I.iii.78

They say you can tell a lot about a person by the kind of underwear they wear. Me? I was always about as adventurous as my cotton reasonably-priced three packs.

Somewhere along the way that changed.

You see, not to be that person, but well, shit happens. Things fall apart; the center cannot hold. And it only seems fitting to act out in retaliation, do something crazy, maybe even a little Elvis-y like putting a bullet in your television set. Or you know, the pedestrian equivalent– 

Like impulsively getting a dramatic haircut or highlights in a bright shade of pink. Maybe getting a few piercings, or even a back tattoo. Or you could choose to find comfort in making out with crappy boys, sneaking cigarettes into your bedroom, partying way too hard and guzzling way too much alcohol just because it makes you feel invincible for those five seconds. Then you attempt to balance your giant shame spiral by binge-watching every adaptation of Wuthering Heights ever made while nursing a bad hangover and eating stale french-fries from the day before in bed. 

I'd know. Because in the last couple years, I sprinted through all of these phases. And why? Not because I'd been feeling particularly rebellious but merely because I'd just been trying to keep up with all the constant change happening around me. And the only way I could see how, was to take Gandhi's be the change dictum waaay too literally and change myself. Rejecting everything I was and trying on different selves like they were hats— to the point of self destruction. Because when everything feels like it's slipping away, all you desperately want to do is prove that there are some things in your life that you can control, right? Right.

And for a while it felt good. To be able to burn the candle at both ends, carpe-ing the fuck out of diem, making all the mistakes, for all of the crazy stories I could tell the next day.

But here I am now. It takes no life-altering epiphany, maybe just a particularly bad hangover, to become drastically aware of the state of mediocrity that you currently reside in, to finally realize that maybe it's time to take some proactive steps to better your life. No, I'm not talking about going on a juice cleanse or burning all your junk food or anything as ridiculous. I'm talking about being true "to thine own self", the way Polonius intended for his son Laertes in Hamlet; because maybe I'm not built for downing five shots of rum neat. Deep down I know I haven't changed at all. I'm still that girl who makes bad puns and is too scared to watch horror movies alone. 

Lost

I am no stranger to losing things. That feeling of crippling frustration, of not being able to locate that damn pencil you just put down for a second. It's like not being able to remember the lyrics of your favorite song or the name of the person you meet everyday. It's at the tip of your tongue, gnawing at you, keeping you up at night... Because that is what losing something, even as trivial as a hair tie feels. Until, if you're lucky, that moment of rediscovery; when you realize the thing you've been searching for has been right there in front of you this whole time. Hiding in plain sight. 

But, do you ever wonder, even for that brief second– where do all the lost things go? Whether it's the loose change in the couch or your favourite sweatshirt in the wash. Is there a place where all the orphaned socks and stray Tupperware lids go? Do they teleport to some Interstellar-esque fifth dimension and relocate there? An inventory of lost things, that perhaps Tom Hanks alone is privy to.

I think that's where I am at, right now. Like I've somehow slipped through the cracks and landed in the place where all the lost things go. Trapped in this purgatory of sorts, neither here nor there. Just waiting to be found. Its like I'm finally winning at hide-and-seek. Except it doesn't feel like I'm really winning at all.

The Bright Side

Kidding.

It does not exist.

The Fault in our Dibs

It's not uncommon to hear people call dibs on the last slice of pizza or on the window seat on the bus. Logically speaking one cannot simply claim ownership over an object by merely uttering an inconsequential syllable and actually come to possess it; however against all rationality, the institution of "calling dibs", seems to be a widely understood and universal symbol to do just this.  

Interestingly, the origin of the dib dates back to an early 18th century children's game called Dibstones; where in the only ownership the players claimed was on a couple of stones used for the purpose of the game. 

Now, centuries later, perpetuated by pop culture and generations of drunk frat boys, this institution hits a whole new level. Instead of objects, dibs are being placed on actual people, and justified through ridiculous notions like the Bro Code or the Girl Code or other equally ridiculous generic rules that serve no purpose other than to encourage immaturity and sexism. 

The tendency of calling dibs on a person, the basic equivalent of urinating over said person to establish your territory, is objectifying, and at worst, dehumanizing. You see, when you call dibs on a human being you are reducing them to an object, you are claiming them as your possession. While you think you're expressing romantic interest, in reality all you are doing is exerting control over this person and their actions, reducing any possible relationship that ensues, to nothing more than a glorified form of slavery. By calling dibs on a person you are taking into account nobody's views but your own, you are disregarding the fact that the person in question has his or her own thoughts, feelings, and preferences. Thoughts, feelings and preferences that you need to respect. Think about it; disguised as a pillar of solidarity and loyalty, calling dibs is really just incredibly idealistic and selfish.

Except, of course, we've all done it. We are all guilty of unconsciously invoking this unwritten rule, and getting mad when someone else kisses the person that we've unintentionally placed our claim on or when the one you saw first ups and decides (how dare s/he!) to choose someone who isn't you. Yeah, we may deny it, but we've all been there. As much as it irks me to admit this, I know I have. 

You see, Cassius was right. The fault is not in our stars, or in our dibs, for that matter. But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 

And right now what we underlings need to do, is abandon this system of calling dibs. Just abandon it.

Just one of those days

Penny: But you know, everything happens–
Billy: Don't say "for a reason".
Penny: No. I'm... just saying. Everything happens.
Billy: Not to me.

—Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog

Drizzled in Art

Wikipedia defines art as "a diverse range of human activities in creating visual, auditory or performing artifacts – artworks, expressing the author's imaginative or technical skill, intended to be appreciated for their beauty or emotional power". 

The truth, however, is less verbose. It's simple. Art is art. There are no definitions. I think literally anything that basically nails that particular essence of, "man, this is beautiful, I like it" is art.

Art is for everyone, because art is in everyone. To engage in art is to, simply, enjoy it. And the only way to enjoy art is to devour it, even in the most pedestrian of ways— in listening to a song and losing track of your surroundings, in turning puffs of hookah into swirling ghosts, and even in taking a photograph with your grainy phone camera to immortalize a fleeting moment. This, and much more, is art. 

The question remains. Why art? What is the reason behind my love affair with art, that compelled me to dedicate not one but two posts about it?

I spoke at length –albeit pretentiously– about the why here. See, as a kid I remember drawing squiggles with crayon over every blank space I could find. Art was my way of escaping reality, opening a glimpse into a world created by me, wherein all the things I wanted to stay away from could be removed as easily as with an eraser. I have come a long way from that first crayoned squiggle; my command over art is constantly evolving as I change as a person. I now scam my friends into paying me to draw caricatures of them with celebrities. Art is now no longer just an escape, but the very essence of my life (she said, pretentiously).

This is where DeviantArt comes into the picture. For the past year, I have been trying my hand at a little amateur illustration. Although drizzled in art (my posts are very sporadic), do check out my DA profile, its USP being a medley of fun, passion, and procrastination. 

See you on the flip side.

Let's talk about art..

When we think of art, we typically think of oil canvas paintings hanging in a museum or unclad cherubs on the high ceiling of a cathedral. 

But, reader, art isn't confined only to such highbrow places. Because art is, in fact, everywhere.

Art has no boundaries, emerging in every shape and form, in every nook and corner of the world, just waiting to be interpreted. Our notion of art needs to be expanded, we need to be able to identify it in everyday places– in the way gravel is strewn over the sidewalk, in the methodical peeling of paint of an old worn out wooden chair, or in the purest form of joy expressed on a child's face.

Art can be found in the most ordinary places. What follows is a medley of what I would categorize as art– random photographs captured and chronicled in my phone gallery.

Bottom line, Reader, art can be found anywhere and everywhere, as long as we are willing to find it, and devour it in all of its glory.

Disclaimer: Sure what I call art, might not be "art" to you. And that's okay. Because that is where its beauty lies: appreciation of art is subjective. The world is our art museum, and we are just chin-stroking critics in scarves.

Counting Mississippis

I used to wish that life was a movie– or one of those bad sit-coms complete with its de rigueur laughter track and wilhelm screams; exhausting hours spent in the making, forced chemistry between actors, cheesy lines to memorize, multiple takes to get one scene right, and ultimately leading to the grand finale. 

I was always a big fan of this so called grand finale, the happily ever after, the italicized fin., credits rolling up, the whole shebang. I desperately wanted my happily ever after. Right now, I wish I could go back and ask past Anna what the phrase even meant to her, because I don't get it. The very institution of the so called "happily ever after" just doesn't make sense to me right now. I'm not being cynical, I'm not saying people do not end up happy; to me "happily ever after" just raises a phenomenal: now what? Because unless, of course, you expect the rest of your life to go on in the crazy credit scenes, a happily-ever-after just doesn't seem ideal.

It's like the word "content". The word "content" never really sat well with me. To me, it suggests a kind of decay. A settling. A tendency to overlook the journey.

We all have our fair share of theories on life– Forrest Gump compared life to a box of chocolates, Albert Camus said life is meaningless, and the pretentious side of me likes to think that life is a conveyor belt of moments sequenced illogically. 

Irrational and temperamental— I change my major in college, like I change the highlights in my hair, on a whim. I'm constantly evolving who I am and what I love, and it's all because of these moments– the happy, the sad, the excruciatingly humiliating, the excruciatingly mundane, each seemingly insignificant moment. They might not all tie up together at the end in a neat little bow, loose ends and red herrings are inevitable in life. But if I had a choice I would never fast-forward through all these moments just to get to the end. I'd rather look forward to my during than my happily ever after. No, this is not some elaborate take on YOLO; all I'm saying is, each second, each eternal four-syllabled mississippi counts. 

And I'm so grateful for my tally of mississippis; and if I could hit rewind, I wouldn't change a thing.