007: Licence to chill

To whom it may concern,

I had exam-stress this morning. I’m one of those people that remain totally calm about being tested until the day of the actual test and then I get so much performance anxiety that my stomach feels like someone made me do a billion sit ups the day before and I forget how to speak English and let’s not even mention coordination. Today’s test was even worse because I’m so late to the table. Most people my age sailed through this hurdle years ago but because I didn’t have a car after my mum moved to Sydney I’ve remained on my restricted licence for 5 years now! But finally, after my mum forced me to save money over summer I bought myself a little old school VW polo. It’s red and I call her McNugget. She forces me to listen to MaiFM and often doesn’t start in the morning unless I find a weird balance between turning the key and holding down the brake – she’s ghetto like that but I love her.

I knew I’d be nervous so I did what all kids do before any test; suddenly increase their faith in religion to a monk-like status. Not only did I go to church, but I also instructed my mum in Melbourne to cease all work for the hour 12.30-1.30 Australian time and pray for me. I was already off to a bad start before the test had even begun. In the pre-test car check-up, my instructor asked me to turn on my indicators and I promptly turned on my wipers. Twice. The rest of the test I’m so glad to say went fine aside from a case of misleading road marking that nearly caused an early death. Thankfully I’d driven the previous 17minutes like a hermit and all was well. I was and am over the moon. Never having to deal with the anxiety involved in making small talk with a person who is paid to judge you whilst driving and naming hazards is something I’m more than happy with.

The only part I did regret from today is trying to make someone feel better strangely. Someone I think is the greatest didn’t have the best luck at the test on the same day and for some reason, I thought diminishing my achievement would make them feel better. I even said something stupid like “It’s probably because I’m a girl” – like my vagina made me a better driver? Or made the instructor think I was a safer driver? I don’t even think it worked. The reason I passed was because I was a hermit driver and my mum insisted I get a lesson before my test because she’s been in a car with me. And Ray Miller was the most gangster AA instructor a girl could ask for with his nicotine-coated voice and absolute lack of ability to make anyone feel nervous. Lessons learnt today: diminishing yourself doesn’t make anyone else shine brighter or feel better, mum will literally drop anything for a good prayer session and I need to learn which side my wipers/indicators are on ASAP.

The fever of the jungle kind…

To whom it may concern,

I hope you’re all geared up with a stupid amount of chocolate, sure to cause severe cases of diabetes in the near future, I know I am.

The other day my friend Aidan showed a group of us a photo of an Indian girl stating “Bro she’s definitely a 9” although the group was in agreement, shawty was definitely a babe, there was the swift and giggly justification “Oh Aidan, you’ve definitely got that jungle fever going huh”. Aidan sheepishly agreed, “Well I think it’s quite evident”. Not everyone wears the branding with as much style as Aidan. Another mate on the other hand previously said of the same girl “ I don’t really know if she’s pretty, I’m not really into brown girls aye”. Which is a vastly accepted notion here in Kiwi- land, a notion I only found out about having left school.

According to the ever-handy urban dictionary, Jungle Fever is: When a non-black person has a sexual fetish partial to black people. Originally it was used for when a white woman dates black men, but now the term has even shifted enough colloquially to commonly include a person who is Caucasian who is attracted to a non-African, or to a person with a diversely different racial background.

Thanks, urban dictionary!

My first celebrity crush was Jonathan Taylor Thomas from ‘Home Improvement’ when he didn’t grow very much I was convinced we were meant to be, my first boyfriend was Caucasian but not intentionally, I didn’t grow up with the idea that white men needed to have a sexual fetish of my skin to be attracted to me. I was definitely under the impression it was my unintentional slapstick humour and let’s be real, Sandy and Mandy that were my selling point(s)…budum bum chhh. Apparently, I was wrong.
But friends lets all be a little kinder and more sensitive towards each other, because if someone asked me if I find Ryan Gosling attractive and my response was “um I’m not really sure, his skin, y’know the fact that its all white isn’t really working for me so I can’t tell if he’s hot” a group of trained females, gay men, and straight male assassins would find me and kill me for my crassness and stupidity. Some men are genuinely un-attracted to women of colour and some have a genuine fetish towards a certain race, which is absolutely fine – don’t hate a pl4Ya. But let’s not make the ones who feel as though they’re “diseased” with a “fever” and perhaps then more men would feel more comfortable to look past skin colour and appreciate Sandy’s and Mandy’s of all nations.

An unwanted adventure & my first experience with Tinder

One of the guys had somehow racked up 230 matches. He sent one of his matches a message that read, “Hit me up with them digits gurl” and it worked. She hit him up. He decided to enlighten me to his “pulling” method, which only leads to me being more scarred than anything. He figures that most girls on Tinder are 1) good to go but also 2) constantly hit on because of the app’s popularity.

To whom it may concern,

This week like most has not disappointed me as far as entertainment goes. It started off with a traumatic mini-adventure. Having had a reasonably tame weekend, if you don’t count the particularly rowdy family night that definitely included some Sporcle Cricket trivia, I made a last minute decision to go out for St. Patrick’s Day! And after enduring a particularly long lecture I hopped on a bus at a bus stop I’d been utilising for the last 3 years. Till Monday any bus I’d gotten on always went via Newmarket to its destination. Turns out some of them just go straight to Otahuhu and I’d just been really lucky till that point. With my 10minutes journey home having turned into an hour long bus ride beside a scowling, moustached lady with mutton-chops that’d put most of the men I know to shame, I was in absolutely no mood to celebrate St. Patrick’s day. But like every good student of procrastination, I pulled myself up by the boot straps, donned my token green piece of clothing and headed over to my mate Tom’s place.

It was here that a few of the relatively sober guys decided to educate me on their experience with Tinder. For those of you above the age of “cool” and the technologically challenged Tinder is an app that syncs a few Facebook photos of choice, allows you to create a Bio of yourself and links you with fellow singles of your selected age-range in your vicinity. If you find that someone’s photo and bio to tingles your loins you swipe right and if you don’t, left. If they also find you to be the Cat’s Meow, tinder will “match” you up and you can chat to them.

One of the guys had somehow racked up 230 matches. He sent one of his matches a message that read, “Hit me up with them digits gurl” and it worked. She hit him up. He decided to enlighten me to his “pulling” method, which only leads to me being more scarred than anything. He figures that most girls on Tinder are 1) good to go but also 2) constantly hit on because of the app’s popularity. Therefore he figured his slightly “forceful” technique of emulating 50 cent would make a change from the poor lads out their telling these girls they were beautiful. I then learnt of how my friend had so many matches that Tinder allowed him to make folders for them. He’d arranged them in order of hotness to increase efficiency. Fast forward to Friday night when he’d consumed a couple of beers and decided it’d be hilarious to dirty talk to the folder of girls he didn’t care about. Ladies form a line. Tinder can’t all bad, though, a friend’s older brother just moved in with his Tinder match of 5 months so there’s that. Plus abs pics and the guy that photoshopped himself on Miley Cyrus’ body on a cannonball. Keep grindin’ dude your soul mate is a swipe away. But its safe to say being enlightened to this guy’s folder method was a sufficient deterrent to Tinder and life in general.

Anyway, I definitely have an assignment due on Friday and instead have done a completely useless analysis of a dating/”friendship” app (stop lying to yourself).

Wish me luck kids,



My torrid love affair and ethnic tolerance

To whom it may concern,

Last night I went out with a couple of my best friends to a 21st celebration over the shore. After working all day, the thought of wearing a tight dress, putting on makeup and travelling for 40minutes to wing-woman at a party where I knew only the 2 girls I was going with was hardly in my top 5 list of things to do on a Friday night. Also because I really want to see the Book Thief. But I’d been a hermit during Summer School and I knew a good boogie would change my mind so that’s exactly what I did.

After making sure the “main girl” looked the hottest, which barely took any effort on account of the fact she looks like a model, we were off. After many a windy road, we pulled up to a long driveway with a large bouncer. The long driveway proved to be useful as her nerves kicked in at the start of the driveway and the sweetheart had to take a couple of hundred deep breaths before she was convinced she was, in fact, going to walk in and say Hi.

Upon entering however it took all of one second for her to pull like a Bawse. That’s how good we are at being wing-women. You should hire us. With our mission completed, we noticed we were on a set worthy of the Kardashians: a DJ playing exactly the right music, a deck that faced a pool, spa and waterfront but the real romance was the tea-candlelit buffet table fit for a King.

Me + pigs in a blanket + Candle light = magical evening. Just when we thought the night could not get any better the host graciously and swiftly put drinks in our hands and this is where things started to go downhill.

In an attempt to stay relatively sober the punch was decided upon to be relatively harmless. Or it would’ve been had we not had the tolerance level of 3 ethnic girls.

While most girls find alcohol boosts confidence and eases conversation I find that it brings out my tipsy alter ego. World, meet Methaki, Meth for short. After ‘Niggas in Parris’ turned to ‘Hyper-paradise’ (Flume remix), which then turned to ‘Miss new Booty’ Methaki was convinced the DJ was her soul mate. Methaki likes to crump, sometimes twerk and let’s not even mention the air-grinding.; Form a line gents. The problem with Methaki is that her equivalent of a hot guy at a gym is a guy with great music taste and intelligence (?) Cue further infatuation with DJ who was actually quite good looking. But Methaki, much like Kethaki can’t just walk up to a guy and have a decent conversation. No no. Methaki chooses to remain “dancing” while making predator-eyes at her target. Because that’s not creepy. Just when you thought the blatant sexual tension could no longer heighten, on came ‘Get low’. Methaki took this as a sign that she was now in a long-term relationship with the DJ.

Luckily for her, she has 2 amazing best friends who kept her from further embarrassing herself. I’m pleased to inform you that Methaki draws the line at “droppin’ it low”, most likely because she’s never drunk enough to forget that getting back up requires leg and core muscle that she is yet to acquire. So, guys, I’m afraid to say I’m off the market and dating a DJ…He just doesn’t know it. Minor Hiccup.



My funny Valentine…

My man is a little different. At first he’d just come to the mall to kill time either from lack of a job or maybe he’s so rich he doesn’t need to work. Either way he was there with his extremely long beard. Not the sexy kind, the kind that homeless men have because they can’t afford a razor.

To whom it may concern,

Valentine’s Day is swiftly approaching so I figured you all needed a cure from the last depressing post. Don’t feel too bad about my lack of social skills with men. Sometimes, not often, there’s one guy who finds my lack of a grasp of the English language in situations of pressure rather adorable.

Since I left school I’ve had a part-time job as a Customer Service Representative for a mall. The mall is pretty schmancy, in the heart of Newmarket in Auckland; a mall where most of the retailers themselves are a pristine reflection of the ridiculously expensive clothes they sell (I’m looking at you hot Barkers guys…yeaah, you aiite 😉 ) On your average Saturday morning the mall is streaming with the love children of Beauty Queens and Millionaires wearing boat shoes and a Ralph Lauren sweater casually slung across their broad shoulders even though there isn’t a boat in sight and it is really rather warm for a sweater. But no complaints here because when you’re that good looking nobody cares and apparently you don’t sweat! Pretty much the perfect place to meet a beautiful man who is not only smart but also rich?

My man is a little different. At first, he’d just come to the mall to kill time either from lack of a job or maybe he’s so rich he doesn’t need to work. Either way, he was there with his extremely long beard. Not the sexy kind, the kind that homeless men have because they can’t afford a razor. One day he walked by the Customer Services desk and saw a Brown Princess awkwardly daydreaming (me, I’m the Princess…it’s my story) He dares not approach the Princess for her vacant stare was too intimidating but mostly creepy. So he returned every day after trying to figure out exactly which days she worked there, all the while plucking up his courage to talk to her.

He gained hope when one day she wasn’t daydreaming and looked in his direction so he quickly took advantage and did the ethnic head shake that all fobby ethnic men give a girl when they recognise that she too, is of similar ethnic and cultural background! He did some reconnaissance work with the security guard and asked for her age and name. Turns out he was quite a bit older than she was and by a bit I mean a lot. But he didn’t care. He continued to show up as she started her shift and didn’t leave the mall till she finished her shift. Sometimes he’d walk by her desk “on the phone” so it didn’t look like he was just there. Then FINALLY one day he went up to the desk and said “I’ve been coming here every day for you. You want coffee sometime?” and she said, “No thank you, is there anything else I can help you with?”

But he persevered! He would not take rejection, for months of preparation had gone into asking her out. So he began watching her at her bus stop. That’ll win her over for sure! But then she called security who rewarded him with a trespassing notice from the mall and a warning that the next time he approached a Customer Service Girl the Police would be called. Because stalking young girls is a crime.

So what am I doing for Valentine’s Day? I’ll be working the evening shift at the mall where our kick-ass security team keeps me safe from stalkers 🙂 Come say hi! Bring me chocolate 🙂


Your Valentine

Tragic experiences with boys – Part 1 of many

Picture a brown Lorde performing at the Grammy awards, with the alty hand movements and crazy eyes but without the singing, in a normal conversation. Yea. That sort of sums up my attempt at flirting.

To whom it may concern,

I don’t consider myself a shy person – I doubt many do. However when it comes to the department of the gentlemen, whoa buddy. No words.

Picture a brown Lorde performing at the Grammy awards, with the alty hand movements and crazy eyes but without the singing, in a normal conversation. Yea. That sort of sums up my attempt at flirting.

In my defense I never really had to deal with the “dating” situation at school. My first boyfriend asked me out in year 11 and he’d known me since I was 12 – he knew I was weird before we started going out. Luckily for me, he put up with my weirdness till University. Someone give that boy a medal. Let’s just say it’s a good thing he had a strong sense of humour.

After 12 years of being in an all-girl environment, Uni was probably not the best time to figure out how to talk to lads. It also doesn’t help that I’m almost always oblivious to most social cues but also somehow manage to over-think EVERYTHING.

So one day when a lovely guy and I decided to watch a movie I was understandably very nervous.

1) I didn’t know the guy very well at all so he definitely wasn’t aware of how totally cool I am and frankly wasn’t sure if he could handle it (not even a little sarcastic). 2) Not everyone really “gets me” – a fact I constantly forget. 3) The word “date” was never used – STRESS OF MY LIFE. 4) He is definitely a lot smarter than I am + the chances of me saying something stupid are high = maybe I shouldn’t speak?

I was so incredibly nervous that to this day I have no recollection of anything I said on the actual date/not date/was it a date? Seriously guys what the hell was it…

All I know is it probably wasn’t good.

The one part I do remember was the car slowing down and my attempt at being “cute”. He’d been telling me about how he’d had his first lot of patients that day and how they’d all been rather depressing (Yea he’s studying to be a Doc…see what I mean about smart).

What I meant to say was  ”I had fun! *Hair flick* I hope you have better luck with your future patients *cheeky grin* “. And then he’d be like “damn. This girl has some great listening skills and I really appreciate that cheeky grin”

What came out of my mouth was: “thanks for the ride, Good luck for your future” *exits car* and he was probably like “wtf?”

So that happened. I’m just going to stop, fulfill my Father’s dream of me becoming a lesbian Nun (He doesn’t trust boys, he thinks they’re ALL trying to do the horizontal tango with me…little does he know) and just save everyone the trouble of having to deal with me. Except for the lesbian nun population, which I feel, would be very small, so no harm done.

Always yours,


Does it matter if you’re black or white?

What’s cookin’ good lookin 

Moving to New Zealand at the age of 12, an age of social development and finding of oneself lead to a lot of confusion. My first day of school at Remuera Intermediate was truly traumatic. I knew absolutely no one AND because i’d joined in year 8, relationships had already formed in year 7 and everyone else already had friends.

I had buckteeth; curly (ok frizzy) hair was Black as night and had one seriously seductive accent. People were pretty much lining up to be my friend. My teacher found me hesitating to leave class at morning tea so she told a girl in my class to introduce me to her friends. This girl rolled her eyes and took me outside to a group of girls whom i later found out made up 50% of the Kapa Haka crew. I fit right in. After about 2 minutes of awkwardly standing around and trying to join in with their jokes the girl told me to turn around and “follow the light”.

I awkwardly laughed really hard (dying on the inside) and just told myself to laugh it off and walk like i didn’t care. I must’ve looked like such a tosser strutting back to my classroom. My teacher found me about 2 minutes later and obviously took pity. She said “I’ll find you some friends!”. Do you know how many cool points you get when your teacher tries to find you friends? Not many…

Bless her heart, she found the first two Brown girls and said “You’re Indian aren’t you? (I’m Sri Lankan) This is a new girl Ketarki (close enough). She has no friends (cooool). Can you please play with her and show her around”. Turns out the girls were from year 7, One was from Dubai and just really tanned and it was also their first day but they were really lovely and we hung out for the first week till I made friends with my actual classmates.

A year later when it was time to leave for highschool and I’d cemented my relationships with peers in my own year group, I was informed that I had gotten into Dio and would therefore be attending Dio. All my friends were going to Eggs. I definitely cried. Can you blame me? Would you want to relive my first day?

I’m probably one of the few people that actually benefitted from Dio’s Buddy system. Mine was awesome. Lydia played the electric Bass (totally badass) and loved ‘The suite life of Zach and Cody’ (even more badass) and was the most welcoming person.

A few years into Dio I looked at my friend group and one thing definitely struck me. My year group was predominantly white. And of the 7 “brown” girls in our entire year, 4 of them sat with me. It wasn’t long before I was asked to join the Indian dance crew (still not Indian…) and the teacher in charge would speak Hindi to me, regardless of the fact she knew I was Sri Lankan. She told me I had to learn it.

I loved school but I think the lack of diversity has left me extremely confused. I started milking the fact people couldn’t tell the difference. I let People think I’m good at accounting, or believe that I’m a lot smarter than I actually am. My bus driver always greets me with a “Namaste”. One guy asked me if I was good at Kama Sutra. I just nod. They will never know. I know its really bad but I can’t help myself. Its too easy.

Then my friends and I thought we were the closest that Dio had to actual African Americans so we often refer to ourselves as each others “black-up” (definitely not African American enough to get away with that), Sometimes my best friends refer to me as “Maaa nigga” (seriously Shreenal stop, someone’s going to hit you one of these days). And its not just the “Black” issue that gets confusing.

Sri Lanka is part of Asia. I make Asian jokes ALL the time. People must think I’m really racist making Asian jokes but technically I’m FULL Asian. Geography bro.

Aside from LOVING curry I have almost no stereotypical “ethnic interests”. Guys I play the cello, genuinely enjoy Western classical music. Sometimes I listen to Jazz? What of it? I only like cricket if the English team is playing and that’s only because the talent is better and by that I meant they’re much much hotter than the Sri Lankan team. I feel like I’ve let down the team. I think its time for a visit back home. Maybe a cup of Dilmah. This is getting out of hand.

At 21 I’ve learnt to embrace all the races I’ve decided I belong to. They are yet to embrace me but that’s alright. I’d like to think that if I were to go back to that first day of social awkwardness that the Kapa Haka group wouldn’t tell me to go find the light or at least explain to me what they meant by that. Did they tell me to die? and follow the light to heaven? Because I was 12 and that’s a bit extreme guys.

This blog has achieved nothing.


Racially confused.