Transatlanticism

A Mother begs. She wants her son's corpse to just open its eyes one more time, so she can whisper to him the goodbye she never got to say.

Two successive Gary posts in a day. Somewhere in the world, something wonderful must be happening. Maybe  HotBody Lightbody is googling his own name and he finally found this blog. Hallelujah, 'tis been a long time coming.

Oh God, I need to get a life.

I hate the beggar babies outside school. There are two sets of them, one near the BITM bus-stop corner, and the other set lives next to the mosque, close to the place which sells all that junk-food. They're pretty horrible, these children. Every time you buy some street-food and savour it on the way back from School, (before you're forced to share it with the people in the carpool), they'll holler at you while hanging from the metal bits of the bus-stop railing, and they'll turn their eyelids upside down until your entire appetite disappears, and you're forced to relinquish your food to them. Friggin' beggars. I hate the ones at the bus-stop. 

Okay. Being the awesomely nice soul that I am, I decided to make a note of all the stuff I had for my math paper, and this may help you, and if it doesn't, well then, bollocks.

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

A load of debris left on the rooftop, because no one bothered to clean up once the painting was done.

This is a very soggy bird that looked rather disgruntled with Monday's rains.

This is the starting point of the flyover that is somewhat close to our street. Quite waterlogged, quite picturesque, eh?

If you stand on the rooftop of our apartment, this is what you would see.

This is the street where I live.

These are the rail-tracks underneath the flyover. Very rural. Very other-worldly.

The football grounds through a lot of foliage. Last picture before my battery ran out.

And there you have it. These are my bearings. This is my city through raindrops.

You’re vain, you’re pompous and I hate the way you parade

I hate the way you walk into the room and relegate everything else to shade

I hate how you talk, with excessive pace

I hate how your words, with your thoughts they race.

I hate how the benchmarks I set for myself are the ones you’ve set

I hate how every trophy runs to you like it’s your pet

I hate how you win, how you win all the time

I hate how my losing makes me want to rhyme.

I hate that you’re there, I hate when you’re around,

I hate all your words; I hate all your sound.

I hate your presence; it irks me to no end

I hate how this hate is a thing I can’t mend.

I hate your face; I hate your voice,

The fact that you’re in pain makes me rejoice.

I hate how you swagger; I hate how you walk

But most of all, I hate how you talk.

I hate your impudence; I hate your skill,

I hate how we’re similar but you’re better than me still.

But then, “hate” is just such a strong word.

There is something wonderful about a debate that makes me all shivery, afraid, tense, anticipatory and joyful all at one go. It must the idea of verbal warfare, the idea of spoken skirmishes, the idea of vocal battle – the adrenaline in your system that makes you tense up, your mouth go dry and your limbs sluggish when the speaker just before you is finishing their speech and you know you’re next. The three-ish minutes of your speech that you will never remember once you’re done with, the three minutes on which everything depends, the three minutes where nothing makes sense, not even the words you say. In those minutes the audience becomes a sea of faces that all look the same – skin colored and unrecognizable. The cold in your fingertips, the numb toes. The flood of heat through your system when you’re done with your speech and the audience claps and snaps you out of the reverie that you were in while at the podium and instantly the world comes back into focus and you can process the faces again, remember the names and remember whether you hate them or like them, and whether they were better or worse than you.

Although, this whole debating thing is made even better because of my debate-buddy and general-buddy, Aanooshka Seyn. And as one of the advisors said – we’re very different, but we’re pretty much like peas in a pod. She is sober, I am not. She is sarcastic, I am over the top. She never forgets her speeches, and sometimes I do. She claps for me and I clap for her. Together we point and laugh at the people who flub up, and then she yells at me for being uncouth. She talks of poetry and calls me a macho science geek. I talk of almost everything nonsensical under the sun, and I call her Humanities. She makes references out of people and things I hate, and cock eyebrows at all the things I say, and register them for later blackmail. When a speaker talks of the audiences’ wives, all the girls in the audience go “Whaaa?”, but I turn to her and say – “Oh crap, they found out about us?” Yes, Tiny, thank you for being my debate partner. Your secrets are safe with me, although I don’t think that assurance is mutual, I still love you.

I’ve been missing classes and hanging around the LN Birla debates the last couple of days, and among other things, the debates made me realize how much I love debating (and missing school). Much thanks to the teams who sat behind us and had a tiny talking party – I think I might have died of boredom and/or eating my arm out of sheer ennui if it wasn’t for you. Thank you Girls One and Two, for not being vapid but pretty good conversation, and even though one of you kept talking poetry at a point in time, you were still pretty normal. (Shut up, Aanooshka Seyn. ) Both of you. Thank you also those other two in the back. One of you was pretty much err.. okay as always. The other was a <> as always. Which was expected. (Again, shut up, Aanooshka Seyn) Aaaand, we qualified for the next round. So, that went off pretty great for us, that first day.

The next day, me and Aanoshka Seyn acted like a couple of over-confident, underprepared b!t(#e$ and therefore we got pwned. Even so, she missed a test, and I missed Double Math, so all in all it was quite a fruitful day. Despite that odd girl who I still think does not look like me. Despite the fact that we didn’t win. Despite the fact that I was extremely bored on stage. Despite all the unnecessary sports and games. Despite all of that and more stuff, I still count my blessings.

I love Wolves.
My favourite kind of wolves live in the Iberian Peninsula, which is the Spain-Portugal area along the coast.
They are called Iberian Wolves, aka Canis Lupus Signatus.
I must save them.
And if you find them pretty and conservable, GoEco has a very amazing plan. Which I would LOVE to be a part of, but the biological conspiracy that I am a part of renders me all of sixteen-year-old for almost forever. But look at this link.
http://www.goeco.org/47169/Volunteer_in_Portugal_in_Wolves_coservation_program
And if you're still not psyched, look at the gorgeousness that you will be helping to protect:

I feel so happily exhausted. So much so, that I want to flop down on a bean bag and grin maniacally. My baby is finally home.
The Magazine Team of the School has been working their asses off all the year, sacrificing lunch breaks, holidays and sanity to compile something "classy" at the end of the year. And roughly nine months later, we walk into the Principal's office which has been, more or less second home to us, only to receive a nice, thick, considerable bulk of paper that smells invitingly of glue.
It is our baby, and each one is the progeny of our hard work.
And so, with a proud-exhilarated-tired-ecstatic expression of absolute kindness (or the closest to it that I can muster up, anyway) I present to the world, Lotus Buds 2007-2008.

Might I just add,due to lack of consensus, this child is largely regarded to be the process of asexual reproduction, or imaginary... never mind.
XD!