Stalker

If I were to visit a psychiatrist with the mental state I am in, he might accuse me of being a voyeur, but believe me I don’t take pleasure in peeking into other people’s lives so I am not a voyeur. I just do it because I am bored and pretty much have nothing else to do. The story I am going to unfold took place over a year ago. Those were desperate times for me. I was sick and tired of being a loner back then and I was looking for a relationship of my standards, and quite frankly I had set myself very high standards. 

I love entering other’s lives, nudging their doors open in a quiet, noiseless way, being their uninvited, invisible guest. It really puts me on edge. Glancing at people through the peep holes of their social networks (especially Facebook) seeing their lives, their moments of happiness, their times of tragedies, making assessment of those and comparing them to the data of my own life tantalises me. It entices and invites me. It is my favorite and only pastime in a room radiating absolute boredom and dullness diffusing from every corner.

It was a chilly winter evening when it happened. I was preparing tea in the kitchen when I heard that irresistible sound of a Facebook notification. It was from a group called “WORD FIGHTER”— those kinds of groups where rookies with a very limited sense of rhymes and poetry judge themselves as poets and act as though they are Keats or Wordsworth. On a normal evening, I wouldn’t have dared to enter that group, but it was the dullest evening of my life so I checked it out anyway. There was a crappy poem from my friend Angela moaning about how her boyfriend dumped her and how love hurts so no one should ever fall in love and other depressing rubbish; I was just about to exit from that group when I saw something. Some girl named Alonika Sharma had commented on Angela’s poem. She wrote, “He was not your true love anyway. You should get over him and try searching for true love again. Say goodbye to minor bumps and be ready for the journey of life”. Such cheesy lines of consolations, I joked in my mind. It was not those lines that got me drew me towards her. It was her name. Alonika, what a weird name, I thought and within a few seconds I found myself looking at her Facebook profile.

Alonika Sharma, boy she must be alone then I chuckled. From her photos, she appeared to be in her late teens, with a fair complexion, and maybe had a height of about five foot two. Wow, I thought, exactly what I need in a girl. Marilyn Monroe was on her current cover photo with her quote, “ It’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than to be absolutely boring. Wow, we share the same philosophies too, I thought. A girl who suits me in every possible way. I thought my mind up would swell up any moment and if I did not stop thinking about her it might explode.

Cute things kids do and say

I have a black thumb when it comes to flowers but I had managed to succeed in having one lone flower in our backyard. While I was observing it , my little toddler was with me. So I said, "Now, Patti, don't pick that flower or it won't grow big". I went back inside and soon Patti came in with my flower! When I asked her why she picked my flower she replied, "But Mommie, it was not growing it was just standing there".

***

My sister shared something her little toddler said while flying for the first time. Her daughter was looking out the window and asked, "Mommie, why are we flying upside down?" (they were flying above a layer of clouds.)

***

Another story I heard years ago..It seems the father had buried a pet cat in the backyard. He told his young child that this way it could go to Heaven and be with Jesus. It seems the child got curious one day and dug it up.. then came running into the house yelling, "DADDIE! DADDIE! Our cat couldn't go to Heaven!"

***

My son David, when he was about 4, wanted a garden. I helped him plant a few radishes under my kitchen window. They hadn't seemed to grow properly and I wondered why. Then one morning I heard David talking to his little friend. He was telling the boy about his radishes. I decided to join them and while I was walking towards them I saw David pull out a radish and say, "See my radish?". He then put it back in the ground.

***

When my little Patti was about 2 or so, she was playing in our fenced backyard. I was in the basement washing with the door to the backyard open so I could hear my little girl. I noticed she started talking to herself a bit. "Num Num", she said. I knew she had nothing to eat so I quickly ran to her. She held out her hand and repeated.."Num Num" To my horror in her hand was the remains of a baby bird which must have fallen from the nest!! I grabbed Patti and ran for the house, trying to get what was in her mouth outside, while I was running. I was a young mother and scared to death of what just took place.

I quickly called the doctor. "PATTI ATE A BIRD!", I sobbed out. To my horror the doctor started laughing hysterically? When he could finally gain control of himself he said, "Give her a glass of water to wash it down"...then started laughing again.

Nepali Kids vs. American Kids

American kids need to step it up. Seriously.
Kyle and I stayed at an NGO called EduVision in Hetauda, Nepal for a little over a month, and while we didn't completely immerse ourselves in Nepali culture and become one with the people, we DID have the opportunity to get to know about 30 Nepali kids between the ages of 12 and 18 while we were there. And these kids rocked. How, exactly? Here's a list with just a few examples:

1. Favorite Food

I asked a lot of the kids what their favorite food was, and the general consensus was a mango. Not Sour Patch Kids, or Doritos, or MacDonald's french fries, or corn dogs. But a fruit. They like this fruit so much that if you take a hike somewhere and there happens to be a mango tree along the way, they'll stop for a good 30 minutes trying to knock down as many mangoes as they can carry home. Ripe or not, any mango is a delicacy as far as these kids are concerned. If you asked American kids of the same age if they would consider any fruit as a favorite food, they'd most likely make a disgusted face and go back to eating Oreos and diabetes.

2. Favorite Hobbies

An interesting trend that's currently all over Nepal (and the rest of Asia) is to wear Angry Birds clothing. Guys, girls, children, adults- you see it on everyone. For the one or two people unfamiliar with Angry Birds, it's a video game available on just about any touch screen mobile device that allows you to use your finger to launch little cartoon birds at green pigs housed in collapsible forts. The game has become so successful that it's taken the entire world by storm, generating millions of dollars in game sales, merchandizing, clothing lines, and even a few sequels. And the best part about it is that in Nepal, nobody knows what the hell the game is. When I questioned one of the girls on the Angry Birds picture on her shirt, the conversation went like this:

Me (pointing to her shirt): Sabita, you like Angry Birds?
Sabita: Yes, it is an Angry Bird! I love.
Me: Yeah, but what about the game 'Angry Birds'? Are you any good at the video game?
Sabita (confused): Video... game?

My point here is that along with being the hapless victims of global marketing and merchandizing, Nepali kids don't know what video games are. Or they just don't play them. Television is occasionally found in a household, but it's not common. And the internet is something that's about as easy to locate as the Himalayan Yeti. (It's there, just impossible to find.)

What is Bitcoin, anyway?

Can Bitcoins be used like actual currency. What does ‘mining’ Bitcoin mean? Why do miners need an ultra complex setup rig before they can start mining? Where can I download a so-called "Bitcoin miner" application? It's said Bitcoins are generated all over the internet by anybody running a free application called a Bitcoin miner. All the transaction are permanently and anonymously stored in the network. Whose network is that? What is Bitcoin, anyway?

Bitcoin is the most famous of what is known as cryptocurrency. Bitcoin was introduced in 2008. The currency is created by powerful computer servers and are transfered online. The currency has no central authority as the coins exist and are mined solely online. There is a finite number of bitcoins that can be mined based on the protocol that allows for their development. Mining will end in 2140 when Bitcoins will have reached a maximum of 21 million coins.

A simple analogy to explain transactions, anonymity, and coin production.

Let's say there’s a room that anyone can access. The room has security cameras that anyone can view, and every second of recorded footage is available online forever. The room is filled with indestructible piggy banks made of transparent plastic. Naturally, these piggy banks have coin slots, and everyone can see which coins are in which piggy bank. These piggy banks can never leave the room.

Each person has a key that can open their piggy bank. Let’s say I want to buy a pair of alpaca socks, and you want to sell them. First, you tell me which piggy bank is yours. Then, I walk into the room with a ski mask on. Anyone in the world can see me on the security cameras, but not my face.

Next, I unlock my piggy bank, take some coins out, then put them into your locked piggy bank. I leave the room. Now, everyone in the world knows that your piggy bank has coins that were previously in my piggy bank. This is the case with every transaction, so everyone knows the history of every coin.

“So where do the coins come from? How did it start? Who got the first coins?”

There’s a robot in the room that runs lotteries. Every so often, this robot randomly chooses a piggy bank in the room, and puts 50 coins in it. When it first started, there weren't many piggy banks in the room since nobody knew about it. Back then, it was easy to win the lottery. Today, there are millions of piggy banks in the room, so your odds aren’t very good.

Define LOVE

I just found this, it's pretty touching and interesting to see how kids think about this subject.

A group of professional people posed this question to a group of 4 to 8 year olds, ‘What does love mean?’

The answers they got were broader and deeper than anyone could have imagined.

‘When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn't bend over and paint her toenails anymore. So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis too. That’s love.’
Rebecca - age 8

‘When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth.’
Billy - age 4

‘Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other.’ 
Karl - age 5

‘Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs.’ 
Chrissy - age 6

‘Love is what makes you smile when you’re tired.’ 
Terri - age 4

‘Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him, to make sure the taste is OK.’ 
Danny - age 7

Dating your mom

In today's fast-moving, transient, rootless society, where people meet and make love and part without ever really touching, the relationship every guy already has with his own mother is too valuable to ignore. Here is a grown, experienced,loving woman—one you do not have to go to a party or a singles bar to meet, one you do not have to go to great lengths to get to know. There are hundreds of times when you and your mother are thrown together naturally, without the tension that usually accompanies courtship—just the two of you, alone. All you need is a little presence of mind to take advantage of these situations.

Say your mom is driving you downtown in the car to buy you a new pair of slacks. First, find a nice station on the car radio, one that she likes. Get into the pleasant lull of freeway driving—tires humming along the pavement, air conditioner on max. Then turn to look at her across the front seat and say something like, "You know, you've really kept your shape, Mom, and don't think I haven't noticed."

Or suppose she comes into your room to bring you some clean socks. Take her by the wrist, pull her close, and say, "Mom, you're the most fascinating woman I've ever met." Probably she'll tell you to cut out the foolishness, but I can guarantee you one thing: she will never tell your dad. Possibly she would find it hard to say, "Dear, Piper just made a pass at me," or possibly she is secretly flattered, but whatever the reason, she will keep it to herself until the day comes when she is no longer ashamed to tell the world of your love.

By Ian Frazier

The best college essay ever

In order for the admissions staff of our college to get to know you, the applicant, better, we ask that you answer the following question.

Are there any significant experiences you have had, or accomplishments you have realized, that have helped to define you as a person?

Response:


I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train stations on my lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees, I write award-winning operas, I manage time efficiently. Occasionally, I tread water for three days in a row.

I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing, I can pilot bicycles up severe inclines with unflagging speed, and I cook Thirty-Minute Brownies in twenty minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Peru.

Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon Basin from a horde of ferocious army ants. I play bluegrass cello, I was scouted by the Mets, I am the subject of numerous documentaries. When I'm bored, I build large suspension bridges in my yard. I enjoy urban hang gliding. On Wednesdays, after school, I repair electrical appliances free of charge.

I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of corduroy evening wear. I don't perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. I have been caller number nine and have won the weekend passes. Last summer I toured New Jersey with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat 400. My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me.

I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read Paradise Lost, Moby Dick, and David Copperfield in one day and still had time to refurbish an entire dining room that evening. I know the exact location of every food item in the supermarket. I have performed several covert operations for the CIA. I sleep once a week; when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation in Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me.

I balance, I weave, I dodge, I frolic, and my bills are all paid. On weekends, to let off steam, I participate in full-contact origami. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a mouli and a toaster oven. I breed prizewinning clams. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin. I have played Hamlet, I have performed open-heart surgery, and I have spoken with Elvis.

But I have not yet gone to college.

PS - This satirical essay was written in 1990 by high school student Hugh Gallagher, who entered it in the humor category of the Scholastic Writing Awards and won first prize. The text was then published in Literary Calvalcade, a magazine of contemporary student writing, and reprinted in Harper's and The Guardian before taking off as one of the most forwarded "viral" emails of the 1990s.

Though it was not Gallagher's actual college application essay, he did submit it as a sample of his work to college writing programs and was accepted, with scholarship, to New York University, from which he graduated in 1994. Since then he has worked as a freelance writer. His first novel, Teeth, was published by Pocket Books in March 1998. And this particular essay of his has become an urban legend.

She, who reads and writes

You will see her first at a bookstore, browsing the poetry or literature section. You will notice her because she will be beautiful. She will take her time among the shelves, reading slowly and smiling slightly. You will attempt to think of an excuse to talk to her but before you realise what is happening, she will be the one talking to you. She will ask you your opinion of a book she is holding, maybe Arundhati Roy’s God of Small Things or Samrat Upadhyay’s Arresting God in Kathmandu. If it is the former, you will sing its praises, marvelling at the language, the characters, the nuances and the beauty of tragedy. You will go on and on and surprisingly, she will continue to listen. If it is the latter, your criticism will be measured. This is still his best work, you will say. She will appear convinced.

You will continue to talk and you will discover that you both like Hemingway’s clipped, deliberate prose. She will adore Marquez (who you will hate) and you will love Miller (who she will hate). You will say Marquez is too romantic and she will say Miller is a misogynist. You will agree to disagree.

Eventually, you will find yourself sitting across from her in a leather couch at an expensive café. You will feel out of place. You will sip your coffee, which will remain bitter no matter how many sugarcubes you put in it. She will drop no sugar into hers. You will continue to talk and you will notice that she smiles when she listens and looks you in the eye. You will also notice that the smile doesn’t leave her face completely even when you are not talking. You will marvel at her hair, which will be thick and wild and everywhere. You will want to brush it away from her face. She will tuck her tresses behind her ears and grip her coffee cup with both hands. You will notice that her nails are neatly clipped and painted a deep red.

Your talk of reading will give way to talk of writing. You will tell her that you try to write but that you are no writer. She will respond similarly. You will ask to read her writing and she will refuse at first, suddenly shy. You will press and she will eventually agree. She will take out a notebook, bound in dark leather with a strap holding it closed, from her oversized cloth shoulderbag and hand it to you with a pen. You will flip through the notebook, sneaking glimpses at its content. You will see sketches in ink, flowing, cursive handwriting and neat, orderly poem stanzas. You will reach the last page and write down your email address in your awkward boyish handwriting. She will tear off a piece and write down hers, expecting you to reciprocate with your writing. You will think mentally to never send her anything if her writing is better than yours.

Down with red ink

A decade has gone by since I started teaching English to children. Whether those kids have become better people now and whether their positions in life have improved is something I cannot tell for sure. But I have definitely moved up the ladder, working at a university now.

I have deliberately mentioned my association with a university—a bombastic thing, at least for those kids. My upward mobility is significant no doubt, but the irony it embodies is paradoxical and embarrassing too. I have moved upwards, and forgotten the kids. The children I have introduced here with love are perhaps languishing in the corridor of a dream-seller, somewhere in Bagh Bazar or Putali Sadak—or any other dream-selling mall for that matter—simply because their English does not work. Subject-verb agreement is a bizarre thing, and prepositions are frustrating.

I am aware that among those who ‘incidentally’ became my students in the past, there are now some successful scholars proficient in English. I honestly confess the English they have acquired is not an outcome of my teaching. It is a fruit of their individual endeavours. I have no doubt about my failures because, looking back at my ‘teaching’ from the position I hold now and the experiences I have gathered so far, I have more embarrassment and guilt to collect rather than narcissistic claims that I taught them English.

This confession is informed by the fact that the methods we teachers employ are completely wrong, and deter children, rather than invite, from learning a language. The red ink many ‘teachers’ like me use with pride and dignity to foreground students’ errors makes all the difference!

What does a woman want?

I am no expert on women and don’t think there are a great many people who can claim to understand the female being. Even the founding father of psychoanalysis was befuddled by them. Freud once said, “The great question that has never been answered, and which I have not yet been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, is ‘What does a woman want?’”. I myself have had very limited experience, if any at all, regarding women. And words like ‘relationship’ and ‘love’— which are being thrown around everywhere as Valentine’s Day approaches—are quite near to the incomprehensible to me.

For a boy like me, who’s never quite fallen in love—the ‘deep’ and quite pointless kind that every other person seems to profess these days—science and sports were the only things that mattered, or even existed, before I came to learn and I suppose even understand to a certain extent, that loving another person is a part of life. The fact that I’ve hardly ever talked to many girls is a major factor. I grew up in a boy’s hostel and don’t recall wanting to talk to any girl while in school. Maybe it was all down to the way I was living. I never felt the need for ‘love’.

But I also see and understand that a fantasy world of one or another kind exists in the mind of every boy. Most boys won’t admit to it, but I’m sure I’m not the only one. An adultery of sorts always exists in the minds and hearts of young men, but they’ll argue with you for hours before accepting defeat and admitting reality.