I swear we were infinite.

Pardon me for skipping past the usual commentary and jumping right into story mode.

My father invested in our first family computer when I was in 8th grade. This was back in the summer of 2002, I think. (I’m 23 now, stop doing the math.) Everyone had their own thing. I was into MS paint & Delta Force. My mother was in it for the music, to some extent. My father was into news & getting in touch with family back in Pakistan. For this intensive purpose, he brought home our first headset. Unfortunately, he would soon be turned off by the fact that the only people using computers in 2002 were my younger, douchespout cousins. My mother was too busy with her job and my brother was deeply involved in whatever headstart/preschool students get themselves deeply involved in. I wouldn’t know. That part of my life was spent in Pakistan. We have prep and kindergarten, and I can’t remember in which order.

Anyhow, this left me with all the computer time. Then came along a friend who introduced me to the art of piracy & downloading music without paying for it. I still remember that sunny, Sunday afternoon he came by my house to show me how to use Ares lite. To this day, I think of that as the first in a series of events that made me who I am today. That very day, I ended up downloading about seven songs; 56kbps was wild. As fate would have it, I was relatively new to music & didn’t know what I was downloading. I just saw whatever was on top of the ‘most-downloaded’ list & clicked away. What I ended up with was some Lil’ Wayne, some Lloyd Banks and some Eminem.

Now, despite a few scuffles and a stolen bike or two, I grew up in neighborhoods much safer than their’s. There weren’t any shootouts or people slanging cocaine on street corners. Yet somehow, I felt myself relate to the struggle and the culture that their music was all about. As all like minded people end up finding each other, it wasn’t long before I started hanging out with the crowd who had similar sentiments towards rap and hip-hop. I invested in my first MP3 player after saving up lawn-mowing money for a while. It was used, roughed up everywhere and it held 35 songs, with a slot for a memory card I couldn’t possibly afford. My parents didn’t find out about it until much later in time. I would download a few songs a day, and walk around listening to them until I had the lyrics and the beat memorized down to the very snares.

It was one of those days. I downloaded a song, turned off the 56kbps beast & started listening to it. Halfway through the song, it turned into an instrumental with the producer of the song ad-libbing their website and calling for people to rap on the rest of the beat. It piqued my curiosity and that very night, while I was supposed to be doing my homework, I started writing lyrics to it. My dad walked in on me a few times and asked if I was writing a poem, to which I replied in the affirmative & would do so for years to come. Once my “poem” was done, I played the instrumental & rapped over it. I never actually thought about recording because I didn’t think I could afford whatever it was that it took to make songs. Turned out, I was quite resourceful.

The next day I visited the website and saw hundreds of versions of that song people had already submitted. I downloaded the top five and although the first couple were quite admirable, I clearly remember scowling at the bottom few. My lyrics were much better and I had never been so sure of anything before.

I started searching the internet (yes, still on my modem) for information. Today, I can still teach you how to set up a home studio without spending a dime. I can show you how to make a pop-filter out of a stocking & a tea-strainer frame. In that research, which went on for several weeks, I learned about pirated software & beat-making. I downloaded professional versions of ProTools, Cubase & FruityLoops. My main software was Audacity though. I can get you a decent static-reduction using nothing but some pillow filling. Hilarious, I know. As I said, I was broke but I was resourceful.  I found my father’s dusty old, walmart headset which he had purchased for $16 and later on declared a waste of money. He didn’t even get around to using it with the Rosetta-Stone CD’s he picked up once. It was a lot of work, but it didn’t feel like anything at all because it put a smile on my face. This work was my play. At that time I didn’t think much of it, but I can’t tell you how proud I feel of my 15 year old self when I revisit those memories.

So, I sat down one lonely summer afternoon and I recorded my very first song. I must have had the house to myself each time I recorded, because I remember being pretty loud and repetitive but I don’t remember anyone inquiring as to what in the world I was doing! I recorded my song and I uploaded it somewhere on soundclick. I went around other people’s pages and practically begged them for feedback. Most of it was positive, to my surprise. Some were very specific about what they loved in my song, and this newfound appreciation added fuel to the fire. The general population usually has rappers pegged as illiterate nobodies, but the constructive criticism they provided was extremely professional. Plus, creating music broadened my horizons to all sorts of sounds. I listened to country, rock and roll, Latin, Arabic, anything I could get my hands on. I found myself downloading more instrumentals and spending more time writing to them.

I wasted a lot of paper & ink. I would write something before going to bed, and wake up to hate it. When I went to record, it would be quite a few takes before I was happy with my final product. I would sometimes record a verse about 17-20 times before it sounded good to my ears. As hard as many may find it to believe, there came a time when I was recording without writing. Given that those weren’t my best lyrics, but I would learn later on that it was a rare talent.

One thing lead to another as time went on. I got involved with other teenagers doing the same thing. We started our own record label. We built a website and we got one of my songs some radio airtime in Chicago & Atlanta. I was maybe 17 at that time. Along the way, I met many people who were encouraging and many who weren’t. I, however, drew more inspiration from the naysayers. At this point, I had about 25-30 decent, studio-quality songs with complete copyrights to the beats & the lyrics under my belt. Me and my friends made CD’s and started sending them out to record labels.

Bad Boy Records got back in touch. As excited as I was about the prospect of being signed to Diddy, an older producer told us to steer clear of the bigger names and find someone who would let us be more independent. Tony Yayo’s cousin in Florida also got in touch, but he wasn’t offering much besides studio time. We thought about being independent, but we didn’t have the capital to take on that task. The only label we found suitable for ourselves was an independent label located in Brooklyn. They offered residence, studio time, production & marketing and only asked for a small share of whatever sells.

It was decision time and it was senior year. I was way out of touch with my high school’s social circles and I barely maintained honor roll. No one in my family knew what I was up to. I’m pretty sure my dad thought I just watched porn all night on the computer when I actually sat there and produced my music. I would rather have him believe the former than the latter. I wasn’t sure of his reaction & I didn’t want the discouragement. Little did I know, discouragement was inevitable.

Lacking the funds and the motivation, I just sort of drifted away from making music. My passion lacked conviction. I was happy that I didn’t have to think about how to turn my hobby into money. I was happy with what I had. 40 some songs. Music, that I created. The first ever form of creative self expression that appealed to me. A year went by, I graduated. My friends moved. One went on to live in Kentucky. The other in Florida. The first one to move called me and told me about “a cat named soulja boy” who came and rapped at the same studio that he was rapping at. Soulja Boy, as you all know, went on to become quite famous afterwards.

2006 rolled around. I moved on with my life. I focused on my education, and didn’t look back again until recently.

It is with a heavy heart that I begin this paragraph. I’m not sure if it is my desire to create, once again, or the fact that life was so much easier back then that it is now, which leads me to feel this way. Or maybe it is the fact that none of the music I once made still exists, except for four songs that I left up on my label’s myspace page. You see, all my music was stored on these websites or with my friends. I didn’t keep any of it on the hard drive. I was too young to know any better. Since 2009, I have been trying to get in touch with those friends. This year, in 2013, I have practically begged the folks at Soundclick to retrieve my songs from their archives, but they refuse ever having encountered my email or my username. I find that hard to believe, but I don’t know how to prove them wrong.

My myspace is still there though. I don’t share it with people. They will taint my memories with their comments. Ever since 2009, I have only shared those four of my songs with 5 people. These five may have gone on to share it with others, or I may have  inadvertently posted a link publicly, but at least these were the only 5 to direct their comments at me.

I left a lot of my story out. It’s hard to condense 5 years of your life into one short blogpost, specially when you’re a terrible story teller. I tend to embrace verbosity, but I really tried my best to squeeze in as much as I could with as much brevity as the context would allow. I don’t know how else to end this. It seems like a dream unfulfilled. If not the main, then perhaps a part of the root cause of this occasional feeling of dissatisfaction. Yet I still feel like me and music will cross paths once again. I don’t think this blogpost ends here. I think I’ll be coming back and editing it every now and then. More for myself than for the readers, but I will be adding to it.

Perhaps, had I ended up downloading Kenny Chesney on that one summer afternoon, I would be a different man today. That, however, isn’t how it all worked out.

I live on a deserted island.

Not really, but I might as well be. The way I feel right now, a deserted island might actually be a much better setting than my current location. Not only because of my ceaselessly welding neighbor and the loud public transport that runs all night on an adjacent highway; but also because I would like to stare into a deep, blue (or clear) body of water. Stare into the abyss, as they say, and have the abyss stare into me.

This is probably one of the most discussed Nietzsche aphorisms ever. Lost in translation, it is supposed to read roughly like this:

“Battle not with monsters lest ye become a monster; and if you gaze into the abyss the abyss gazes into you.”

In interpretation, the first sentence tells us that we become what we hate. We take on the traits of whatever evil deed or person or habit we pursue. The second sentence tells us how it happens. Some argue that Nietzsche clearly commands you NOT to battle with monsters, but the Hollingdale translation suggests otherwise. According to that, the first sentence says “he who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby becomes a monster.” Followers of this translation believe that Nietzsche is simply asking one to be more cautious when involving himself deeply in a conflict which is evil in nature.

I, on the contrary, always felt that this quote should be openly interpreted. It has always allowed me to learn something about someone from their explanation of it.

I never got past basic Philosophy in college, primarily because other disciplines closer to my career goals required my attention, but it will always hold a special place in my heart. Philosophy is practical poetry to me. I don’t think of things in the same terms as I once used to. Not when I’m in Pakistan at least. Burdening myself with my own thoughts is the last thing that I need. Recently, however, I haven’t been able to stop thinking of this quote.

Battle Not With Monsters:

I won’t bore you with too many “when I first came to Pakistan” stories, but this is sort of important. When I first came here, I was repulsed by the general insensitivity I witnessed everywhere. Now, this may in part be due to my particular location and company. I didn’t realize that until at least two years into my stay.  I have seen the softer, much more elegant and humane side of this country now that I’ve been here for almost four years. When I first came though, and my friends would testify to this, I was on a never ending roll about how cold hearted and thick-skinned the people around here are. The incident involving the brutal deaths of two Sialkoti boys, for example. Don’t even bother looking it up. It’s too graphic. Just take my word on the fact that the murders were public and absolutely barbaric.

Anyway, when I first came here, I fell sick a lot. I made appointments with the best doctors available and I was appalled by the lack of compassion they showed towards their patients. Something about walking into a clinic and speaking English with an American accent gets their attention, but those who don’t, basically get shafted. I often found myself in situations where I would have to take a relative or a family friend to the doctor with me. They admitted that the doctor never bothered to pay that much attention when they were being chaperoned by just a regular chap or by themselves even, for that matter. I was flattered, pleased and overwhelmed with frustration at the same time. I promised myself over and over again, that when I start practicing medicine, regardless of my demographics, I would be as generous as humanly possible towards everybody.

I am now four years into my medical education. Two of which involved actual interaction with patients in a clinical, hospital setting. Our professors don’t practice what they preach. I doubt they even consider doing so. They will tell us to be extra courteous and attentive towards the patient, the bedside manners they teach are commendable, and 10 minutes later they’ll be examining a patient while chatting on their cell phone. I should state that it’s a government hospital. Patients are provided with cheap healthcare at the cost of quality. Not to be confused with proficiency, which is still quite high, to my surprise.

I have yet to speak up against that nonchalant attitude. Whenever I witness it, I stand there and wonder why the attending would tell us something and do the exact opposite. I wonder why no one in my batch is even considering the idea of speaking up against it. In my head, I imagine telling one of my professors off and then I remember how some of them have a tendency to hold grudges against students and screw them over when exam time comes around. So I stand there, quietly. I scowl, sometimes. And while scowling, I wonder if I’ll eventually justify their behavior in my head & become what I hate.

Abyss Gazes Into You:

When we see something, we see it through the lens of our own mind. In the example above, a friend standing next to me might be perceiving the situation in a completely different context. He might be admiring the doctor’s ability to multi task, or he might be condemning the doctor’s inattentiveness to his wife on the phone. The fact that me and my friend are both perceiving the same situation differently suggests that there isn’t anything there at all. The doctor, and the patient, are a part of a void. A vacuous space which drags you in to itself. You empathize with the nothingness, you begin to fill it with things only you can comprehend and thus, you begin to view yourself through the eyes of that void. The abyss, the emptiness, stares back at you. There is nothing scarier than what it sees, because you see it too.

I just want to be myself when I get out of medical school. I want to remain in the same spirits that I came here with. I will battle not with the monsters, for I do not wish to risk becoming one. I will continue to gaze into the abyss. The abyss will save me.

Pakistan’s Democratic Delusion: A Case Against Voting.

Hold your hormones, youth of Pakistan. This post is not for the emotionally motivated, average teenager, who is so eager to bring a change that he or she will be willing to risk bringing the wrong type of it. Before you proceed, you will have to set aside your mob mentality and that false-consensus effect you carry around so pompously, feeling like an elitist political specialist because of all your social networking slogans and hashtags.

Did that sound familiar?

Good.

Here’s another assertion you might be familiar with.

You’ve been lied to! 

You stopped living in a democratic society a long, long time ago. Around 450 BC, to be somewhat precise. That was when the first, and sadly the last, democratic state was established in Athens. In Athenian democracy, candidates were chosen by lottery, a process known as sortition. This ensured that every citizen, regardless of how rich or poor, gets a chance to become a decision-maker for the people. What we have here, in Pakistan (and probably most other democratic states) is an Oligarchy. A system, where only the most powerful and monetarily influential people have the resources to run for office.

Take the next few lines with a pinch of salt. If the information in the paragraph above comes as news to you, you should abstain from voting. You owe it to the rest of us. You lack the ability vote in an informed, competent, and logical manner if you’re under the impression that you’re exercising your democratic rights. No one is saying that you don’t mean well. I, for one, am a firm believer in the fact that most of these ill-informed voters carry the best intentions. There isn’t anything wrong with being politically ignorant; as long as you don’t vote! 

Still confused? Let’s dumb it down a little further.

Suppose you were given an opportunity to elect the baker at your local pâtisserie. A select few candidates, rich enough to buy their way into the competition, came to you and talked for hours about what wonderful ingredients they would use in their confections and propelled at you every term in the book of a Cordon Bleu valedictorian. You as a mere costumer, rather than a connoisseur, had no idea what the hell they were talking about. And suppose you proceeded to vote. Wouldn’t you be voting in an uninformed manner & perhaps voting in a candidate unsuitable for the job? Wouldn’t it be better if you left the task to the handful of well-informed people who are familiar with the culinary vernacular and arts? Unfortunately, we might not even have a proportion of such people required to make a difference.

The system is flawed. You are being fed a false illusion of democracy and freedom.

If you vote, you endorse the system. 

Boycott the system. Do not vote!

When they come to question your intentions, tell them why.

 

Post Exam Post: It’s the end of the world as we know it…

…and I feel fine!

I didn’t think I could do it, but I am not half bad at starting a blog post with lyrics. Thank you, R.E.M.

It’s over. Third year exams have finally come to a slow, yet screeching halt. Unlike most medical schools in Pakistan, my university had decided against adapting to the module system. This means that we have profs, the shorthand for “professionals”: a once-a-year ordeal that assesses your ability to absorb, retain and recall information from any number of books designated to that specific year. This system has its pros and cons. I don’t find contemplating over them very entertaining, so I don’t really care. You may think about them in your own head, at your own convenience, and keep them to yourself.

Excuse me for taking off on a tangent again, but you must understand, my brain is still going haywire. I still haven’t started actually speaking in complete sentences and that maybe the reason why this blog post will be a bit longer than what you’re used to.

So, as I was saying, the exams are over. I am jaded. My family and close friends are just as relieved (if not more) as I am that the third of five gruesome rounds has come to an end. At this point, no one really cares what the result may be. I kept everyone updated on how the tests went. For those of you who weren’t in touch, it was OKAY. You must understand that we don’t have designated textbooks for subjects. The examiners are allowed to ask you anything even remotely related to the field of medicine, and you can not circumvent their questions by telling them that the information was not conveyed in the book you studied from. Pharmacology, for example, has it’s own bible, appropriately named after the author: Katzung. Anyone in the field, or close to it, would understand what you’re referring to at the sound of that name. We do have typical examination questions, but we can not look at any piece of information and say with sheer certainty that “No way! That will not be asked.” As a matter of fact, if you skip something before the exams under that assumption, it’s highly likely that you will be asked that very question the next day.

So, as I was saying, I did okay. Some of my answers to the exams made a lot of sense, whereas a few questions prompted me to pull rabbits out of my hat. It was all very magical.

Out of part habit and part tradition, I stay awake through the night immediately before the exam. I know it’s not healthy, and some have argued that it may hinder my brain’s ability to function at full capacity, but I like it. It works for me. When I walk into the examination halls, I am usually one unicorn short of a bad acid trip. I feel like I’m floating, and when that question paper falls in front of me, it is the only thing I can focus on. It becomes literally impossible for me to recognize any sounds nearby and my eyes are usually glued to the task at hand until I’ve filled both booklets with some sort of gibberish that I won’t remember past the hall’s doors.

I’m not exactly sure how to feel. Over the last few years, I’ve developed into an optimist. Or, to be more precise, I’ve started to suffer from a lack of cynicism. Does my statement contradict itself? Ponder.

So, besides the fact that my motorcycle was stolen today, on the morning before the very last exam (didn’t even have any pictures of her), and besides the fact that I suffered an injury so bad while playing basketball that I can’t even walk straight anymore, life doesn’t seem half bad. I sat down and looked back through my mind’s window over the last three weeks, and I can’t tell you how confused I am.

First of all, I’m not sure what to do with my hands anymore. I am used to holding a book in one hand, and a sandwich/cell phone/another book in the other. Secondly, I’m not sure what to do about what I have done over the past few weeks. Anyone who was not in the field of dreadful, over-burdening, ass-kicking academics, managed to fail me during my time of distress. Perhaps it was their lack of consideration, or my inability to thoroughly communicate my predicament, but people just refused to understand what I was going through. If you’re one of those people, I thumb my nose at thee! Unless I’ve done something offensive already, like curse at you and shun you out of my life, in which case you should know that I am considering apologizing. It’s highly probable and definitely not impossible if you play your cards right.

Thirdly, I plan on cleaning my fortress. My hermitage. My ivory tower. Living by myself this year was both a blessing and a curse. I had no one to revise and discuss academics with, but I had plenty of time to tend to my own needs, at my own convenience. I have, however, let a “mess” accumulate in places it shouldn’t even be found and this is high time for organization. My books are on the floor along with notes and a few writing utensils. I have books covering well over half of my bed. There are books on chairs, and on the kitchen counter. There are books on top of the fridge, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I found a few inside the fridge as well. I have books in the bathroom! As a matter of fact the only place which does NOT have books right now is my study table. It harbors my clothes. Convenience, you know.

 

Actually, to accommodate your short attention span, here’s a to-do list you can skim through and giggle at. I don’t want to be TL;DR’d in the comment box. 

1. Apologize to everyone I offended. Tell them it was exam time. For those who don’t care about exams, tell them I was dying.

2. Scrutinize the exams, the examiners, the university, our system of education and of course, the government.

3. I’m going to learn how to sleep again.

4. Catch up on some reading, once my eyes stop twitching. I have A Case of Exploding Mangoes and How It Happened on the list. Don’t judge me.

5. Find out if knitting is still cool and maybe hangout with the knitting types and knit me a sweater.

6. Catch up on some movies & TV shows I only have the urge to catch up on during exams, and never afterwards.

8. Think of number seven.

9. Reward myself with some awesome, home-made food. Despite the fact that I haven’t cooked a meal in at least eight months.

10. It’s sports week, so I’d like to play some basketball again if my injury allows it.

11. Hit an expensive mall. Drool over all the cool stuff I’ll be able to buy once everything starts to pay off. Motivation.

12. Browse the interwebs to my heart’s content! Without the slightest amount of guilt, I will dedicate one day to laying in bed and just surfing through random stuff while I chow on some insanely spicy snacks and wash them down with the darkest, unhealthiest of sodas.

13. Enjoy the sun. The rise and the set, both. A bit in between too, perhaps. I figure I still have 2 more weeks before a full blown summer meltdown.

14. Study. It’s an ugly truth and I hate to admit it, but it won’t be long before the next profs come crawling up on all four limbs, grinding their teeth, drooling at the corners for a piece of our young, tender brains.

15. It’s only appropriate that this blog post ends with lyrics from the same song it started with. It’s time I had some time alone.

 

…and I feel fine 🙂

Pakistan Day: 66 Years Later

How often does a Pakistani citizen contemplate the status quo of the state?

Every passing second.

The unsubtle reminders of a nation in turmoil are rather obvious. From the mystery surrounding the alleged suicide (alleged being the keyword) of an investigator from the National Accountability Bureau, to the relentless rolling blackouts, there is not a child in this country unaware of the current state of affairs. Corruption has been widespread. The media gate scandal, the Ephedrine quota case, the scams surrounding the rental power projects, the disappearance of NATO supplies, the railway fund embezzlement, the steel mills frauds and the list goes on. All that, with the exception of one, just last year. As corruption sees record highs in the country, the backlash is felt by the people. As unemployment rates rise with the inflation, one begins to wonder how far we really are from more cases of self immolation?

However, once you stop to think, you realize that through everything, citizens of Pakistan have stood tall in the face of adversity. Day after day. Fighting. Persevering. Flexing to the country’s needs, but never bending to the powers that be. Not always due to the lack of another option neither. Although it holds true that a few who couldn’t take it anymore chose to establish themselves anew in foreign lands, for which they can’t be blamed. There were those who left better lives to come back and help fellow Pakistanis shoulder the burden. Never has there been a nation more resilient, more supple, yet more adamant than that of Pakistan.

On this day in 1947, the first constitution was adopted, thus declaring the state a republic. Today, 66 years later, Pakistan sees its first democratic transition of power. A silver lining in the thick smog. A step towards progress. Hope, to be taken with a pinch of salt.

When in Pakistan…

Marry something.

Seriously! You have to. It’s our tradition. Plus it’s the law! Our land, our rules. Just do it. Something. Anything! Preferably, something educated. As a matter of fact, the higher this subject is educated, the more negative characteristics we’ll be willing to overlook.

For example: we’ll tolerate a unibrow for an intermediate education. We’ll take bad teeth, body hair and halitosis for a bachelor’s degree. Obesity and old age for a large inheritance. And obesity, unibrow and bad manners for an adult, well established, expatriate sloth. Unibrows, of course, count as a strength in certain parts of Pakistan. Specifically at and around 32.49722°N 74.53611°E. They’ll never figure it out.

That’s just the gist of our trading system. Please rest assured that the finer points are calculated by complex mathematical formulas, stored safely in the heads of our elders, and only brought forth by the twisting of a mustache in the presence of chai and absence of logic. You are in great hands. Literally, hundreds of them.

What’s that you say? You don’t want to get married? Why? Didn’t you know God sent everyone on earth as a couple; though precisely 3-6 years apart? There are other reasons too and if any one of the following reasons fit, we must not acquit.

It’s time:

We seldom abide by the rules of nature. With evolution, God bestowed upon us these amazing life clocks which we drilled into an area between our two cheeks and tethered to our brains. They’re quite simple. You are born, you are educated (or thrown into child labor), you maintain a presentable reputation and then BOOM! It’s marriage o’ clock. Sometimes, this hour of dread is preceded by gossip about how you’re still not married, but that’s not always the case. Also, you want to avoid the too-late-to-get-married o’ clock, which we will let you know of once it’s too late. Never before. Unless you have the aforementioned inheritance, by the time you finish reading this sentence, it’ll be too late.

Marriage O' Clock

It ticks for thee.

A chef & a maid:

Are you too busy (read: lazy) to feed and clean up after yourself? Perfect! The only logical solution we can think of is marriage. It’s not a man’s job to make his own bed in the morning and wash his own dirty underwear. There’s an app for that. It’s called a wife.

“Look at all these rice that aren’t my mustache.” Sorry.

Babies:

That’s right. Your parents are bored. Entertain them with grandchildren. Also, teach your kids at least 15 new tricks every day. Such as manners and not getting sick. If it can self-heal, we’ll be slightly impressed.

Desi baby

“I a make a you a baby. Take.”

Something about land:

In a society where wedlock becomes a trade and nepotism is promoted, consanguineous marriages are a big seller. It’s not only about inbreeding, it’s also about keeping the family heirlooms in the family. By family heirlooms, we mean assets. Anything capable of being owned, tangible or otherwise. Most of the time it’s land and property, but saying that “you’d be surprised” is an understatement.

Roughly the effect we’re trying to achieve.

Boredom:

You haven’t been married until you’ve gotten married out of sheer ennui. You’re done with your education, you’re making money (or sitting at home, as is the case with many females) and you don’t have much else to do. Before you go out and find love on your own, God forbid, we would like to do it for you. We’ll find you something you can love for the rest of your life due to a lack of awareness and a hint of insecurity.

“Mom! I’m bored. Rishta me, thanks.”

A million dollar idea

Are you sick of all the bad music going around?
(Well, you shouldn’t be. You should only be concerned with what you like. Another’s preference in music is not your choice to make.)

How about the bad haircuts?

And I’m sure most female readers can relate to the fashion trends?
(You’ll have to excuse me. I’m too oblivious to provide specific examples of what women are wearing.)

Sandals and socks, anyone?

Perhaps a visit to this post will add a desirable note of specificity to our topic.

Think of the trend you hate the most. Anything. Justin Bieber, One Direction, the hipster frames, converse shoes, baggy jeans, YOLO. Anything! Now what if I was to tell you that a small monetary contribution could escort your least favorite trend into the pits of obsoletion? Would you dig deep in your pockets for a little change? How deep?

Here’s the idea:
We will have dedicated trend-unsetters peddling the streets, engaging in undesirable behavior while promoting specific trends so people would develop a natural repulsion to the aforecited fads.

With the exception of YOLO, because most of those people do something stupid before or after the exclamation anyways.