Of Apartment Amblers And Quite A Gutsy Finch.

What do people do when they’re blogger blocked?

They start rambling about every single thing that might or might not be considered an actual thing. I’ll save you the drill of telling you how much I’ve got to get down before today’s trial examination and all that shit. If you’re a frequent reader of this blog, you’ll know that being sleepless, caffeinated and the proud owner of a serious itch to get one’s nerd on, as a friend puts it, is rather a postulated surmise around here. If there’s a blog post on your dashboard, odds are it’s been written at an ungodly hour of night when I’ve gone through the whole psyche alteration cycle a couple of times over, given up on the fact of trying to function as an individual and eventually resorted to the much soothingly unrequited ranting to a very tolerant patch of good ole cyber space.

I tried to catch some eye shut and after a couple of failed trials, I decided Imma head off and call it a night. I grabbed my book from the bedside table and stomped to the door. Walking the hallway, I found the housemaid cleaning up, said good morning and continued with my trance. Halfway to the couch, I found an unidentified face pacing from room to room. A lady. I wasn’t quite sure if she was a figment of my imagination or an actual living stranger in our premises, so I ended up in the living room, with a face that sent my mom and dad on a hysterical laughing fit as I stopped in my tracks pointing at the room with the moving entity and saying: ‘And Who the hell is she again?’ My mom elaborated that she’s the new housemaid, then she wondered what I said to her when I found a complete stranger strolling down our apartment.

‘I said Good Morning’.

I just had my fifth coffee of the day. And I mean day in the mathematical sense rather than the humane one, since I haven’t slept in almost 18 hours. I’m sitting in the balcony listening to the jumbled and rather confused – which, for the record, I spelled ‘confusioned’ a couple of seconds ago and backspaced – oomph of cars as they gear up for another round of the clock. A bird, wild finch, just came and checked me out. Pretty gutsy for a creature that’s about One twentieth my size.

This is going nowhere.

But then again it doesn’t have to.

I Guess It’s Just Another Day, In Liiiiiiiiiiife.

My Aura Is Yellow And Doesn’t Move Much.

What You Say!

How Did It Come To This?

Life Lesson #170: I know your body’s like a cloud, floating around the softer side of things you know. You’re in love with an Igor who’s in love with a placid penguin.

4 Days Left

I’m sipping hot cocoa in the balcony with the lights off with nothing but music on. No people, no thinking. Nothing. Just this. Just now. It feels good. I don’t wanna think. If I turn the music off I’ll start thinking about how this year has been and how I might like the next one to be. I don’t want that. I’ve got loads to work on tonight, I overslept and missed class, and woke up with slightly inebriated from yesterday’s headache. Not now, in a bit. Now’s nothing time.

4 days left.

Of Marshies And Ugg Boots.

It’s infuriating that it’s Christmas eve and there’s not goddamn concert or Christmas event anywhere, and the ones that are suck ass. Eskenderella? Seriously? Yeah, sure, there’s one on the 29th, but Christmas eve is not the 29th now, is it? Not only is there no event today, but I’m gonna have to miss the Nutcracker ballet suite on the 29th because mom and dad have appointments at work.

No, Today will NOT start off on the wrong leg, nothing beats a little Christmas shopping. The tree is a few ornaments short, and I gotta buy marshmallows and cocoa, because it’s just not right without hot cocoa and marshies. Maybe I’ll buy ugg boots and call it a day. Am I running a fever? What the hell am I saying? I actually started liking em. Do I get em red or black? Omg, someone shoot me now..

Come to think of it, I’ve never actually got boots. I was always too short for it to be a valid option. My dad keeps saying “hayeb2a nossek gazma”, and come to think of it, well, yes that’s true. Midgets and boots make posh gnomes tho.

Coldplay’s new album is nowhere to be seen. No word on its release yet, could it possibly be delayed? That can’t happen. A friend pointed out – much to my excessive and incessant nagging about the album – that I just might be prepping myself for disappointment. So I’ll just shut up about that and keep my fingers crossed..AND check on it first thing when the clock strikes 12. Yeh, that oughta do. W mesh hazaker neela 7aga enaharda! Exams or not!

Etymology. I Don’t Know, I Just Wanted to Say That.

December is proving itself to be the dust bunny that almost choked you when  you tried to hug it. It’s still my favourite month tho. It’s when Coldplay’s new album comes out and you can drink scalding hot cocoa all snuggled up in bed feeling like a hobo. Gotta love hobos.

I just realized that 80% of my blogging experience is after hours. Well, I was sleeping, like normal human beings when my inner nocturnal slipped out of its dormant state and poked at me, so I randomly woke up at 2 am saying ‘I want that red topcoat.’ Annoying bit is that I don’t even remember if I slept or not and I don’t have any dreams to prove it! Frick.

So anywho, I was thinking how stuff can work out in a way you don’t expect em to. For what it’s worth, I don’t really believe in that at all, which is why it’s odd enough for me to blog about it when I could be using my spare time doing other constructive stuff like studying chemistry.. HAHAHAHA, okay no not really. I could be picking on em unsuspecting dweebs lingering around FB  chat – which is, for the record, one scary place – or watching the water boil in the water heater as I make my sacred coffee portion of the day, or have pickled lemons. At all. I’ve always thought it’s man’s way of rationalizing stuff out of their area of control to try and pull it back in there; because if you can make sense of bad stuff in a way that pleases you, then they’re to your advantage and you’re back behind the steering wheel; which is just another subtle way of being a control freak. Back to the point. No harm in some guilty pleasure, eh?

 

 

1. I’ve just realized that not knowing my way around twitter could and ultimately would improve my goldfish memory, since I can't figure out which replies link back to what and how to get there let alone reply. I mean, what the hell, if replying to someone’s post shows up on your wall, how the fuck is the other person supposed to see it unless they’d been coincidentally stalking you ? Or is the Twitter R&D team that bourgeoisie that it doesn’t quiiiiiiiiite acknowledge communicating with ‘followers’?

2. Temporarily losing the use of your palate over blisteringly hot and cheesy margarita pizza makes your taste bud memory, if there exists any, stuck on loop to the day you went  out for pizza with friends for a week. It also you makes your creativity go wild with drinks/soups/anything that is ingested through sipping, because believe it or not, your palate has a huge role in biting stuff. Not to mention that it also leads to the life-changing realization that everything tastes better with Mayo.

3. Running out of Coffee makes you go for tea, and you know, it’s not that bad after all. It’s like this nice fellow you go for when your badass mate is outta town. And yes, I capitalised the C in Coffee and not the T in tea. I’m loyal, sue me.

4. Bad Haircuts. Nothing feels better than having a photo of someone you really wanna punch in the face with a bad haircut. Ah, the sheer soothing potential of it. It’s like a metaphorical ego massage man. And having one of you could make someone you really pissed off feel better, and that someone might just have been Jack The Ripper in another life. Who knows..

5. Not being able to think of one more thing could make you a little more accepting of even numbers. Or you could turn it around like I just did. Can’t risk the jinx.

I Am A Mirror A Mirror Am I

So I ditched the Paulo Coelho’s drone of a book and am back to my love-hate relationship with Gregory Maguire. If I ever had to name one book that I didn't stand yet couldn’t stop reading, it would inevitably be “Wicked”. My first impression of the book was that that author did not have enough creative material that he had to make it an art out of extracting the magic from every last fold of the beautiful Oz, chiselling an artwork out of its hard precipitate by taking another artist’s work of art and giving it dimensions of his own. However, curiosity made me wonder how far he took it, and that’s probably what the writer depended on to give the book sales a controversial thrust, L. Frank Baum’s celebrity and the sensation “The Wizard of Oz” caused at its time. I couldn’t help noticing three things about how the book is written.

Firstly, the dimensions he set to the book, the moral, political and fictitious dimensions were not very intact. At one point, two dimensions would merge and leave out the third, and then the third would get brought up, and you could get a sense of caricaturised politics in the book. He’s misleading at that too. Gregory Maguire characterized the essence of Nazism, the ongoing controversies among beliefs, discrimination against colour and sex in a way that it is just obvious enough not to be taken too seriously, but get you just where he wants you to be for whatever plot twist he has in mind.

Secondly, he didn’t use what most writers do with protagonists. Authors tend to make you like or hate the main character, according to the plot in question, to gain the reader’s emotional stamp of approval that comes when you get to actually pin em as the “good guy” or the “bad guy” and hence overcome the moral “Spelling check”. Nevertheless, with that little side door, all he did was make you relate to Elphaba, on a more instinctively logical level. Still, I think he used the fact that she strived to defend animal rights to justify her own humanity without meaning to, and to highlight her sense of retaliating to the injustice with which she’d been treated throughout her life by the ferocity of her defence of those defenceless creatures.

Thirdly, a certain air of morbid injustice was held unwaveringly throughout the book, in a sense like the old saying: “The end justifies the means”. He pushed boundaries with his attempt to re-define good and evil. As a consequence, instead of trying to set the constant villain-hero scale, he kept the characters, especially Elphaba’s, rather volatile. Despite the fact that the book sales were elbowed into celebrity, I’d say it was its mystic cleverness that kept it going. Almost a year later and I’m nostalgic for another one of his maimed fairytales. I’m on ‘Mirror Mirror’, his alteration of Snow White And The Seven Dwarves. At the very beginning of the book, there’s a long poem, with no two lines adding up at all. I had my theories that they’re not the same person talking, even tho every line begins with I, as a sort of dream-like cloud of tags. Then throughout the book, a line of that poem starts another mini one, where, as it seems to me, he depicts every character in the book. I’m not that far into it, and I’ve always been bad with poems to be frank, but the one epitomising the dwarf grew on me, or that’s how I got it at least. The author has rather a perverse nature tho, interestingly perverse. He can sell anything to you if you’re open enough, and there’s hardly anything he hasn’t picked at more or less.

‘I’m a rock whose hands have appetites.

I’m a rock whose appetites have hands.

I’m a thing unresolved into courteous shapeliness.

I’m a creature excluded from limbo and hell,

A thing of which heaven prefers to stay well unaware.

Neither pet, nor beast of the fields, or beast of the woods,

Nor idiot kept, more or less, in the warmth of the hearth,

For the sometime amusement of humans and sarcastic angels.

Nothing exists but it rests on my, at the start,

At the end; but I keep to myself, as no one will have me.’

Making Your Way Back Home Thinking Oh No.

Of A Constant That Will Turn.

Life Lesson #161: ‘No eleventh hour reprieve. Keep your head above water, but don’t forget to breathe.’

Life Lesson #162: Ultimatums work if you’re a suicide bomber. Otherwise you’re just a little bugger flailing your arms in the middle of some department store that everybody’s gonna forget about over their TV dinner 7 minutes later. They even get to call themselves heroes because of it. They will, however, continue munching ‘heroically’ as you rot in a cell that smells like pickles.

Life Lesson #163: Muffins are bold cupcakes. It takes dough to go out without all that icing.

Life Lesson #164: No matter how many lessons you studiously pile up, you’ve still got a lot to learn kiddo, haven’t you?

Life Lesson #165: Take One: When all else fails; you’ve probably been trying too hard for anything to work.

Life Lesson #166: Take Two: When all else fails, you probably just need to tell it like it is.

Life Lesson #167: Take Three: Or you could just have a pickle. Pickles are nice.

Life Lesson #168: This goes out to Cee Lo Green: How could there be footprints on the ceiling again?

Life Lesson #169: It’s so cold I can feel the tip of my nose freezing, but then again I could never have felt the tip of my nose any other way.

But Time..Is On Your Side..It’s On Your Siiiiiiiiiiiide Nahoooow.

Do you know when you get so frustrated doing something that you start thinking about parallel abstract equivalents to pat the ego bump? I’ve been working on the same Maths sheet all day, and I’m not done yet. I’ve even missed Arabic class because I’d rather do Maths and because, well, who the fuck cares about Arabic class? It’s almost irrelevant. The dude just stands there and reads what we already have in the binders. We can read too, you know. Anywho, so I got frustrated with logarithms and started thinking that maybe the only reason I like Maths is because it’s one of the few things I haven’t already conquered, as egotistical as that sounds at the back of my head. There’s always a little more to know about it and you could never quite get the hang of it, it’s almost humbling how it accentuates your insignificance with just another couple of signs. Then I started thinking, maybe all I actually like about Maths is the challenge, like everything, and come to think of it, everyone, in my life. You know when you’re after something just because you just can’t get your arms around the fact that you might not be able to do it, and drop it as soon as you unlock whatever riddle it offers? In simpler words, maybe I’m the bedazzled dude and Maths is the hard-to-get chick.

And by God I’m getting that chick no matter what. I don’t care how long it takes. I’m a spoiled little stubborn brat who’s used to getting her way. Bring it on, Maths sheet. You think you’re so hot? Drop-dead gorgeous much? Mesh 3lya ya mama.

Ok I might have got a wee bit too emotional there.

*Looks to Maths sheet* I’m onto you.

December has been quite..what’s the word for it. Tempestuous? Nah. Maybe just a little too Beethoven-y for my taste; going all smooth then bursting out in symphonic epic harmonies that almost seem like they’re meant for you to go deaf in some karmic settling of scores. 2010 seems to have ‘catching up on some soul-reaping’ on its to-do list. Trying to go out with a bang, eh?

It’s still slow tho. It still has the ‘I-won’t-rush-if-my-life-depended-on-it’ feel, which after all metaphorically makes sense in a way. It is the last month of the year, innit?

2011 is an odd number. I like odd numbers. 2009 was an odd number tho. I hate odd numbers. 2010’s been even, a compromise, a package of pulsating aftermaths. I detest even numbers.

And cookies are awesome.

My Grandma Eloped?

So we couldn’t find my grandma this morning. Yeh. Apparently she wandered off into the sandstorm, and since she doesn’t believe in the use of cell phones as a tracking device, we kept calling up everybody directly related and indirectly attached to locate her. As a chilling exercise, I passed the time by pondering the sarcastic use of the phrase ‘we lost your Grandma’. We found her 3 hours later shopping for Christmas. Let me make this crystal clear for you in case you’re slow: My Grandmother willingly walked out of the door into a sandstorm, giving up the warmth of a nice sweater and a cup of tea in a weather as inhumanely menayyel as this to get me a Christmas present. Oh would you just fucking kill me now?

El sana deeeh lazem te-fucking-te5las 3la fekra.

They Will Not Listen To You; They Don’t Believe In Souls.

Life Lesson #160: You need to stop stewing in your own juices and start looking for a new pot.

My Fish Died.

You Don’t Counteract A Ruy Lopez With A Lativan Gambit.

Life Lesson #154: Levantine Hummus spiked up with Jerk seasoning is almost like Margaritas, except that they function without the aftermath of a skull-sucking hangover AND they make you feel a hell of a lot warmer. You’d have to temporarily give up on the use of most of your taste buds for the day tho. But hell, who needs that many anyway?

Life Lesson #155: ‘A cup of candles, oh they flicker. Oh they flicker and they float, and I’m up here holding onto all those chandeliers of hope. Like some drunkard Elvis singing, I go singing out of tune. Saying how I always loved you darling, and I always will. Oh when you’re still waiting for the snow to fall, it doesn’t really feel like Christmas at all.'

Life Lesson #156: It’s the little confirmations that there’s one thing you’re doing right, like a cheap-ass pen that epitomises that maths equation that nobody could solve but you. Who woulda thought that a little “Shatra” from your dad and maths teacher could have you regress into your three-year-old self and you end up smiling wide enough to catch flies in your teeth?

Life Lesson #157: Tying a watch to on of your two primary limbs will not help you keep time as much as gluing a compass to your forehead will help you have a better sense of direction. It just makes it the second most obsessed-over abstract principle ever concocted. And no, you don’t want me talking about the first. At least not when I’m experiencing a Levantine high and a Taoist low.

Life Lesson #158: “What do you mean you’re trying?  You don’t try, you do it.” – Dad.

Life Lesson #159: Knight to E4. Bishop to E4. Queen to E4. Pawn to E4. Rook to E8. Checkmate.

When You’re Still Waiting For The Snow To Fall, It Doesn’t Really Feel Like Christmas At All..

December.

I’m not sure I can quite explain it, but I’m glad December’s here. It’s has this air of closure to it, that somehow everything’s gonna be alright after all, and even if it’s not, it will be over nonetheless, which is almost just as soothing. You can see your breath now, and you’re gonna feel like your nose is going to freeze and fall off your face, and that’s the beauty of it. Everything feels like it’s there, in one way or another; whether it’s the breath you see or the glasses that blur in the chilly morning, your fingers that hurt when you press the piano keys because it’s too cold but you press em still, your toes that somehow still manage to freeze inside the socks. It has this austere ‘thereness’ to it, everything somehow waits and time slows down. For once, you know that you’re here now. That it will be over, and that it won’t rush.

Or maybe that just makes sense to me.

It was a long day today. I’ve been working non-stop for almost 10 hours. Work makes you stop thinking, as paradoxical as that may sound. If you do it hard enough, it’ll shush all the voices in your head.

But you might not need to do that if you don’t have voices, that is.

That’s why the voices are essential to a somehow functional life. Just figure out a way to shush the tiny buggers every once in a while. Maybe 7 hours of maths and 3 hours of chemistry aren’t always the recommendable method, but it works you know. You go with what works.

I got a mug today. The Maths teacher had em specially made with mathematical signs jumbled all over them and handed them out to those who aced the supposedly impossible maths evaluation quiz and I got one. That made my day. After a really long day of working at stuff you’re not sure you’re good at or will ever be good at you get this teeny tiny confirmation that maybe there’s one little thing you’re doing right. Numbers always make sense, they look all complicated and jumbled up, but if you know how it’s supposed to look like before you dig in, then it just can’t go wrong. Maths is easier than people. It makes sense, it just adds up. It has patterns and predictable algorithms. You draw on whatever you know and your head does the rest, and most importantly of all, if the equation has no solution, you tend to know it beforehand by checking on a couple of values and replacing figures here and there. That’s not the way with life. You never know how it’s gonna turn out. Or if it will turn out at all. With Maths you tend to know it’s going somewhere even if you’re not really sure where the hell that is, which is comforting, in an odd sort of way. It’s easy, dependable. It’s also ‘there’.

I got this song stuck in my head, which is odd since it’s one of those sappy songs, or rather pussy songs really, that get tossed for some other slightly emotionally-grounded song. Besides the feline-tinged voice and the pathetically patched up lyrics – seriously, ‘let the judges frown’? It actually makes sense, in some I-only-have-a-500-word-stash-of-chick-vocabulary sort of way. Try having “Goodbye My Lover – James Blunt” stuck in your head if you’ve had your brain folds reared to the reverberations of something along the lines of ‘Cemeteries of London’ or ‘Thistles And Weeds’ for over a year. It just doesn’t...sit well, you know? You think Amy Lee is emo? Try this androgyne.

And what’s with the squealing ‘I’m so hollow’ line anyway? TWSS much? Someone shoulda given him a heads up, if you catch my drift. It’s bad enough that he hits notes only canines can pick up, no need to ground the hermaphrodite allegations. Well, that Maroon 5 dude is an epicene too, so I guess that’s, like, the thing nowadays, or whatever.

life Lesson #153: Theocracy happens when Theology sleeps with Democracy. Not a good sight.

E=MC²

So apparently people can get headaches and tummy aches at the same time. It could also coincide with Chemistry dilemmas, accidents poking out on repressed shit and heartaches. So that’s all literal, figurative and metaphorical forms of agony all in the very same time tunnel. You’d think Einstein would come up with an equation for that, but all he came up with is Energy equals mass multiplied by quantum squared. So, if we can consider energy to be the actual agony, mass to be the literal and figurative agonies with quantum symbolizing the all too metaphorical but not any less realistic good ole heartache squared, I’m kinda on the same lane as the homologous psychological outcome of a fucking nuclear explosion, wouldn’t you say?

Whatever.

So Chemistry. The third most bullshit-filled, theoretically-based, illogically rationalizing science after Politics and Theology. How many exceptions can one friggin element have for god’s sake? And why am I required to know that Ionization of Sc +3 requires an exceptionally high amount of quantum to break the relatively stable Sc +2 configuration at this point of my life? There are only so many metaphors one can use to differentiate between Electron Affinity and Ionization energy, which, if I may add, included an explicit hoe metaphor to get it to stick. There I’ve said it. So, lemme put it easy for the kids, Ionization energy is the hoe who pushes everybody away but electron affinity is the one that releases equal amounts of energy in congruence with whatever relationshit she’s going through. Heartaches messing with head much? I knowww. You should see my chemistry book. Gooooooooooootta love metaphors.

I’m whining. I’m off.

Mom’s Birthday :)

Of Cabbies And Capes.

Apart from riding in a cab with a senile citizen who kept asking all the other unsuspecting cab riders what they thought about the elections just so he could say that the government, to him, is just like the French Occupation; “They have to be removed”. My “And where are you gonna put em?” quip was not appreciated. Life Lesson #152: When arguing with old people, it’s highly advisable to go with their version of the plot.

Cab rides are becoming almost the most entertaining faction of my, recently commuting-enhanced, day-to-day life. I gotta say, finding my mom singing the chorus to “a7eb el nas el ray2a” that she’d picked up on our way home from Arabic Class was one hell of a sight. I haven’t laughed that hard since I overheard her singing Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” all the way from the kitchen to the living room.

Did you ever notice that in folkloric Arabic songs, the musical instruments used are almost always of an unidentifiable origin? You can hear the tune, yes, but where is the tune coming from? Think about it, how else could one mix the sound of a stringed instrument with that of a wind instrument? There’s a sound, yes. But what is it?

It was mum’s birthday yesterday. It was nice because I don’t usually get to spend a lot of time with her, so we hung out most of the day, had yoghurt and vanilla ice cream and saw Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows. Yes, my mom’s cool enough for a half centenarian to see a cinematic alteration of a children’s book series on her birthday and still have fun, thank you.

On an unrelated note, ever noticed that despite the fact that all movie series, a different composer is almost always hired to transcribe the track but it’s only in the Harry Potter series that the track is different variations of the same idiosyncratic tune even though the composers come and go like pawns?  In the Twilight series, each movie of the three that have been released has had a different musical background, except for Carter Burwell’s Bella’s Lullaby off the first  movie that is somehow now still stuck in everybody’s head as the official soundtrack, even though it’s hardly there in the second and third movie. If my memory has not betrayed me, I don’t think it was there at all. Alexandre Desplat, the composer of the soundtrack of New Moon  and Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows Pt.1, changed the entirety of the logo-worth musical body to the former while sticking to the same outlines of John William’s “Hedwig’s Theme” in the latter, which means that there’s a segment in the contract of the Harry Potter movies that states the tune should not be altered over the transcribing process for marketing purposes, thus limiting the composer’s freelancing power over it, quite outrageously to the work of another’s; which is a hard contract term for supposedly renowned composers to agree to unless the production is big enough that they have to overlook it to be a part of the produced body of work. Come to think of it though, it’s only when the music is constant that the fairytale is somehow..tangible, wouldn’t you say? I was thinking it could be a marketing legerdemain to contribute the rooting of the Harry-Potterism in the history of cinema as well as the minds of the beguiled audience as somehow a body of its own. Too many variables to one thing is fidgety whereas unvarying aspect, albeit transfixed, are grounded.

Format Em Neurotransmitters.

Life Lesson #151: ‘The bad news is, your choices and intentions, some people and places, those nights spent awake and all you've done, can lead you to the bottom of the pit. The good news is, this wouldn't be the first time someone's crawled, tooth and nail, out of hell.’ – IWTFY

Thanksgiving.

I was talking with a good friend of mine about what we’re doing for thanksgiving, and she told me she found a slip of paper inside a book she bought  from an old lady at a bazaar where she wrote that everybody should have at least 10 things to be thankful for every thanksgiving, listing hers. Besides how heart-wrenchingly adorable this is, it provides an excellent paradigm shift. People should stop to think about happy stuff more often, even if they’re not real. Oh and by the way, for thanksgiving, I went on a walk with dad till 3 am in the morning. Despite the fact that now almost a mile away people thought we were drunk and I was his girlfriend, nobody manages to laugh that hard and talk non-stop for three hours over a can of birrell and a sandwich of ta3meya except dad and I. :) I had the Birrell, he had the ta3meya, nuff said.

Here goes..

• My Dad. A couple of days ago, 5 am, neither of us could sleep and were just splayed there on the couch with the lights off watching some gory movie where a dude rushed into a room and kept punching someone’s face off saying “AND I LOVED YOU THE MOOOST!” then dad says, out of the blue, “..Remind me to kill you”.

• My Mug of Coffee that’s always there when I need it.

• People who stay alive.

• People who stay.

• Time.

• Derelict Pianos in old school buildings.

• My cathartic Jogging route.

• That Danny Elfmann, Dreaming, Coldplay, Maths and Rubik’s Cubes exist, in the same world that I do.

• Cussing. :)

• Selective memory.

Oh, and as a good friend suggested:

• “You could add annoying the fuck out of people with stupid music on my blog”.

I Really Fucked It Up This Time, Didn’t I My Dear?

It’s Getting Hard To Hide Em Sniffles.

In the Penn and Teller Bullshit show, if the fat guy is the one who does all the talking, then what’s the use of the shorter creep? They were trying to save money on props?

There’s not much going on really, I’m stuck with major exams all week long, fell out with a good friend, caught a cold in the process and am currently alternating Penn and Teller Bullshit show on Recycling myths with Barney Stinson’s CBS blog.

   Not my idea of a balanced equation.

I should start on the shitload of chemistry I have to get down before 8 pm, but in a bit. By all means, you gotta tickle the humour bone every now and then especially when you’re feeling so down in the gutters that you could supply for your own recycling mission, so it’s a good balance. I was gonna try and  slip in a couple of comics too, but there’s only so much you can do with a limited DSL connection. You thought I was gonna say head, didn’t you?

I’m trying to hide the cold from my mom, till after Thursday or Friday, so that I’m not on house arrest by then and manage to snatch a few outings before resuming the force-feeding of science, and in this case, antibiotics. That BBC spray thingie is evil. It’s designed by a dimwit who wanted to paralyse they’re smart mouth of an opponent’s speech abilities long enough to try and think of a decent comeback. I’ll quote a good friend who said what all of y’all are probably thinking by now: “You’re not supposed to spray it on your tongue, doofus! you put it way back in your throat. TWSS.” Still tho, that thing always makes its way down the road and I end up making sure that I didn’t swallow my tongue by mistake every couple of minutes for the next half hour. How else am I supposed to know that my tongue is still in my buccal cavity and not way back down the oesophagus if I can’t FRIGGIN FEEL ITS EXISTENCE ANYMORE!

A White Blank Page, And A Swelling Rage.

Life Lesson #150: “I'm sure you've met them. They say they’ll put you back together while they’re tearing everything apart. And they use the type of lips you can taste for years.” -IWTFY

Who Said Nuns Dunno How To Party?

Dead People Don’t Text Back, You Know.

Life Lesson #141: Whoever said overworking yourself makes you get over things was one pathetically desperate motherfucker.

Life Lesson #142: Whoever said overworking yourself makes you get over things was one pathetically desperate motherfucker who knew what he was talking about. Life Lesson #143: ‘You can’t jump the tracks we’re like cars on a cable.’

Life Lesson #144: Inhale. Now Exhale. There. Do that a couple of million times a day and you might, just might, feel better. Well, alive feels better, right? Now that I think of it, death probably feels better, because there are no feelings at all. It’s easy. You don’t have to do anything. Not one. Muscles relax, your fist unclenches and everything just stops. People stop. Then they Inhale. And Exhale. And they do that a couple of million times a day, and a couple of million more. You’re in peace and they’re hyperventilating, they’re making up for the couple of million inhalations and exhalations you’re behind on; just till the world gets used to the amount of oxygen you’re saving and water vapour you’re not producing. You were just a prop to complement the atmosphere. Nothing more, but nothing less all the same. Then they inhale, exhale, just a couple of million times this time around. That’s just how the world works. It doesn’t necessarily have to mean anything. It just is.

Life Lesson #145: Whoever said you had to, how do they know, and why should you listen to them in the first place?

Life Lesson #146: “Satellites contain us. Traffic lights control us. Rockets shoot us up into the stars. Letters keep us posted, numbers calculated. Nothing picks us up when we’re down.”

Life Lesson #147: It’s not you who’s drinking the coffee. It’s the coffee that’s drinking you. It’s not you who’s smoking that cig, it’s the cig that’s puffing you into thin air. But then again, so does everything else, at least this time it’s your choice, innit?

Life Lesson #148: Stop twitching, no one can hear it but you.

Life Lesson #149: “Common sense protects us. Everything affects us. To the outside light it’s paradise.”

What’s This About? Why Don’t You Just Read The Damn Thing?

I just wanna lay around and do nothing for a couple of extra millennia. I have tons of stuff to get done that I should’ve been working on during the vacation, and even tho most of the time I had absolutely nothing better to do, I just didn’t do any of em. Not everything tho, I mean, I’m behind on schoolwork but for some reason I’m working on three piano pieces at once. Basta3bat much? I knoooow I know. Meh. You gotta lay back every once in a while anyway. We’re back in the rat race in a couple of days anyhow, and I have no intention to waste the only time I have off just to lower the acceleration with which I inevitably burn out next week. It’s happening anyway, might as well lick as much whipped cream off the cake. That doesn’t sound right.

On an unrelated note, I believe phonetics were invented by a pompous cretin because if discernible is pronounced di’surnubul, why don’t they just fucking write it as they say it? Last time I checked that was the whole point of written language.

Did I tell you how much I like smoked salmon? Well, I do. And it got me thinking – you know since no other fish has that tingy aftertaste than salmon – that maybe people taste different too; to cannibals I mean. Every, sort of, species of fish has a different taste to it, doesn’t it also apply that people taste differently according to race, persona, genes and lineage? Short people genes make you taste slightly richer than tall ones, or maybe  assholes are more of the type that’s way too smelly to eat. I dunno. I reckon I’d taste like sashimi sushi, I’d hate to be tuna. Could the meek ones be sort of like the fillet of the party, all spineless and bland? There’s gotta be some truth about giving someone a piece of your mind other than the actual resulting interaction. Well, you get the picture. Nah?

Oh bite me.

You know, according to the theory of evolution, in a couple of years to come with the amount of office hours and the decreasing hours of actual socializing, man is bound to grow an inflated butt and have a protective epidermis formed on their mouths for lack of usage. Maybe we’d grow extra fingers on typing demand, that’s how amphibians developed you know, you grow hind legs instead of em extra set of flippers. I wonder why we still have an appendix tho, it’s always been there but it’s almost like all the other organs forgot what the hell it’s supposed to be doing in the first place, sort of like a second earlobe. What’s the use of earlobes anyway, they couldn’t have possibly been installed there because you might have thought of piercing it with some shiny sharp object and keeping it there so that the wound doesn’t close up. You know, come to think of it, I’d like to see who the fuck was so commercially-oriented so early on in evolution that they’d go as far as jabbing a metal rod into an flesh extension twice to look slightly better. How could they have known it would even look better? Going out on a limb and punching a hole into a part of your body for accessorizing is just gory. It’s good they thought of it tho, I’d like to get three more on each ear, except that I could never keep a set of earrings for longer than a day. What’s the friggin point anyway? Maybe they even thought of the hole before thinking of earrings, and the earring thing started out when that masochistic prehistoric emo wanted to keep all the old wounds instead of re-opening em every couple of days and keep track of how many times they threw a fit. Rationalize it for me, will ya? If you currently have nothing better to do I’d like you to ‘give me a piece of your mind’ about what the hell the first dude/dudette who thought of piercing was thinking. Oh, and while you’re at it, maybe you can think of what they were thinking using coal millimetres from their absorbent eyeballs or of colouring their eyelashes blue with liquid that doesn’t wash out and makes em stick together and stand on end like pricks. I swear to everything holy – and tasty for that matter – that if you know how body language explains the use of lipstick to improve your outer allure you’ll be more conscious of it than that ketchup stain on your white cashmere cardigan.

A Heartbeat, A Heartbeat, I Need A ..

Life Lesson #140: And then you call upon god.

So Who’s Victoria?

So apparently Victoria’s Secret makes hoodies now, and sweaters. You can feel both sweaty and hot. I wish they didn’t tho, I had a plan to totally bring down knock-offs that don’t properly research and cite brand names. Oh come on, if you have enough time to friggin steal the design, at least do it right. The extra 2 minutes the R&D dude could spend flipping through his notifications could have easily gone through the official website to see which brand they could pin the leaked blueprints on. Apparently he does tho, what a shame. His incompetency would have provided for an excellent waste of time. Meh. Next time I won’t get my hopes too high considering that almost all cyber geeks have Victoria’s secret app and diligently subscribe to the web feeds, eh? Why of course. Stupid me. A stereotypical developer would be an 18-21 year-old no-lifer stuck in a basement with glasses which size and thickness is inversely proportional to how active his social life is and directly proportional to how much time he spends interacting with static charges, buried under a truckload of consoles with a stripper as a background. Ha, how could I miss that?

I need new running pants too. Totally busted mine last fall, but I can’t quite imagine a Victoria’s secret sweat pants without an imprinted lingerie. I dunno, maybe a red thong on top of the actual pants 70’s style? Aaaah. Gotta love those. You can forget about going back home that day tho, so they should totally include some sort of brochure with the route printed on, not to mention charge for the kidnapping transportation and accommodation expenses as well as the fabric and design. I mean, the pimps just gotta have a cut man, it’s only fair.

I need sleep. I’ve been sleeping for 5 hours every couple of days and it’s just not enough. I can’t get myself to fall asleep even tho I’m so friggin sleepy all the time. It helps with blogging tho, because you always get the strangest ideas after hours, it’s kind of Irony’s way of going: “HA! IN YOUR FAAAAAAACE ASSHOLE!”. Like, why aren’t there any bumper stickers for Adha? Why and How could there be a sub-genre called Acid-Jazz if Jazz and Acid are both genres and there’s no sub-genre dubbed Reggae-Salsa or whatever?

So tell me now where was my fault in loving you with my whole heart?

Reactivated.

Yeah, that didn’t take too long. Meh.

Of Bass Clefs And Rehab..

I wonder why all of Yann Tiersen’s work is based on the bass clef. It’s true that he mostly writes waltzes; so it naturally follows that the bass clef is composed of equal monotonic segments giving off a certain sound with the starting tone accentuated, giving off that background generic ‘Valse’ theme, but that’s another story. Anywho, the focus of the piece usually moves from the treble to the bass clef in no time, with all the minimalist work given to the right hand. My dad and I have this theory that he might be left handed, or maybe it’s because most of his work is composed on the accordion, which gives the left hand all of the tuning work? I’m not sure. He’s flipped the tables alright. This is not about mirroring YouTube videos. How the actual sheet is transcribed, if you can read it, you’ll see the tune shifting subtly to the bass clef, having started in the treble clef, with the left hand handling most of the work. It’s quite obvious in “La Valse D’Amelie”. I personally prefer the orchestra version though, but it’s most obvious in solo performances. Even if you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, if you give a flying fuck, here it is:

 

So, anywho, now that I’ve taken the piano geek out for a walk in the sun, how is everybody? I’m experiencing a severe case of withdrawal. With my Facebook account sporadically deactivated on a bad day, my phone alerting for no calls and my msn appearing offline most of the time. It’s odd how we’ve all become so dependent on a virtual life. It’s not real, it’s an imitation of real, with several factors eliminated from what is supposedly a social media. Talking to someone in person is more intense than talking to them on the phone, and phone is more personal and emotionally-oriented than chatting. The visual aspect is eliminated on the phone just as the auditory one is eliminated online. Social interactions should be audiovisual. And, well, rehabilitation is always good I guess. Withdrawal forces the other aspects to sharpen up a little, we’ve all been a little rusty around the edges because of that, haven’t we? Well.

On a unrelated note, I think we should all start learning Chinese. I mean, come on man, with that rate of economical upper hand the midgets have got, Mandarin’s gonna be next millennia's English. Meh

I Have Deactivated My Facebook Account. I’m Not Sure Why. But I Did.

I Still Hate Mozart Though.

Poof.

It’s really odd how things that used to feel so potent one day could just disappear the next, it’s not quite explainable, verging on borderline tickling bipolar, but anyway. It happens. You don’t even have to try. Or do you? Was it because you tried? I mean, things don’t just lose effect on their own, unless they’re radioactive that is. I think I’ve discovered a new element. I wonder how many half lives this one’s got up its sleeve.

And I’m On My Knees.

Life Lesson #132: ‘And sometimes I get nervous, when I see an open door. Close your eyes, cut the core, clear your heart. Are we human?’

Life Lesson #133: When you’ve hit a new low, then you probably need to format. Obviously a little defragmentation would do you good. Possibly a restore. Did you save a restore point?

Life Lesson #134: Did you lose your head? Then you need to grow one back. Duh.

Life Lesson #135: Maybe you need to go away for a while. Somewhere where nobody exists, nothing resounds and stuff doesn’t make sense in the first place. Because, well, because:

Life Lesson #136: Let me tell you what I think are pretty good ideas. Cave man week experiment, cutting off all access to technology till your head stop contacting people off national boundaries and maybe, just maybe, till you can manage to make your own sense instead of swallowing it. Readily digested time-forwarding serums don’t work when you’ve lived the time you’ve fast-forwarded and can’t remember anything that you said or did because you weren’t  really there to see it, being telepathically off national boundaries. Worse yet, when you’re actually back, people hate you for things you don’t know have happened. Pretty therapeutic dope, eh? You’re not supposed to get it, so don’t try and re-read. More good ideas? Dancing. After all, we’re not human, that rules one out.

Life Lesson #137: Stop saying things you mean, maybe you should learn to start lying for a change. Lying makes people happy, gets em off your back. Honesty sucks, you know that right? Because, well, if you’re the only honest one then you might as well have been walking on truth serum and everybody enjoys seeing you with an installed lie detector. Freak shows aren’t in anymore, so you gotta learn to keep pace with the parade. It’s part of growing up after all.

Life Lesson #138: Long sentences make for short memory spans coupled with a little, just a little, lazer-enhanced hindsight, because after all, How do you know what’s real and what’s not? You don’t.

Life Lesson #139:

Cut The Core.

Life Lesson #131: ‘Send my respects to grace and virtue, send my condolences to good. Give my regards to soul and romance, they always did the best they could. And so long to devotion, you taught me everything I know. Wave goodbye, wish me well. You’ve gotta let me go.’

Clingy, Creepy, Annoying And A Nuisance.

Life Lesson #130: There’s only so much one can fuck up. Then it’s irreparable, and then the best way to say I’m sorry is to leave because after all you’ve been enough of a pain. I’ve heard what I do to you when your voice cracked. Tell me how to make it right again.

There’s No Saving Anything, Now We’re Swallowing The Shine Of The Sun.

What makes you think I’m enjoying being led to the flood? We got another thing coming undone. And it’s taking us over.

You Desired My Attention, But Denied My Affection.

Why Does There Always Have To Be A Title?

Let me tell you what’s on my mind without telling you what’s actually going on, which is something I like to do to all manners of unsuspecting people just for the rush of it. Not that big on sharing, which is ironic since I have a blog, but ask yourself, what do you really know? Exactly. There’s this oh so plausible loophole of an option which gives every person the right to treat other people as incapable of memory retention unless for keeping track of things to use when they’re trying to get back at you for that, I dunno, friggin crunchy you took and never gave back, thus ineligible for being implemented as ones in normal day-to-day situations, which means you’ll have a ton of people to talk to and actually hang out with, but use for time-wasters. More of wanting supplements of a Rubik’s cube you’ve been hiding from a certain 6-year-old with a tantrum on a planet where it’s illegal to punch kids.

The worst thing you could actually do to yourself is to tell people how you feel. Be so fucking hard to see through that they’d consider using you for upgraded bulletproof vests and you’ll be fine. You see, telling them what you think is cool, because the thinking is a body of its own that can talk back and defend itself, formulate for later modifications and well..boggle their fucking minds out of their skull so much that they’ll revert to the ‘what-the-hell-made-me-give-a-fuck-in-the-first-place’ phase and leave you the hell alone as they should have. But feelings, naww man. Never been good with those, always inserting the wrong jokes with the wrong phrasing at exactly the wrong time. Not a good idea to project something you’re not that good at handling, because if they get mishandled/manhandled without you knowing how the hell to handle them yourself, then maybe it’s not the best idea having them permanently built-in. You’d think people would have invented dischargeable feelings by now. Something along the lines of emotional condoms. Bleh. You’d also think they wouldn’t have time to invent the latter without working on the former. Well isn’t the human race just a great disappointment. Where are all the jetpacks people? I wanted one of those when I was 10 for when I was 12. I like the back of my chair tho, it revolves, leans to the sides and corresponds to your weight as it slightly gets pushed back, supporting you nonetheless.Too good to be true, must’ve been invented by aliens. Well, it’s a good compromise for the jetpack. The human race is not a disappointment after all, for something to be a disappointment it means that it actually tried, putting forward the effort. Humanity doesn’t give a fuck, so it doesn’t qualify.

I have a long day tomorrow, but for the first time in sometime and shortly after I decided that maybe falling out with some people isn’t such a bad idea after all. I’ve reverted to the cocoa-sipping, 6-am lounging not-giving-a-flying-fuck-about-having-to-wake-up-early-enough-tomorrow-to-manage-studying-and-droos-with-actually-having-enough-sleep-involved-in-the-equation me. Well. Nah. You need to unplug once in a while, from everyone and everything. And that while is an indefinite amount of time set aside for rehabilitation purposes only. There are some people you are supposed to let go, however hard that maybe because the people you love talking to don’t love you back and the people who claim they love you are boring fucks.

I’ll be 18 in a couple of months. It’s slightly unsettling. You’re admitted into the adult world shot full of hormones in a kid’s body and the experience of a goldfish. It’s not that tho, it’s the actual listening. You see, when you’re the kid, nobody actually listens to you. It gets in your hair as a kid, yes, but when everybody starts listening to you all of a sudden and you’re not that big on the whole mass-talk corundum, it holds the structural similie of playing your digital drum set with your stethoscope. You’ll get your ear-drums ruptured and it’s not likely that you’ll sound good doing it because it’s a million to one chance you’ll have made an idiot out of yourself so early into it that it doesn’t even count as a decent trial. But well, looking like an idiot is probably the most cited on your CV, so I’ll just stick with the actual outcome argument and I’m set.

Common Misconceptions about Night People.

Citation: http://www.vic.com/~nlp/np-miscn.htm

We're insomniacs.

No way. We aren't trying to get to sleep.

We're unhappy.

Only when we're not allowed to follow our natural schedule.

We have a medical problem.

We're as healthy as most, and more than some. For instance, you won't find us getting skin cancer from too much sunbathing.

We're weird.

Who's calling who weird?

The Bozo Boss Misconception: We're lazy, dishonest, and trying to fool everyone because we want credit for working at night but we don't actually do it.

This is an evil misconception. It doesn't just show a lack of respect for our natural body rhythms, it says we're liars, frauds... Employers always seem to feel this way, even when we're doing the kind of work that can be measured somehow. All I can say to these people is: Have you ever observed a Night Person at work during his or her peak time? After you've sat up with one of us and seen how productive we are, say that again.

We think we're vampires or have some other kind of odd self image.

Do you think you're the sun god Amon-Ra just because you're a Day Person?

We're criminals who use the excuse of staying up late to cover our crimes.

Sure, and all the people who are up in the daytime are law-abiding citizens. Crimes are ONLY committed at night.

We're hooked on caffeine.

It doesn't take coffee and coke to keep US up!

The only reason we stay up late is to go to bars, cavort, and party.

Sure, we like it as much as the next guy, but don't blame us just because we're always the last to leave!

We're delinquents and degenerates.

How do you know? Do you follow delinquents and degenerates around at night? If you do, what's YOUR problem?

Dear Cyber Space,

You’ve kept me sane. I’m inclined to admit to you that with everybody else choosing another person, country, dimension or, worse, life; you’ve been quite a sweetheart.

Truly, Who gives a fuck.

There’s No Saving Anything.

Call Me A Nutto, But I Believe it.

My fish. We believe he was feeling lonely and probably having nightmares, so we put a mirror next to the bowl.

This is not a joke.

It was my dad’s idea. The mirror. I think my fish believes he has a new friend and they hang out most of the day. It’s amazing how it’s the only spot he chooses to sleep. The fish, not my dad. You have to see it to believe it.

Every Night.

You can underestimate it, but it’s good company that keeps you from going nuts. Even if you were a fish. I wrote about this before I took the picture, and then I walked to the bowl Knowing, just knowing, that it’s where he’ll be.

Coincidence?

Younger Now Than We Were Before.

I almost did it today. I almost said it. But they can’t know. Never. Not ever. I’d rather suck up and handle it, even if it means I crumble for a million years to come. It’s not Black and White. Not with this. This has to be Gray. So I can still breathe.

Never.

What Am I Supposed To Say When I’m All Choked Up That You’re Ok.

This Is My December.

Life Lesson #120: Today I lied to someone I love to protect someone I care about. I’ve never had to do that before, and yes I’m telling the truth. Lying is practical, kinda like privacy settings. On the other hand, some people aren’t wired to handle the truth, and can only function when everything is pleasantly blurred. Others don’t deserve the truth, because they have no place of control in your life, and knowledge is power. Bottom line is, I learned to lie, and I now believe that it’s a manipulative trick that everybody should master. When it comes to using it, you’ll know the right time. Gray areas aren’t that bad after all, as long as the gradient is directed the right way.

Life Lesson #121: You can’t be comfortable stepping out of your comfort zone, or else you wouldn’t be stepping out of it in the first place. Duh.

Life Lesson #122: “A kind word can warm three winter months” – Japanese Proverb. And it can blur years ahead. Which is better. And worse. Depending on how you look at it.

Life Lesson #123: “My God, amazing that we got this far. It’s like we’re chasing all those stars, who’s driving shiny big black cars”.

Life Lesson #124: “Love of mine, someday you will die, but I’ll be close behind, I’ll follow you into the dark. No blinding light, or tunnels to gates of white, just our hands clasped so tight, waiting for the hint of a spark.”

Life Lesson #125: “Roxanne, you don’t have to wear that dress tonight.”

Life Lesson #126: The little things. It’s always the little things.

Life Lesson #127: He’s alive. A month later. That’s good. Better than nothing. And no, not that nothing. I mean that other nothing, with nothing after it. My fish is dying though. Or having nightmares. “Beera”, my fish, is bolting around the bowl for no reason at all. You see, fish don’t usually do that, unless you wake them up that is, but I don’t do that. 7ram. It’s bad enough that they don’t have eyelids. Karma can get a wee bit immature trying to settle the odds.

Life Lesson #128: Seas nake. Intended.

Life Lesson #129: My December.

Want A Job?

I’m hiring assassins, someone who can do it fast though. Not that picky about the painless part. Send your CVs in this week. Don’t miss the opportunity.

I Don’t Really Like My Flow, No, So..

Invariable Fact Of Life.

A text after 12 has dead people in it. RIP. Here’s to hoping a better place exists beyond the radio waves.

You Oxymoron.

Words are easy. You gape at confrontational people, and miss the ones who actually do it. Words are way too easy. They make people cringe and give you the rush, but they’re not worth a dime. They’re words. You fling them at people because they don’t stick.

One Of Em 3:00 Am Talks

I was watching a documentary with dad just now on JSC doc, it was about squirrels. So there was this pack of really cute squirrels, one of the squirrels was called Scarlett. Yes, it was dubbed but they still kept the names. So Scarlett had guts, probably bigger guts than her little body should hold, metaphorically speaking. She found a fruit one day and kept it all for herself, putting up with the chase from the other squirrels and getting bloated because of it. Pretty selfish, eh? Anywho, some time afterwards, a snake came out at within their territory. Scarlett then kept bugging it to go away, and she kept coming so damn close that the cobra kept lashing at mid air and missing her each and every time. Then, the cobra made it back to its lair. The squirrels were going nuts, pun intended. They couldn’t have a snake there. So Scarlett, that little suicidal maniac, goes halfway into the lair, provoking the snake to come out of one of the other branches. Scarlett then hurried out, followed the cobra and flung herself at the Cobra. The last shot was of the cobra around the squirrel’s head, my hand on my mouth and the commentator saying “wa af3a el cobra ektafat behaza el katl”.

“DAD, Dad, don’t these things follow instinct?”

“What do you mean? Yeah of course they do.”

“But Scarlett went against her survival instinct!”

“Yeah, but she had to defend her clan”.

“What clan! Fuck the clan! That little suicide bomber! She  just had her head bitten off.”

“It’s not like she’s dead.”

“Yes she is! The dude said Ektafat Behaza el Katl.”

“El *Kadr. Ektafat behaza el kadr.”

“So Scarlett’s ok?”

“Yes, the friggin squirrel is okay…”