An Account of Thought

Oh, how you taunt me, little black pieces of charcoal infused with sugar, with your innocent name; how you taunt my soul and my health, how you eradicate 30 minutes of running in one fell swoop of your blue plastic tray and resealable cover. Resealable cover; how ingenuous. It shan’t be resealed for at least another hour, when its resealment will have no meaning, just like the word resealment, which does not have a meaning. Fie upon you, Oh Oreo. Fie.

All write and no comments makes Jack a dull boy. All write and no comments makes Jack a dull boy. All write and no comments makes Jack a dull boy. All write and no comments makes Jack a dull boy. All write and no comments makes Jack a dull boy.

All write and no comments makes Jack a dull boy.

All write and no comments makes Jack a dull boy.

All write and no comments makes Jack a dull boy.

Wow. That really does make someone (i.e. me) look insane.

The mediocrity of all is what got to me. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy my possessions, my life, my time, and my relationships, but that it was all just so normal. For someone who grew up being, or thinking, that they were not the norm, adulthood was a shocking sight to behold , in its tucked in-ness, its button-down-ness, and its pressed-ness; in its mass transitness and black coat-ness; a heavy weight for my non-conventional frame. It bore down on me like I was a child who just started work in an Adidas factory somewhere in Sindh, carrying the debilitating weight of beaten leather and canvas. I was choking on conditioned air, modified food, and sweetened improved water. I needed to get out, and get out fast. That’s why I did it. I caught the first train I could to the airport and booked the first flight I could to Termez, the place furthest from normalcy I could think of. In retrospect, a bad choice.

I left behind parents, siblings, a wife, a child, and anyone and everyone else I could leave behind. The more I left behind, the better. Some sturdy looking rags picked up from a clearance rack and a small satchel found in the dirt of the road were now my traveling companions.

Mine? Well, i want to be an attorney at a games development company, who occasionally (ie, most of the time) dabbles in game development. Oh, and once in a while handle the legal stuff. Someone tell me again, why did i become a lawyer?

I have not been posting much, as the anniversary of my taking the bar just passed, i have been devoted to doing whatever the hell i wanted to for the past month. It has been nice and unproductive, and that really is the best part. I can sleep late. I can watch movies. I can even pray sunnahs. I know, i should notadmit that, but if you work full time and your studying for the bar, sunnah’s become really hard to perform, sad to say. May God forgive me for that… ameen. You keep putting them off for another day, after that mythical day of the bar. Maybe on the day of the bar itself? Then you realize that leaving them out for a month has left them out of your life for a much longer time. Good job buddy.

Anyway, so I got back in to the groove of life. Life before law school, and everything. Life where I can come home at a normal time, 7pm, as opposed to 11pm.  Where I can eat dinner with people I love, and I can see my friends. I can spend time with the wife any time i want. I can make babies. Yeah I said it. I am gonna be a daddy, alhamdulillah. May God give us a healthy child.

As for this blog I am just posting random fiction that I have written recently or in the past. If you guys are confused as to what you are reading, assume that things you don’t understand are things that actually took place, and I am just stylizing reality, as opposed to writing real fiction. Also let me know what you think. I am new to this writing thing. In fact, that was the whole purpose of this blog, to become a better writer, or to become one at all. Not working out too well.

Black’s sordid past allowed him a way to present himself as an interesting person, although generally dull below the surface. With a peppered history of violence, basketball, and broken limbs, his story read like a Lio DiCaprio movie from the 90s, but in a suburban setting surrounded by many Indians wishing they lived in the bad part of the Bronx, all while retaining the benefit of parents in the IT industry. Without really knowing what happened, Black found his way to the ordinary life: high school, college, the corporate world, and IT. Hardly the place for a gangster such as himself, he tried to fit in, but jumped when the chance presented itself to regress back to his violent ways.

On a brisk morning on his way to the office, Black found himself dosing off on the subway towards downtown. He awoke with the conductors inaudible crackling voice, thinking he had missed his stop. As he stepped onto the platform he smelled the stench of stale liquor and gun metal. Glancing over to his right, he noted two large individuals assaulting a middle aged woman. As she slumped to the floor, Black realized he must act quick to preserve her.

With a short step he faced the aggressors, close enough to feel their belligerence. The smaller one took a step towards him, and extended his hand to Black’s belly. “This is not your business.” Without a thought, Black grabbed the extended hand, directed his own hand at the windpipe. Gasping for breath, the fallen writhed in pain and tried to get away, slowly. Three swift steps and Black arrived in the shadow of the other. Before the larger man knew what was to happen, Black choke-slammed him in a quick ninjitsu movement learned on off-weekend self-defense classes at the local community center. When the mans fall was complete, he lie there still, while a trickle of blood crept from his ear onto the beaten dirty subway platform.

The woman seemed unconscious; the police were quickly summoned, stories were exaggerated, and paper’s signed. Black was told not to worry, and they were grateful to him for sticking his neck out. They told him if anything goes wrong, they will just place a knife in the mugger’s pockets. No problems. We reward our vigilantes. Darkness crept in his eyes. Black felt remorse and empowerment at the same time. He was not aware of the thin line he walked, ready to topple over to one side or the other at any moment. Close to being great, but on the verge of being utterly evil.

On that moist cloudy morning an anti-hero was born. He was, the Suburban Commando.

Because honestly the world is full of alot of hot air, no need to add my own right?  Check out this site: http://www.globalrichlist.com/.  Apparently I am “in the TOP 0.53% richest people in the world!”. That is ridiculous. In so many respects, not the least of which is that I feel extremely broke.

The Ikon was a walking contradiction in thought and demeanor, in technical prowess and lexical endowments. Although none could pin him down, there were a few characteristic traits that made him an extremely beneficial asset to the Committee. A rather reserved individual, the Ikon was an image that represented an extensive history of drugs and alcohol, and intellectual introspection. The Ikon became affiliated with the Committee through various interconnections amongst the community as well as a pre-1980s bout of new-yorkism amongst the descendants of the Dons.

The security breach was an attempt by the Ikon to expunge the traces of the the Committee’s underground illegal hooqa-sheesha-nargila trade from the record halls of the FBI. 2:30 in the AM was the only right time of day for this type of activity, with a roohafza in hand. The hack itself took more than three hours due to some difficulties in erasing Black’s (a fellow Committee member) hooqa-sheesha-nargila records, as they were closely intertwined with his NBA gambling ring data. Ikon had to keep Black’s record alive, and possibly add more, for although Black was part of the Committee, there was some bad blood between Ikon ’s former crew, the Brothers, and Black himself. So there needed to be some leverage on Ikon ’s part - just enough to keep the brothers thinking he was aligned with them, while siphoning monies back to the Committee.
After failing to delete several important log files of hacking activity due to crack smoking, the FBI caught on. No identifications were made; The Ikon was a clean-cut counselor by day, and could be suspected of no such thing, yet suspicions remained, and the weak link, Katz, could easily have snitched him out, had it not been for the Ikon’s reasonableness in dealings.

The untold tragedy of a law school graduate is that the common man knows more law through his common sense, than you do.

Tagged by Muse - thanks for allowing me to take a break, I was about to have my second nervous breakdown in three weeks.

1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).

2. Open the book to page 123.

3. Find the 5th Sentence.

4. Post the next 3 sentences.

5. Tag 5 people.

The closest book to me was standard MBE questions, but to be more interesting, I picked the 2nd closest book. And i am not telling you what it is, you will have to guess.

“That’s true, official!” answered Rozoghin, “that’s true, drunken soul! Ech, here goes nothing. Nastasya Filippovna!” he exclaimed, gazing at her like a half-wit, growing timid and then suddenly taking heart to the point of audacity. “Here’s eighteen thousand!” And he flung on the table before her a packet wrapped in white paper and tied crosswise with string. “Here! And … and there’s more to come!”

Good night, and be well.