M.P. Sharma's Blog, page 5

When did Knowledge Become Uncool?

Or did I just miss the memo or something?

I mean, I get it, I’m well versed with nerd-dom, I think I could probably successfully argue (in an international debate no doubt) that I even conjured up the whole kingdom but really, when did being aware of basic general information become an illness?

For those of you who have been blessed by being spared the entire campaigning activities and have managed to save yourself (quick run and do NOT look back no matter how much I scream for a saviour) from being aware of our approaching July 2nd Federal Election, this story will probably mean little to you though I do sincerely believe you will understand my gobsmacked utter confusion.

Australians were asked to name our current, yes, you heard me right, as in living in 2016, current Prime Minister and some had absolutely no idea.

Granted, we do change our PMs more than a Hippie would change his underwear but seriously? How are you even alive?

I’d ask if you lived under a rock but I’m sure your humble abode even knows the current PM! And unless you’re not on talking terms, I will never believe your excuse.

It’s Malcolm Turnball people, good ol'(well maybe not because he is really unrecognisable from the time before power went to his narcissistic head) but It’s Malcolm Turnball.

If this type of knowledge is uncool, someone just kill me now before I forget where I need to stick a carrot. In my mouth. Most of the time unless you give me a smart-aleck comment, then use your imagination.

They say exercise is good for you …

I always knew there was a reason I didn’t believe them.

As a sidebar, at least my flexibility has improved.

Me after a workout … just before I was wheeled out of the gym. Thank goodness for going to a gym where (I just realised may be a sign), a lot of paramedics attend.

Image Taken From: http://www.dreamstime.com/royalty-free-stock-photography-chalk-outline-person-image3763297

Apparently I’m good at something …

And no, it’s not making balloon figurines.

It could also just be that I got lucky and I know how to bullshit eloquently. But then I can claim to being wonderful at bullshitting so it’s a win-win really. Don’t you just love those?

Anyway I digress, but then as I look over some of my posts I realise that I’d have no material if I didn’t so thank you short (let’s get real – invisible, non-existent) attention span. I owe you one but I probably won’t remember so it suxs to be you.

Now more to the, albeit useless and inconsequential point, I have been published in an online publication on making it as a savvy female entrepreneur in the online space. I don’t really understand why some of these very cool points (possibly excluding my piece) can’t be used by men but considering my amazing natural ability to put my foot in it, I controlled myself and didn’t ask the question. What? Getting published was hard enough in the first place. I’ll let my Zorro out when I’ve got a little more clout.

Anyway, hope all is well with your writing endeavours. Keep writing, stick with it and try not to pull your hair out in the process. I know it’s difficult but try anyway …

Dear Writer’s Block … Again

I hate you … let’s just make that clear.

I don’t know what I’ve ever done to you.

You always seem to strike at the most inopportune times, like my weighing machine just before a gorgeous date with an ice cream binge.

You mock me in your silence with your evil partner in crime – that dreaded foreboding cursor as it blinks at me flirtatiously always giving me just enough hope to think I may make it to the end and then you snatch it away. Oh, so torturously cruelly.

I hate you. I think I said that already but I feel like I have to say it twice so you know just how much agonising loathing I have for you within me.

That’s not very nice is it? But I don’t care.

You keep me away from my one and only friend, you are the very core of a disgusting, omnipresent nemesis.

You take pleasure in tearing apart two lovers, ripping one soul into pieces and then you ridicule me in all your powerful glory.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. It cannot be repeated enough.

It has been said in all its finality. Know that one day I will get the last laugh even if it is just to write down those eight precious letters …

I hate you.

I once loved this boy named Geronimo

I once loved this boy whose name was Geronimo.

He reminded me of my ol’ toy I’d cuddle when I felt low.

I loved this boy whose name was Geronimo.

Because he would rarely eff with my flow, you know?

Now I thought I’d live and love my Geronimo for forever.

Turns out I hadn’t learnt yet that forever often became never.

So suddenly flirtatious frivolousness,

transpired into angry unhappiness.

Alas, one day my fury took over,

so I plucked at him like he was a clover.

I threw him off a cliff because he was too slow,

and as he fell, his last words were Geronimo!

Turns out Geronimo was filled with vanity,

but I didn’t care because I still had my sanity.

This is a true story. I swear.

If you want the fake one, here it is.

Poor Geronimo. Well, at least I made him famous.

You Peeping Tom, you …

Firstly, if you are a Peeping Tom, let me officially reprimand you. It’s not good.

Now that my civic duty has been adequately fulfilled the way all “civic” duties are in the 21st century (i.e. pretending to give a s#@t when I clearly couldn’t care less because it’s not affecting me – shameful I know, but another blog post regardless) , let me clear this title up for you a little. I can’t promise I’ll do anything of the sort but I’ll give it a shot anyway.

I got to thinking why Tom was such a sleazebag the other day. Was it his mother’s complacent rearing or his father’s lecherous late nights at the office. Could it be that poor little Tom had fallen in with the wrong crowd when still an innocent babe and had his mind welded into corrupt caricatures on how to pick up women? Or did Tom just happen to be lost in space, thinking about the ways he may escape Mr. Shufflebotham’s wrath when he admitted he had forgotten to complete his maths homework,  while peering into his next door neighbour’s bathroom when Mrs. Roly-Poly was you know, doing what people do in the bathroom.

I even got to thinking about whether it was actually Jack who had pulled a reluctant Tom onto the old Pears Soap Cardboard Box the local grocer had thrown away as he shifted himself onto his tiptoes to do his lewd work on Mrs. Roly-Poly instead. Poor Tom, if only he had been as quick to run as Jack had, perhaps we would have associated the lack of a suitable moral compass with Peeping Jack instead.

As you can appreciate (I’m sure), the endless possibilities were doing my head in so I brought up my trusted Google and set out to solve this complicated and pressing mystery. For once, I must admit, the actual literal version of how Tom came to be prefixed with Peeping is actually much more interesting than any of my versions. I know, it sux but such is the way of life.

Damn, I hate not being the most intelligent person in the Universe but I console myself by believing it’s someone else’s fault instead of mine, like many of my generation living in these times. But that again, is another blog post.

Do you ever get bored?

Sometimes, scratch that … I get bored all the time (at least that’s what it feels like) and a lot of the time, I even get bored of my face. Don’t laugh, it’s a serious condition.

This is why I am totally gobsmacked about how I’ve managed to not spruce up my blog and other social media accounts for over ONE entire year. I’m insufferably embarrassed at the lack of my boredom with the way I look so I apologise profusely for putting you through it for the better part of two years (or the worst part, whichever you prefer really).

I chalk it up to my utter laziness, another strong point of my character just in case you’re wondering.

Let me know what you think …

Mayday, Mayday …

And no.

This is not a distress call for my writing though I’m hurt you would think so. In fact, I’m disappointed you haven’t used it for my writing yet. That, I would get.

My sister and I will often spend our time discussing why certain elements exist in life.

What?

Don’t judge us. We’re bored, poor individuals. Stop laughing, it’s cruel.

Seriously.

I once asked a very expert Yahoo Answers panel if the word “mouse” originated from a combination of the words “mouth” and “nose” because whoever discovered the animal couldn’t figure out where its nose ended and mouth began because it was so small.

Turns out it was a stupid question, not that it stopped getting essay type answers to what was fast becoming an extremely mundane, “I’m going to slit my wrists if I ever see a mouse again” topic, but that (like so many other of my posts) is another story.

Which brings me to my point. Thank you for bearing that ridiculous tangent.

Mayunka asked me while we were returning from a nice early morning swim on Saturday about the origins of the Mayday call.

I really exercised my brain (no small feat on the weekend or any day really for me) and decided that the term probably originated when some poor bugger who was lost completed a distress call that went something like this:

Poor, Unsuspecting Victim: “Help, help, I’m lost”.

Drunk/Bored Emergency Representative: “What day is it?”

Poor, Unsuspecting Victim: “What the what?! I’m lost you idiot! And possibly on the brink of starving to death, is this really pertinent?”

Drunk/Bored Emergency Representative: “You bet it is! So now, if you want to be saved, I suggest you tell me”.

Poor, Unsuspecting Victim: whispers under breath “Jackass. I guess it’s a day in May or something”.

Drunk/Bored Emergency Representative: “Did you just say Mayday. Unconvincing and extremely unimaginative but seeing as my bladder’s about to burst, I guess I’ll let it pass”.

Now I really did believe that this was a wonderful explanation, so much so, I was actually prepared to put a wager on it.

Turns out I was wrong and that the actual origins of Mayday is this.

I still think mine’s much better but each to their own I guess. How boring …

Why I’d prefer you penned down your argument …

Wouldn’t it be great if we could argue on paper instead?

Imagine that.

If you could just yell at me in prose, it would be so wonderful.

I could watch my favourite show without the constant bickering. And you could watch yours. Why do we always have to pick the time we want to watch TV to relate how much better the other one could be?

We could actually think before we spat out the venom that we do. Writing often makes us think before we unleash the poison within.

You and I could make up before we actually fought. Imagine that.

We would be forced to give one another the benefit of doubt before we pounced. Maybe we’d have enough time to reflect and realise the other one’s not the only one at fault.

Now, don’t you wish you could write our argument instead of using our vocal cords as well?

Maybe we could go to the beach and read each other’s qualms while we sun bake.

Did You Check if I had Two Left Feet?

I’m not kidding.

I asked my mum this question the other day and she gave me her characteristic “if I’d only known, I may have decided otherwise” look she often gives me when I question her, just before her trademark roll of her big, brown eyes.

I’ve been taunted for my Two Left Feet syndrome for quite some years now and I have only recently began to brandish them to the World with pride.

This is due, largely, to my newfound appreciation for being a walking disaster.

Why? I hear you ask (I’m ignoring the slightly sarcastic tone I hear as well), so please allow me to educate you on the behalf of all Two Left Feet inflicted human beings (and animals – because my Dog, Dashy Boy had four of them. But that’s another story).

I can bask in the glory of falling everywhere, from famous monuments, like the Louvre and the Taj Mahal to more mundane areas like my school bus stop without fail, mind you, every single Monday, Tuesday and Thursday.
Competing the caricature move with elegance and poise. No one, I repeat, no one can fall as fluidly in a skirt as I  can. Except perhaps my sister. What can I say, it runs in the family.
Not being embarrassed at anything anymore. After succumbing to the fact that I will always, and I really do mean always , fall right in front of the hottest guy in the universe at each and every stage (and never in their lap like the Fairy tales falsely predict), I find that nothing can quite bring a rosiness to my cheeks any more. On the downside, this does mean I have to spend more on makeup but at least its easier on my nervous system and internal organs.

And there you have it, why two left feet is a blessing rather than a curse. You can provide more statistical research in the comments section below if you wish. I’ll even cite your expert opinion in the PhD Thesis I’m planning on completing on the topic …