"That is how aging works; one by one, you will age, much against your wishes, efforts, and promises of science. One by one, every organ will become weaker despite the daily trip to the Fitness Center. You teeter until you collapse. Aging obliterates any illusion that youthful bubbles are trustworthy."
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If a parent is trying to protect, care for, and educate a girl child on her sexuality, it is equally essential to provide the same to the boy child. Doesn't it take 'TWO TO TANGO'? Giving attention to your boy child is equally important, if not more. If we made our boy children responsible adults, we ensure that the girls don’t need to move around with fear. Don't say then- I will not understand. I do because I have a son, and he is not a bull. Click on My son, his Spermarche, and his Sexuality to read the full article. Image courtesy-Pixabay
I wonder if Indians smooch? They do? Really? Have they always smooched or it is some new found sexual angle? Oh, forget it! How does it matter? With our population, nothing matters. I had an idea about smooching back in school- the year 1996. You know how Chinese whisper works. When it came to ‘smooching’ what came to me was something to do with the tongue and esophagus. The implementation happened 15 years later in the most unsophisticated, an ‘atrangi’ and unhygienic way. For a middle-class Indian who is raised with the mantra- ‘ jootha nahi khate ’, smooching = sin. Unsanitary sin. Forget it! I am not a fan of a smooch. But what if my kid is? The thing is that the biological clock and the academic clock are in direct conflict when you enter your teens or hit puberty. Just when the world is putting the right kind of pressure on you to go to Stanford, your mind is solving calculus equations, your body is doing its own weird calculation...size? Inches? Bang
The toast burns to obsidian crumbs as the putrid smell starts to soar interrupting the meditation of my words that I routinely slit my heart to pour. Does it matter if I bleed or not They concluded I am not a writer yet The story of a thousand days and night Not a cent, a dime, a quarter it gets. Yes, I have miserably disappointed the masses But my failure, though, is yet to come For I continue to blow the dandelion Until I choose to be done. A 2nd-grade nipper stands alone a body deformed by torrential pain the ground beneath has cracked wide open as he flails to breathe and walk again how to feel warm in the arctic of grief when loved ones float far, far away the mother who packed his lunchboxes the father who gave him sobriquets Yes, life has struck him hard indeed But mind you, his defeat is yet to come For he continues to blow the dandelion Until he chooses to be done. Sifting through anguish, anger, and despair She stares at the heap of hands-me-down In the white and elite
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