alcohol.

a funny thing.

people seem kinder and their smiles less deceptive. my feet don’t stick to the floor anymore and my heart is not dormant like it is usually. it beats and i feel it, i hear it in my ears and i get reminded of the fact that i am here, i am alive, that i live. so i begin speaking.

i seek conversations with people. most people who live alongside me today are scared of conversations. they love drawing lines. heck, i love drawing lines, establishing boundaries. but not when there are substances in my bloodstream, making friends with the cells within me.

“what floor are you on?”

“fifteenth.”

“nice to meet you. what’s your name, what can i call you?”

a breath. hesitance. wandering eyes looking for an escape.

“i don’t want to say.”

oh. that’s okay. “what do you like doing in your free time?”

“uhm, actually, maybe i’ll go get another drink.” they say and they flee.

that’s okay. maybe it seemed more like an interview than a conversation. i’m still working on that. that’s okay. but if i don’t ask, how will i know? and if i don’t say what i’m thinking, how will they know? shit, maybe i’m being too me. maybe i’m too asian.

you know, i’ve never had to notice the color of my skin this way before, to constantly be reminded of my roots. of course, it is my identity, it is a difference, but does it matter more than my personality or my skills? i’ve never had to see my skin as something i have to hide as much as i can. to ‘pass’. maybe from the behind, maybe from fifty-feet away. but i can never ‘pass’ can i?

never before has it mattered to such a major extent that my first language is nepali. but it does now. do they even know how much trouble it is to learn english and master it in a house where nobody speaks it but everybody pretends they can? do they know what it feels like to be nepali and not be nepali enough to people? to love english but know that you’ll never be a native, and hence, naturally, below par and unable? how could i ever begin to explain the ways in which i used to destroy myself in order to feel closer to a language that was never supposed to be mine? that should be foreign, but feels so dear?

honestly, i see it. between others and me. we are so similar at our cores, everybody i’ve met so far. we have had varied experiences, however, we all derive similar learnings from life. yet, yet, yet, yet. why is it that we get stuck on the surface when we should be going beyond? far beyond.

do you know that now, every shortcoming of mine presumably stems from where i have stemmed from?

“maybe everyone from nepal is like them.”

i forget a word in english and automatically someone says it, “that’s okay, you’re nepali after all.” i appreciate you trying to be nice but no, i’m forgetful. it’s not my roots. it is me.

maybe. maybe not. i’m not much different from the mass of youngsters in a country where we have nothing. i think i may be even more underachieving, underambitious and overly stupid than them. in a country where our government betrays us, where our land betrays us, and where we betray each other and ourselves.

“you’re shitting me! you don’t have tacobell there? how about a mcdonalds, surely you have one of those.”

no, new white friend who grew up without cable tv and with ipads, we don’t. we barely have walkable roads, does that come as a surprise? we have such different lives, have had such different upbringings, it is understandable to some extent— the way they react. it may come as a surprise that their basic life, which they find so massively uninteresting, is an unachievable dream to many in another country?

on another note, i’ve been looking for work these days. they might look at my skin and say no, i fear. oh well, maybe that’s not why they will say no, maybe that’s not why i will be rejected at all. but the first thing they will see is my skin. and my skin is not like theirs.

before i present my résumé, i present my hands. and my hands are dark, my nails are darker and i can’t help but want to hide them, hide myself.

internalized racism, is it? internalized oppression? but why, when i have never directly been oppressed before? i read an article the other day— even people born in the uk, who have a south asian or african ethnicity (honestly, anyone who identifies as poc) are always called back less for job interviews than white applicants. i don’t understand. i can’t get myself to. neither do i ever want to understand the reasonings, the whys and hows, of what might make someone discriminate against another.

i don’t understand most of the concerns people my age have these days. i’m over so many things already that sometimes i think if i should care more, should try to be more like a 22 year old. someone chose to wear flipflops to an event, with their toes out, so you won’t go out with them? they’re too tall/short? they’re wearing too much/not enough makeup?

what is the point to thinking and discussing all these things? do we really not have anything better to do with our times, do we not have better things to be conversing about? i thought people living in bigger and more privileged countries would have better outlook and opinions.

oh well, not much i can do about it.

now, moving onto alcohol and me.

a funny pair.

we scare people away, we seem jarring, people laugh, some find us fun and naive, some don’t see us at all because we’re invisible to them. it’s not all bad. but it’s mostly humiliating the morning after.

we are a sad pair, though. one without the other is a lost lover and sometimes i feel like my genetic predisposition finally has had an opportunity to shine, on it’s way to onset. we’re still doing better than most other toxic relationships of our time, i think? that has to count for something.

i might never make it. here, especially, where i have to learn how to walk around the city once again. like a newborn i have to learn to exist, to survive on my own in this new place which runs differently than the place i come from. i might fail and go back with my tail in between my legs, i might never make it as an adult anywhere. and i can’t even seem to hold good conversations with people.

it’s tiring. i’m tired.

would being a cishet white male save me? i’m not one and i can’t be. (neither do i want to be, ew, imagine the amount of ignorance and hate i would have to harbor, ew ew ew).

that’s okay. i’ll be nepali. and i’ll be darker than them. and i’ll possibly die on this hill of trying to make people pronounce my name correctly, trying to be friends with them, when they don’t really intend on sharing their names with me.

that’s okay.

hello, readers. i feel like i should add a note here because i have complained about many things which might offend some people. these are my experiences, yes, but i don’t have hate within me for anybody. i have friends who are different than i am, who never watched cable tv, who see me for who i am, and i cherish them very much. we may have had different lives but we see each other’s cores. however, it doesn’t mean my experiences deserve to be invalidated just because many words spoken to me by people during abovementioned interactions have come from places of no ill-intent. it happened and there might be a reason why they happened. or there might not be. all i am doing is wondering. so this is just a quick reminder for you, that this place is somewhere i document as much of my life as i can— and that includes interactions and how i perceived them when they happened. i have no ill-intent against any group of people or their choice of lifestyle. i have better things to do than hate or discriminate. do what you want, make yourself happy.

thanks for reading this horribly written issue, i am not in the right state of mind. plus, it is almost three in the morning.

love all of you. thank you. goodnight.