:)

The last post was such a rambler. Sorry guys. Haha.

I think we're going to settle in here just fine. Sure, it's a bit quiet here, because the people downstairs are like super relaxed and calm, unlike my adorably cantankerous aunt. (I hope she never finds out I said that.)
But then, it's only been a couple of days. We're only just turning this house into a home.

Speaking of which, I'm getting my first dose of homemaking. Every morning, I get up and I do all this random cleaning and assist my mom in all these chores. Just because I want to. It's so retarded. Till now, I have always loathed cleaning with a passion.

It's just the two of us in the morning, because Dad and my brother go off to their respective office and university. We play songs on our portable speaker and joke around. Mother-daughter bonding time. I love it. Especially because my mom's my best friend. She's so cute! She keeps getting these advertisement messages from her bank and then she grits her teeth and fluffs around like an irritated pigeon.

It echoes a lot in here, though. It can be pretty cool and pretty annoying at the same time. Cool, because my voice sounds amazing when I sing. Annoying because the walls have ears.

Yesterday, when I went out on the terrace, I noticed a newspaper lying there. I thought it must belong to the people who live downstairs, because we haven't arranged for a newspaper yet.

But today, Mom went out on the terrace, and there it was. Another roll of the daily paper.
We opened it, and we saw that the paper boy had scrawled his name and number on it, so that we could get in touch with him and coordinate the fee and everything.

It's kinda stupid, but I thought that was very sweet. I instantly felt welcomed into the new neighborhood.

So, yeah. A paper boy made me feel better about shifting. Why do the most insignificant people have the most significant effect on my life? First the flower man*, now this.

Anyway. I found this in my laptop. From back in the old house. It's me, singing.

PS Sorry about the kinda weird ending. This song always makes me really emotional.

*Will update about the flower man later.

Shifting: Making a mountain out of a molehill. Thanks a lot, heart.

Frustrated. Angry. Depressed. Annoyed. Lethargic.

Ironic it is, that I was the one prodding everyone on to get the business over with.

And now the whole house is empty. Except for my room.

I don’t have the energy to move this stuff. I feel like lying down here on my downtrodden mattress forever. Forget about the beautiful new room waiting for me. Forget about the pretty lounge, the sofa, the view from the new rooftop, the terrace, the housewarming. I don’t care. I like it here, in my cluttered box with its musty smell and dusty carpet. It’s me. It speaks of me.

It’s just a freakin room. Just a freakin house. It’s not even pretty. Nothing special about it. Old walls and broken pipes and cracks and marks everywhere.

But this house is where I came to be known as an existing truth. More importantly, it’s where I watched life unfold. I watched people being born, people dying, people getting married, having birthdays, anniversaries, praying, fighting, laughing, crying. I made friends, I made enemies. I made memories with people, of people—some of whom I can never make memories with again.

Every single crack tells a tale. Every mark a story. And it’s really frustrating that I never noticed it before.

Our tiny nursery handprints still adorn the windows. Glass-paint apples made so tenderly, only to be ruined later. Stick-ons on the wall and the door, first supporting growth charts and drawings, then certificates and pictures of celebrities, then notes and to-do lists, and until a few days ago, university posters.

And to think I thought the final thing I’d hang on those doors would be strings of roses.

But the marks, where our furniture existed not a few days ago, still stand out dark against the white. “We’ll tell your tale to the world,” they say cheerfully.

Stupid blotches. What does the world care? If the average man had even a spark of imagination, the world would be a much easier place to exist in, now, wouldn’t it?

And then I wouldn’t have to face the horror and misery I know I will when this house reaches its impending doom.

Yes. Some stupid moron will trample down with his big blazing bulldozer onto every scribble I made on the walls, every plant I grew, every hope I cherished, every wish I made, every piece of evidence of my childhood and teenage. And what will I get? Nothing. Not a single damn thing.

Of course I’m angry. Shouldn’t I be? The seventeen years of my existence in this world may not amount to much, but they certainly don’t deserve to be trashed.

They’re going to have to put up a serious fight to get through me.

The walls are empty now. Icy white and mocking. They don’t care about me. It’s just me, being the stupid, wretched, empathic fool that I am.

What am I talking about? They’re not alive.

Lord. Something’s wrong with me. I’m talking about walls and cracks telling tales.

I should be happy. We still have the same furniture. My new room is beautiful. I can finally put my domestic skills into action.

And here I am, moping about leaving an age-old place. I suck.

Honestly, I don’t understand my annoyingly human heart. My mind keeps trying to make it see reason, but in vain.

My heart is a BLONDE!

Not like saying all of this is going to make a difference. Sure, I’m being slow and lazy. But I’ll move eventually. And things will settle in. I know.

And I’ll watch my castle crash down without so much as a single tear in my eye. Because I’ll know it’s all locked up safe inside my head.

Everything will be okay. I’ll be fine. And I won’t cry.

But Lord, if only this damn phase would fast-forward onto the settling part!

Bored? Yes, I am. And dying to get my blog up and running.

Before I tackle what's on my mind, allow me to say this.
FLUS SUCK.

Especially when they take your entire freakin' household by storm and you're the one with the mildest version of it, and therefore you are too ill to go to school and see your friends after the weekend, but not too ill to look after everyone else.

Not that I mind doing it, I guess. But I really, really, really wanted to go to school today.
Ah, well.

Entirely out of boredom, I was stalking this random friend of mine on Facebook (who is a girl, just FYI). She and her twin were friends of mine in fourth grade, and then they went off to Saudi Arabia. We haven't talked in years, and it sucks, because I honestly really liked them. But I kinda stopped trying to keep in touch after one of them was rather mean to me once on chat.

And of course, I can understand it now, since we were both twelve or thirteen at the time, and girls--especially girls who have to shift from a city like Karachi to this hi-fi mod-Scott (to quote desi terms) place--go through a lot at the time. But I kinda feel awkward, because, I don't know, they give me this we're-not-like-you-anymore vibe.

Anyway. So I just found out they're in Canada these days, at the University of Toronto. And I was looking at a few of their pictures, and thinking, we're all growing up.

In the sense that we're all beginning to make our own lives, away from our family. And maybe I should start getting used to that, since there aren't many months left till my eighteenth birthday.

I was wondering what it would be like to study at a university abroad. Maybe it would be fun. All that shopping and hanging out and new ventures and blah blah blah.

But maybe it would suck, because I'd miss my mommy. Stupid baby that I am.

Or maybe I'd be so swamped with uni work and trying to pay off my student loans with random odd jobs that I wouldn't have time for any of that glamorous crap. (Yes, I just played Fergie's song in my head to make sure I was spelling the word correctly.)

Anyway. That last dreary picture was probably a good view of what's really gonna happen to me if I go abroad.

Or more rather, what I'm gonna do to myself if I go abroad to study. Because I simply refuse to inflict that much pressure on my parents. Financially, that is.

If I had my way over myself, I'd probably be studying journalism and music and history and languages at some old, renowned university, tucked away in a beautiful suburban place, anywhere in Europe. The campus would be an old castle, something along the lines of Hogwarts, only less creepier and more grand, every crack spilling out a little of its history. I'd live in a pretty off-campus dorm with five other interesting people, and sit on the windowsill and write. And I'd be acting and playing the piano and studying literary works and RJ-ing at the university's radio station, and, and, and.... I'd just be so blissful!!!!

Oh, if only the world were an ideal place...
Or rather, if only I were an idealistic fool who wasn't too chicken to try new things. -_-

I kinda got the above schema from reading this university's application guide, a book that I received when I attended this open house exhibition for universities abroad. Royal Holloway. It used to be all-female once.

Isn't that a grand name, though? Royal Holloway. I'd love to go someplace like that.

Shut up, Peace. Focus on reality.

Sigh.

How Not To Study For A Test In A Subject You Constantly Flunk Because Circumstances WILL Go Against You And Show You How Much You Suck.

"Okay, class," Sir Naushad says. "There's a test on Monday on AC currents and electromagnetic induction. It'll be about 50 marks."

I look up, unsure whether to smile or groan. Because on the one hand, this means I get another chance to do good in physics.

On the other hand, it means that the class gets yet another opportunity to realize what a loser I am when it comes to this demonic subject.

Regardless, going home, I resolve to try my hardest this time. Regardless of sleep, or food, or coffee OD'ing. I just have to do well. I'm sick of having physics class nightmares.

After lunch, I settle down comfortably on my bed, and proceed to make peace with this anomaly.

For a while, it's all working out. I'm reading the text, and it's in basic English. I'm going strong, I think, smiling to myself.

And then.

I try to chastise the pink gooey organ in my head. "Shut up, brain!!!"

"NO I WON'T!!!! Hee Hee Hee!!!" *evil malicious grin*

But I refuse to give up. I HAFTA HAFTA HAFTA DO WELL IN DE TEST!!!!!!!!

So I try my next option.

It's 2 pm.

Enter... the Three Stooges?

AKA, our maids.

Of course, they know their way around the house, so I have no issues with that. The thing I DO have issues with, however, is how their voices tend to flow freely around the house as well.

Too freely.

Like when Mom tries to get Fatima to do some cleaning.

Um, haan?!?!??!?

But no one realizes that in the heat of the moment.

And how am I involved, you ask?

That's how.

And don't even get me started on the Great Adventurous Tales of Parveen and Sakina, as the former burns our precious bartan while the latter burns our precious kapray.

I barely have time to wonder what that meant before they start off on another topic in their native language, which to this day I have been unable to decipher.

I silently get up.

I go to my room.

I scream.

Then I call Dad. I tell him I'll be staying back in college a few hours the next day.

I mean, there's nothing that can distract me in the college library, right?

Feeling a bit cheered, I go to bed.

Next day, after my last class at twelve pm, I head to the library, ready to work till I wear out.

But an entirely new distraction awaits me.

I try to focus on the book, and not the buzzing in my head, or the vibrations of random phones. Or the lame tareen songs that people have on loud in their ears, trying to show off their playlists.

Somehow, I manage to make it through the first hour of my self-inflicted detention.

But then, the real lions are let loose.

Dear God, I pray. I know you're probably kinda busy right now, saving the world and killing the bad people and keeping everything as it is, but... HELP MEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

After an hour or so, God finds time in His busy schedule, for me. He tones down the problem. 

Note: tones down. 

Because it wouldn't be real if there were no problem, right?

If nothing, it's random people--boys!--posing through the library window. Because they have hay in their brains and think it's a freakin' mirror.

Seriously, though. I can understand the hair-fixing to some extent, but what kind of guy poses and pouts?!?!?

And not just any kind of pose either!!

Bleah. I don't want to elaborate.

So. This kind of crap goes on till the Dreaded Day.

And of course, thanks to the Irony Jinx, the test is staring at me and I have no freakin' clue.

I don't think I need to mention what grade I get. Despite all that trying-to-study. Despite all the real, hard effort I put in, unlike most people.

So. In a situation like this, what's a girl to do?

I'll tell you.

FIN.