'Cause Pigs can Fly

A friend posted a painting of her self on a facebook group and it gave me an idea. Why not draw/paint our selves and look into who we are. So I sat down with my water colors, glass of water, paintbrushes and paper. And I tried painting my self. Was I happy with the end result? No! I didn't like the painting not because it made me question my skills with paint. I have none. Yet, I wasn't happy with it, 'cause simply put, I hadn't painted my self. Even though I thought I had, the painting wasn't of me. So I abandoned the watercolors and instead turned to pastels. Which didn't go well either. It was then that I realized that I didn't really know what I look like. I know my nose and ears are quite small, my eyes can seem big at times. My face isn't all that long and I have short, curly hair. Yet, this wasn't enough. Even though I spent a maximum of ten minutes a day looking/seeing my reflection, I didn't know what I looked like. Knowing wh...

Losing things in life is natural, and something to be expected. Yet, there are two things I’ve been taught, never to lose, shame and fear. Having shame and fear stops one from venturing into the dark side. It stops one from doing things considered immoral, or immodest. Having shame and fear will give others a reason to respect him or her. When you lose all shame and fear, it becomes easier for people to have no respect for you. Two of my Facebook friends are models. One is a model, and the other is a ‘model’ in the sense that, she does scamper around runways and poses for photographs, but I doubt she can make a career out of it. They both post photographs that show them in various poses and outfits. Yet, there is a distinct difference between the photographs that appear on my home page. One would have a sense of unpolishedness, and is not pleasing to the eye. The photographer certainly isn’t doing his job right. What makes it even worse is that the photograph is stamped...

The reason I love Sinhala so much is because the letters cannot be pronounced in fifty different ways. If English worked like Sinhala, corn, born, torn and worn would rhyme. The English language doesn't allow us the privilege of never or rarely mispronouncing words. I mean, even words like ball, bowl, sauce, source and call, coal. God! and gourd :D isn't bitter. But   is. Then there are the silent letters. My question is, if we aren't going to say them, why have them in a word's spelling at all? What purpose does the b in debt serve? And don't use the whole, "most English words have other-language origins." Well, when a word is stolen from say Latin, make sure the Latin pronunciation rules don't matter. I already can't handle the rules of English, so you can't expect me to learn the rules of another language. So you get why English is so exasperating. Especially to someone whose mother-tongue isn't English. This isn'...

(I will use the words gay and homosexuality throughout the post. But I am talking about the LGBTIQ community and whatever other letters they have added on to what once was the LGBT community, in general.) I have no issue with gays. I have no issue with people who do not in any way bother me. So gays in no way make my brain give out warnings. In fact, I'm one of those straight people who would happily fight for gay rights. Except, people make it seem like being gay is being in the Cool Club. "Oh, you aren't Cool Club material. Go sit with the heterosexuals!" Now here's the thing. Being gay, doesn't make you mentally unstable, insane, sick, stupid, an attention seeker, a weirdo. Nor does it make you awesome and give you a reason to be an asshole! So there are two kinds of gays. Those who like people of the same sex. Those who frikkin try to dress up and talk weird! Wearing a baby pink V neck tshirt, with tight pants, doesn't make you gay. ...

Its that time of the year. The time all A/L students both anticipate and dread. It’s the time of graduation parties, valedictory dinners or batch parties. There are many a names, but for most it means one thing; hours in an uncomfortable suit or sari. As a female who was put through the torture that is six yards of cloth, wrapped around your body, I do not wish such pain on anyone else. Now most of us hadn’t worn sari prior to these parties, or nights or dinners. It’s not just getting used to an exposed tummy, or a dress that reaches your ankles, it’s the jacket that is tight. It is the hair do on a day your hair decides it hates you. It is the make up, no matter how little, and the heels you must wear when in sari or your mother thinks the world will end. Not to forget the little purse you have to carry because your sari has no place for phones or money. Unless you want to do that ‘weird Aunty’ thing by stuffing things down your jacket! Then there’s the business of answer ...

The living room converted into a dance floor for the night was empty. Those who had danced like they were having an epileptic fit were exhausted, their feet burning and aching. The party was coming to an end, and the conversations were growing tired and the guests try hard to keep their eyes open. As the minutes passed, very few remained. It was only family and a handful of friends. The DJ didn’t stop the music, but instead of the loud music that made one’s heart beat faster, he now played soft oldies. The slow music played for an empty dance floor. Then the birthday girl’s aunt walked to the dance floor and started slowly swaying to the music. Her eyes must have been closed, as she enjoyed the music. Maybe she was remembering the day she turned 19. Maybe she was blocking out the noises of the world, or life. Her husband tells his brother-in-law, “Look at your sister. She’s dancing alone.” His voice isn’t kind. The brother smiles slightly. He walks to his sister and palms...