Call Me By My Name

I have quite a few pet-peeves that make me instantly dislike a person and almost nothing can redeem them. One of the fastest ways of me declaring someone as an undesirable is the way they’ll interact with me in the simplest of ways.

The way they’ll use my name.

Where I come from, a name can morph. You can make it sound cute and adorable, you can make it bombastic and intimidating, you can even show that you’re familiar with someone, using it as a term of endearment.

I have a memory engraved in my head so vividly that it still pisses me off.

My grandmother and I were walking to the supermarket; I must have been around 4 years old. It was a hot summer day and it was all pretty lethargic up until that point.

A neighbor stops us and smiles at me. I was the firstĀ  grandchild of the family so I guess I was a novelty for my grandmother. The lady that had stopped us exclaimed out loud how much I looked like my father by jokingly using his name towards me. Yes, the child that was caught in a time warp. I was my father, still a child, their own local peculiar case of Benjamin Fuck-Off.

I don’t know why it pissed me off but it did. It offended me that I had to look like someone and couldn’t just look like me. I remember my brain’s inner monologue… I sounded like an appalled posh aristocrat.

It’s been a constant ever since, I don’t enjoy any desecration of my name. I might grin and bear it if there’s no other way but I find it disrespectful when my individuality is at stake.

So yes, I’d kindly ask you to call me by my name. No, not you dear internet person, for you will ever only meet my virtual footprint. For all of those out there in the real world, stick to the script I provided.



The Small Things

There was a day many years ago when I realized that I wasn’t the only one preoccupied by things that the grand majority didn’t care about. My mother would comment on how involved people would get over movies and music and pictures, while I on the other hand would play a game of challenging myself to find more of just that.

I know it’s extremely utopian to believe the entertainment industry but I cared more about people in books than people in real life. Nothing could really match up to what music made me feel or what a painting could tell me.
There was a small nook in my room where I stratigically placed my cd-player and would sit there, getting into it. It was interesting to hear people creating sounds (and words to accompany it) that cared intensely about things. It was remarkable that musicians seemingly didn’t give a fuck about what others thought and said “Fuck it, I’ll write a song about ducks”.
I respect the insignificance, I might even value it more when someone is passionate about what makes them tick. There’s a great divide that seperates me from people (and I’m not saying that they’re in the wrong), it might be that I give a fuck about too much because I take everything into consideration before dismissing it. Add the fact that my face’s permanent state is “try me bitch” and you’ve got yourself quite a paradox happening. I care too much while appearing not to care.

The meaning behind fixating on the details makes for a grand bigger picture, doesn’t it? Can you feel happiness when you’ve never felt content? Would you like the movie if you hated the actors? Is it possible for a song to move you if there’s one instrument out of tune?

The Golden Age of “Get Me Out Of Here”

It’s hard to ignore this recurring theme of complete apathy and follow-the-leader trend among us. Simply standing by a bus stop has turned into a pseudo-apocalyptic scene where humanoids are oblivious to anything around them, enchanted by handheld devices. I was the only one today that noticed a man wave madly as the bus passed by (he knew no one on the bus, just wanted to wave for a bit).


You may or may not know that I’ve been unshackled by smartphones for almost a year now and the transition was difficult at start. Frantic moments were spent trying to entertain myself because my brain couldn’t funtion without having a direct link to the Cloud. I’ll be the first to praise technology but I don’t find that my life is defined by virtual profiles and liking an edgy photograph.

There’s a mixture of pity and minimum concern for people who’ve never noticed that any information around you is probably the first and last time you’ll see it in such state. I don’t know, does it really matter?

Becoming disenchanted and gradually angry at the world keeps on keeping on as the years go by, perhaps even wasting my time writing this is me conforming to the ever-ending argument of where this reality is leading up to, a wireless generation of sterile zombies or perpetual purists that can’t change…