See, the acrid plastic thing she brought upon herself. The morning she turned 40, she ransacked the dresser and extracted from its depths an anti-aging cream that my father had left behind a couple of years ago. The cosmetic thing, honestly, she doesn't need, but she doesn't believe me, and now, according to her, she is 40, and thus her own principles allow her to assault her face with things that smell like burning PVC. Good for her. Maybe?
I don't get the big deal about turning a certain age. Save for the fact that I desperately want to be 17. It's been a million years since I turned 16. But more importantly, I don't understand why my mother would be so miserable about turning 40. Yeah, SURE, now people can tell you to your face that you're old, but you know, aside from that. I'd love to be old, and yell at people for the simple reason "Because I'm Older than You, B****!"
My mum however, fails to grasp the simple concept of aging gracefully. I can only truly realise how potentially serial-killer she sometimes is when I objectively look at her antics, say for example this excerpt from an MSN conversation.
Sahana(11:03):
Oh, and my mum turned forty.
Sahana (11:04):
Which gives her more reason to be mad at the time (now she calls it cantankerous or menopausal instead of angry)
Sahana(11:04):
Not to mention, she's spending all her free-time buying anti-ageing beauty products, which not only smell like burning plastic, but do NOT WORK!
Sahana(11:14):
And in somewhat good news, I finally found a hairstyle where I don't look like an electrocuted dog.
Sahana (11:16):
My mum was throwing things around looking for her elixir of youth, and she nearly poked my eye out with this hairclip thing.

Yes, My mother is phobic of getting old. Happy belated fortieth birthday, Mummy.
*Evil Laugh*

P.S. - Any of you who comment back telling how angelic and humourous my mother is WILL be gravely injured.
I'm serious.

I wonder what I will be when I grow up.

And when I worry about the future, I don't think of things like "Will I be happy?", because I know I will. I will MAKE myself happy. Balls to you, Destiny.
What I do wonder about is how much of me will be like my parents. Studying genetics keeps me in a perpetual state of bewilderment, because I know that everything I do is from one of them, and yet, it is something that I do. I find it fascinating how none of me is actually unique (genotypically), but then strangely, I am nothing like my parents (phenotypically). Or so I feel.
I do not want to grow up to be my parents. Actually, I don't want to grow up and be anyone else but me, but that's a stupid thing to say. Diversity is awesome and all, but there are finite permutations and combinations that behaviours can manifest themselves in, and as such, therefore, there is a infinitesimally small chance that I shall be unlike EVERYONE else. Besides, if I was different from EVERYONE else, I'd be kind of lonely. Individualistic, but still a teeny bit lonely. But if I had a choice, and I could pick who I DIDN'T want to be, I would ensure that I un-emulate my parents. It would be a little bit of an evolutionary travesty if I failed to be an individual and simply was a carrier of identical everythings from Parental Generation to Filial Generation. Besides, I'd probably hate myself.
Not implying, of course, that I hate the parents. I don't. And I do. As is the case with every Parent-Child Relationship. It's a Yes, and a No, but Rarely a Maybe. It's black and it is white.

It has been a long while since I ranted on my blog, and while I do feel bad about not having the Michael Phelps picture as the opening post, I'm glad I wrote this. I know that this post, in retrospect and for the uninitiated, will be rather incoherent, but you know what? I don't care.

P.S. - I'm aware that the parts about genetics and diversity are not completely accurate. What I talk of is simply my view/interpretation, so don't flame me for not being Galton.

Whaaaaat?

He's pretty. I'm sorry, but he is. Very Pretty. Move on with your lives now.

Let's Never Grow Old, You Said,
And I Agreed, All the While in my Head
I Formed a World Where we Were Juvenile
But Also Senile.
And We'll be Off to a Universe, Custom-Made,
Where No-one Rains on Our Crazy Parade.
And there shall be Sandboxes with Glow-in-the-Dark Sand
And Chocolate Cornflakes for Dinner.

All We Need to do Now, Is to Get There.
To Grow Up, so We Can Act Childish.

To Adulthood and Beyond, then. I know I'll see you there.

08/08/08 -
The best day ever.
It feels wonderfully gratifying to win. (Screw you Pierre Coubertin. You meant well when you equated participation and losing, but you also lied, so screw you!).
It is about the best feeling in the world to stand up triumphant in front of your personal demons. (Balls to YOU.)
It is the best feeling in the world to have a non-hostile audience cheer your win. (It's true. The claps are much more sincere.)
It is the best feeling to see your debate advisors grin like six-year-olds with chocolate-covered teeth, to hear that your principal did a little jig in her office, and to have the whole class whoop for you when you enter, grinning from ear to ear. (Also true. Although I don't want to picture the jig.)
It is also pretty awesome to be told you were brilliant by people you have never seen before, and people you will never seen again. (I'm a junkie for attention. I know, so do you.)
But it is even more awesome when people you've lost to have now lost to you. (I'm also a junkie who loves to gloat.)
The prospect of missing an exam is also rather lovely. (Hoo-ha!)
And Winners' Certificates are still shinier than regular participation certificates, even though they're actually the same damn thing. (Seriously.)

P.S. - I love you Frank Anthony. <3