Missing HunchBack

So, it's been almost six months since I last saw Quasi.
It's been almost three months since I last had a decent conversation with my 'Modo.

I miss him.

But then, isn't this how I've spent the past two Summers?
He gets busy, I get busy, we forget about each other and go about our lives until one day during September we decide to check if the other is alive.

Why should this Summer be any different?
What, because I opened my legs to him?
Or caught myself wanting to say those three poncy words to him a few times?
Or because when he told me abouthis famil's plans, he mentioned how he had developed feelings for me?

It shouldn't change.

It doesn't stop me from missing him, though.

He's the only person who makes me feel like a vulnerable person.
Everyone else sees the Ness who takes care of her family.. the Ness who uses a screwdriver better than she does a dustpan and brush.. the Ness who has depended on no one but herself for the past four years.
They don't see the Ness who runs crying to Quasimodo whenever the tiniest thing upsets her... the Ness who needs Quasi's reassurance that her ideas and decisions will work... the Ness who depends on her 'Modo to keep her calm and focused.

So, I guess he's a weakness.
...and I should get rid.
...but this is the battle between desire, free will and sense.

With all the shit that's been going on recently, I really just wanted a good fuck session and get all the tension and emotions out of my system.
...but, how can I do that when I know that he's probably busy with rishta meetings, one after the other?
That, and we always miss each other on the phone.
I spoke to him briefly last Wednesday night, and I broke into tears straight away.
I said it was because I had an awful day, with driving and my uncle and stuff... But, I actually didn't know why I was crying so much.
Looking back, I guess it was then that I realised how much I had actually missed him since I last saw him in February.

Everything about the DeepNessy situation was fucked.
I hate not being able to talk to anyone about it.
Even Kenan gets pissed off when I mention him.
Smushy doesn't want to know.
...and all I want to do is offload.
I want to tell them how amazing he is in bed, and how much I miss him biting me.
I just don't have that chance, though.

Common sense tells me what to do.
I'm just too fucking stubborn to listen.
I am a three year old who keeps thinking about that toy on the adverts.
I want to stomp my feet, and scream until I get it.
...but I can't.

...and I know I can't.
That's what's even more upsetting.

Awkward

Salman Khan used to be my boss.
He's also a good friend of my father's, and classes himself as my friend, too.

He is a perve.

Everyone knows it.

He admits it himself

He loves girls from ethnic minorities.
He's a sucker for a girl of "colour".

So, it's worrying when you pick up the phone and he says something along the lines of, "Hi Babe, Gorgeous, Fitty etc etc".
It's awkward when he sends you promiscuous texts, when you just invited him to your uncle's funeral.
It's plain damn scary when he stands a few centimetres behind you, and then raches around you to help with the computer, when your father's in the same room.

How the fuck do I politely kick him in the balls?

I hate him.
He's an arrogant bastard, who speaks too much and doesn't understand what personal space is.
Yes, I used to enjoy his company, and ignored the cockiness...
But, the pervyness has become too much now.
I guess I might have encouraged him, by being quite open about myself, but that doesn't mean it's ok for a 48 year old to smarme around me with my dad watching.

Quasimodo warned me about him.
He said he had a funny feeling.
Ma soeur ainee told me to watch out.
I totally ignored them, thinking that Salman helps all these domestic abuse ladies, he'd never take advantage like that...
Naive Ness.

He begged me to join them for the Youth Event today, but I didn't go.
He picked up the keys, and when he came to drop them off, I hid behind the fridge.
He blatantly saw me walking around the kitchen as he walked to my door, but I honestly didn't know what to do.

He makes me feel uneasy.
Not many people to do that.
Most people just scare me... as in they're mean and horrible.
I've not really felt this sort of awkwardness before.

I'm so glad he's not working at the office anymore, but he's still go working links, and usually holds seminars downstairs.
I can't wait to leave in August.

Blah.

He's gone.
He took his final breath on Saturday afternoon.

He had an almost smirk on his face.

Islam says that you mustn't mourn for more than three days.
I used to think it was ridiculous, especially if it was someone you loved and cared for dearly...
But, on this occasion, it made sense for me.

His funeral was on Monday.
My father took us to see him for one last time.
As we entered the Masjid door, my bhabhi and father started reciting
Ash hadu Allah ilaha illalahu
Wa ash hadu anna Muhammadan abdu hu wa rasooluh

The tears started immediately.
They say you should recite the declaration of faith near the dying/dead person.
I couldn't even say it properly.
I was scared.
Really scared.
I don't know what of.
...but I just felt fear in my stomach.

...and then I saw him.
Cloaked in white material, and smelling of rose water.
The smirk.
His wrinkles had vanished, and his skin was glowing.
He looked so... Pure.
So peaceful.
So... Happy.

The fear had gone.

I was sobbing.

A bittersweet moment.

In my eyes, it was evident that uncle was no longer suffering in any way.
He was happy.
However, it meant that that was it. I'd never see him again.
My uncle, who listened to my plans to marry Salman Khan, really had gone.

I really wished to kiss him, or stroke his head one last time.
...but I didn't want to dirty him.

Instead, I carried on trying to recite the two lines, and calmed myself down.

There's no point in crying, it will only hurt his soul.

It doesn't mean that I'm not upset, though.
I do miss him.
I've missed him for ten years.
...and now I miss him even more, because I know that I can't hop on a train and go and see him if I need to.
Not that I ever did, but the option was always there.

Death always brings up religion.
...and questions of spirituality.

I've been praying Salah the past week.
It's my own wish, my own desire.
I should respect my uncle enough to pray for him the way he taught me...
If what he believed is true, then I don't want to disappoint him when he looks down at his relations and sees who's doing what for him...

I finally finished reading the Qur'an.
He taught me how to read arabic, I owe it to him to atleast read it once.
I'm glad that I managed to finish it before he passed on...

All of this doesn't mean that I'm Muslim, though.
It doesn't mean I'm not Muslim, either.

I'm just doing what I think is right by my uncle.
...and I hope by doing so, he's able to rest in peace.

Random Words.

Restless. Tears. Panic. Sleep. Memories. Itching. Gulping. Planning. Fretting.

Nytol. Music. Phone. Messages. Sweating.

Experiencing Death...

...of a loved one.

The past year, I've lost over 6 people in my life.
But, I didn't visit them when they were dying (some died immediately, and those who died in hospital were in different countries), I didn't see them during their last days... I didn't hug them, stroke their foreheads, I didn't tell them how much they meant to me.
I didn't experience the sense of knowing that they're not going to be here much longer.

My uncle is currently dying.
That sounds odd, doesn't it?
I mean, I know in a general sense everyone's dying; every second gone, is another second closer to death.
...but according to doctor's, my uncle is dying very quickly.

How do you get your head around that?
I mean, once they've gone, they've gone.
That's it.
You slowly understand that they're not coming back again.

But, when the only thing you know is that they're going.
...you don't know how or when...
How do you understand that?
That possibly in a couple of days' time, a week's time, maybe a month's time, he's not going to be here...
But he's here now.
...but not here, 'cause he's unconcious.

You could ask, is he already dead?
But that's too much of a horrible question, and I'm no where near ready to even think about it.

He's my uncle.
He put me in the store room when I refused to read Arabic.
He spent ages making a picture with me for Eid.
He used to let me wear his hat and waistcoat jacket - something he didn't let anyone else do.
He used to compare bicep sizes with me, and always tell me that my muscles were like eggs.
I learnt the word "fotha" from him, and he introduced me to the world of fasting... and Bran Flakes.

I haven't seen him at all for the past 10 years.
Ten years I've missed out.

...and all I can do is hope that they're giving him morphine... that he goes with dignity... that the pain stops.
I can't hold his hand, I can't sit next to him, I can't talk to him and remind him of all the naughty things I used to do that would irritate him.
I can't stroke his forehead or massage his legs, I can't feed him water.

Not for his comfort, but for mine.
Yes.
I am Selfish.

My uncle's dying, and all I can think of is what I have been and will be missing.

Weddings and all the crap it brings with it...

So, there was a wedding this weekend.
Both families from my city; both families that we know.
We were the mediating family.
(Does that even make sense?)
The messengers.
The ones who, basically, had to do everything.

In South Asian culture, there's a mendhi night.
Benglish tradition is that you do fruit carvings or food decorations for display.
My mother and I spent all Friday night and all Saturday day making birds, peacocks and trees to display.
I also had to fart off to the Mendhi venue and help make it look pretty.
:\
A very difficult thing to do, seeing as the centre is the local Bengali community centre, and is used for kids to shit everywhere!

I am glad, though, that I spent so much time and effort.
My dishes really did stand out.
...and I had people coming up to me all night to talk about the peacock.
Being the vain idiot that I am, I loved it, and soaked it in.
I also spotted a few ladies eye me up.
I should've hated it and shrinked back into my seat, but I did the opposite.
I played up to it.
I helped with giving out the food, I played with the kids, I chatted to the ladies.
Hell, I should be damn ugly if the thought didn't pass atleast one person's head.

Then I saw The Dog and The Baby.
What were Gujjus doing at a Bengali Mendhi?

I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned The Dog before, but at Kenan's 20th, we basically danced together... really close...
Let's just say, I did give the dog a bone.
... and a kiss on the cheek. I still don't know why I gave in.
But yes, after that night, he thought I really fancied him - when really, I was just dancing and having fun.
So, he avoided me on another night out, and told Kenan that "he's not like that" and he doesn't get with girls so easily.

So, I guess, looking the other way wasn't such a bad thing to do on Saturday night.
I just really didn't want him to see me.
He might've thought I was drooling over him!

He was only there for a few moments, though.

There were these two Welsh girls, who looked really nice.
...in other words, not so typically Bengali Fresh.
They were so helpful, and so lovely to chat to.
...and one of them had back combed hair! I don't know why she gets extra Kudos for that, but she does!
We didn't get much chance to talk, though.

Everyone fucked off to the bride's house, and a few of us were left to clean up.
My Goodness, I felt like I was in Bangladesh.
There was rice everywhere!
Took us about an hour and half just to hoover the place.

So, I'm glad I didn' t have to hoover, I had an extra hour's sleep before pampering myself and getting ready.
For some reason, in my head, I kept thinking about talking to The Dog.
So, I dolled up.

Father put me on the reception so I could take in the gifts.
There were only two.
Well, we all knew that this was a budget wedding, so no one even gave two shits.
Guys kept lingering around the area though.
No, not all the guys; that would suggest that I'm amazingly hot.
No, just the married and desperately perverted guys.
... married with little children, may I add.
I did notice, though, that there are quite nice looking Bengali boys in my area.
Whether they're decent people is a whole other matter, though.

After about 45 minutes, I gave up and just went back to my table.
The food was alright, much better than I expected actually.
(Budget wedding, remember?)
One of the Welsh girls came up to me (BackCombed Girl) and my friend, Hana, and started chatting.
She was so lovely!
I found out that she lives a few roads away from the cousin who I used to spend my Summers with.
She was really inquisitive; kept asking us about how old we are, what we're doing, what we study etc etc
We didn't think nothing of it, and asked her stuff back!

...then I saw The Dog.
Being the tart that I naturally am, when I caught him looking at me, I flicked my hair and then smiled at him.
He smiled back.
God knows why I'm such a slag, but I liked it.

I spent the rest of the day slagging people off, and bitching about everyone and anyone that I saw.
It's good to be a bitch sometimes.
...and there were random and odd people there.

After what felt like an eternity, the bride and groom finally left.
So we followed them out, naturally.
The Dog came up behind me.
I turned around because the wind was blowing my hair around, and immediately he said, hi.
It felt like he was waiting for me to turn around.
It was strange.
Moreso, because Hana's mum was next to me.
I would've chatted, it's not like social settings have ever stopped me from talking to/hugging male friends, but it felt very awkward, so I commented on the strong winds and excused myself and went in.

RAI Affa grabbed me and asked about the girl who I sat next to.
Hana.
So I said family friend.
She told me about her match making plan.
...The Welsh Girls' brother was eligible and looking. Hana had recently just come round to the idea of marriage, so I carried on listening.
Well, not really, I was pretending to listen,
...until I heard that they initially were asking about me.
Wow.
A proposal.
...and not through my mother.
It's not the first proposal I've ever had...
...but most of the time the proposals are misunderstandings or from desperate people.
The guy saw me and thought I was nice, apparently, the guy's sisters like me and the mother was eyeballing me up from the night before.
It then made sense why BackCombed Girl asked so many questions.

But, I don't believe in marriage, and I can't see myself with anyone Bengali, so I'm glad they asked about Hana.
Yes, I'm still caught up on Quasimodo.

Plateau

So, since coming back from Bangladesh, I've tried my hardest to sort out my lifestyle.
The first thing I attacked was my diet.
If Kenan could deal with full detoxes for over a year, I should be able to deal wiht cutting out crap and eating in moderation.
I've increased my fruit and veg intake, decreased my empty carbs, fats and sugars, and I eat more protein filled meals.
It's been good.
I no longer feel sluggish, and my acne is at bay.

I then decided to sort out my fitness.
Walking's been a daily thing for me since I was at college, so I knew I had to up the ante.
I started Yoga.
First it was once a week, only at the lessons.
Then it was light stretches every night before sleeping and the one hour lesson at the end of the week.
I'm now doing sun salutations every morning and night, as well as the one hour session.
I also started bellydancing for one hour a week.
(I've had to give it up for a while, but I'm hoping to start again soon)
As well as the Belly Dance session, I've practised infront of my mirror for 45 minutes atleast three times a week, if not every day.

I've even bought a Hoola Hoop and Skipping Rope.
I'm hideously crap at both, but I try every Saturday and Sunday, and any other free time I get outside.

Half of my belly has almost melted away.

I haven't been to the doctors since last year.
Although I've had coughs and colds - and er lost voices, I've not been ill.
My health is the best it's ever been.

My energy levels are amazing, and I'm flexible enough to attempt to do the splits.

But, my belly's still here.
I can't get any more of it to shift.
I don't want to have to decrease my food intake.
I am a very active person with high energy, I need the food that I eat.
...I'm thinking I should start running, or maybe get to a gym and do more CV work.
That would involve buying trainers....
I'm not sure.

Should I try Adios again?
It didn't help me, infact it made me eat more and lounge around more.
I could always start drinking Green Tea regularly again.

Weight training?

I think I've hit my brick wall.
My plateau.
It's going to take more effort now to shift the belly.

Random Words.

Phone. Reminiscing. Frustration. Absence. Musiq SoulChild. Darkness.
Glow. Yawn. Hunger. Shorts. Legs. Hot. Sex. Deep. Regrets.
Gentleman. NeYo. Emotions. Exhaustion.
Goose Bumps. on. Breasts. Check? Deep. Tears.

All Work and No Play keeps Ness from Blogging

So, I've been working full time for five months.
Today, I've started my reduced hours.
It feels weird, and I haven't got anything done.
Considering I've got a back log of things to do, this really isn't a good thing.

The past five months have been strange.
I've had no break.
Working 14 hours a day, 7 days a week really is something that I wish everyone would experience.
You're always looking for your next break.
You forget about lunch and dinner, and instead fantasise about biscuits, carrots and other nibbles.
You pride yourself on being able to back up files on to an external hardrive, yet, you still avoid analysing those surveys that are now gathering dust.

It's strange.

You're organised, but things get past you.
Day to day things run so smoothly, when everything else is falling apart.
You can't remember which meeting's minutes you have to type up next, so you just leave them all in your to do pile.
...and when the pile gets too big, you shove it under your desk and create another pile.

Your life becomes work.
You don't sleep... for days, weeks, months.
You stop being awake.
You're in a constant state of fuzziness.

You get to work early so you can print off things ready for the day...
You busy yourself with your administrative tasks, and when the office, the fun begins.
The meetings.
Three hours a night of absolute PakiNess.
Doesn't matter what organisation, event, project it is.
It's the same faces, same catchphrases, same food.
Rice and Curry or Pizzas.
Some days if you're lucky, the hosts might forget and go for a mad dash in Tesco and you get cream doughnuts.
Nothing is ever done at these meetings.
They just need you to attend and waste away your hours.
This is how I spend my weeknights.

Apart from Fridays.
Fridays are Yoga Days.
I have my full lunch in the day time, and spend the day preparing for the strenuous routines that the instructor will put us through that evening.

I used to have Belly Dancing evenings, too.
But they were sacrificed, for my Islamic School Lessons.
Yes.
I teach at an Islamic School.
The very thoughts and ideas that I hate with a passion, I am feeding to children in KS1.
In my eyes, I am Evil.
In the school's eyes, I am Evil.

I remember the story about the Crow and the PeaCocks.
I am not a Crow.
...but I have to pretend.

Ah, the joys of working in the community.
I have become a well known face.
A much loved person - this I say without any cockiness at all.
It would be impossible to keep anything from the city, now.

Yet, there are only three people in the city who know of my well kept secret.
No, not about Quasimodo.
The other secret.
The dangerous one.
The religion secret.

Imagine how it would go down, now, if I came out clean?
Disaster.
I'd lose my fan base.

I really do have to be "good".
...so, this Islamic School stint is good.
It lets people think that I am a "good" girl.
So, what, I don't wear Hijaab, and I don't give my salaam to you every five minutes... I'm not a naughty girl, am I?

Sometimes, I wonder whether I could make it in the world of Thesbianism.
Is that even a word?
My eyes have been able to water at the drop of a hat.
My skin can become pale at my every whim.
My sorrow can be masked by my outgoing persona... and my bubbly persona can be erased with frowns and make-belief anger.
Could even the leading actors and actresses do the kind of shit that I come up with on a daily basis?
I think not.

Though, I think I need to practise more on how to act when dealing with emotions and attachment.
Yes.
Quasi's seen real tears, and real smiles.
He's heard real disappointment and real hopes.
Which is why I'm glad that we don't speak as much as we used to.

He's busy, and I'm busy.
We can never catch each other.
Which is good.
I can wean myself off him.

...but it's meant that I've not played or has an orgasm since the end of April.
I've now learnt the true meaning of Frustration.
I walk around with sopping panties almost everyday.
Thank Fuck that it's been warm enough to wear skirts.
The smallest thing sets me off, and all I can do is think about having Quasimodo between my legs again.
More often than not, I fear that I'll never experience it again.
...and I try my hardest to cling on to memories.
But, I'm a crazy bat with memory issues.

When you wake up in the middle of the night, and find your bullet on your belly, still vibrating, you experience a new kind of low.
Have things got so bad... so hectic... so pushed for time that you can't even start a Play Time without knocking out?

Pictures and a Thousand Words.

Thank you to my very lovely Bitch.

Possibly the best Birthday Presents I've ever received.

Wild Cherries Body Butter and All.

Random Words:

Tingle. Scratch. Neck. Bite. Mojito. Ice. Trickle. Quilt. Lick. Lobe. Towel.

Deep. Rub. Skin. Maki. Socks. Ness. Lotion. Red. Cock. Lips. Wrap.

Skirt. Trees. Sleeve Garters. Fingers. Thrust. Pillow. Wipe. Lady.

Chop Sticks. Stubble. Stroke. Coffee. Shower. Table. Alone. Heel. Gentleman.

Carmex. Wax. Nose. Cuddle. Vest.

Happy Birthday, Ness.

So I turned Twenty One two weeks ago today.

A bittersweet day, that in a few months' time will blur into just sensory memories of Good and Bad.

The week before, Deep and I had decided it was best to call it quits.
I spent the weekend weeping, out of helplessness... Who could I turn to (who wouldn't say "I told you so..."), why did I let it get this far...?

Sometimes it's best not to ask questions, and just cry and get it out of your system.
...Sometimes, that method doesn't work.

Especially, when you're fighting a losing battle with your family, and Deep was one person who could take an objective view and help you, rather than belittle you and laugh at you.
Mi hermana mayor and I hadn't been speaking since Snow Week.
No major reason, just the general build up of negativity.
It had been brewing since Bangladesh... or maybe before?

Mother, the day after my Birthday, arranged a counselling session with her best friend (who's also my Boss) to sort out my issues.
Glad it took you only 21 years to realise that I have feelings, too.


The fact that Mi HErmana mayor made such a big song and dance out of throwing me a surprise party pissed me off, too.
...and it meant that I had to try and be nice to her, otherwise, as usual I'd be the arse.

The night before my birthday was spent with the girls at Pizza Express.
Food, and lots of chatting.
Absolutely bullshit, but we had fun.
...and we bonded.
Schmymes finally met Kenan after so long!
Two of my closest friends were together in the same room to celebrate my birthday.
Just reading that back is strange.
Why would people want to celebrate my birth, my life, me?!
Sincerely... may I add.

It was a very loving night.

My actual birthday, I spent at work.
I dressed up pretty, and went in, no expecting anything.
I actually was gong to ask if we could eat lunch together, but I didn't get a chance, because my colleagues got together with a present and chocolate cake and walked in to the office.

It was a really lovely day.
I enjoy working where I do.
My colleagues are my friends.
I care for them, and they care for me.
It's a family, almost.

Walking back home, I really thought it was the end of my celebrations.
I called up Kenan, just for a chat.
Walked in, put my keys on the washing machine, and was ready to run to the loo; phone still stuck to my ear...
My dad stopped me and said "I think they want you to go to the living room", the living room door, I noticed, was closed.
Realisation swept through my entire body.
Why the fuck?!
I grumbled and walked in.
I did not expect, in a million years, to see Wazowski, nor Schmymes.
All the negativity left my body for the few minutes in which I was basking in the love of my friends.
Then I see ma soeur ainee at the table, with all the food she had made.
I felt so much rage, but all I could do was force a smile.

I've already said that I don't appreciate the FakeNess.
...but I did get to spend my milestone birthday with those who love me, and those who I care for...
So what if I didn't go out on a piss?

Popping Pills.

Is that where I find my solace?
At the bottom of a bottle of Piriton?
In the Packet of Nytol?

When things get hard, it seems I always reach for medicine.
"I've got itchy eyes"
"I'm having trouble sleeping"

I've been soo busy since I started full tiem work a month ago that I forgot about my tablets and potions.
...but tonight, I went back to Nytol.

It's 8pm.

What's the need for sleeping tablets at this hour?

Salman Khan has offered me an ear, and an analytic objective mind.
Why can't I take up his offer...?

Double Zero Nine.

How did I start this year?
Ill.
Again.
...and angry.
The last few seconds of last year and the first half hour of this year, I was angry.
I sulked.
My brows were furrowed.

Bastard Bitch Family.
(Lol).

Last year was an absolute nightmare.
Anyone who knows me knows what a shit year last year was for me.
Eight Deaths.
Uncountable hospital visits.
Friendships and ties lost and broken.
Losing Motivation and all the good stuff she brought.
The reappearance of my good old friend Depression.
...bearing gifts of Acne, Eczema and Grease!
- No. Not the musical.

Any fool would say, "I hope this year's better."
...but I'd hope that I'm a fool no more.
I always jinx myself.
It always happens.

However, I am hoping that I'll be able to cope with whatever shit's thrown in my face better than I managed last year.

But, hey, not all was doom and gloom last year.
I saw Backstreet Boys last year.
I went and saw the Yellow House (the one on the M32).
I fell in love with Paris.
I worked with the most amazing people last year.
- both, the children and the adults.
I finally started Yoga!

...and I'm sure there'll be stuff like that, this year as well.
I mean, I'm starting Belly Dancing next week!
How cool is that?!

Oh, and my new job that I'm starting in a fortnight's time?
It pays a grand a month!
...and it's not a bad job, I quite enjoy it!
Yes, I won't be able to wear my cute cute skirts, but, I can wear my PJ bottoms and slippers if I want to.

I'd hate to be a cliché and write my "resolutions" or goals for this year.
So, all I'm going to say is, 12 months is a long time.
Anything can happen.

Surrogacy

Nine years ago today, I woke up at 5am to find my whole family awake.
I spent the rest of the morning watching Playhouse Disney.
They didn't tell me.

I remember that month so well.
I spent every moment next to my mum.
Picking out blankets.
Sewing a new cover for the Moses Basket we used for our little sister.
Sorting out the spaces for the clothes.
I bought him a blanket the night before he was born...
I fell in love, even before I met him.

Although, five months before, I wouldn't have ever imagined it.
One early Summer morning, I spotted an ultrasound scan on my father's desk.
I didn't think much of it, until I noticed the date.
"August '99"
The rage that rose up, burnt my insides.
I remember shaking and having to sit down.
How could they do this to me? To us?
Once, I exhaled and sorted myself out, I ran upstairs and woke up Ma Soeur Ainee... I had to check with her.
To prove it's real.
That it was happening.
They didn't tell me.

...and here we are, nine years later.
With a spack of a brother who I can't bear to be without for more than a few hours.
I've spent the past nine years devoted to Little One.
When he was still scaly and red from the womb, it wasn't mother who'd wake up when he cried.
It was me.
At some point between that shocking August morning and the rainy Winter day, I had decided to take full responsibility of my new sibling.
I had just been awarded a full scholarship at my school, but it didn't mean anythign anymore... I just wanted to be with Little One.

When my younger sister was a baby, I used to help mother look after her.
I'd make the milk, do the nappy if it was only wet, feed her etc.
With Little One, I took it up a notch.
I bathed him, clothed him, fed him, played with him, changed his hideously stinky nappies, clipped his nails, used Sudocream when I thought necessary.
I didn't allow mother to do anything.
I was selfish. It wasn't anything to do with letting mother rest.
I just wanted Little One.

The first time he cut his head.
I bundled him into the back seat of the car, even before mother had time to put on her shoes.
I spoke to the receptionist, the nurses and then the doctor.
Mis Padres thought I was trying to be helpful.
No. It was Little One who was hurt.
My Little One.

A few weeks ago, the family upset him a lot.
...and nothing I said could console him.
Later that night, as we were lying on the floor doing our breathing exercise, he said to me,
"You know you're my best friend, right? If I ever say you're not, I'm lying..."
Nothing 'Modo said to me that night could keep me from weeping.

Last year, when he broke his arm playing football.
I fell down the stairs in my hurry to see what had happened.
...I was petrified.
It reminded me of the time I was in school when he was taken to the doctors because of his asthma.
He stopped breathing, and had to be blued in to hospital where he spent three nights.
He came home and wouldn't look at me.
I spent the night in hospital with him, this time.
...and we both woke up early, and spent all morning chatting.

We can chat for hours on end.
...and he'll get me, and I get him.
We can talk about all sorts.
For a 9 year old, he's pretty mature.
Then again, for a 20 year old, I'm fuck immature.

I still find it strange that his parents don't know what his favourite colour is, or what he absolutely hates eating...
They buy him ill fitting clothes.
... and speak to him like he's still a toddler.

They don't see the dancer, the artist, the singer, the comedian, the advisor, the cook, the scientist, the friendly boy that makes up Little One.

I always take Little One out wherever I go.
...and we're always called Mother and Child.
Even when we're with the family, no one accepts that his mother and father are standing next to us.
But, it's easy to see why.
He comes to me when he's got a question, when he learns something new, when he hurts himself, when he can't find something.
The only time he ever goes to mum if he ruins something.
He knows I'll go ape shit...

It's strange.
Nine years ago, I myself was a child.
Now, here I am, discussing whether the XFactor was a fix with Little One whilst he's snuggled up in the blanket I got him all those years ago.

I really hope he has a really happy birthday, and that his dreams and wishes all come true...
This year has been really tough on such a gentle soul, I really hope that he never has to deal with so much shit in such little time in future years.

Bah Humbug!

I really am the Ugly Duckling.
With a mother from the Grinch lineage, and a father born into the Scrooge family, I really should follow suit and hate this season.
My siblings do.

But, it's the one time of the year I love.
Ever since I started school...

But it's always been a huge build up ending with a massive disappointment which takes me a few days to get over.

This year, there wasn't much of a build up, but I was still disappointed.
See, it's LittleOne's birthday around the same time.
...and he wanted this to be his last birthday party, 'cause he feels too old. Fair enough.
It's also our GodSon's birthday the same day.
I've been busy right up until Christmas Eve with work.
...and I told my siblings and mother to do a few simple things.
Order a personalise cake. Take LittleOne to computer game shop. Get a turkey. Buy GodSon a MakaPaka toy or a plate/bowl/spoon/cup set (to encourage him to eat solids).
Four things.
I came home on Christmas Eve and they didn't do one thing.
I got in a strop so they farted to an expensive patisserie (ON CHRISTMAS EVE) and ordered a ghastly cake that no one would ever eat.
I went straight to bed.
Christmas Day was so depressing.
The sisters were asleep.
Mum was annoyed that we didn't wash up first thing in the morning.
Dad's watching his religious TV.
Little One on his gameboy.
A normal day.
No tinsel. No presents. No food.

We have a family tradition.
Every Christmas Day, we go for a drive in the night.
To see everyone's decorations in our city.
We didn't do that this year.

The magic's all gone.

It just shows what happens when I don't have any money, and I don't do anything myself.

...7 People I've lost this year...

to death.

My cousin, my uncle from Germany, Gurps, Nasiha, my eldest Khalu, the Littlest One and now Indy...

Cancer, a car accident, flames, suffocation, old age/kidney failure, appendicitis, meningitis....
They've all snatched someone away.
Fathers, sons, brothers, sisters, daughters... Friends.

I still can't help but be selfish, and think is it me that God's punishing?
...because I've decided that religion isn't for me?

The Eye of the Storm.

Calm.
Still.
Silence.
It's all quite unnerving.

The tears have stopped flowing.
The nights haven't been so restless.
...and the eczema seems to have been kept at bay.

I guess rearranging my room has helped.
Everytime I've felt absolutely hopeless, I've changed my room around.
Pushing heavy furniture around really does take the stress out.
Yoga on Friday nights is another great stress buster.

I guess my new phone helps as well.
(The cool Nokia 5000 that I managed to get for £1.99!)
I've had the ear phones plugged in for the past four days, and just having proper music to tune out to has been more than a relief.
(Yes, I still haven't got an iPod... Let's see if I can keep it up for another couple of years.)

But I'm not stupid to think that it's all over now.
...There's more to come.
The storm isn't over yet.

That doesn't mean I don't welcome the break from the upsetNess that had overtaken my life.
It's actually helped.
I had my first driving lesson in over a year and a half... and I've written my personal statement for UCAS... I just need to ask Salman Khan if he could be my referee.
I've decided to drop my job at the Optician's as much as I love it.
I have become capitalised.
I went for money, instead of satisfaction.
I'm going to be at the local Bengali Community Centre full time, doing shit all.
It probably won't help with my stress problem, but hey, money is money.
...and when you've got an arse like Kumar threatening you for money, it's an amazing offer.

The ad I put on GumTree has been far less than fruitful...
The only realistic person I've managed to find to take salsa is a girl... Lol.
But, on the plus side, I've found lots of weird ePeople to have random conversations with.
Oh.
I've found some very Yummy ePeople, indeed.
They correct my English!
One can converse with me in French!
The other one is just a psycho!
I'm in eLove.

...and I've become an eWhore.
I'm so quick to give out pictures.

But, no, they're no way near Quasimodo's eCharm.
He was meant to fuck me this weekend just gone.
Ok. He doesn't/didn't know that.
I just wanted it to happen.
...and it didn't.

But, I spoke to him on Friday.
...and he just made me melt.
When he speaks, it's like his words trickle down me like the steaming hot stream of water that I inch into every morning for my shower.
They make me shivver, but feel so warm at the same time.

...but the cosy duvet will be snatched away from me.
I can feel it.
Ma Soeur Ainee's shenanigans have only just been brought to my parent's attention.
They've only seen the tip of the iceberg.
There's more to piss them off.
...and the anger they'll feel will be then taken out on me.

...I must be prepared.

I don't even know what to call it anymore...

Frustration?

Anger?

Despair?

Sorrow?



I thought, foolishly, I could get out of the house this weekend.

Go to Kenan's on Friday, then spend the night with Modo on Saturday...

In my excitement, I forgot about my parents hating me.



I didn't even have to ask them, to set them off.



Mum keeps asking why all of us like to stay alone in our rooms with the doors closed.

Why they've never had us around as their children.

...Well, when have they welcomed us? When have they been around us?



I want to move my cupoard...

...and I can't.

I just want to cry, but it's not going to move it.

...but there's no way I'm asking them for help.



I just want to cry.

Oxy Moron

Kenan once wrote a poem in Year 4.
"On. Off.
Black. White.
My bed shits are flying."
It was a poem about opposites, and apart from that spelling mistake, well actually that line, it describes me.

Outside: Switch On the smile, Switch Off the emotions.
Home: Switch On the tears, Switch Off everything else.
Everywhere is White, but my Home.

It's so easy to switch.
One minute you're strutting down the road, a spring in your step.
Every few minutes, someone compliments you, says hello... notices you.
You smile, you wave, you laugh.
You start conversations with strangers, you take pleasure in feeling the rain on your skin, you thank every driver when you cross, even though they're at red lights.
Your confidence and your ease with yourself, your environment and people is a beautiful sight.

You cross into the other realm.
You shut the front door, and like the mimes who can easily change a smile to a frown or vice versa, you tense up, the muscles on your forehead furrowed, tears prick your eyes.
You can hardly string sentences, and manage grunts and few words when spoken to.
Yours eyes lose their magic, and you hide them.

It's no wonder you love Oxymorons so much.
...you even chose to be called Oxim Oron on Facebook at one point.

Random Ramblings...

I hate it.
I hate that part.
Not the bit where you're being lulled to sleep, feeling safe to not have to tip toe around.
No, not those five, ten, on you're really good days twenty minutes where you think things might be going your way.
Not even the times when you feel so calm you could curl up and just bask in the warmth of your blissful state.

No.
I'm talking about the bit that comes after that.
That slap that stings.
The part that makes you wake up and realise.
The moment the tears spring back to your eyes, and that feeling washes over you.
That feeling.
A remix of Despair, Hopelessness, and Regret.

Regret for foolishly thinking everything was alright.

With everytime your eyes well up again, you wish there wasn't a next time.
...and everytime realisation dawns on you, you pray and you hope that you're not coaxed back into that false feeling of calm and peace.
Just so that it can be snatched away again.

Isn't it better to stay in one consistent way, than to keep getting happy only to be let down again.
What's that phrase?
Prevention is better than cure.
And ho-hum glum is better than disappointment.
...for me.

There's only so much disappointment one can take.