What would you do if you found a gold lamp? If you answered “Save it for my daughter’s wedding”, you are a brown aunty and your presence on this web page is alarming. Also, please don’t tell my mom that I just did badtameezy with you. Even then, please leave. But, if you have a son who easily passes as a Zayn Malik doppelganger, has a 4.0 gpa, wants to become a doctor, spits fire, prays 5 times a day, enjoys cooking desserts, can win a sing off with an african american woman who leads the church choir, personally knows Sharukh Khan, and writes poetry, you are welcome to stay.

Anyway, a few days ago I had a daydream that I finally graduated medical school and as a treat from my proud parents, I was permitted to take a three month tour of Egypt. Now, I was currently exploring the ancient pyramids in Egypt in a Gucci velour jumpsuit. There, I ditched the sweaty tour guide and basic tourists and to go on an Indiana Jones style adventure to find a diamond encrusted skull that is equally as fabulous as moi. But don’t be fooled. I hate exploring and bugs more than anything.

But, like they say, desperate times call for desperate measures. Without a hair out of place, I went to search the dry egyptian ruins in pursuit of a McDonalds fish fillet, and instead, I found something slightly better. As I rode my skinnier-than-Kendall-Jenner camel through the desert, I noticed something glimmering in the sand. As I hopped off the camel to grasp what appeared to be a genie lamp, I begin to rub circular motions into it. Suddenly, an enormous cloud of fuschia smoke appeared and a loud voice was heard…

“Princess, princess, fairest of all the lands, no, no, you do not have chubby, clawy  hands”,  (wrong fairytale, but go with it anyway). As I giggled like a schoolgirl, a genie who resembled Nicholas Cage popped out of the spout of the lamp. I gawked in confusion, clearly amused. “Tell me, queen. What are your three wishes pertaining to this life?” Three wishes? I thought. And all for me? Before my mouth would take off and request an endless supply of Elevation burgers and every Bollywood film on dvd, I pinched myself and sat down to think.

I was baffled, excited, confused and also, very weirded out. So, I excused myself for a minute and went to draft a list of things I’d very, very, much like to happen. 

If I could have one wish, it would no doubt be to live a meaningful life. To be a person of rigour, one who is respectful, respected, and eventually, the face of Louis Vuitton, Burberry, and Covergirl. My philosophy in life is fairly simple: do genuine good for others, and good shall knock on your door with a party hat, confetti, a double fudge brownie and a pair of size 8 Louboutins.

My second wish would be to find a cure to cancer. I know, such a generic wish, but hey! its the truth. Cancer has affected and broken so many families, and its time this discomfort and uncertainty be assuaged. I would like to find the cure to cancer so this way, even when I die, this good deed will continue to benefit others in years to come.

My last wish would be to ease world hunger and terminate  war. Yeah, I know. I’m basically Oprah, except browner and not just as fabu---yet, at least. (TANGENT ALERT) The reason I would want this to happen is basically to strike a balance in this corrupt world. It really hurts me to see waiters tossing half eaten fried chicken legs (mmmm, chicken)  in the trash when children not many miles away would fight tooth and nail for it. As for war, why must human lives be trashed to settle disputes over things as one-dimensional as land? Why can’t all the political leaders just play one big game of Monopoly? People will probably jeer at me for that statement, but here’s the justification. Political leaders are the mirror reflection of the people, places, food, sports, physical and mental health, culture and order of the country they represent. If they are smart enough to win a game as mentally and physically stimulating as Monopoly, they deserve to succeed whatever conflict.  Plus, this would be a cheaper solution that is definitely much more mature than war.

A melodious voice, as smooth as (non-fat)  butter and and as soft as a snuggie, is heard in my left ear. It sings, “Good morning my beautiful queen, you are the fairest in the land, acne is beautifulllll”. I smile against my tye dye cashmere bed linen as an old lady servant (or fine, PC. domestic worker) named Shamshooma (she’s foreign. Exotic, I know.) brushes my hair 400 times, to make it as soft as physically possible. “Thanks, Shoom” I say as I hop off the bed. Before my delicately pedicured feet can touch the imported hardwood floor, another servant smoothly slips on a pair of Spongebob fuzzy slippers. The melodious voice is heard again.

 “Wakey, wakey, princess Duriba! It’s time to face the world which embraces you for all your extraordinary talents and abilities such as being an award winning horseback rider and official smartest person in the whole wide world, according to Forbes magazine, at least.” my chauffeur, Zayn Malik cooes. “Duriba,” he tries again. “I don’t care what anyone says. Your toes do not look like deformed mushrooms.” then he smiles, instantaneously melting my heart. “Dr. Duriba?” my personal assistant, Robert Downey Jr.’s voice is heard from the crafted-from-pure-gold home speaker system. “Yes, peasant?” I reply, my hair and makeup already being done by my personal beautification crew who are obliged by contract to constantly remind me how much prettier I am than Megan Foxx. 

“You have a mission. President Obama was visiting Mars when he had a heart attack. You must go to space and cure him with your extraordinary doctor abilities and stunning facial structure, which is as chiseled as a potato that has been severely chiseled. Also, you are really well behaved and it was wrong of your middle school teacher, Ms. Shannon, to put you in detention for rolling your eyes because she wears wrinkly skirts and has a manly boy.” I think for a moment, then nod. Everyone in Duriba-land always knew what to say.

If you were to ask me, “Hey, magnificent queen, what are you looking forward to the most?” The excerpt listed above from my diary would be the answer. Now, before you rebut my dreams for the future, exclaiming that they are unrealistic and foolish, let me do the ‘splain to you.

People always ask me how I can possibly believe that certain things will happen. Whenever they utter words such as “You’ll never marry Zayn Malik!” or “You have chubby fingers!”, they don’t. No one says that to me. Well, at least to my face. I made that up.

I’m sorry. This is going nowhere. I’ve still taken up time from your life though. Anyway, here’s the lesson of the day.

Always know that you are bigger than your dreams. You can accomplish whatever you like. You are simply whoever you want to be. No one can put any restrictions on what you want to do in life because it is your life. Sure, everything is predestined. But you chose the path taken to reach that destination. The journey there is yours. Just take it, won’t you?

Below is the text from a paper I wrote for English last year....Be afraid, comrades. Be VERY afraid. Also, I received a 97, so your opinion is invalid.

Angel-like voices. Entrancingly structured faces. Impeccable style. Admirable Humor. These are  the reasons why I am irrevocably and obsessively in love with a certain British-Irish boy band. Widely known for their extremely catchy number one hit single, "What makes you beautiful", Brit Award, Number one album in 18 countries and a new unreleased album with a beautiful number one pre-order rate on iTunes, these heartthrobs have not only dominated my heart, parents money, sleep, time and energy; but have been taking over the entire world by storm. Ladies and gentlemen, meet the biggest complication in my fourteen years of existence, One Direction.

At first, my attraction to One Direction seemed like any other minuscule celebrity fascination, until it became an unhealthy obsession. The five boys; Zayn Jawaad Malik, Louis William Tomlinson (pronounced Lew-iee), Liam James Payne, Niall James Horan and Harry Edward Styles, are normally all that runs through my hallow, walnut of a head. Every moment anything extremely random occurs, my brain seems to be wired to lead an indication to them, no matter the situation. For example, often while reading, i get excited thinking that maybe, just maybe, one of the well groomed boys may have also read this book. That itself releases electrfying jitters and massive elegantly colored butterflies soaring through my stomach. My extreme dedication has also reached the irreparable point where even while going shopping,  I often find myself in the male section like my mum on black Friday, searching and prying for outfits that they would appear absolutely dashing in, which is pretty much everything. 

I've also spent over fifty dollars purchasing merchandise of their angelically chiseled faces printed across the front. I've went from pretending to have a conversation with one of them to unconsciously humming Lady Gaga's 'Papparazzi" like a mad man to my 15" by 12" poster of them super glued and firmly plastered across my beige back wall, which often results in some abnormal face stroking. My parents are concerned, always reminding me to prepare for high school harder and take additional SAT courses, often threatening to simply snip off their ears of if they hear another melodious One Direction song eloquently flowing through the car speakers. As much as I prefer my parents ears' connected to the sides of their head, opposed to in a mahogany frame dangling snugly atop a toasty fire in my father's study, I genuinely cannot overlook their twinkling eyes and boyish grins. My brain indicates to schoolwork, sleep and time management, but my fragile heart dangles from the masculinly manicured fingernails of the boys that are the fabulous One Direction. 

The compelling obsession begin with a tap of the subdued play button on my withered iPod, and from then on, my life's been nothing but a mere fantasy. My days pass quite deliberately as I convince myself that I will eventually collide with the gorgeous, quiff headed Zayn Malik at a disparaged coffee shop on a dark, wet afternoon, like those unrealistic films where we then exchange numbers, belatedly get married, hop into a glimmering top down Ferrari, my ebony locks fluttering with the cooling breeze as we speed into the sunset. No, my hopes aren't high at all.