Don't Screw My Happiness

I'm sure that my memories of Bangalore, India, have no real bearing on the Bangalore of today. When I was there, Bangalore was bustling with people and noise and animals and it probably still is. However, the Bangalore I remember doesn't exist anymore. The Bangalore I remember exists in my 4-years-ago recollection. It is a visual montage that contains things as vastly different as the Christ College under-the-tree spot, whimples of the nuns in our hostel, Black Sabbath riffs, and the crowded Sudhe Gunde marketplace.
I hear horns and cows and Fr. Saby's monotonous speeches. I feel the ink flow through my Parker Pen like blood as my classmates wrote line after line of Shakespearean sonnests: some funny, some sad, some desperately rhyming.
I smell warm chapatis in the mess hall, and the yellow curry that always made me gag. I hear the screech of the metal chairs on concrete floors and the too-cool-for-school slouch of the "last benchers," the heavy metal loving rebels that always sat at the back of the classrooms.
Being in Bangalore was a great experience for me but, don't get me wrong. It wasn't all "gulab jamun" and bollywood dance-a-thons. It was the first place I was physically attacked. It was the first place I felt my life threatened when someone threw a rock that shattered the bus window. It was the first place I was forced to commit civil disobedience.
Yet, I was happy.
I wonder now why I don't feel the same the happiness. I have reached a conclusion: my happiness was screwed.
In India, we used to say that all the time and I suppose it means just as it sounds. "Don't screw my happeniness" means "don't upset me." However, "don't upset me" simply doesn't have the "oomph" of "don't screw my happiness." It probably has a lot to do with the word "screw" which, in American slang, has "sex" written all over it which is perhaps why it has the "oomph."
The phrase appealed to me because it is quite possibly the worst thing someone could do to your happiness: fuck it up. What good is happiness when it's all fucked up? My happiness has lost it's innocence out here in the real world.

I want to write a book about Bangalore but the more I put it off the more I forget. Initially, I had hoped this book would get me out of the poverty that forces me to sleep on floor pillows arranged underneath my mom's 1970's beadspread. I'm hoped this book would sell millions and the catchphrase, "Don't screw my happiness" will make its grand debut on "Good Morning America".
Who am I kidding? I won't ever write beyond this paragraph and most of you have given up a few lines ago. But, then again, a little reverse psychology and subliminal propaganda never hurt anyone. :-)

As of the first of this month, I am 27 years old. I found the old journal entry from 2001 when I was 23 (See April 12, 2001 entry). As you will see, I am totally anti-marriage, anti-family, all that stuff. At the end of the entry, I have made a vow to be selfish for some more years. Now, on the threshold of my thirties, I can honestly say that I don't feel that way anymore. I feel like I've done all the things that I wanted to. In my mind, when I graduated from high school, I had made a mental checklist of all things I needed to do before I got married. The list included from pretty standard ones: like going to college, falling in love, having friends that actually give a damn, cooking Kerala food, living by myself, shopping for myself, finding the perfect career choice, etc, to not so standard ones: going clubbing/pubbing, drinking at least once, confidently driving on the highway, having a surprise party, being an officer of an organization, going to a casino, being part of a Walk to raise money, going to Mardi Gras, being part of student government, performing at UH main, etc. Slowly but surely I have checked each of these items off. It's funny but a lot of my list has been accomplished just this year: Confident highway driving, cooking Kerala food, dancing the night away with my closest friends, roadtrip, dressing up to attend a cocktail networking thing, performing at Festival of India.....
There are other things that were on my list but I can't think of at the moment. Hmm, now that I think about it, there are actually more Houston related things I want to do that I still haven't done due to a) lack of time or b) lack of money: Rennaisance Festival, Fourth of July concert downtown, any concert at the Cynthia Woods pavilion, Houston International Festival, attending a musical/play in the theater district, oh yea....and Astroworld. Yes, yes, yes, I know. Lived in Houston 27 damn years and never went there.
Yea, so, the point to all this? I've kept myself so busy in the past 3-4 years that you would think that I would find it hard to sit still. However, it is in the past 3-4 years that I've come to value stillnes, to be able to reach your goals, to be able to enjoy the fruits of your labor. Suddenly, what was valuable in terms of status and success are not priorites. I've learned that yes, you should live life to the fullest and experience every iota of a minute, but you should enjoy it and be able to appreciate the lessons you have learned along the way.
Well, I no longer think living for someone else is a burden or an obligation. I still want to do things but my goals have changed and become more refined.The checklist of my youth has transformed from a list of selfish wants to practical things that could help more than just me. I feel like I've gotten the whole sowing-the-wild-oats thing down. Yes, I could actually get married now. Yes, I could actually have children now. Yes, I could actually have a real service career now. Yes, I'd love to have time to work my writing. Yes, I can actually give back more to my community now. Yes, I think I'm actually looking forward to settling down now because now I can give more of myself. My checklist of youth helped me experience some of my desires and I am a better person because it has helped me focus on the more important things that life holds. I look back on my life and I have no regrets and that is the most important thing I have accomplished. My various lists, plans, experiences, have made me what I am today. I may not be perfect but I do know my faults and know what I need to do to change them if need be.
Oh, and you know what else I've learned? You don't lose your identity in marriageor any relationship, you just enhance it by learning from each otehr.

Stand Up?

I know. It has been ages since I wrote. In the past few weeks, I have found myself getting over some emotional hangups. Some people learn the hard way I guess. I guess the wake up call just got loud enough. Anyhoo, it's funny because lately, I've been running into people who "used to be nice" and "used to let people walk all over" them. And then they realized they couldn't take it anymore. A person can just take so much before they are face-slammed into reality. I realized that my not being able to stand-up-for-myself-and-others had deep seated emotional implications that I was either too blind too see or not emotionally stable enough to deal with it. However, it was when others started taking it personally that I was forced to face it. DON'T GET INVOLVED/DON'T TAKE SIDES/BE PASSIVE----> psychological safety device or cultural norm?
As a psychological safety device, I have come to the conclusion that I'm a spineless jellyfish who has really low self-esteem and who has no value for itself and thus, is unable to value others. And yet, under normal circumstances I'm selfless and would never try to hurt anyone intentionally even to the detriment of myself. In fact, I'm usually go out of my way to make people feel comfortable. Or is my behaviour a cultural thing?
A handout I got about friendship styles of Americans got me thinking as well. It made me realize that I'm confused as hell. Culturally, I'm of two friendship extremes. The obligatory, reciprocating, all-or-nothing extreme of Asian friendship to the objective, impersonal, minding-your-own-business-ness extreme of American friendship. Damn, methinks, what a place to be caught between. And that was when I thought....hell, i AM a confused desi. Shit. Life sucks. I thought I had the whole world, my identity included, all figured out at 23. In fact, I thought I was going to die at 24 because there was nothing more for me to learn. Sure, on the outside, culturally, I'm a balance--food, clothing, language, people I hang with--but that's where it all stops. Mentally, I'm tangled. Socially, what determines my level of friendship? My American upbringing? Or my Indian roots? I think up until this point, I've been a mix of two--and definitely more towards the American side. Hence, 1. I don't pry into people's affairs: if they want to tell me, great, but I don't badger into their lives. 2. I give advice but ultimately it's your choice to take it. I don't force it upon you. 3. I may see you doing something I don't approve of or something morally wrong but I don't condemn you; it's your life to do with as you please; your decision and ultimately, your consequences. This live-and-let-live attitude seems to color Americans as superficial, uncaring fiends but it is because they do value individual rights so much that independence is considered in the highest regard. It's not that they are not sympathetic or unable to love but it is because they believe it is by letting someone go and nurturing independence that you allow a person to reach self-actualization, i.e. the ultimate level of independent thinking.
I remember how A.S.T, in Bangalore, said that I needed to stop being so impersonal and how Americans, once I returned to America, wouldn't put up with that bullcrap. Alas, little did she know that this was how all Americans were. Ironic, ain't it? Even I didn't know that my friendship, nay, all friendship behavior is culturally designed. I used to have a think that S.C was too clingy of a friend and too dependent and in my own American way, I saw that as a bad thing. She needed to be strong an independent able to stand on her own two feet. I had no respect for her otherwise.
I am not making excuses for myself. I may stand up for the things I believe in by writing but that is not enough. Half the people people in the world either don't read or don't want to read. So how can you be an agent of change if few hear you? I agree that my level of vocal-ness (if that is even a word) is not becoming a person who actually wants to make some positive change in the world and in the lives of the people who have been traditionally oppressed. Being aware is the first step, of course. Not-giving-a-damn-what-people-think is the next step. Lord, give me strength.
Funny, I was so bold and outspoken in Bangalore. Hell, I actually defied the nuns at the hostel and some of the professors at the college. What the hell happened? Self esteem? Returning to a place where I didn't stand out like an bloody American? Being back with my parents? Being financially unstable?
Well, I don't know what the reason is. But, it is a wakeup call and I just woke up.

Politicians

To be a politician means to compromise what you stand for for the sake of your constituency. I think that says it all. To be a ethical politician (though some might argue that this is an oxymoron) you may have to go with your gut morality, whether your constituency likes it or not, and be brave in the face of popular opinion. But then you are not really a politician but a revolutionary. Politicians make the world go 'round, revolutionaries change it.
On a different note, after my figurative seven days of psychological pain and torment, I believe I have emerged like a phoenix. It was so bad that I could not vent my grief but through songs. In these figurative seven days, I went from self-hate to peaceful resolution. The two pieces of ancient wisdom that saved me:
1. "Work like you don't need the money, love like you've never been hurt, and dance like no one is watching."
2. "God, grant me the Serenityto accept the things I can not change,Courage to change the things I can,and Wisdom to know the difference."

Me or You?

Is it better to protect yourself or others? Whose spiritual development has more priority? If I know someone is hurting me and I tolerate it, am I allowing myself to be hurt or am I hurting the other person by allowing them to continue their behavior and thus, adding up bad karma points? Are you responsible for the behavior of others or only yourself??

Old Souls

There are very few people in this world who can pull off being silly and inconsequential and yet, can hide profound depths of wisdom within. I've known people who have been dismissed for being flighty and child-like and yet underneath it all they are wise old souls who have seen worse things and can only laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

Angst is fun!

Sometimes I find myself going to other blogs and reading them and thinking "THIS IS SO ME!" And then I wonder if people feel that way when they read mine. Maybe not. I'm just, howdoyousay, TOO weird.
I'm one of those extremely emotional people who are all-or-nothing with their emotions. Like if I have something crappy happen, they whole day is shot to hell. Or if I'm happy about about something I'm too freakin' happy. Or if I'm high on life, I'm extraodinarily high. When I'm sad, I'm extraordinarily sad. I think many artists and writers have this sort of bipolar personality where they are able to feel things to the extreme. Most have that angst and their creativity is an outlet, a cathartic release. I wonder if I was "normal" if I would have anything to write about? Would poetry drip from my wounds like fresh blood (example of angst metaphoricized)?

WARNING: Vent Entry (May not be suitable for all readers)

WARNING: Vent Entry (May not be suitable for all readers)
Damn f*ing, sonofabiaaatch!?!??! AARRRRRRGH!!!!! Where DO THEY GET THE F*ing nerve to THINK THAT !!! SONAFA FREAK!!! WHo the f*ck do they think they are!?!? damn crazy mofos in the hiz-ouss?!?!?!?!?!? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA TAKE THAT AND THAT AND THAT!!!!! DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN. MOFO! AND YOU KNOW WHAT?????!?!?!?! I DON"T GIVE A FLYIN FIG. I COULD F*ing CARE LESS. YOU DON"T KNOW ME. YOU DON"T UNDERSTAND ME! YOU NEVER WILL. SO GET OFF YOUR F*ing HIGH HORSE AND BUY A FREAKIN CLUE. Keeep living in the same f*ing delusion that you are always under if that's where you feel the safest!! DAMN COWARDS. QUITE COMPLAINING IF YOU WON"T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT. I"M NOT YOUR F*ing PEON TO DO YOUR F*ing SH*Tzu for you!!!!! You want something done, you better f*ing do it yourself. Don't f*ing dismiss my decisions like they make no sense! You ignoramuses aren't the only one in the world who makes sense. Just because some people are less forceful than others doesn't mean that they shouldn't be f*ing taken seriously!!!!!!! AND YOU KNOW WHAT?????!?!?!? GO SCREW YOURSELVES AND YOUR I-KNOW-EVERYTHING ATTITUDE. LEARN TO ADMIT WHEN YOU ARE WRONG AND LEARN TO F*ing take other people's ideas into consideration!!!! AND YOU KNOW WHAT??? MAYBE I SHOULDN'T CONSIDER OTHER PEOPLE'S FEELINGS. MAYBE I NEED TO BE MORE F*ing SELFISH LIKE YOU!!! HELL, THAT SEEMS TO BE THE F*ing norm nowadays: TRAMPLE ON THE PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY CARE AND GIVE A DAMN. YOU KNOW WHAT?!?? ONE MORE F*ing STRAW AND this vent session won't be limited to XANGA. NO ONE HERE HAS SEEN ME IN A RAGE AND YOU DON'T WANT TO, TRUST ME. I'VE LEARNED TO CHANNEL IT. BUT DON"T F*CK WITH ME AGAIN BECAUSE I JUST NEED ONE MORE FREAKIN STRAW. JUST ONE FREAKIN MORE.
*sigh* that felt good. I apologize for those who had to read all that. I'm serious about the one more straw thing. It may be the first time in 2 years that it will come to this. But if it needs to happen so be it. I can not be held responsible for my actions or words if it comes to that point.

All Grown Up

As a desi gal growing up in America and living in India for a while, I saw most of my gal friends go from being under the jurisdiction of their parents to then being "handed over," on a silver platter no less, to their future husband. I'm not against marriage but this simply perpetuates the idea that women are delicate flowers to be protected throughout their lives. Blah to that. Was there ever a sense that maybe a woman, especially when desi parents bend over backwards with a woman's education, that perhaps she has her own mind, her own ideas, her own sense of agency?
Sometimes I feel like I'm a Desi-American anomaly: 26, unmarried, living away from home, and pursuing a major no desi-in-their-right-mind has ever contemplated. However, at the same time, none of this would have been possible if I was not in college. My parents would not let me live on my own had it not been for the fact that I needed to finish my degree. In fact, I chose the university that I did because it was far from home and it would be a nightmare to commute (or so I told my parents). After being away in India for 3 years, I couldn't fathom living under my parents' jurisdiction again. Not that I hated them or anything. In fact, I think I got along with them better.
Now, years later, I think they realize my need for independence. Mom told me that after I get a job I should get an apartment near work. Imagine my shock. Mom tells me that she knows I can survive on my own if need be but, at the same time, she laments that I haven't met the right man to "take care of me." It's got to the point that she's happy with any news of any guy I tell her when I come home. Whereas 5 years ago she would have killed me if I mentioned a non-Malayalee or a non-Christian guy to her, nowadays, she's like "well, we don't know his culture, but I'm not going to say no....it's up to you. We just want you to be with someone who will make you happy and protect you." YEA! She actually said that! She told me this last week! Imagine my double shock. Not only can I now marry WHOEVER THE HELL I WANT but its MY decision. I attribute this whole change in their attitude to the fact that they are just happy if I marry ANYONE, at this age. Not that 26 is ancient but I'm sure my child-bearing years are ticking away.
Interesting, right? Moral of the story (tongue in cheek): Ladies, if you wait long enough, you can marry whoever you want, live wherever you want, and study whatever you want. Umm, I guess it helps if your parents are slightly more toward the liberal side. I guess I was luckier than most. BUT, at the same, you have to be able to put your foot down too. Maybe I'm also lucky that I'm here and not in India. I bet gals in India would have a harder time in establishing a choice.

Vicks

You know, I haven't always been addicted to fennel. At various points in my life I have been addicted to various things from gum to Bournvita. The weirdest addiction, though, has to be Vicks Vapor Rub. Back in Bangalore I was introduced to the stuff when I was suffering from a very bad cold. A.T, my best friend and roomate at the time, told me that I should put it on my forehead and nose to clear up the congestion. One girl, I don't remember at who at this point (Vicks kills brain cells!), told me that she sometimes puts it on her eyelids so that it will induce tears and basically force you to cry the cold out of your system. Hmm, so I was like, "That makes sense," being the health professions high school graduate that I was.
So I did the Vicks thing for about a week and the cold gradually disappeared. I suddenly realized that the Vicks-all-over-my-face was an unbelievable high. The tingling, the pain, the simultaneous sensations of heat and cold, and the eerie feeling that my brain was melting. Wow. That did it for me. Soon I couldn't go to sleep without it. I think more than a physical addiction, it was a psychological one. For a few minutes in the day, I could totally escape from my thoughts. My mind was focussed only on this Vicks-induced heightened sensory overload.
Since I no longer had a cold, I no longer really needed Vicks. I started sneaking out to the Sudhe Gunde marketplace in between classes to get the stuff. I started putting the stuff on only after B.A went to sleep, V.M went to the study room, and A.T went to take a shower. A couple of weeks later, I started going "to sleep" earlier and earlier. At one point, I went to my room directly after dinner. My roomates wondered what was wrong: thwarted love, some sort of illness, problems with school, etc. Of course, it was none of those things, though some people would argue that maybe it was a combination of all of those things. People thought I was weird but I didn't care: Vicksie, as I came to refer to my jar, became my best friend.
All was going well until the night I made a Vicks-muddled blunder. I had come home kind of late from college and missed dinner. So I went straight upstairs. When A.T. didn't hear from me she got worried and came upstairs to look for me. I must have been a sight. There was no light in the room save a lonely zero-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling. I was crouched in my nightgown on my bed inside the mosquito net staring at the little jar of Vicks. I looked like a desi Gollum: "My preciooosssss."
Of course A.T. looked shocked and asked me what I was doing. "Nothing,"said I as I slowly put Vicksie behind me on the bed. "Ninde kayala enna?" "Umm, nothings in my hand." She walked closer, "Show me." I showed her my empty palm. She glared at me with such a look that I actually showed her Vicksie. "You are still using Vicks? Why?!?" I told her that I didn't know but that it made me feel good. She made me give her the jar and I was like, "Nooooooo! Wait! Maybe I'll just finish this jar and it won't be wasted." She ignored me, turned on her heel, said something to the affect of "Podee kazhathay" and walked out of the room.
Alas, I couldn't sleep that night. Later A.T and the others came and did a sort of Vicks intervention. They told me about another girl in the hostel who had been addicted to the Vicks Mentholated Cough Drops. They told me that there was something about Vicks that was not good. B.A. said, "We'd hate for you to have to return to America addicted to Vicks" I mean, seriously, all around me people were doing pot and other sort of bad-kid things and here, this ABCD, of all people, was addicted to Vicks, of all things. How utterly shameful.
I agreed with them that this would be too embarrassing a thing to be addicted to. No longer allowed to buy Vicks (A.T. wouldn't let me out of her sight when we went shopping), I gradually got over the withdrawal symptoms (sleeplessness, restlessness, being distracted) and became Vicksie-free! I, one of the fortunate few, had been saved.
Of course, I needed a new addiction at that point and good old Bournvita heeded my call. But that, my friends, is a whole 'nother entry.

Wrist Bubble Part III

Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. That is what I have. Or so Dr. Dillard said. I could have told him that. Tell me something that I don't know, Dr. Doody-head! Hehe. Okay, you are right: why take out my anger on him? It ain't his fault that neither my keyboard nor my mouse is ergonomic. It's not his fault that I type superfluously on xanga or chat incessantly on msn messenger. Not his fault that I rest my wrist on the table out of habit. Alas, I've acquired the latest syndrome of the internet age.
I suppose I can deal with it. The day Dr. Doo--err, I mean, Dillard diagnosed me, I lost that wrist support brace thing that I got at Walmart. You know: that brace thingy I wore once in a while because my wrist tingled. It also doubled as a fashion statement not to mention as a cool prop with which I could perform my robot-hand act *L.J demonstrates by flexing her wrist back and forth, "jjjhrrrr.....jjjhrrr....jjjjhhrrr"* I wish the wrist support thingy had been black with a metallic sheen, kinda like the chrome-i-ness of that melty-metal guy from Terminator. How cool would that be? Unfortunately, it was skin-colored and looked exactly like what it was: a supportive brace for the masses of same-colored people afflicted with wrist problems.
Anyhoo, if I don't find it, I'll have to go buy a new one. Those things are expensive, you know. If I was an uncultured un-cool freak, I'd wrap some old rundown "bronze" pantyhose around my lame wrist and be done with it.

Wrist Bubble Part II

Alas! 'Tis no jackhammer, nor knife, nor anything seemingly dangerous. It isn't some implant or an alien lying dormant ready to burst through. No, no, no....nothing nearly as exciting. A ganglion cyst. That's what is growing on my wrist. No one knows what causes it but some theories include trauma, over-stress, or rheumatoid arthritis.
P.C. told me that though it seems like a good idea, don't slam a book down on it. Some people said it will go away on it's own if I rest it. Some said I have to surgically remove it while others say I have to get it aspirated.
They even had a diagram and, needless to say, it looks very much like my hand and I was very disappointed that what was shown looked more like a tiny water balloon than anything seemingly interesting. Blah, boring....nothing like a cool "wristbone" but a rather lifeless "wristbubble". Wristbubble....that is no name for a superhero....doesn't even hint of coolness.
Here's the diagram of my ganglion cyst:

It's on the same hand too. It looks retarded, right? Blah. There goes my one chance at being a mutant superhero.
"Look at what's happened to me,I can't believe it myself.Suddenly I'm up on top of the world,should have been somebody else.Believe it or not, I'm walking on air.I never thought I could feel so free.Flying away on a wing and a prayer,Who could it be?Believe it or not, it's just me."
--theme song from "Greatest American Hero"Sigh....that shall never be MY theme song (L.J bitterly shakes a fist at the sky and then suddenly withdraws it in pain....."Owww! Damn wristbubble.")

Wrist Bubble Part I

Okay, two days ago I realized that my right wrist is different. "Different how?", you may ask. Well, on the surface it seems just as normal as my left wrist. But when I bend it down, a mysterious lump of bone magically appears. Now, I don't know if this lump had always been there, latent and waiting, OR if it is the result of some sort of accident that I had zoned out during. However, I don't remember anything that traumatic. Anyway, so for the past two days, I have been preoccupied with my wrist, staring at it while I type (like I'm doing now), comparing my left wrist with my right, comparing my wrist to other people's, and occasionally lamenting the fact that I'm somehow deformed. A.F., of course, takes that opportunity to agree vehemently and call me a mutant.Hmm, a mutant, eh? Like X-men or something! Wow, awesome! I can join the ranks of Wolverine, Cyclops and Storm. Maybe this wrist thing is just the beginning of some growth that will actually become a knife or a jackhammer or maybe one of those radar detector thingys! Wow, and for the meantime, until I fully evolve, I shall be called "Wrist". "Yes, now introducing Wrist, we don't know what she does with it but we're sure it's going to be mutant-worthy." Maybe my wrist can be used as a distraction. Bad guys will come to attack me and I'll be like, "Wait! Beware the Wrist," and then I shall suddenly bend my wrist and the bad guys will be mesmerised by something even they can't explain. "A girl with a protruding wrist bone," they shall say, " how utterly peculiar." And then, while enamored by my deformity, the bad guys will have their asses surprise-kicked by Wolverine or Storm! Mwaahahaha, how clever.Well, the whole mutated-super-hero thing might not be for me or, maybe after a while, mom and dad might be worried that Wrist has been single for way too long. In order to marry off their mutated daughter they may invite prospective suitors to the house. Of course, I shall have the last say. If the guy is cute or extremely engaging, a tray of chai shall be brought out with a smile. If he is not all that great, or acts like an ass, a flip of my wrist will not only drop the hot chai on his lap but shall reveal my latent wrist-secret. He shall scream with double-shock as hot chai burns through his clothing and he sets his eyes upon by the horror of the wrist! "Noooooo!", he'll cry as he tries to cover his eyes and his chai-stained crotch at the same time. He'll run straight out the door bellowing in fear, as well as a strange sense of awe. I shall smirk to myself while mom would berate me for doing it yet again. "Ayooo, at this rate, you shall never get married!!" "Hehe, I shall do it my way, mom," I would say as I pull up my velveteen glove to protect my secret weapon. "You cross me and you shall get The Wrist!"Wow! Think of all the uses of this new-found malformation! Sure, some are not necessarily good but it does make me special. Like I was telling A.A the other day. It's like I'm a unicorn but my singular horn is on my wrist. I'm a human uniwristbone! Wow, how much more special can you get when you have to name a catergory for yourself because you are just so rare? I wonder if there are others like me out there?Well, in all practicality, I better get this thing checked out. For all I know I could be dying from....I don't know....Wristboneatia? Who would have thought that this would be the way that I'd go? "Here lies our dear, L.J ,killed by her own wrist bone." How morbid! I'm going to donate my wrist to science, of course, so they will some day be able to save others like me and my wrist shall be on display for all the world to see. My wrist bone shall be more famous than I and shall live forever in the hearts and minds of generations to come.

Ode to my Wristbone

So suddenly you appeared
When I least expected you
You might be innocuous
but you might kill me too

Yet, you are very quiet
and do not reveal much
Surely you have more powers
like other mutants and such

Power to maim and
power to shock
power to distract
and power to block

You've made me special
for I am suddenly unique
A protrusion such as yourself
can only add to a physique

I love you, my wrist,for you are a part of me
why you are now here only time will help me see.

Until then, conjoined at the wrist we shall be
Forever and always,my wristbone and me.