I have never felt the need to see myself this way and I hate that She could make me do so.
I am one of those quirks of nature that like to think of themselves as the pinnacle of the universe. While I recognise that I have very little to offer anyone and that I am more of a mess than the average Lahore street corner, I still find myself constantly measuring everyone else in venomous doses. This is rather odd, when one takes into account the fact that I am a social misfit who likes to hide in corners and inadvertently begrudge other people their success. Perhaps the most loathsome thing about me is the fact that I can never own up to any of this, I am always impeccably polite, cordial and consistently bashful. This usually means that while I may actually want to rip a person’s face off and use it as an ass wipe, I am more likely to offer them a nice cup of tea and an invitation to come and stay at my house and borrow all of my belongings.
I, my friends, am Jedi Master Bullshit.
My biggest problem is the fact that I am plagued by the intellectual racism that persists in society. One might perhaps think that this particular form of racism does not exist in Pakiland, but I tell you it does. More so, because it is so rare. My ‘issue’ being that I am not half as smart as I would want to be, but smart enough to know that I want to be smarter. It is a conundrum. I spend my days walking through a void of maladjustment, reading as many volumes by the stodgiest of authors I can find to impress innocent bystanders who ought to remain innocent and stand by. There is a glitch in my plan (which is why it obviously hasn’t yielded any results) : I am hopelessly inept at marketing myself. This - I am told by the few people that I agree to converse with on a semi-regular basis – is a fatal flaw for a young, twenty something woman, who wants to be someone in this life. I work in a newspaper office, one with a certain measure of repute, and I am not so proud but apathetic enough to announce that I do absolutely nothing of any consequence. I edit the random musings of even more random people from around the globe ranting and raving about how ‘they’ think the problems of this country can be solved in less than 300 words and then I wait. I wait for the clock to strike nine so that I can walk out of the doors of this building littered with an army of academic casualties. I have yet to join the ranks, of which I do not know if I am grateful or in mourning.
I met her a few days ago in a restaurant where I and the social degenerates I usually consider ‘of my kin’ hang out. I use the expression ‘hang out’ loosely, for I seldom subscribe to the principles of this term which imply a degree of comfort and being at ease, two things which I can never relate to. By hanging out I simply mean my partaking of any form of voluntary social interaction. ‘She’ was dressed to the nines, glamorous and a snob. I mean this judgmentally and I am very proud to finally admit to it. I am often told by acquaintances that I need to embrace my ‘femininity’ more and I have never understood what this means. I enjoy dressing up now that I am permitted to do so and I especially enjoy ornamenting myself with ridiculous jewellery and unconventional colours. I also subscribe, very dearly, to a fetish for shoes (which I believe is a trademark of all that is ‘Yin’ in this world, has two feet and falls under the classification ‘Homosapien’). I have many a time patted myself on the back for not being one of the people who needed to stamp themselves with three inch specs and sweatshirts to proclaim themselves as smart.
My complexes are far more complex, pun intended.
Anyway, as our conversation ran along career lines, She just happened to mention some of my problems. This monologue usually moves along the lines of “You know what your problem is….?”, and ends with me nodding my head in acknowledgment of the said problem and a determination to stick with it. This time however the entire sentence ran something like this “…you don’t know how to make the most of your looks in the workplace. One needs to smile and flirt - at least a little- I’m not saying you date your boss, but you need to be less Ram-rodish (this is my own term to replace the original, which in case you were wondering was ‘frigid’). I’m making twice the amount you make and I can barely even string together a proper sentence (again my own intervention - ‘She’ simply mentioned that I could do better than her if I so chose).
In all the years that I have been cornered and rendered speechless, this was an occasion I could never have seen coming. The Bitch had spoken. And once again she had rendered my Bullshit prowess mediocre at best. She quoted examples of the leagues of women who were in positions that they perhaps did not deserve to be in, were merit the criteria for selection. And I was forced to recount the many women I knew of who I felt ought to go out and get a brain. Apparently brains come in second to beauty and third to balls. These women usually have the latter two and the first therefore becomes irrelevant. I was also forced to remember all the Hollywood films I had seen of women suing men for sexual harassment, something that we are given to take as a norm here.
But then it occurred to me, we had found a loophole – in a country where by and large one can find the most frustrated men on the planet. Why not turn the tables? Pakiland: Ladies and Gentlemen – Land of the not-so-demure. After all, a smile and toss of hair can do wonders in a country where men often sport erections walking past a burka-clad woman in the street.
Needless to say my Bullshit self was no match for the Bitch from the Blue Lagoon.
She would always get ahead much faster than I.
She would always make more money than I.
She would always have more admirers than I.
I on the other hand would always have my Jedi Master Bullshit self.
“Girls always have an unfair advantage over boys. If they can’t get what they want by being smart, they can get it by being dumb.” – Yul Brynner.
I am one of those quirks of nature that like to think of themselves as the pinnacle of the universe. While I recognise that I have very little to offer anyone and that I am more of a mess than the average Lahore street corner, I still find myself constantly measuring everyone else in venomous doses. This is rather odd, when one takes into account the fact that I am a social misfit who likes to hide in corners and inadvertently begrudge other people their success. Perhaps the most loathsome thing about me is the fact that I can never own up to any of this, I am always impeccably polite, cordial and consistently bashful. This usually means that while I may actually want to rip a person’s face off and use it as an ass wipe, I am more likely to offer them a nice cup of tea and an invitation to come and stay at my house and borrow all of my belongings.
I, my friends, am Jedi Master Bullshit.
My biggest problem is the fact that I am plagued by the intellectual racism that persists in society. One might perhaps think that this particular form of racism does not exist in Pakiland, but I tell you it does. More so, because it is so rare. My ‘issue’ being that I am not half as smart as I would want to be, but smart enough to know that I want to be smarter. It is a conundrum. I spend my days walking through a void of maladjustment, reading as many volumes by the stodgiest of authors I can find to impress innocent bystanders who ought to remain innocent and stand by. There is a glitch in my plan (which is why it obviously hasn’t yielded any results) : I am hopelessly inept at marketing myself. This - I am told by the few people that I agree to converse with on a semi-regular basis – is a fatal flaw for a young, twenty something woman, who wants to be someone in this life. I work in a newspaper office, one with a certain measure of repute, and I am not so proud but apathetic enough to announce that I do absolutely nothing of any consequence. I edit the random musings of even more random people from around the globe ranting and raving about how ‘they’ think the problems of this country can be solved in less than 300 words and then I wait. I wait for the clock to strike nine so that I can walk out of the doors of this building littered with an army of academic casualties. I have yet to join the ranks, of which I do not know if I am grateful or in mourning.
I met her a few days ago in a restaurant where I and the social degenerates I usually consider ‘of my kin’ hang out. I use the expression ‘hang out’ loosely, for I seldom subscribe to the principles of this term which imply a degree of comfort and being at ease, two things which I can never relate to. By hanging out I simply mean my partaking of any form of voluntary social interaction. ‘She’ was dressed to the nines, glamorous and a snob. I mean this judgmentally and I am very proud to finally admit to it. I am often told by acquaintances that I need to embrace my ‘femininity’ more and I have never understood what this means. I enjoy dressing up now that I am permitted to do so and I especially enjoy ornamenting myself with ridiculous jewellery and unconventional colours. I also subscribe, very dearly, to a fetish for shoes (which I believe is a trademark of all that is ‘Yin’ in this world, has two feet and falls under the classification ‘Homosapien’). I have many a time patted myself on the back for not being one of the people who needed to stamp themselves with three inch specs and sweatshirts to proclaim themselves as smart.
My complexes are far more complex, pun intended.
Anyway, as our conversation ran along career lines, She just happened to mention some of my problems. This monologue usually moves along the lines of “You know what your problem is….?”, and ends with me nodding my head in acknowledgment of the said problem and a determination to stick with it. This time however the entire sentence ran something like this “…you don’t know how to make the most of your looks in the workplace. One needs to smile and flirt - at least a little- I’m not saying you date your boss, but you need to be less Ram-rodish (this is my own term to replace the original, which in case you were wondering was ‘frigid’). I’m making twice the amount you make and I can barely even string together a proper sentence (again my own intervention - ‘She’ simply mentioned that I could do better than her if I so chose).
In all the years that I have been cornered and rendered speechless, this was an occasion I could never have seen coming. The Bitch had spoken. And once again she had rendered my Bullshit prowess mediocre at best. She quoted examples of the leagues of women who were in positions that they perhaps did not deserve to be in, were merit the criteria for selection. And I was forced to recount the many women I knew of who I felt ought to go out and get a brain. Apparently brains come in second to beauty and third to balls. These women usually have the latter two and the first therefore becomes irrelevant. I was also forced to remember all the Hollywood films I had seen of women suing men for sexual harassment, something that we are given to take as a norm here.
But then it occurred to me, we had found a loophole – in a country where by and large one can find the most frustrated men on the planet. Why not turn the tables? Pakiland: Ladies and Gentlemen – Land of the not-so-demure. After all, a smile and toss of hair can do wonders in a country where men often sport erections walking past a burka-clad woman in the street.
Needless to say my Bullshit self was no match for the Bitch from the Blue Lagoon.
She would always get ahead much faster than I.
She would always make more money than I.
She would always have more admirers than I.
I on the other hand would always have my Jedi Master Bullshit self.
“Girls always have an unfair advantage over boys. If they can’t get what they want by being smart, they can get it by being dumb.” – Yul Brynner.
Well said.
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