Just another day

Funny little furball.

I’ve never been a ‘cat person’ but a few days ago, this little kitten happened to just come by. She seemed really fun to play with. She was fun to ’shoot’, too. I wish my camera didn’t break last month. Mobile cameras aren’t as fun as the real ones are. I plan to buy a Nikon D90 (or something else) for myself. Life without photography is just plain dull.

By the way: Happy Halloween, y’all!

Dorm sweet dorm

I’m back and things are a little different than before. The guard went through all my bags and a female guard checked (hit) me with a metal detector. The things we do for security.

Got four classes tomorrow and I don’t think I’ll ever manage to complete my Geography assignment. I’ll give you my liver if you could do it for me. And no, you won’t hear me throwing rant over rant concerning the Kerry Luger Bill. What’s going to happen, is going to happen. I rest my case.

By the way: I realize how much my readers hate the current theme but I assure you I intend on changing it this coming Monday. Till then, bear with the ‘politically inclined art’ and ‘weird colors’. Cheers.

Experimenting.

Note: This is before I screwed the custom header. Hate me all you want but here’s what it looked like:

Yeah, one deranged strip.

I decided to give my blog a new look and here’s what (mess) I came up with. The strip you see as the custom header consists of two Banksy paintings and one mind control photograph. Banksy, I thought I’d let you all know, is  one of my favorite ‘artists’ though he claims to be thoroughly anti-art and pro-vandalism-for-the-good-of-the-world. Great point, I’ll say. He remains quasi-anonymous and continues to paint on the walls of Bristol, London. I often wonder what he looks like.

 

The image on the left is Napalm by Banksy. It consists of children singing the rhyme ‘Ring Around the Rosie’ with a bomb exploding in the center. Here’s a larger version:

Napalm by Banksy. One 'twist' in art.

The image in the center is a photo of a mind-control experiment being conducted. I  would hope this is just a fake picture uploaded by a punk online. The man obviously is quite tormented here:

Not fun, no.

The image on the right is called Kids on Guns. Banksy did a mighty good job by drawing war and kids on the same page. One surreal drawing nonetheless.

Kids on Guns by Banksy.

And if I still don’t like this change, I’ll probably go back to iNove or, if I’m in the mood, experiment with other themes. Give me your thoughts. Yeah, give me them.

Pound-a-pound goes my head.

That’s right: This headache here won’t leave me alone. It started last night while I was getting ready for bed. But I’ll spare you the details. College hasn’t opened yet. They say educational institutes may remain closed for an indefinite period. Don’t say yay in front of me or else I will rip your eyes out. We aren’t allowed to go to Liberty Market either since it’s dangerous. I ask you, when was it not?

Anyway. I’ll stop whining and try to come up with a doodle or some uber-philosophical shit. Till then: This is what I look like right now.

Extremely sexy, yeah? Cerebral drilling puts porn to shame.

:D for >:|

You need one.

Thought I’d give you one.

One Terrorised Youth

A double suicide bombing at Islamabad’s International Islamic University on Tuesday killed up to seven people, including the two bombers, an administration official said.

‘Seven people, including two suicide bombers are dead, and 29 injured in the two attacks. Among the dead is one female,’ a senior administration official, Rana Akbar Hayat told AFP at the scene of the attack.

The government of Punjab has issued an order  for all schools and colleges, both governmental and private, to be closed till Sunday due to terrorist threats. The same security order has been implemented in the N.W.F.P and Sindh. Prior to the attack on the Islamic University, two bombs were defused in an all girls’ school in Peshawar.

So that means dorm-students like me, away from home, will have to evacuate on short-notice due to security reasons. But that doesn’t bother me much as it does when students cheer down the corridor, shouting, “Yay! No school for four days!”  It sickens me to see them rejoice a day-off that is, look closer, the consequence of several innocents’ deaths.

Depressing, is the least you could say.  Sometimes I feel like that the average-calculated death of Pakistan’s youth is summarized as “sudden and abrupt”. There isn’t a single day when we feel safe. There are constant notifications on terrorists within vicinity. Paranoia sets in everywhere. And precautionary measures are taken so frequently, we end up missing out on all the fun life has to offer.

I guess my friend  was right when he said we’re just scapegoats. That we are, in the most bitter terms, the experimental body of the government, fundamentalists, propaganda and conspiracy. And it hurts so much, we’re too numb to care now.

Sore wide-open.

It’s like an itch in the deepest corner of my head and my hand won’t reach.  I’ve been running down sidewalks glowing with orange light. And blurred faces float by my shoulder. If lethargy explained my situation, I would’ve closed the topic by now but it’s just not fatigue. It honestly isn’t.

Dense. So when I run my hand through your hair, every strand turns into thick strings that lead to black and brown balls of yarn in a basement I forgot to lock. And the scissors I use to snip them, snip me back. So my arms and my face are lacerated at artistic angles. Take a picture, put it up on your wall, don’t forget me because I won’t forget you.

If I could, I’d say it’s peeling open my core and I hear the things I feel and I feel the things I see and I taste the things I know. I even put together the pieces of your confused countenance’s jigsaw together. You’re no longer the riddle you promised to be. But I still feel warm when you’re around. I won’t tell you. I won’t ever let you know.

Ask time to freeze. I need to capture every moment of this nameless, faceless despair. So when I wake up one spring morning and recall what happened that autumn eve, I’d know who to turn to, who to confide in. No mistakes will be made. No lessons will be learned.

Till then.

I’m suspended mid-air. I’m sepia-toned. And there’s nothing you can do about it.

Pro-Toddler Party.

This little fella convinced me to go pro-Toddler Party. His eloquence is purely amazing.

“Non non non.”

My Dream Guy

A girl asked me today: What is your dream guy like, Mehreen?

To which I replied: Blight me not with thy brutal interrogation for I, Mehreen Ali Kasana, am a woman of staunch integrity and utmost independence. (raises head proudly to the cry of an eagle)

The look I received from her simply said: Bitch, you ain’t gotten laid yet. You ain’t givin’ me dat crap, ya ho.

Anyways. The day passed on and I thought about her question. What exactly is my dream guy like? I wouldn’t be certain enough to restrict him to a particular cult or some peculiar prevailing fad going on these days. I never gave importance to looks as much as I have admired brains. I mean, his medulla oblongata has to rock to my … libido? That came out wrong.

My dream guy would be a quintessential jerk. He’s blunt, honest and amazingly asinine. He’s the kind of guy who would spank me while I’m bending over to pick up the laundry. Or the kind who would finish my lasagna without asking me. My dream guy would most probably snatch the remote control from my hand when I’m watching my favorite TV show. Now don’t take me as some masochist who really craves some insensitive nut-job out there.

My dream guy would also make me laugh with his terrible cocky humor. He’s the sort who would tell me how hideous I look in my checkered shirt and still snuggle me up. He has the perfect listening skills when I need him to be sober. He’s the sort who’d make me feel special without saying much. He is, let’s say, the jerk with the bad-ass smirk. The adorable idiot with a golden heart and messy hair.

Alright, alright. Enough with the mushy rhetoric.

To give you a clearer image of what I’m trying to say here, take a look at these photographs:

Argh! Take me seriously for I am Muscle Man with muscles x inifinity!

No. God, no.

Emo guys force me to look into my skirt and check if I have a dick and they, a pussy.

Hence, no.

"I love Stephen Hawking!"

Good for you, bitch.

"Heyyyyyy Mehhrrrrrrr! Do youuuu waaaaaant to goooo outttt with meeeeeee? \m/"

Bull’s eye. Perfect. Yeaaaaaah.

Cure.

What do you do when you’re away from home and your mommy can’t make you no chicken soup and snuggle you up when you’re down with a bad fever while your friends are a little too busy to pay a damn? What do you do, asked little Mehr to the big monster under her bed. And he said:

“You listen to Andy James playing god on the guitar.”

I found more of his work, people. And I mean it when I say he is truly gifted in epic proportions.