KFH - A comic

Good evening boys and girls and ladies and gentlemen and frogs and herbs.

Wait. What.

I know that I have not written anything for more than a week, but you must keep in mind that I'm a forgetful buffoon and making commitments is a very big challenge for me. I find it difficult to stick to things, which is why I can never have a favourite song, or a book, for more than a week. Or even a favourite colour. (Currently it is navy blue. Keep that in mind.)

(Quick, unrelated note - My blog hit more than 3,500 views a few weeks ago! Butterbeer all around! Also, FOLLOW the blog. SUBSCRIBE to it. I will love you for it.) 

Anyway, I shall now be regular in my posts, and blog on like a good blogress.

Hehehe. Moving on. 

I have missed approximately a gazillion days of school, because I went to visit my sister at her college, and I shall miss another gazillion days next week, when I leave for Spain. The point of this is that I feel pretty disconnected with a lot of my classmates, which, as you would rightly guess, sucks. However, there are certain people I'm glad I haven't met in a lot of days.

Like this kid. In my bus.

I hate that kid. I like to believe that he was put on the Earth to make life difficult for me. Let me illustrate via an accurately drawn comic strip. 

Wild kid appears out of nowhere. Kid wasn't in my bus yesterday, and he suddenly apparates out of thin air. Why/how? I'm still busy learning the Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, while simultaneously trying to figure out when this random kid got on my bus, when I hear a terrible noise. What could it possibly be? I realize it is coming from the Kid From Hell. (KFH)

KFH starts singing this song, called I'm a disco dancer at the top of his voice. He's not even singing the correct tune. He's just saying the words loudly to whatever tune he wants. Excellent. I stare at him  aghast. Surely this isn't normal behaviour? I was so cute and innocent as a kid. I just ate mud occasionally and went for nature walks with Izzy to find fairies and that sort of stuff. Why was this crazy kid singing so loudly into my ear? 

But aha, the crazy behavior does not end there. Everybody has a super power, right? Mine is obviously, being careless and procrastinating. KFH had one too. What was it? What could it be? I found out the hard way. 

This is what I, as a rational person, said - 

This is what KFH did - 

Kid starts frothing at the mouth, and I freak out. Does the kid have rabies or something? Shit, what the hell do I do know? Why did I drop Bio? What the hell was I supposed to do why was this kid frothing at the mouth omgomgogmogm.

Suddenly, all my prayers were answered. I put two and two together. I realized what was happening next. 

Basically, the kid spat on me. To make a long story short. That's what he does everyday. He sings loudly, when we tell him to shut up, he starts getting ready to spit on us, and we run away from him in fear. 

(This is not the first time I got bullied by a kid three heads shorter than me. A year ago, there was this kid who used to routinely hit me and/or bite me in the bus. I like to believe that he is related to KFH in ways more than one.)

To sum up, 

The End. 

Adventure Camps Can Make You Cry - Apparently

It's currently 1 a.m. and I'm awake, listening to The Cool Kids, which obviously means that I will have to fall asleep during double Economics tomorrow, which is a pity because I really enjoy Eco classes.

There is a tradition, however, in my class, that every student has to blow off at least one Eco class to go and play volleyball, and if he/she fails to do so, he/she will be shunned by other students, and everybody will get to hit that person with a brick. I might have altered a few details, but you get the main idea.

The other day, I promised myself that I would bunk Eco, to prove myself to others. I made a very long plan, about how I would slip out and go and sleep in one of the slides in the playground. It was tempting. The sun was out, I could even get a good sunbathing session out of it, which is of course, the dream (probably not the one that Martin Luther King Jr. talked about though).

Naturally, I chickened out. This was the not my first time chickening out. I'm actually pretty much of a self taught expert in that field.

There was this time, years ago. I must've been in grade eight. I'd taken part in our school's adventure camp, in which, I realized a moment too late, everybody was younger than me. Anyway, there was this zip lining thing that everybody was doing, where basically there was a zip line running from the school's balcony till the field below. All these puny little kids were doing it, so being the courageous pterodactyl like daredevil that I am, I decided to give it a whirl. I was all strapped down, and made to wear these millions of safety chords and stuff, and when I finally went to the balcony with a sick smile plastered on my face, I looked down.

Bad move.

My body chose that moment to decide that it was scared of heights. Not when I was seven, and I rode that horribly awesome rollercoaster all alone. Not when I went bungee jumping a hundred times. No sir.

I had already climbed over the balcony, so I literally only had to like go down now. I should have told myself to calm down, maybe hummed the Pokémon theme song for self motivation.

What I did instead was, well, I started to cry. Very loudly, in front of my juniors. And seniors. And the staff.

I was too scared to move and one of the supervisors had to come rescue me.

Needless to say, they didn't set up a camp at our school again, and I wasn't exactly heart broken about it.

Moving on. A lot of people said that the previous post was too negative, and I don't love my country, which is so NOT true (read in the voice of Chandler Bing). I will prove this by telling you what happened today.

Today was, of course, our 68th Independence Day, in the honour of which our school had put up a very touching play, depicting the different stages of our country's struggle for independence.

I will be lying if I say that a few tears did not slide down my cheeks, only to fall down to the ground, the very ground that may have soaked up the blood of our freedom fighters.

(And these tears had nothing to do with the fact that the school canteen has replaced Pepsi with fruit juice.)

What can I say. Kapoorni puts the 'K' in patriotism.

Serious Issue Sunday #5 - Happy Independence Day

15th August, almost here yet again,
Why has this date gained such respect and fame?
Another year, to celebrate what, exactly?
The fact that sisters can't be protected, in spite of the so called rakhi?
To celebrate murders, or deaths, or maybe the rapes?
To celebrate a society where no unbiased ideas can ever take shape?

In the time that it will take us, to sing the national anthem,
In our country, the following will probably happen -

A mother will be neglected, hit and abused,
Hands, not words, will be used.
The poor will yet again be treated like filth and scum,
Funds will go not into education, but bottles of rum.
The illiterate will continue to thrive,
The billionaires' children will drink and drive.
A Mid Day Meal will be opened, and it will probably be rotten,
The 'of the people, by the people, for the people' system will still lay forgotten.
Equal Rights for all will still be more or less a joke,
When was the last time a person in India freely spoke?
Shootouts will happen, justice won't be served,
Families will not  get the compensation they deserve.
Shah Rukh Khan will sign yet another contract,
Sachin will make history once again with his cricket bat.
Crores and Lakhs will fit into their bank account, maybe more,
While another farmer will hurl himself into the sea shore.
Students will hang themselves, succumbed to the pressure of boards,
Accidents will happen and thousands will die - due to such well built roads.
Somewhere, a little girl will be molested,
By her alcoholic husband, a wife's patience will be tested.
A student will be slapped, for forming an answer in words his own,
For innovative students are not needed, only textbook-learning clones.
A father will hang himself, for he can't get his daughter wed,
While a fifteen year old will be married off, with her dreams and aspirations dead.
A boy will turn into a brute, and pick up a knife,
For he was misunderstood by society all his life.
A girl's clothes will be torn, and she will shout out for help,
But the country will turn a deaf ear to her pleas and yelps.
A baby girl will be drowned, without any hesitation,
And then a boy will be born - God's finest creation.
People will keep on reproducing, having children maybe seven or maybe eight,
For population control isn't a priority, it can surely wait!
A 97% scholar, will be failed in his final exam,
For the seats will have been filled, courtesy of some bribes beforehand.
Somebody will write a poem or an article about the country's shortcomings,
And then forget all about it, come the next morning.

Such is our country, full of partiality, violence, and greed,
Mera Bharat Mahan indeed.

Detectives And Baby Animals

I just ate -

A McChicken burger, large fries, a coke and a small chocolate soft serve with extra topping. (But I still fit into my skinny jeans! It's like Shakespeare said - Haters gonna hate, potatoes gonna potate)

I feel a little sick.

I haven't played in a week, I have no idea how I'm going to burn all this junk I'm piling on. In the meantime though, I can't exactly say this bothers me. (The getting fat part. The not playing badminton bothers me. It bothers me a lot.)

Good Evening!

Inspite of being a non model student, I have accidentally once again been selected in the student council, as the Vice Captain of my house. We had the ceremony today, and it was so funny, the sash I got with the badge was longer than my skirt. Way longer. My co vice captain and I shared many laughs about this.

Also,

*3 hours and one Physics Tuition later*

Also, what? I don't remember now.

So I was thinking the other day, about my depressing love life and all. Why is it so hard to find nowadays? I mean all I want in a boy, is charm like James Potter, wit like Mohammad Tariq, humour like Dave The Laugh, maybe a singing voice like Flynn Rider, a brain like Michael Moscovitz, and looks like Sirius Black. Like wow, is that really too much to ask for.

Anyway, that is not the point. The point is that there are currently three lizards living in my bathroom. I have christened them, namely, Pascal, Slytherin, and Juju. I'm sure there are more than three now, it's somewhat alarming to see at how fast a pace they're reproducing. But ah, live and let live, or something. 

But the awesome thing is that one of them is probably the baby lizard I had previously blogged about. It has grown up to be a fine young man. Or woman, I'm not gender biased like that. It's good to see your young ones grow up before your eyes.

I currently have an obsession with baby animals. From baby teacup pigs, to baby pandas. I want them all. I keep telling this friend of mine, let's call him Jai, to get a baby polar bear for me. We must remember however, that boys are species unknown to mankind, so I don't know whether he will keep this promise or not. I was also telling him the other day (for no reason at all) about how I wanted a dolphin, and how I would name it Fuzzy Boots, when he pointed out that the name was ironic since the dolphin in question, or any dolphin for that matter, did not have legs, hence making the name scientifically incorrect.

Touché. 

When I was a kid, my mother always told me that she wanted a baby elephant to keep in the backyard. There was a catch though; she wanted this elephant to never grow up, thus maintaining it's cuteness, forever and always. I'm pretty sure the 'never-growing-up' theory has devolped because of me. When I was like two, and we lived in London, I would carry brooms up and down the streets and randomly clean stuff, and now that I'm sixteen (almost, just two months to go) I clean my room about once in four months.

Anyway, we must remember that this cleaning-streets-of-London story was told to me by my elder sister, who has deceived me many times in the past. Allow me to quote an example.

The year was 2006. We were in Fremantle, Australia. I was in elementary school. My sister was in high school, meaning that she came home about ten minutes before me, everyday. Anyway, I was eight, and like all eight year olds, I was obsessed with detectives. I was obsessed. My parents got me this magnifying glass, and I would carry it everywhere with me. I would pretend to be a detective, and when my then-thirteen-year-old (now twenty) sister was in a good mood, she'd play with me. I'd put on sunglasses (like all detectives, duh) and scramble around the house with my magnifying glass. Bliss.

Anyway, one day, I got an email. From an actual detective. Wow, I know. Impressive. Legit detectives keeping tabs on eight year olds pretending to be detectives - believable! The email said that it was from a detective agency, and they wanted to hire me. But this was a secret, I couldn't tell anyone. I was on cloud nine. My entire career was planned out for me. Life could be enjoyed at last.

I held on to this secret. It was my pride. I had proved myself. God was rewarding me for my endeavors.

My glee was short lived.

My mother sat me down one day, and explained to me how this was all my sister's (evil) doing. She'd come home everyday from school, and send these emails to me every day, just before I came home. That's how she was always one step ahead of me. Ah.

Retrospectively speaking, I should have guessed that someone was messing with me, I'm sure the email address that I was getting emails from was something like 'detective123@wearedetectives.com'. Like come on, we all that all detectives have awesomesauce and believable addresses like 'vanilla thunder 93' and so on. So anyway, my sister had been tampering with my dreams and aspirations. I made a very long plan to get back at her, which involved me pretending to be her basketball coach and saying that she had been selected for a tournament, but the plan backfired because I fell asleep devising it. 

Hello, I was eight.

That's how my sister broke my heart seven years ago, about which I still cry into my pillow at night (sometimes). 

The End.