THERE’s something about Zoha

If you ever see her, you’ll never forget her. If you talk to her, you’ll never forget the conversation and if you get into a fight with her, you’ll never make it out alive.

Ladies and gentlemen that’s the phenomenon known as Zoha Baber.

As long as I can remember I’ve been best friends with her.

Crazy. Hilarious. Stupid. Flamboyant. On top.

Troubled. Emotional. Scared if you know her deep inside.

And then she has this way with boys. Wherever she goes she leaves behind a trail of panting men.

Most women are either scared of her or completely intimidated.

If she doesn’t like you now….she never will.

And she’ll make sure she tells you that.

But if you’re on her good side.

You’re in for some crazy drives all around Karachi. Add some random conversations and throw some doodh ki botallein in for good measure and you know what it’s like to be friends with her.

She’s taught me everything from wearing makeup to the tricks of tossing your hair.

Sometimes I wonder if she’s stuck in the wrong decade. Like a lost child from the 80’s.

Don’t worry…you’ll figure this out when she’ll make you listen to Madonna ALL THE TIME.

Maybe she’ll sit and convince you that you have Attention Deficit Disorder and make fun of you later because you fell for it.

But no matter what she’ll be there right outside when you want to sneak out of your house. She’ll convince you to call that cute boy from your biology class. She’ll even let you borrow her sexy black dress on your first big date.

But whatever you do, DONT make her wear flats. Or convince her to buy beige or brown clothes. Talk about politics or god forbid SPORTS or dare to tell her to tone down her makeup or force her to watch Shawshank Redemption or teach her how to use a computer.

But most importantly I’ll never forgive you if you ask her to grow up and act normal.

I have faith that when I’m 45 menopausing with three runny nosed kids, she’ll still come in her beat up red Toyota, wearing bright lipstick and high heels. SCREAM SABA KHALID. And take me out for a crazy girl’s night out.

The Set-up

Saba!”

“ZOHa!”

“I just saw a guy you’re going to LOVE?”

“Is he on TV?”

No..Hes Real and so cute and he has this great car..and he went to Harvard and he’s so hot and he said he likes difficult girls and wefhefw qeiufheif ewfiohguierg wuefeghuwergh” (I blank out and start counting the ruffles on my curtains)

After she’s done giving me his whole life story I ask:

“Is he a Grammarian?”

“Yes!”

“Does he want a relationship?”

“No”

“Does he want marriage?”

“No”

“Does he want a one night stand?”

“Maybe”

“How many times have you met him?”

“Once”

“Why are we having this conversation?”

“Because he’s so HOTTTTTT”

If you haven’t guessed already my best friend loves setting my up.

In my opinion she likes to see me squirm and squiggle in front of an audience of not so single boys.

Just kidding.

She always has great intentions.

But in her dating history she has never failed to set me up with one of her boyfriends’ best friends.

Hmmm….the first guy she tried to set me up with looked at me briefly and said:

“Not her you idiot….I was talking about the other friend”

So I spat at him and called him a kutta ka bacha. (I was fourteen and that was an insanely bad word. I was such a rebel- I tell you)

The next one was in a serious relationship with a girl for two years but didn’t mind seeing ME on the side. (The nerve)

Then a grammarian. (He thought I wore too much makeup)

Then a guy with a great car and a dudly personality.

Then a guy who scratched his balls in front of me.

The list goes on.

And no matter how hard I try to convince my best friend not to set me up, she still somehow convinces me to go and meet this new guy anyway.

The date always starts smooth.

But it usually ends up with me walking off.

But there’s hope for me! She’s getting married in December inshallah.

Which means?

You guessed it!

No set-ups

No married men, no cross dressers, no axe murderers, no nothing for me to be set up with for eternity.

The only thing I might actually miss is making fun of these guys a week after the date.

Neutering my baby!

My eyes were blurry from all the researching reading and contemplating. If I had worked as hard on one of my own papers I’d probably would have finished school early. But this was important. It could alter my baby’s life in every way. The procedure was supposedly painless and quick under general anesthesia. The risks were minimal. My mind boggled from the callous terms carelessly thrown in on various websites. Neutering, castration, spaying. Could I really let some vet take away my little doggie’s masculinity? What could be the consequences? And the painnnnnn…..Images of little Travis gaining weight and growing boobs came to my mind.

Of course he had some problems. The lifting the leg and urinating in front of friends and family was one. The scratches and bruises from his humping on my leg was another. The running out of the gate to meet his many “girlfriends” was by far the biggest. But cutting of his erm reproductive organs was alittle too severe. The whole night I tossed and turned. The dreams always started with SNIP SNIP and then blood and gore falling everywhere. I woke up twice in between and gave travis a big kiss on his furry little ear. He opened one of his eyes and I could’ve sworn he said “aunty are you really going to cut me off”.

2 months later

He's still urinating with one leg up...he still leaves the house for hours and doesnt return...and my leg...lets just say...i need some therapy

I think the doctor cut off the wrong organ or something..

If anyone knows anything about neuteration...CALL ME!

The Reverse Card

One of my male friends asked me today what the best way to get a girl was. I’ve never been a relationship expert but I knew this particular one at the back of my hand.

I said, “Nothing works better than ignoring a girl, then making fun of her and if you manage to make her feel insecure and ugly you’ve hit the real jackpot”.

Yes, we are dumb enough to fall for the cheapest reverse psychology tactic in the world.

It’s maddening for a girl to see that no amount of hair flicking, eyelid batting is going to make this one person pay attention.

Some step up the game.

They wear their mum’s expensive French perfume. Nails and hair are done a little suggestively maybe even a slightly low-cut blouse.

Yet he will pass by, make a face and say “How much perfume are you wearing?”

This is when realization hits. Anything and everything will be done to change his mind. The more you run after him the bitchier he gets and the more in love you become with him.

The asshole wins.

But it’s stupid to think reverse psychology only works on women.

The suggestive attention seeking woman ALWAYS has a best friend.

This guy gives great advice when she needs it.

Brings Kleenex and Bridget Jones when she gets told she has a big butt.

And although she doesn’t treat this best friend unkindly she doesn’t pay attention to him either.

So he continues to cook her Chinese when she’s too depressed to eat.

He persists on shopping till she drops and holding her bag while she tries five different feel better jeans.

Wait.

This best friend has a girl in class who thinks he’s adorable. She wears the too much perfume and low cut blouses BUT the best friend never notices. So here we go again. The cycle continues forever and ever.

Until one of us gets that Wild Card we all continue to enjoy the reverse cards.

Dreaming with so much ugliness

I often spend hours imaging this elaborate scene in my head. I’m standing in a hot pink dress. My hair is long and tousled sexily. I’m wearing the slightest makeup but it hardly shows on my almost perfect skin. I have four inch prada heels on and a drink in my hand. My group of adoring friends are standing in a circle around me. Someone makes a joke and I toss my perfect hair backwards, laugh prettily and raise my glass.

I look down and there he is. The asshole who burnt a hole in my heart, crushed and stampeded on it and then forgot to return my phone calls. Ofcourse, none other than the X factor.

With each dream his appearance gets worse. This time he’s bald and has a pot belly. He’s sitting alone and looking miserable. His shirt un tucked, his shoes unmatched and looking absolutely blah. He looks at me and for a second cannot believe his eyes.

He tries to say something but I look away untouched by his presence. Instead of running away and crying I sit directly in front of him. But he still doesn’t have the guts to say anything. Suddenly (this is my favorite part) the music slows down, the glasses stop clattering and the voices die down. The DJ announces that the club would like to welcome the world renowned writer Saba Khalid today. He goes on about he loves my sex and Karachi column. And I stand up gracefully take a little bow and the crowd claps appreciatively. throng sof waiters bring expensive drinks on the house towards me. I pick a nice pink one and raise it towards the X factor. He looks away flustered.

His wife returns to the table right then. She gets fatter and uglier in each dream. He knows exactly why I have my glass raised. He knows I’m thanking him for his betrayal. Showing gratitude for the mess he left. Because if it wasn’t for his cruelness, I’d never be able to be brave and show the world who I really am.

These crazy elaborate imaginings have done great things for me. Whenever I’m feeling down and leaving the house looking like a mess. I go back and change. Put something extraordinary on and then leave. Never in a million years do I ever want him to see me looking like a mess. When I feel tired from giving interviews and think I should just sit at home and become a nobody. I try again. Because I want to be more successful than him. When I gain weight…I….you get the idea. You might disagree with me and call me utterly superficial and stupid. But to me, looking fabulous and being successful is the best way of taking my own silent revenge.

Bosnia

I was very young when Yugoslavia was dissolved. I don’t remember everything clearly except a particular exhibition my political activist mother took me to. It had many pictures and documentaries of children crying, wounded men and women in war struck Bosnia. To this day, the images are hard to forget.

A decade later when I read that a former Bosnian Serb soldier was sentenced to 15 years in prison for raping and torturing Muslim women and girls in eastern Bosnia and Herzegovina, those images returned. I wanted badly to know how this nation had recovered from such a huge tragedy.

After hours and hours of extensive research I realized, it really hasn’t. Children who had been born out of the systematic raping of Bosnian women had all grown up. They had started questioning who their fathers were. Some women had given up their babies to orphanages scared of the fact that they might never be able to love them. Suzannah, a rape baby living in an orphanage has no birth certificate or bank account. When she was born the Croatians refused to register her. To this day, donations for Suzannah cannot reach her directly. Unfortunately, Suzannah isn’t the only one with a sad story in the orphanage.

The state does nothing for the abandoned and sexually abused women and children. The rapes were committed in order for these Bosnian women to give birth to Serbian children. No counseling or help has been given to them. They were shunned from their communities left by their husbands with little babies to raise. Most were teenagers when this mental and physical abuse occurred. Some raped women find it difficult to hold jobs and are extremely impoverished. Very few of them have kept their babies while majority of them have given them up to orphanages.
One of the rape victims detailed that she was imprisoned in her own house for a year and raped in front of her children. She suffers from extreme depression and has tried to commit suicide a number of times. It is sad how no international organization has focused their attention on the women and children of post war Bosnia. The war has still not ended for many Bosnian women. They can still see the perptrators around their community. The police and the state are well aware of their identities but do nothing to catch them. Some abused women have photographs of their abusers but are not willing to come forward with this evidence. Some are scared of the response of their coommunities or that the Serbs might come to take revenge once again. Very few women have testified and government has started paying a minimal amount to rape victims.

Kiyun Ke Saas Bhee Kabhi

wake up to the most beautiful sunny day. I know it’s a Sunday when I smell the aroma of aloo parathas in my room. I feel the hot summer breeze and I smile to myself. I love Karachi summers. In spite of mother electricity dying out on us every day, the monsoon rains stomping on us and the scorching sun glaring at us in all its glory I just can’t help loving it.

I get out of bed and happily jump on the weigh scale, five pounds overweight. That’s okay! Sitting around the house and eating aloo parathas can do its course. I decide to get my beautiful Jennifer-Lopez –size-of-Brazil bum to a nearby gym for quick weight loss recovery. My gym is a place filled with married stinking rich forty year olds. Somehow being a twenty year old works very well there. They fill me in on the miracles of Atkins diet and the latest Khaadi prints. And I tell them about my life as a singleton, my crazy escapades and my mad crushes.

So I happily stumble inside the gym and see my friends in their designer spandex glued to the TV. Not surprising at all. I was used to watching the bold and the beautiful with them. Instead, I find Indian faces whitewashed in cheap concealer and red lipstick and I say to myself this can’t be true. My horizontally challenged menopauseing friends could not be watching STAR PLUS. I clearly remember dissing Hindi films and their running around the fields dances with them. Before I could even adjust my eyes to this scenario Mariam Aunty comes running to me and shakes my shoulders aggressively and screams “PEOSH IS DEAD….SOOJAL KILLED HIM”. Their faces are white with fear, some almost in tears. My Alfred Hitchcock instincts come into play; do they mean the Hindu janitor we have? His name was Mahesh, Raj or maybe Peosh, they all sound so similar. Poor guy must’ve been rivalry. But why are my friends who have never cared about the famine war poverty actually worried about our Hindu janitor. For some reason, they still stay glued to the TV.

Soon enough I realize it’s not the janitor but some character on STAR PLUS who died but not really died. Someone exchanged bodies and switched the DNA. The absurdity of it all makes me laugh. So I jump on the treadmill and try to understand the obsession with these dramas.

2 weeks later

I weighed myself today while humming the theme to “kiyun ke saas bhee” with no embarrassment, regret or mortification. I had lost my 5 pounds but gained another addiction. I can’t go to sleep without having my daily dose of STARPLUS.

Five years later I could compare you to alot of people!

I think I’m letting go of him. Every passing minute, every passing hour, every passing day, erases a part of him from my memory. I push it away in the darkest part of my mind where I’d never have to search for it again. I know to completely forget him would take an eternity. Just too many memories, too many laughs shared, too many secrets revealed, too many goodbyes. Sometimes these memories come flooding, invading my insides, tearing at my heart, and I find myself defenseless and then the inevitable tears begin.

I think of life with him and life without him and find it hard not to curse my fate. I sing sad songs and I write suicidal poetry. At school I hear people snickering “She’s on drugs” and I smile to myself and wish that was my only problem. Food and sleep are my sole saviors. Today I eat my double fudge chocolate swirl cake and surprisingly I feel my heart healing. I sleep and I forget. That’s the best part of my day.

I wake up and nausea hits me and for ten seconds I can’t breathe. Weakly I prop myself up and my head seems to hurt so much that it would almost break off and fall to the floor. In spite of the headache I laugh at the image of someone breaking off my head like a Barbie’s. It’s funny how matters of the heart seem to have such an effect on your body. And it’s even funnier how the worse disease can’t compare to a heart ache. I hear the birds singing and I promise myself not to feel depressed. Not today at least , but another ten minutes later I find myself listening to Sinead O Connors, Nothing compares to you….

It's been seven hours and fifteen days
Since u took your love away
I go out every night and sleep all day
Since u took your love away
Since u been gone I can do whatever I want
I can see whomever I choose
I can eat my dinner in a fancy restaurant
But nothing
I said nothing can take away these blues
`Cause nothing compares
Nothing compares to you

So much for my resolution! The music seems to aggravate my headache. I don’t turn it off. My mother notices my edginess and asks if I'm okay. I tell her I’m better than ever. I know she sees past my fake smiles but she reluctantly lets me go. I wave goodbye. I hate school. I’m behind schoolwork and failing term papers. I decide to make up for it. I’ll make up for everything. Instead I skip Geography and sit in my little corner with my Discman on full blast letting the pounding of my heart and head become in sync with the music. I enjoy it. I don’t know if it’s been a minute or an hour when abruptly my worst nightmare comes to brighten my day. One of my ardent admirers. She asks why I missed class and I tell her that I fucking felt like it. She somehow finds it funny I see her flashing her repulsive decayed teeth. She babbles on how I’m in trouble with all the teachers and id better shape up. I tell her to go away and she giggles again her shoulders shaking and I find myself distracted from her teeth to her pussy pimples and wondered if I sat all day counting her pimples would I be able to count them all. She promises to write out my assignment. I go to my next class. Sit on my favorite chair at the back of the hall. The chair where I sat all year long, failing every quiz and exam. It was my Jupiter—with the greatest gravitational pull. I start sketching. No, I had absolutely no talent. I draw another stick figure and kill time. I get in trouble again with the geography teacher. The bell rings and it’s almost time to go home.

At home I eat another double chocolate centered caramel crème cake and I almost feel happy again. (almost). I watch Bridget Jones diary and I shed a few tears and I’m back to square one. I’m a sucker for romance, kill me. I sleep. Another day passes by, another part of him forgotten, another image faded, another memory lost and I think to myself “This too shall pass”.

(it does actually)

Elizabeth Taylor

I think there’s one girl who you will always despise. You’ve probably never spoken to her in life. She’s never been a bitch to you. She probably doesn’t even know your name. But you pass her in the hallways everyday. You see her eating lunch. You see her flick her disgustingly perfect straight brown hair to all the boys in school. Her parents come by once a week and you see her perfect and complete family.

Five years later.

She gets ‘him’. The guy with the perfect shoulders. The shoulders that got you by the summer semester.

You marry the mailman.

‘Him’ and ‘her’ have the perfect children who attend grammar school.

Your kid has dyslexia and can’t pass the first grade.

Ten years later

You grow wrinkly and fat Rosie’O’Donnel style. She grows old gracefully Elizabeth Taylor style.

Fifteen years later

You hear through the grapevine that she has gotten divorced. You’re ecstatic about her misery and finally think things are looking good.

A month later she marries again. To a cricketer this time. Richer and better looking.

Twenty years later

You pass her by at the dry cleaners.
Perfect hair.
Perfect Skin.
Eyelids botoxed.
Chanel bag.
You’d have to sell one of your babies to get her shoes.

She still doesn’t know your name.

For a brief second you make eye contact.
She almost recognizes you.
She stops.
She whispers, “Do you work here?”

Dumbstruck. Wide-eyed. Smiling. You nod.
Because you do work at the dry cleaners.

And you anxiously wait for the “Are you the girl from school?”

But that never comes.

Instead you hear her complain about some stains she wants removed in her old wedding dress.

You nod again like an idiot.

By that time she’s already swung her chanel out of the doorway.

You knew she was a grinch all along.

But you’re a professional.

And you know the best way to take out a stain.

Burn it.

Adeel Jameel

I met Adeel Jameel in my Macro Econ class. Short, thin, dark. Greasy hair. Big glasses. His belt almost hit where his shirt collar ended. At 24 he sounded pubescent and weirdly squeaky. But you had to see how he carried himself. Once in a while he’d make this face jerk and put both his hands through all of his hair in a very sexy Baywatch style.

He came and sat next to me. Smooth as a lion cat. And I could see from the side of my eye, he was waiting. Waiting to say something. His hand flinching uncontrollably. I kept my eyes straight pretending that I didn’t know this mutant existed. And just when the teacher took a breather, he turned around and greeted me.

Aur batao…kia horaha hay?

This coming from a person who I’ve never spoken to in my life.
Adeel Jameel
In his flesh.
The pariah.
The one man plague.
I had heard stories about him.
I was almost scared.

Umm…theeek thaak! How are you?

I looked around if anyone had noticed me talking to him.

He on the other hand looked completely at ease.
Like he was Richard Gere and I was some extra on the set.
Like he was a 10 and I was a mere 4.

I made small talk. Forced at first. People looked. And then they looked some more. And then they looked away. And I started relaxing. I spoke a little about school and studies. I actually asked adeel jameel about adeel jameel. I was nice. I pretended not to be superficial for 10 mins and it was almost okay.

After class Adeel Jameel made one swift movement. He grabbed my cell phone. And put his number in my phone under big letters ADEEL JAMEEL and then gave himself a missed call. This was almost weird. This guy had guts. A lot of guts for a geek. Maybe this person was misunderstood.

This is how it started.

The story of Adeel Jameel and I.

Adeel Jameel soon started believing in his twisted geeky head that we had become best friends. He’d wait outside my classes and jump into the next chair before anyone else could. He’d follow me for the break.

Now I was becoming the social pariah.

The person who hung out with ADEEL JAMEEL.
But I tried to be a bigger person.

I acquainted Adeel Jameel with all of my cool friends.

He’d embarrass me every time but I did it.

As the semester progressed, rumors started flying that we were god forbid DATING.

I ignored them as rumors.

Rumors are rumors

But when I heard ADEEL JAMEEL actually saying that to his computer hacker-dorky-four eyed cliché, I was fuming.

Adeel Jameel just laughed it off.

Like I wanted to hide our little romance.

As if there was a romance.

His friends were patting his back.

This was horrible.

First priority: I put him on my ignore list.

But he was fast.

He could squirm his annoying little body out of a swarming crowd and grab a chair next to me and sit.

When he kept bugging me in class and the teacher called on him to shut up, he actually turned around and said:

“If you hadn’t come and sat with me, I wouldn’t have gotten into trouble”

I SAT WITH HIM.

OHMYGOD.

This person was out of some psycho-stalker-axe-murderer movie.

He was creating a relationship in his head.

He was imagining that I was actually running after him.

This had to stop some way.

I thought I was doing charity work.

Being nice to the retarded.

But now it made sense why he was the social pariah.

He was actually worse than they had made him sound.

He was a conceited bastard.

I expected dorks to be the nice guys.

But nooOOoooo

I had to endure ADEEL JAMEEL for two more months till the semester ended. It was my last year and I graduated.

But my four years of book-hopping taught me these lessons in life.

“Never judge a dork by his glasses.”

“Sometimes beauty isn’t skin deep and it’s not even on the outside either”

And my personal favorite

“Psycho’s come in all shapes and sizes”

Twenty Three

When I was fourteen I thought my awkward stage would pass. My nose would magically get smaller. My love handles would suddenly disappear. I’d grow a foot longer. I’d be discovered by a model-scout and start my lifelong modeling career. I’d meet a Richard Gere look-alike and eventually have his 84397508475 children. I’d also know exactly what I was good at and what I was meant to do in life. Most importantly, I’d know exactly the person I wanted to be.

I turn twenty three today. I still don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I’m good at. I still struggle with those love handles. My nose can still give Pinocchio a run for his money. I’ve leafed through more Erkylles than Richard Geress. I’m still a measly 5’0. The only times I’ve been photographed was when I paid for it.

Do I still care? I could sit here and lie to all the fourteen year olds and say that all those things are trivial. When you get older you realize you were running after all the wrong things. You eventually become a better person and you figure out everything in your life.

On the other hand, I can truly testify you don’t live happily ever after. Life gets worse. Look at me; I’m sitting here writing this forty five minutes before my twenty third birth day. If you don’t like the person standing before you in the mirror at fourteen you’ll never grow to like them at twenty three. Although, you can try forcing it. I do it everyday. I put on my too tight clothes and my bright red lipstick and hope things might change.

And then there’s regret. Regretting things you could’ve done at fourteen that could’ve changed your life at twenty three. And infinite sadness. Sadness at the fact that each year will take away one ray of hope. One less chance of being a model. One less chance of finding Richard Gere. One last chance of liking myself.

ten!

I died today,

Again and again and again.

My innocence lost,

By five old ugly men.

It was a nice flashy car,

I wonder why I spoke to them.

It lasted for a minute an hour or a year,

It doesn’t matter, time loses value then.

It wouldn’t have felt so bad,

If I wasn’t only ten.

I know tomorrow wont be brighter,

Because I’ll die again.

The RSA (Reality show addict)

As the American idol 3 has successfully ended and the finalists have all gotten multi/million dollar music careers, I have come to realize that I have no life left. I have spent countless afternoons watching this show, in addition to the re-runs, the daily internet updates about the contestants and anything and everything that covered the show. I cried with all the contestants who were voted off. I sang ‘She Bangs’ all the way with William Hung. Even begged friends in America to VOTE for Fantasia Barino. I hated Simon Cowell for his guts. I adored Paula for her choice of words in front of the worse singers in America.

For those of you who think I’m talking absolute Greek, American Idol is a reality show that tries to find the next biggest star that can sing dance and take criticism from the judges. The most interesting thing about the show is that these people are real and ordinary who evolve into stunning individuals over time. It’s a real Cinderella story and gives you hope that one day somebody will discover you. Coming back to the same point… I was about to make a confession. I am a recovering RSA (reality show addict). I don’t stay up half the night to watch the models cut and dye their hair to make themselves more flexible to cosmetic companies anymore, I don’t cross my fingers for my favorite blonde to get a rose from the bachelor, I don’t see every cockroach in the house as my next snack in order to practice for The survivor anymore, and most of all I have decided that if I ever have to choose between love or money, it would be money.

Instead I have come up with a list of things I can do in place of watching these reality shows. Here are a few: During American Idol I can sit and learn Origami, For love or money I can come up with 3 different types of Halloween costumes every week, in “The Bachelor” time slot I can organize my books alphabetically, by size, by number of pages , by colors etc.

I know the TV world will not survive without a loyal viewer like me but I will not completely abandon my fellow TV-kind. I can spend my time watching 30 seconds of Fame where people exhibit talents they would normally not talk about in public. Watching discovery channel helped me find out that on the Titanic, the “Heart of the Ocean” actually existed. Not to mention the numerous dramas on Star Plus where a combination of a perfected Saas, magician Daadi , not so cute twins and a nauseatingly hyper husband appear every day every week to keep me busy throughout those lonely dreary reality-showless days.

Bimbo Alert

I decided this post is not going to be about my usual drama:

This means I can’t drone on about how

I don’t have any direction in life.

I can’t whine about how

I got dumped “callously” five years ago

And I can definitely not complain about

How neurotic my dad is (its just bad manners and I’m scared that he might read it and kill me)

Also it can’t be about how

Great my new shoes are (they’re gold and strappy and SO adorable)

And I won’t even go in the direction of:

How these girls today like totally gushed over my hair in my machine sewing class (I’m such a star)

Or the fact that Thailand is like the best place in the world. (These beaches in south Pattaya OH MY GOD)…BUT mum’s the word.

And yea American Idol 7 or was it 6….definitely NOT worth talking about.

Scratch...Shoes…Scratch…Ex-Boyfriend…Scratch…Shopping…Scratch…..Shoes

OH MY GOD! I just had a revelation.

I think I just might be like “a bimbo” and stuff.

My mind tries to go further than shoes, shopping; hair, clothes, Thailand and then magically fast backwards to shoes all over again.

This calls for some serious Mandy Moore.

I don’t know when this happened.

I was totally smart and did better in school than all my friends. (I was prettier too might I add)

Like I totally didn’t get knocked up in college and become a Pakistani trailer park trash like someone I know.

I mean I never got A’s or anything in school.

If I did I’d probably sit next to the four eyed toad wearing those ugly checks in the front row. (TLOL) I just totally made that up myself

“Totally laughing out loud”

TLOL…get it?

I know checks are so happening right now but it was late 1999 and they were so not happening.

I mean Alicia Silverstone in Clueless was my idol and she really wasn’t Einstein.

And boys never EVER hit on “smart girls”.

Okay so what! I am a bimbo!

Just so you know being a bimbo is really hard work. I mean you have to totally keep yourself HOT like all the time. You can’t be caught dead in a SCRUNCHIE. How the hell are you supposed to flick your hair and get your paper written by that dork if you’re wearing a scrunchie???

It’s pretty torturous I tell you. Some of us pretty girls have never seen the inside of a McDonalds. I, unlike all those girls eat McDonalds very often (I mean if I can use their toilet right after…why not?)

So I’m going to go ahead and be a bimbo. That’s what I’m good at being and that’s what’s expected from me.

FYI: They never made an Ugly Betty Barbie for a reason. (They just don’t sell)