Education

Dog

That Blasted Piece of Silvered Glass

Mirrors were invented to delay you. To stand there placid, and somehow convince you that you’re not looking right. It’s the reason you have to change five tops till you’ve found perfection. It then proceeds to inform you that the jeans however, are the wrong shade of blue. Too pale for that white tee, it seems to suggest. So you try the black ones and take another peek. Your mirror glares at you reproachfully. “Really now, why don’t you toss in a bowtie and walk out looking like a waiter.” You give it the finger and plunge back into the cupboard.

Something radically different, perhaps. A dress. You shimmy into an emerald green shirt-dress and marvel at the beautiful fall for the millionth time. Tentatively, you step in front of the mirror. Your heart longs for approval. “Woohoo. Nice.” Oh yeah. According to that sheet of glass you’re looking like a hell of a chick. Just wait till the hair and makeup’s done.

The mirror gives you the thumbs up the whole time you’re braiding your hair, smiles proudly as you dust on funky green eye shadow and roll on heaps of gloss. And then you and your reflection exchange satisfied pouts as you slide in a pair of bead earrings. You go girl.

And then the phone rings. Your mum walks in in a salwar kameez (not sari) and that’s when you get a faint inkling that the mirror has misled you. She hands you the phone. It’s from your BFF.

“Dude, what are you wearing? The whole basketball team’s going to stick with jeans, and I’m thinking I will too. After all, it’s their party … you also wear, no? Don’t bother with anything too nice.”

Your world collapses around you. Ripping the dress off, you dive into the cupboard, desperately searching for a top. Every few seconds you run to the mirror. It coolly dismisses a printed shirt as too flowery, a black spaghetti as too Goth, a pink V-neck as too Barbie... your mom walks in every five minutes and says you’re running late. You feel like you’re going to cry.

“Give me two minutes!” you bawl as the mirror ruthlessly rejects a lacy yellow halter. Flinging the delicate fabric at the glass, you burrow in the depths of the closet, half hoping the parents will forget about you and leave. Then suddenly, your eyes fall on the white top you couldn’t find jeans for. You yank it on, shove your legs into a pair of jeggings, give the mirror a disgusted sneer and storm out of the room.

You swear you’ll pull a bedsheet over that blasted piece of glass. But of course, you know you don’t have the heart to do that. Mirror, mirror on the wall…

Barbiephobia

The Return of the Native—dude, the next time do us all a favour and just stay in Paris

So once upon a time, there was a bitch. Not Scarlett ‘O’Hara. The original bitch. Thomas Hardy’s Eustacia Vye. This feisty city girl gets bored in the depressing English countryside, so for entertainment she flirts with the only eligible man in the village—Damon Wildeve. Now Vye’s pretty damn gorgeous, so Wildeve is all like “Dude, life rocks”. But then for some inexplicable reason, he ditches the most darkly beautiful woman ever to walk the earth for this other female Thomasin Yeobright. Thomasin and Wildeve decide to get married, but the wedding doesn’t happen and T and her aunt Mrs. Yeobright are pissed. Wildeve’s like “Oops” and Mrs Yeobright’s like “Oh go screw yourself” and Thomasin’s like “He sucks, but it would be kinda nice to marry him anyway, na?” Disapproving Aunt is like “Whatevs kiddo, you’re fucking up your own life.”

So in the meanwhile Eustacia decides she wants Wildeve back so he goes trotting off to her place to assure her he’s still crazy about her but wants to marry Thomasin. Bitch is like “Freaking make up your freaking mind, yo!” and he’s like “Jeez, babe, chill.”

In a bit Eustacia hears that there’s this total Hottie coming to town and she’s all like “Oh man, he’s so mine. Who gives a shit about Wildeve anyway?” So she does crazy-ass things to get Hottie to notice her, and starts hanging out with him. Clym Yeobright is from Paris, rich but boring. Eustacia’s all like “Ooh France here I come... let’s get the hell out of here, Clym, baby.” But Clym’s like “Hey, sweetheart, actually I’m gonna marry you but stay here and educate poor little village children cos who wants to be rich and living in Paris.” Eustacia’s like “WTF dude!” as is his mom. Mrs Yeobright doesn’t get why the kid would throw away a fancy life for the local vamp and a village school so she’s all like “Leave, leave and do not return so long as you disobey my orders.” And Clym’s like “Sure thing, mom,” and he vacates his home space.

So by now Thomasin is married to Wildeve, Eustacia is married to Yeobright and they’ve all figured life kinda sucks. Wildeve likes Eustacia, Yeobright reads so much that he goes blind, and Eustacia figures she ain’t never going to Paris. Thomasin’s just plain bored.

Eventually, everybody gets sufficiently pissed to start with the dramatic tragic climax. Mrs Yeobright says ’nuff of life, Eustacia and Wildeve plan an elopement but fall into a river, Clym jumps in right after them, a couple of people die, one becomes a sucky preacher, another one marries a guy who sells red dye and they all—finally—live happily ever after.     

Crush

The Insufferable Sibling

“Who’s that Liverpool player you were talking about? Gerard Butler?”

“No. Steven Gerrard. Gerard Butler’s an actor.”

“What’s he act in?”

“I don’t know. Nothing you’d have seen him in. Oh, wait, he does the voice for Stoic in How to Train Your Dragon”

“Oh. But where would I have seen him?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t act in the kind of movies you watch.”

“What kind of movies does he act in?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in anything, really”

“Then how do you know I haven’t?”

“Jeez, dude. I’m assuming that you haven’t been watching Gerard Butler movies on the sly of all things!”

“Why? Does he do dirty pictures? Like really x-rated ones?”

“No! Yes! What do I know and what the fuck do I care!”

“Show me a picture.”

“What!”

“Not a dirty picture. A picture of Gerard Butler. Or Steven Gerrard.”

“What the hell for?”

“If I see him in anything I’ll know who he is.”

“Why do you need to know who he is!”

“I’ll know he’s not Steven Gerrard then.”

“Shut up shut up! You’re not eve making any sense!”

“Why—”

And that’s where I give up and die.