Alien vs. Manual

I’ve been craving an espresso for a couple of days now. Thing is, the huge espresso maker keeps sitting there staring back at me like a little alien, with arms and eyes poking out of it everywhere, all of its button and knobs, and I can see the coffee. I can see the friggin coffee in there. Problem is that I have no idea where the coffee goes in, or out for that matter. The catalogue is a piece of work. Click that, turn that, add water, wait for 3 minutes, turn that, now click that button, add coffee, set it to 5 min, click that, turn that knob, wait, now release that and turn that all the way. Well, I turned it alright, just before it fell off. I swear there’s a button in there that looked like it’s giving me the finger, except that after a while I saw that the knuckles where the coffee cup and the middle finger was the steam swirling out.

You know those movies when there’s this guy fighting an icky alien with projections sticking out of every inch of its gooey body, and the guy pulls a glowing sword out of nowhere and cuts off one of the gigantor’s arms with goo spraying out and the thing squeaking in horror? Yeah it was like that. Except that even then the goo, supposedly the coffee, wouldn’t come out just so the little alien would relish the pain in my eyes, almost as if it were screaming at  me: “Yes, I’m punctured you bloody vampire but you’re not getting one drop out of me mister!” And the only thing squeaking was my decaffeinated head trying to push laser rays out of my eyes to punch a hole into the coffee container and get it the hell out of there and right where it belongs, inside me, saturating every brain fold.

Oh well, I’m gonna have to read the manual.

Come to think of it, espresso makers are supposed to be user friendly aren’t they? They don’t have to be operated by bartenders. I mean, it should be easy if the bartenders can multitask the mind-boggling process of making coffee with the show they pull swishing the bottles into the air and all. Besides, that thing is there in every office, isn’t it? And the average Joe’s intelligence could not possibly get past the craftsmanship of fixing a stapler now could it? Meh.

Well that leads it to the inevitable conclusion, that being the fact that I’m either too dumb to operate it, or it’s too smart for the human race. Either way, I’m gonna have to read the manual.

It’s not in the company’s interest to manufacture it that complicated, or is it? You see it in some department store as you’re shopping, you’re in awe, you can almost taste the coffee just from looking at the thing, and oh what a thing it is. You buy it, fumbling through the manual and deciding to figure it out as you go, and in a couple of minutes the coffee is stuck there like a hostage and you dunno how to get it out, with your taste buds screaming out mercy in the middle of the desert that is your mouth, after being seduced by the relief of the  mirage that is the brown syrup. You end up with that freak of nat…technology, and no coffee. So, considering that most people that would care to buy an espresso maker are luxurious coffee addicts, they’d go into a frenzy and rush to the complains department of whatever store they got it out of – which is equivalent to the pill dispensing section in every rehab – are referenced back to the insurance and maintenance department of the manufacturing firm where an amiable guy with a tux rushes out to meet you, espresso paper cup in hand, listens diligently as he sips on it and asks the ultimate question, the one that solves it all…

“Have you read the manual?”

Relationshit

Me: Dad you know when you get this ice cream bucket and you keep eating out of the same spot till there’s this huge scoop in the middle? That’s how I feel.

Dad: Then you should leave the ice cream bucket out of the fridge for a while so it can melt and fill out that scoop.

Me: Yeah, but dad there will be less ice cream.

Dad: Then you should learn how to make homemade ice-cream hunnie.

Oh and next time don’t eat out of the bucket, that’s why they invented portions.

I don’t like hospital visits.

I Hate Waiting

Well, between the fact that I should get a ton of studying done for tomorrow’s evaluation quizzes and the fact that mum and dad left almost an hour ago, scoring a first of cancelling work, to check on Grandma who’s been throwing up all morning , revelling in the joy of bugging people while you’re shot full of espresso just for the sole masochistic sake of abusing them – that’s what live entertainment is all about now isn’t it? – I might as well quote that person I don’t remember the name to who said there are no such things as accidents, god just wants to remain anonymous. Relevant?

Detachment is such a beautiful thing. Besides the fact that it drives people nuts, it gives everything you do or say this tinge of objectivity…

But when was objectivity such an awesome thing after all? The way I see it, when you’re subjective you’re adding in that little humanizing ingredient, that might disintegrate all the other ingredients, but then again don’t all reaction need a little form of catalyst or another to gear up and jolt into action?

My subconscious is sending subtle messages to my way too objective self to start studying chemistry in the form of outlandish analogies. Come to think of it, I should be worried about Grandma, but for all of you who know me, I’m pretty numbed out right now.

You see, for people to be worried, there has to be this undertone of hope highlighting that ulterior case scenario where everything turns out just fine, hence the worry that it just might not. Well, I’m not sure of it’s objectivity, detachment, plain numbness or just belated sensory reactions to stimuli, which I highly exclude given the fact that I’m espressified beyond humanity’s reach, I’m just..not. Well, because of that simple fact that I learned over the past year. If it’s happening, then that’s all there is to it. What you feel or think about it, doesn’t mean squat. You might as well reclaim your motor functions soon enough before you let everything else fall apart and start affecting people around you, when they have nothing at all to do with it now do they?

Or maybe I’m just trying to rationalize the fact that I’m cold.

I might as well be rationalizing the fact that I’m cold for the sole purpose of not sitting down and studying for tomorrow. I could be that cold. You be the judge. That’s what everyone’s so good at now isn’t it? Sitting around on their royal asses judging how everyone should be or react.

Well, tell you what. If by tonight my grandma is not dead, my Chem and Arabic quizzes aren’t all flunked out and my sanity is not chipped at, I might, just might, let you get away with it.

If it’s not, well, I’d recommend everyone on my msn list to block me for a couple of weeks. I’m abusive when I’m cranky, and I’m pretty fucking cranky right now.

Fuck you.

Just because I can.

Kan Lazem At5emed

I have chem class in less than four hours, and after 3 trials to fall asleep including turning off the lights, reading a good book and listening to music, nothing worked, because I don’t sleep when I’m anticipating something, and I realized I don’t really give a shit, so I’m not anticipating anything anymore, except that now I won’t sleep because I don’t want to, not because I’m anticipating something because I’m not anymore, but  because I really don’t care anymore. It’s not that much of a paradox now. You see, Chemistry is one of the many things I really suck at, and is similarly one of the many things I bust my ass to be good at, because I’m frustrating like that. Last year, I failed the first evaluation quiz, was provoked, and was the only one to ace the second. Still though. It bugs me…So I like it.

I was flipping through blogs of complete strangers when I found this idea someone started and it caught on. A letter to your 16-year-old self. Well, I’m not sure what’s so special about 16. 16 was one hell of a roller-coaster for me, I don’t like it, I have absolutely nothing to say to it and I don’t want it back. I’m 17, and yes, I have nothing to say to my 16-year-old self. However, when I read that post, with all the advice about growing those bangs and not caring about that 9th grade bully because he’ll turn into your best friend in college, all I could think of was this: If there’s an older version of me in some parallel universe and it can somehow hear me because she’s the future me so everything I think will be in her past or whatever, well, if there’s anyway we can telepath, I could really use that letter right now.

Don’t get me wrong though, I was never big on predictability, nor do I need a longass lecture, I have plenty of people who supply me with that on cue, sometimes even off-key for the matter. A little ‘everything’s gonna be alright’ won’t harm anyone though now would it? And not the one with the psychological masturbation. The real deal, with proof. Now that I actually can sleep, I’m falling asleep on the keyboard right now, I don’t want to. There’s something very depressing about the process of going to sleep. Just the waiting before I actually do fall asleep is the part that bugs me. As long as I’m conscious of the waiting, it’s never over, and I’m hardly never conscious of the waiting, so for the past year I’ve been falling asleep. As in staying awake till I can’t take it anymore and slip out of consciousness. You skip that part with all the waiting, all the memories and stuff you suppress into the back of your mental closet and clog it with a cabinet comes creeping out like Bogey man. It’s never pretty. Unless you’re inebriated, then they’re just psychedelic, and you’re too doped to realize if they’re pretty or not. They’ll just be…there, and it won’t feel that bad. Except that it costs you brain cells. Brain cells aren’t that available these days.

What’s that about writing prompts? I checked it out and I admit there are some creative ideas in there that I might use myself, but for some reason, writing prompts didn’t click. They sound like the literary equivalent of blood transfusion, and for some reason that I can’t pin I imagine tiny smurfs with forks poking my brains, must have something to do with the word ‘prompt’. I hate that. One of the few words that I really hate and could easily lash out on someone for saying to me is ‘yalla’. What’s wrong with taking your time and letting things flow? Even if you don’t have time and you indeed have to do something, the word ‘yalla’ in itself is the definition of encroaching. Why should the word ‘yalla’ exist unless someone wanted to move and move you with them, much like pawns? Back on the subject, I trailed off, but writing prompts, as creative as they are and I know I’ll use them some time when my writer’s block overrides my ‘yalla’ revulsion, I really don’t like them. Just the idea of something ‘prompting’ you, really doesn’t sound that appealing in my head.

On an unrelated note, well, not much unrelated since the word ‘prompt’ and the ‘yalla’ effect with lack of sleep led towards the ultimate prompters. Flies. Why do flies keep coming back to you after you shoo em away with the back of your hand? Don’t they have any sense of self preservation? Maybe they have short-term memory loss, but even if they do, don’t they have an ego?

Partaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyy!

24th of Aug – Happy Birthday Daddy :)

I’m so excited about tomorrow. It’s daddy’s adorable 50th birthday! We’re throwing him a surprise party, what’s funny is that two other people were gonna throw him surprise parties at the same time. We found out as we were inviting Uncle that he was gonna come back at our place and Ghada was gonna bake him a cake, and Uncle Ashraf, Marine and Nadine’s dad were gonna take us after tomorrow’s engagement at their place where they’d organized a surprise birthday party for dad. So, after a lot of…compilation :D, we’re gonna have it at our place, and we all got dad this huge espresso maker since he loves coffee so much. I’m gonna get him the butterfly set he’s always wanted sometime this week. All in all, tomorrow’s gonna be biiiiiiiiiig. Daddy’s gonna be 50 :) Which means he’s exactly, if my calculations are correct, 2.9411764705882352941176470588235 the kid I am and has been rocking this planet for 5 decades in a row.

Let me share some facts about dad, some of the little things that make him rock as my hero of all-time:

1. He Loves Coffee. Every morning he wakes up, puts the whole world on hold and enjoys a mug of coffee, relishing every sip as he makes that gulping sound and breathes out the cigarette smoke as he reads the newspaper.
2. He is one of the world’s renowned pillow/water fighters ever.
3. He’s my all-time homeboy and is the one you go to with all the stories and crushes. He actually stayed up with me all night in every single one of last year’s finals even though he had morning appointments at work, and re-arranged his sleeping hours so he’d get sleep through the day. Also once when I almost didn’t make it to a friend’s birthday that was 2 hours away because of dad’s work, he was gonna take me to hang out at their place and give them the birthday gift some other time that week. The friend’s place was two hours away too.
4. 2 am walks after a bad day around the block and car rides when I couldn’t sleep because of exam anxiety.
5. Beethoven music that he sleeps to, coming through the walls to my bedroom.
6. Mickey Magazines that he loves falling asleep to.
7. The toe pulling and ice-cube slipping inside clothes, and many more methods he uses to wake me up in the morning sometimes.
8. The way he asks me “how do I look?” with a dashing lateral squint, busting a pose when we’re getting dressed up for something.
9. The wink with the coded messages and inside jokes.
10. The 5-hour-long debates about things as trivial as Mozart’s eligibility as a composer, which I always disagree to, or those times when we’re trying to fix something either of us did to the laptop or PC, which always ends up with us restoring them a couple of times and calling up someone the next morning.
11. The names he has for every something/someone that ever exists. I remember he called one of my crushes 2ol2asa because of the queer shape of his head – he then claimed himself way hotter and the shape of his head much more assimilating to man than veggie –  calls me To7fossa for no apparent reason, called one of our former pet birds ‘Potocotos’ and calls his car Fastooka because..well I have no idea what that means.
12. How he actually liked Lil Wayne, you shoulda seen him bobbing his head.
13. How he has a victory dance, explained in a former blog post.

Well, this list could go on forever, so I’ll just cut it short at an odd number just as I like it.

I claim my dad the coolest dad in the whole world. Die in envy. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Don’t try this at Home

Guest Blogging + Ismaïl El-Kharbotly (click here) =

“I'd like to talk today about something that had just crossed my mind: Bags. all sorts of bags; sports bags, luggage bags, bag packs, business bags, messenger bags, etc. As far back as my local history book describes, bags were either bits of cloth and leather sewn up, or animal bladders slit open, or something. I just had a fleeting image of a caveman carrying an open pig's bladders with his sneakers stuffed inside.

But then again, if we can imagine cavemen stuffing their sneakers into pig bladders, we have to imagine a whole set of other sports designed by cavemen, for cavemen. How about a gym? Big Alpha Male warrior needs workout, grunt, grunt. Or Football? We can kick that same pig bladder around, no problem w aho kollo multitasking. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is how the Flintstones show must have been conceived.”

Whereas:

Guest Blogging + Laura R. (click here) =

"Dear Mirette,
I wanted to tell you some stuff about me that you don't know, for no other reason than I had no idea what to blog about.
This is hard. You know a lot about me.
I went to French pre-school and KG 1 in Sacre Coeur. Have I told you this bit before? I know it's pretty weird for someone to change schools from French to English, but I'm glad I did. Everyone said that people in French schools are also good at English but people in English schools are only good at English, which is true most of the time, but I like the school I'm in. My second grade English teacher is the one that got me to love writing. My principal is a sweetheart and I cannot imagine what I would have been like without her influence in my life. Plus Teen Stuff's in English.
Come to think of it, I told you this piece of information before, haven't I?
Hmm... let's see, what else don't you know about me?
When I was younger I was chubby. Hard to believe, I know, but I had a round face and it made me look not thin. I can show you pictures if you don't believe me, but you'll have to hold on a second because they're all saved on my cousin's laptop. My parents aren't that much of active photo-takers (except for the tons of videos they have of me and my brother as babies), but my aunt and uncle are.
Happy feast, and stop thinking your craziness is something bad. You ARE crazy, but that's a good thing. Would you rather be boring?
I love you,
Laura."

Metamorphosis

I knew this day would come you know, and have been advised by the few people who give a shit about to snap out of it and grow a backbone, suck it up and try not to lose myself or sanity in the process, I appreciate your slap-awakes and will ask you for some more because I sure as hell will need some more,  but I reserve my right to moan, so brace yourselves people. Well, you can always consider it a subjective documentation of el mahazel elli hanshofha.

Sanaweyya 3amma.

I had my first Arabic private lesson today. The name of the centre and teacher will be left anonymous because I don’t wanna end up in jail for stating facts. This is what goes on behind closed doors people, insider edition knowledge, past all the sugar-coating and garnishing.

The entrance to that, supposedly renowned centre, is a ghetto-like side door in an obscure street, with an oblong entrance much like that of a garage’s parkway, after you get past that, with a guy sitting inside some sort of a cardboard knock-off imitation of a bullet-proof booth, which I tried to rationalize as protecting the receptionist from the angry crowd of sanaweyya parents, because for no other reason should a person be kept under such conditions, much like a specimen of human race put in a box for alien to gawk at and poke. I was directed up a steel ladder by that receptionist who has a phone instead of his left ear and a pen instead of his forefinger, with people sitting and waiting for God knows what in that same manner you’d expect outside of a hospital’s ICU. The ladder was like those you’d find past the emergency fire gateway, up a storey, then I had to bend and pass in a doorway, and as I did there was some sort of liquid dripping on my head. You know these little msn emoticons with the smiley walking with its own raining cloud? Yep, it was like that, except it was in no way as cute. The peeing clouds were the overworked air conditioners leaking, or at least I hope that’s what it was. In the rat hole and through the rat maze, and out of body guinea pig experience, 3 lefts and a right later, I got to the class where I was supposed to sit the Arabic session. Its architectural design was by no means equipped let alone predisposed for teacher-student interaction, in the shape of an ‘E’, with walls dividing it needlessly, the only way you could see the teacher was if he was standing exactly in front of that middle partition. If he goes too much to the left or right, you’ll lose visual. Needless to add, because of my short microcosmic nature, piano ear practices came in very handy, because I got through that class almost by ear all the way. There’s no such thing as a hallway, or passageway come to think of it; you couldn’t possibly pass between the chairs without having your butt slide someone’s copybook off the arm rest or your handbag square in someone’s face. Thank God for tolerance, or suppression, whichever comes first, with a little hopping and tiptoeing I got past in one piece, and found two familiar faces. Apparently my class found safety in numbers, and I huddled next to them. The chairs were some form of remnant from a hostage scene, they had signs of torture all over it, with stories carved out at all angles like radio SOS sent into outer space in hope that a form of life will come to the rescue, even the ones that couldn’t be reached judging man’s normal anatomy and bending direction at the joints. How did the scribble get at the lower back of the chair if it was at an angle that couldn’t possibly allow it unless you’d been sleeping under it, or holding the pen as if you would when you were scratching your ass, I had absolutely no clue. It had almost jelly-like resilience, bending to your back’s curves, and even enhanced to have that reclining capability you’d find in a dentist’s chair. In other words, it did not take the friggin pressure you apply with your friggin back without fuckin going all the way with it goddamnit! The armrests had bites out of them, much like the scribbles, I couldn’t get it through my head how someone would like munching on wood, but then again I didn’t want to think it was not a ‘someone’. The rodent/insect factor was too cringe-invoking, I mean, it’s not that I’m against co-existing in anyway, by all means a spider came out to welcome me as soon as I was seated, even though it was on its way from some hole in the wall which I reckoned was his habitat up to that lop-sided cabinet they had on the wall with a hole where its base should have been, which I calculated to be its working space, and how Feng Shui it is indeed. Unless they were performing astro-oriented gravity-free experiments in there, I couldn’t figure out how it would be put to work. I was glancing up the cabinet when the teacher glided into view Fred Astaire style, because of that architectural glitch I told you about. For the first 45 minutes of the godforsaken 120, his speech comprised of no more than the following: Self-advertising blown out of proportion which is better-put as the verbal equivalent of ‘pleasing himself’, a set of rules that could not be humanely applicable unless we were bots living in a Utopia with him dubbed as Sultan – which goes along the lines of the former analogy –  him offering his therapeutical as well as academic contribution with domestic disturbances and/or class transference – which provoked a lot of logical day-dreaming including pondering how accurately my knuckles would fit in the hollow bridge of his nose – him saying some scary analogy about a ‘cat eating its own offspring to protect them’ to himself – what the fuck was he thinking anyway? How could the thought of us being devoured/overworked by at all comforting even if his intention was to get us good grades, which isn’t because he’s a maniacal materialistic prick like all the rest of em, at least he’s a good one – followed by him chivalrously adding that he’d never cuss at us, and even if he did, he wouldn’t drag the mention of parents into it. Soothing eh?

A slip was handed around where you’re supposed to fill out your personal info. To my surprise, it involved inquiring about what both of your parents’ line of work was. What’s even more surprising is that no one else, but myself, my very own brain-fried self, found it the least surprising. Everyone was studiously filling it out with their heads down and nothing but the sound of the pen against the deformed surface, then one of the four hunky assistants passed around taking it back, with occasional manhandling if you’re not done with it already.

Since the use of your eyes is not much required if you’re not tall enough, I spent the rest of that class with my head down taking notes, and wholly-concentrating using hearing, as an inside joke, I mind-linked as if he was a giant trombone and I’m transcribing Groovin by J.J.Johnson, except that one was not as jazzy and way more dull. He was just as lively though. Meh. God I wished he were a trombone, he blows anyway.

Domestic Duels with Death-traps

I love dad. No seriously. I LOVE dad. Not only does he keep me sane, he also frustrates me to the point that increased the rate of our monthly pillow fights from an average of 2 to almost 5. Lemme tell you why.

It all started with the duck dance. Dad was waltzing around the dining room table doing his victory dance, which involved him revolving around the dining room table, drawing on his cigarette as he shook his butt at me in sheer defiance, punching his hands into the air cha-cha style at intervals with every butt cycle as he sang encouragements to himself into thin air. Why you may ask?

He’d upgraded the PC to windows 7, 64-bit, and for some reason, Adobe Flash Player had not yet released a compatible version with it, so all the YouTube videos or online songs wouldn’t play. I’d dismissed it with “Windows 7 sucks, my laptop’s better. HA!”

You see, we’re kind of competitive.

So I glance his way to see what he’s so happy about, and he keeps glancing at the playing YouTube video of a dude in a tux talking about rubber duckies, and glancing back at me sticking out his tongue then doing another cycle of the duck dance.

I mentioned the competitive bit now didn’t I?

“What? You can’t believe me?” – He says at my figure, walking up to PC almost magnetically. “Windows 7 sucks eh? Lemme see you make it work”, he said defiantly as he closed the browser, leant against the wall with his cigarette, looking on.

I click on internet explorer, type in YouTube with a more than usual dexterity on the keyboard glancing his way as he snickers at my jovial methods of trying to impress him.

It doesn’t work.

So, as he takes another turn around the dining room table, doing a cartoonish impersonation of my dexterous typing in the air and squeaky voice as I say windows 7 sucks, waiting for me to ask him how he did it. And so I did.

“When adobe flash player doesn’t play with 64-bit, what’s the first thing you think of?” – he says.

“Playing it in 32-bit?”

“Exactly. And windows 7 comes with two version of internet explorer, one is 64-bit and the other is?” – he relishes.

I pout. “Very funny…”

“So you can crack Photoshop and save me $300 something but you can’t play a YouTube video?” – he says and draws a deep breath of his cigarette, smiling as he does, hardly puckering to exhale it from the urge to laugh at me.

“Show me what you’re made of” He says as he draws a big cardboard box that was sitting in the entrance hallway. “That’s a vegetable cabinet, almost as tall as you *he snickers*, put it together”. He lets his voice trail into space as he pulls out the dismantled plastic pieces. He looks at me, smiling that oh so provoking grin at me as he says “And no jackhammer…” He places the catalogue on the floor for me, grabs his lunch from the dining room table to the couch to get a better visual of me sitting in the middle of the rubble.

“What if I can’t do it? Do I scratch out engineering from my future aspirations?”

“No hunnie, you scratch out ‘college’ from your future aspirations.”

I gulped and grabbed the manual, a dog-eared one paper with instructions on it.

“But dad it’s not in English”

“I should have taken the manual away then…Since it’s so useless” – he reaches for it.

“NO, “ I snatch it. “It’s ok.”

‘This is just Lego blown out of proportions’ – I think to myself soothingly.

15 minutes into it.

“WHERE THE FUCK IS THE JACKHAMMER?” – I scream as I grab a leg that conjoins the two compartments and use it as a pseudo hammer.

“What the hell are you dooooooooiiiing!? This is PLASTIC! You don’t ..” I cut him midsentence.

“Go away I'll figure this out.” – I had no idea how I was going to figure it out but I was not taking his help.

I’d managed to put the helix together, standing up now to reach, and got to the part where you have to put in the wheels. After a couple of trials with the pseudo jackhammer, he interjects “Are you sure that last shelf is on right?”

I pause, not looking his way, and for the first time, even though I was looking at the shelf the whole time, I see that it’s on upside down. I flip it.

“Ehmmmmm” – He teases me.

After a lot of banging, the wheels were in, now for the compartments, I had to fix on the door with the knob on to the three-sided cube and push it through the rail into the helix. I kept staring at them, figuring out where all the things slide in, projections and hollows, and managed to figure it out on my own, he helped to fix it since apparently I wasn’t strong or thorough enough to make it bullet-proof because there was an insect in it. “It’s a friggin ant hunnie!" – He said as he cleaned it out. I didn’t let him touch the rest though.

I slide in the compartments, stand up in pride and head off to the bathroom to wash my hands, and, to tell you the truth, to do my own version of the victory duck dance as I walked away.

He stops me midway, singing out a “Where do you think you’re off to? You’re not done yet.”

I go through the whole process in my head, looking at my finished work standing so proudly in the middle of the smithereens of paper, manual and cardboard box.

“Are the compartments in right?” – He ventures, taking a mouthful of lunch, chewing it ooh so slowly.

“Yes!” I say confidently. “Well, yes I believe they are” My confidence dwindles. “Or aren’t they?” I say pulling them out.

From the placement of the sole sliding wheels on the other side, I logically conclude what I’d done wrong.

I’d slid them in backwards…

“So you can crack Photoshop but you can’t put together a vegetable cabinet. Interesting”

“Oh come on gimme a break I did a good job! I did an EXCELLENT job!!!”

“No, just good. Not excellent. Good for a first time though”. He then goes to pinpoint where I went wrong, pulls out another cigarette and winks at me heading off to the bathroom.

God, I friggin love him.

However, If he didn’t have work in a couple of hours I would have shown him what I’m made of, in a good pillow fight.

Read After Iftar

Potato wedges. Not the best way to describe potatoes, neither are they the best side-dish to pizza. Pizza hut’s marketing section needs a mental jog..or rather a wedgie.

Accent relapses, 80-year-old women who cause you to regress to your British accent, topped with the phonetic mouth twitching and pausing sounds, for a couple of days without noticing. No one’s quite fond of brits. They’re like potato wedges, without the potato part. Except British actors, like Hugh Grant. Now those, despite the fact that they’re complete and utter douches, snobbish rejects from proper friendly society and a disgrace to the intensity that is peculiar to the human race, are flat-out sexy. I dare you to find one girl who hasn’t had the hots for Colin Firth at a point or another. I take that back, Colin Firth is for menopausal maniacs with middle-age crisis, crushing over vegetable soup. Maybe just Hugh Dancy. *euurgh*

Adding words you like to the dictionary of your WLW so it wouldn’t bug you just because it’s old school and you wouldn’t bother with the live update that sends the entire windows’ package programs into epilepsy is a new level of egotistical that I’d like to be patented and named after me. If you have a problem with that you can go and serve yourself some wedgies.

And no, not the potato ones.

Peanut butter and Jell-O. I always wondered why they chose that combination, of all others, to describe a love-hate relationship or two completely different people that get along. I only like Peanut Butter  chocolates, and Jell-O always sends chills down my spine because it looks like something that has been digested before. Putting two pastes together that are equally convulsive yet unequally disintegrable is plain baby-food. I’m not a fan of passed-down grubs, so unless you’ve been second hand eating I can’t imagine what the first person who made a peanut butter and Jell-O sandwich was thinking other than the fact that they had nothing else left in the fridge, or was into masochistic feeding habits. Give your taste buds a thrashing, or maybe punishing your sweet tooth for ever asking for anything outside of your beet-root and cabbage soup diet. Why couldn’t they just say Pizza and beer? or mollokheya and rice? or Tuna and macaroni? or Green tea and dark Lindt chocolate? Hot cocoa and chilli? Milk and Cinnamon? Fish and orange dip? Chips and Ketchup? Sushi and Lime juice? Luncheon slices with Jam spread on cake? Renga w basal?

Oh now don’t give me the critter sound effect…Anyone?

Meh.

I’m glad that person was opheliac enough to mix em though, because I love peanut butter and jelly, as long as they’re together, because it only works when peanut butter gives the jelly structure and when jelly stops peanut butter from sticking to your palate, and only hosted by the bread that actually stops your stomach from defying gravity.

Do I hear it for cheetos and mayo dip?

The Tree

When I was a kid, I used to believe that trees were aliens that were sent to observe human life, and was very convinced that they can see, hear, feel and live in a way that we might not get or observe, but it’s there. I used to fall asleep with the windows wide open as I watched this giant tree, standing almost like a spectre, watching me back. Watching over me.

It even had a sound. When everything was quiet, the wind went through the leaves and created patterns of swooshing sounds that helped me fall asleep, like a lullaby. A Buddhist's “Ooom”. I never liked it when things got too quiet, and the continuous swishing was comforting, dependable. Like someone was there. The ‘thereness’ of it put me to sleep. The ‘Thereness’.

I can’t help but think, how will I fall asleep when they cut it down? ‘If’ they cut it down?

Will I ever be able to sleep again?

What's Tom Waiting for?

 

Thing is, when it comes to Tom Waits with that raspy macho voice of his, twitchy body language and almost schizophrenic demeanour looking like a friggin drunkard with his head shoved into a parallel dimension only to come back with Jedi-like insight, you just can’t help but feel utterly and irrevocably drawn by it. Drawn in every sense of drawn possible. Just the way a moth is drawn to fire, or a fly to the beauty of a spider web. A mosquito to the that enchanting blue light…Only to get zapped.

If you’re a suicidal maniac that is.

I’ve always had a thing for nutty people. I never knew what could spark the ‘like’ in it other than the fact that I have latent nutty genes, that gets all buzzy when they see their like.

Then there’s the suicidal part too.

If you were one of em extinctees who actually still listen to the song playing on blogs, the one currently playing is Green Grass – Tom Waits.

The thing about that song is, you could listen to it, over and over again, till you actually know the lyrics off by heart, and attribute it to that psychedelic, outlandish and almost inebriated imagery that is so idiosyncratic of Tom Waits and never get what it means, dismissing it for another sappy love song gone off key, but something about that song made me go and look for its interpretation. A pause. It could have been the fact that I had nothing better to do, and oh I’m so glad I didn’t.

It’s not for those with a frail heart. You’ll either relate to it or hate me for making you go through this, for reasons you’ll find out by the end of the post. By all means, get a grip and stop being such a wimp. This is fucking genius. Only if you’re detached.

Now if you’ve listened, before you read this, you’ll know what I mean, so if you haven’t, I want you to listen to it before I say  what it actually means. It’s pretty simple, and so beautiful in how it alters sense in a second, once you get it. It will almost feel awkward the way everything will start to make sense after you know the backdrop. Those are the lyrics, because I know you’re too lazy to actually wait and listen to the fucking thing for 4 minutes of your oh so precious life just so I could prove a point.

“Lay your head where my heart used to be
Hold the earth above me
Lay down in the green grass 
Remember when you loved me
Come closer don't be shy
Stand beneath a rainy sky
The moon is over the rise
Think of me as a train goes by
Clear the thistles and brambles
Whistle 'Didn't He Ramble'
Now there's a bubble of me
And it's floating in thee
Stand in the shade of me 
Things are now made of me
The weather vane will say
It smells like rain today
God took the stars and he tossed them
Can't tell the birds from the blossoms
You'll never be free of me
He'll make a tree from me
Don't say good bye to me
Describe the sky to me  
And if the sky falls, mark my words 
We'll catch mocking birds
Lay your head where my heart used to be
Hold the earth above me
Lay down in the green grass
Remember when you loved me
Remember when you loved me
Remember when you loved me”

Now, read this again, or better yet listen to it again, with the knowledge that it was written from the point of view of someone who’s dead and buried in their grave to their loved one.

Now THAT is what I call revelation. You don’t just listen to this on shuffle. It gets stuck on repeat, on your wmp and your head. It’s one those things that linger, haunt you.

But you wouldn’t know, unless you could relate to it.

Hate me. I don’t care, just listen to it.

Shout out

Ok, let’s get to the point here. How, just how can you get that personal? I mean, I’m up at 6 am, with my jaw dropped reading friend’s blogs and facebook notes, in which they actually poured their hearts out in. How could you do that? I find it utterly terrifying the fact that you could say that in front of a handful of people let alone as many as 500 at a time. How? Just how?

When you’re older…

Nothing seems to quite make sense as is. I can’t seem to remember a time when I didn’t look upon the precedent year laughing at how much of a kid I was then, only for the same to happen when I’m a year older, laughing at one I laughed at that, when I was still a kid then. I was going through my stuff when I found my old diary, my first one, when I was almost 11 years old. First entry was about something I had absolutely no recollection of. I can’t seem to remember anything before I was 14 for that matter, so it was a blinding surge of anamnesis. A bird, specifically a wild finch, had flown into the house by mistake. As an 11-year-old by nature I became  emotionally attached to it in an instant, I didn’t want to let it go. I clung to its fidgety mass and racy heart beats, overlooking its own discomfort because I wanted to hang on to it, keep it. The dilemma here is, for anyone who’s familiar with pets, if the creature is wild, if it was born free, it cannot survive in captivity. That day, we kept it in a little cage and dad took me out on a long walk. Next morning he gave me a book, I don’t remember what it is now, I didn’t write its title, and got me to read a passage. It took some time to work through it, but it was about how sometimes when you love something you have to let it go, because you can’t be selfish. I wrote how he’d talked to me, in that way dads talk to their little girls, in that childish simplified language and theatrical intonations. “How would you feel like, if you were free and happy, flying here and there, living on the edge, day in day out in complete and utter freedom, then somehow someone takes that away from you. That someone loves you, wants you to be safe, gives you food and drink, no bigger birds can pick on you and you don’t have to worry whether you’ll live or die the next day. Wouldn’t you miss how free you were? When your entire life you’re used to spreading those wings and flapping them so vigorously you could hardly breathe, then in a matter of days you can’t extend them because the cage is too small. You can see that tree but you can’t go out and play with your other bird buddies, you have food and drink but you’re not that hungry anymore, as much as you’re hungry for that tree.” I remember reading the passage again and again looking for loopholes, but all I could think of is being that bird, and holding on to him didn’t sound that gratifying anymore. I knew I ’d be happy to keep it but it wouldn’t be happy to be kept. An hour later, I went to let it go, only to find that it had died. Not of malnourishment, not of abuse, but because it had tried so hard to get out that it hurt itself and broke its neck. I never felt so selfish in my entire life.

If you overlook the sappy tinge to that story, you’ll see that the melodrama is quite relatable. How many times do you hang on to people and feed off them when you know, deep down, they don’t want you to be there? That they’d feel better if you’d let them go once and for all? Wouldn’t it have been better if you’d fed it and let it go?

Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V, Alt+F4

How would you define something as too personal? You do it by recounting the thing in your head with different people you’re close with as your audience, the rate of cringing with every face should measure how personal it is. Unless you’re an emo attention-seeker who’d do anything for attention including tell everyone about that luminescent Hagrid-worthy wart that grew out of your earlobe into a virtual earring, and no I don’t have a wart, this is an imaginary analogy blown out of proportions to prove a point you insufferable smartass.

Thing is, what if everything about your day became something that would inspire cringing when replayed in front of one face or another? What would be left of your day to post on a blog other than your hygienic routines or feeding sessions. Your entire blog post would comprise of the trip of parsley all the way from your mouth, through the alimentary canal and inevitably all the way back to mother nature through that little hole to which I care to mention is in the same category as most of the people I consider audience in my head. No not you. You really think I’d venture and cuss at my diligent blog followers? Well, yes I would, but seriously it’s  not you this time. Funny enough, most of the people I consider audience in my head are either too old to bother with technology or too young to sit down long enough to read a blog post since they already have a life. So yeh, you’ve just been called life-less. Well, either that or a-hole, take your pick. No really you don’t get to pick, you fall short from being called an a-hole since you don’t get to choose if I imagine you all grinny in my head as I decide whether or not I wanna write about that the comment I heard flying at me from two horny Neanderthals riding a vespa on a fine evening was in fact, to my delight,  “YA 2OSAYARAAAAAAAAA”.  You’re probably reading this because you have nothing else to do, or because you never had anything to do and there’s  nothing interesting going on your FB newsfeed now aren’t you? Moment of truth.

Ok, since I’ve gladly gone through the daily amount of cussing at that Grr in the back of my head, I can move on to what I’m actually blogging about.

How far would you go for someone? Would you set up a blog for them from scratch if Google suddenly decided they wouldn’t let them in? Would you skip a nights sleep waiting on them to come online because you’d promised you’d be there to hear about the bad day they mentioned when they were stuck at that party in a panicky transatlantic text with a time difference of 7 hours ahead at 6 am? Would you share a Twix bar with them? Would you overcome your ego to talk to them after a big fight? Would you do it knowing that they wouldn’t do the same for you? Would you cancel an outing with friends to organize something for them? Would you crack Photoshop for them? Would you give them the last slurp of hot chocolate with chilli that you’re craving because you forgot and took a bite out of the omelette dump you just made that washed away all the chocolate/chilli taste from your mouth? Would you read a 400-page book by a sappy author that you can’t help reading with a sarcastic melancholy tone in your head like that Homer Simpson does to quote Marge in his head for? Would you give up drinking for, even if it were coffee? Would you stop talking to them because you know they do not appreciate your existence in their life? Would watch a two-hour documentary about something they’re passionate about to keep up with what they’re saying, even though you don't give a rats ass how lampreys, being invertebrates themselves, contribute in research of motor movement to enhance the chances of the crippled at walking again? Would you go against what makes you feel comfortable to share something that would make them feel better? Would you get up and make coffee for them if they’re too groggy and have morning appointments that have made them cranky at every existence in the room, including yours?

These things never happen you know. They’re analogies blown out of proportion too, in their own way. By all means, who would give up coffee for someone, I know I won’t. You’d have to offer a better alternative, and to this day there is no other alternative to coffee that holds firm in debate against coffee than marijuana. Until the latter is legal, I’ll stick to the former, for if I can’t be delusional as a 3-year-old on vodka, I’d rather be inert as a fly on red bull.

Now the ultimate question. Take a deep breath, lay back in your chair and answer this. Could you honestly think of someone who’ll do any of this for you? – Besides your mom, very funny.

Neither can I.

That’s right, do you know why? Because they don’t exist. They’re a figment of someone’s imagination, an analogy blown out of proportion for argument’s sake. They’re as real as big foot, as tangible as unicorns and as genuine as…Cadbury chocolate bars bought out of a retail store.

Wake me up when they legalize marijuana.

 

All For The Birds

I’m considering filing a petition to add “Blogger’s block” to Merriam-Webster’s dictionary or summat. For someone who used to make a scroll-invoking, which is my digital version of the expression ‘page-turning’, blog post out of sipping coffee, it’s quite odd that I’ve been stumbling over the last three posts because I keep deleting them or keeping them in my over flowing drafts folder because they’re too personal.

8 AMs are suckers. Coffees are life-savers and fish suck. The phonetic combination of fish and suck is fuck…or sish. 6 AMs are buggers and Keane are relaxing. Chocolates run out though, so do people. Except that the latter run out screaming.

“If only I don’t bend and break, I’ll meet you on the other side, I’ll meet you in the light…If only I don’t suffocate, I’ll meet you in the morning when you wake”.

They should have said ‘if’ you wake. But then again there’s no other side, no light, and no one’s meeting anybody anywhere now is there? That’s why 8 AMs suck you know. It’s also why chocolates run out. Quietly.

“I don’t know you and I don’t want to, till the moment that your eyes open and you know”.

But your eyes won’t open will they?

No they won’t.

Have you over wondered how many coffees it takes to kill you? That would be delightful wouldn’t it? A good way to go, shot up into space with your eyes open. Of course the shot up into space part will be because you’ll be too euphoric to sit still for 5 minutes in a row. Still though, there will be those imaginary eyelids substituting for your carnal ones. Your eyes will be open, but you won’t see anything. Your eyes will be open though, wouldn’t they? Isn’t that what it’s all about?

I See Dead People

Life Lesson #70: You know who cares and who doesn’t give a shit when things get hot, someone gets drunk or you pick on someone a little further than their confidence supply allows. Unless you’re up for a radical re-evaluation of who cares and who doesn’t, keep things amiable and, well, boring.

Life Lesson #71: When they call  back a day later to check whether the transatlantic text had dead people in it or not, they give a shit. When you get an impulse to call them back and tell them every little update there is, even if they have nothing to do with it, since that transatlantic text then, yeh, you care back.

Life Lesson #72: All Heil Block Button.

Life Lesson #73: Lindt dark chocolate + Green Tea. The ultimate Love-Hate relationship after peanut butter and Jell-O.

Life Lesson #74: What inspired this amorous rhyme? Two parts vodka, one part lime.

Life Lesson #75: Abajoora <3

Life Lesson #76: You’re only as strong as the rate with which you bounce back. If you’re on props, yeh, that’s not gonna work.

Life Lesson #77: Chewing gum keeps you from binging.

Life Lesson #78: If you can’t see beyond your own eyeballs, maybe that’s where you oughta be for the rest of your life.

Life Lesson #79: If you can’t handle the newsfeed, set a blog as your homepage.

Could it be worse?

Click

Ladies and gentlemen, pimps and players. Halfass rappers and true-rhyme sayers. Gobshites all over the world. Apparently googling for blog post ideas didn’t work, or else I wouldn’t be here drawing on lame lyrics  by the one person I truly hate with my blood pressure a little bit gobsmacked since the only thing I found, besides imagining, to my discomfort, the last line rolling out of Lil Wayne's steel traps,  was a blog post a bout a dude who was googling for blog posts ideas when it hit him, why not write about what to write about when you have nothing to write about when you wanna write yet can’t think of anything to  write about? Well, I dunno if it’s just me but how can he know what to write about when he was googling for something to write about because he had nothing to write about to begin with? Couldn’t he have just used up the reserve of nonsensical compilation and  save me the motherfuckin chafe of it all? Isn’t it enough that I had my memory of Lil Wayne’s mouth jogged fresh?

So, going through the usuals, writing on random discussion boards and checking notifications, it hits me. Why is it always the one who doesn’t give a shit? I mean, come to think of it, it’s always the badass. This probably doesn’t make sense to most of you. Good. To those of you who do, zip it. Better.

“She fucking hates me
And I love it
Wait
Where you going
I'm leaving you
No you ain't
Come back”

Goldfish are not cute. I lost all liking I ever had for lollipops. Popping wrists for confession and threatening to punch a boob are called torture. I don’t talk slowly and I sure as hell am NOT scary. Blunt? Yeh. Whimsical, reckless and kinda suicidal? Kinda. Cold? Yup. Badass? To a reasonable extent. But Scary? Gimme a break. And last but not least, my eyes are NOT yellow.

“You ever love somebody so much
You can barely breathe
When you're with them
You meet
And neither one of you
Even know what hit 'em
Got that warm fuzzy feeling
Yeah them chills
Used to get 'em
Now you're getting fucking sick
Of looking at 'em
You swore you've never hit 'em
Never do nothing to hurt 'em
Now you're in each other's face
Spewing venom”

Cabbies should be born dumb, security guards blind and content managers deaf.

Marijuana should be legal, because other than the fact that it’s nature’s way of saying high, therapy is expensive, organized belief is poison and a gun to the head is not something you can walk off by drinking a lot of liquids like a friendly hangover. Keeping hydrated doesn’t put your head back together at that, unless humpty dumpty is a distant relative.

Everyone should have a life-long supply of Moro bars, gebna roumy and armed with a microwave. Who could ask for more?

“Next time I'm pissed
I'll aim my fist
At the dry wall
Next time
There will be no next time
I apologize
Even though I know it's lies
I'm tired of the games
I just want her back”.

Oh, and Maow means dude not mom. So does “brenghi”.

To all it may concern

Sometimes I think the only reason you stay in contact with me is to let me know how "well" you're doing now that you've moved on. 

I'm happy for you. Now fuck off.

-IWroteThisForYou

The Leash Is Never The Tuna

Life Lesson #60: If they don’t get it, they needn’t know it. There’s a reason why your forehead isn’t made of see-through material.

Life Lesson #61: It’s not how you say it as much as when you say it. But then again it’s never what you say as much as how you say it. Long story short, if you dunno when to tell or how to cast the flow, you better shut the fuck up and, for your own good, and refer to LL#60.

Life Lesson #62: If you wanna know who gives a shit, bolt and see who notices you when you’re gone. Works like a charm. Don’t do it unless you’ve the backbone to handle if no one does though.

Life Lesson #63: Talk to the weirdo, even if the rest of the flock shunned them. Individuality has a price, see beyond the quirky glasses.

Life Lesson #64: Whatever you do, don’t run away. Just don’t. Having enough confidence to handle rejection or take the fall and move on will save a lot of patching up and unresolved issues without the people you care about, which ranks a lot higher than getting in trouble for it. Even if that means you’ll have to walk around with a black eye for a month. That’s why they made em hugeass sunglasses you know.

Life Lesson #65: Time. When nothing else works, little subtle steps will make anything, and I mean anything, seep into the system of even the most radical retard you’ll ever meet. It’s  just like boiling a frog alive man, it doesn’t know it till it’s dead.

Life Lesson #66: Regardless of what everyone thinks, ego is good. Have a bigass ego and don’t deflate it for the world. However, sporting the Ray-Bans in the middle of the night is plain retarded, and comes off more as an ego prop than show you off as the hunk you’re so trying to be.

Life Lesson #67: Good or bad, right or wrong, you only ever really hear the truth after you've been fucked. –IWroteThisForYou

Life Lesson #68: Electric Lemonades are blue. I like blue. Hence Electric Lemonades rock.

Life Lesson #69: Apparently all it takes for you to dream is to be tired enough to fall asleep without realizing you just did.

Pickled Lemons

I take it back. I don’t love carrots. Carrots, we need to talk. Sorry carrots, it’s not you…It’s me. It’s not your fault, but it could never have worked out between us. You’re too bland. I’m with pickled lemons now. No, nono, save em tears. You’re like a veggie to me now. We’re better off unsliced hun. You’ll find someone who goes well with your mashed entity. My taste buds prefer to be shocked. You’re too…too…well. Meh. Have you always been that boring? Oh, sorry, slip of tongue. Oh carrots, stop it already. You’ll find someone better than me to crush you. Besides, you’ve always hated pickled lemons, now I’ve given you all the more reason to. See? It’s all a matter of cleansing the soul, well, and finding better excuses…Oh what the hell. Carrots, you’re a wimp. It’s over, get a life. I’m with pickled lemons whether you like it or not and there’s nothing you can do about it. Pickled lemons would bust your ass if you even considered the thought. Ha!

Farewell carrots. I’m with pickled lemons now.

Ah, the clichéd one-liners. Well, I understand you have to save face, but trying to play the bad boy here won’t work you know. You don’t stand a snowman’s chance in hell against my acidic babe. However, if you have the slightest impulse to have your face re-arranged, don’t hesitate to bug us.

Tata darling.

P.S. Carrots and pickled lemons are both imaginary characters. Everyone knows coffee and I are serious.

This is NOT a sappy blog post

What is love?

- “But love is not a victory march, it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah” – Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley

- It’s finding out that mom put my Calamine lotion in the fridge so that when my ambiguous allergy fits hit in I can find it cool.

- It’s the fact that yesterday when I choked in my sleep, no one was home and I called dad after I took my allergy pill, he kept calling back to wake me up even though the allergy pill made me pass out twice so I wouldn’t choke again. He had appointments.

- It’s saying you’ll do something and actually do it.

- It’s knowing exactly when and how to fuck off and be selfless enough to leave, because you’re aware you’re not wanted, and still don’t mind.

- It’s waiting in the heat and sun at 2 pm for 3 hours for someone. Or walking for an hour and half to and fro a little gift shop so you’ll get a tiny little thing you know someone will love, and not mention it.

- It’s cussing at people and knowing they’ll take it because it’s one of your scant displays of affection.

- It’s calling at inappropriate hours with no biggies involved.

- It’s about tying someone else’s shoe laces. Or undoing them for fun, then eating candy with the same hand without feeling slightly conscious of it.

- It’s about someone knowing how jumbled your wires are up there and still wanna tap into you down there. And no not THAT down there. Well, aaaannnd there. But that’s besides the point. Head/Heart analogy went bust. Yes it was actually about that. See how much I suck at analogies?

- It’s about having random piano video calls with your friend, even though they’re currently in a different continent.

- It’s when a close friend remembers to give you a hug they promised that you’d forgotten about and it still is sweet after they’ve made fun of your hugging strategy. In my defence, IT’S BECAUSE I’M SHORT!

- It’s about someone pointing out that the mug cake recipe you just found out about and wanted so much has 1000 calories and when you ask what in the world the mug cake ever did to that person to get murdered so viciously, the reply is the very heroically altruistic plot of “el 3afw 3ala eh, mesh a7san a2olek badal ma u eat that every day nd then gain weight nd become more prone to heart disease nd wake up one day realising that ur diabetic because of all the sugar?” Yup, my life was saved...Hooray? However, that same compulsive calorie-counting person ‘ =P’ defined love as

“The flavour of the Belgian fondants melting in my mouth nd lasting for what seemed much longer than it actually was”.

- It’s about having someone who can tell you to shut the fuck up without automatically reverting to having their self esteem deformed in every possible way in less than 3 minutes with a queue smartass comments, because even though it’s a classic “shut the fuck up”, it doesn’t quite register as an attack. That very same person’s definition is

“Love is discovering why god created something/someone. It's like feeling the comfort and safety of home, with a fuzzy feeling to add to it.” – They could have just said love is Cats.

- It’s about having a look with a person to telepath an entire conversation without having to mouth it. That telepathing buddy thinks:

“Love is laughing at someone's little quirks and then immediately feeling guilty. It's knowing what the other person is going to say before they say it, and what's more, knowing what they don't say.”

- It’s hanging out with your couple of close friends looking like shit and talking like a suicidal maniac without giving anything you say a second thought because you know for sure it’s not being scrutinized, just accepted.

- It’s how your dad calls you up at 1 am at the foot of the building, because he’d just gotten back from work, had a bad day and would love to walk it off with you. A lot. Even though you might have beaten him at a pillow fight shortly before it.

- It’s having someone who is mad about Kurt Cobain actually agree to share him with you. Even if that meant a necrophiliac threesome.

- "We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love."
— Dr. Seuss

I Hate Titles

I haven’t written a decent blog post in some time, the fact being traced back to the perennial tedium of my cyber life that has take place because dad’s car is getting repaired. Well, and quite some time before that, but that’s not the point.

So I had this nutty idea to start a YouTube channel, besides the two that I have, well three, and am not sharing with you. Back the point, I was thinking of starting one and actually just Vlogging into thin air. Yeah? I thought it was a bad idea too. Well, I already write that stuff, I might as well mouth it? No? Meh. I dunno. I’m bored =/  I’ve been photoshopping for almost 4 hours and drank my first mug of coffee in 23 days. Ignore my incessant blabbering. Or just fucking shut up and read on like a good bot. “If you can’t make a robot, be a robot.” –Grandpa Simpson

Nom nom, what do I blog about? Ongoings? Well, I had a slap awake fight yesterday from a close friend that felt like the emotional equivalent of a crushed femur. I need a shower. I need to go shopping for something that will not be revealed for privacy issues, which is a polite way to say it’s none of your fucking business even though I have no idea why I had the urge to be polite in the first place. Ah, always feels good to cuss. I’m on my away status stating the reason as “bleh”. I had heart-to-heart convos with a couple of busters I hardly know, and as I listened to their dilemmas that they were sharing quite candidly it occurred to me how my anti-social habit of going against the status quo, that is to say on the rare occasions that I actually see it,  and actually talking to the pariah everybody rebuffs is one of the best things you could do to yourself.

On an unrelated note, stop saying good morning. It’s presumptuous, sappy, uncalled for and it won’t get you anywhere to have high hopes only to have them crash with a phone call or summat. Do what I do, say Morning. It saves your psyche a needless bounce.

Back to newsfeed. Two days ago I was upbraided for standing up to something. The usual. Further details on that are repetitive and are starting to claim a permanent slot of the things I get shunned for, so by all means fuck it.

I hate annuals. They have that fucked up nostalgic trait that forces all of your senses back to the day “IT” happened, and it’s almost impossible to stay in the now with your head plunged in that little window of time, which feels almost as if someone’s drowning you in by putting your head underwater long enough to feel like dying yet just in time for you to take a breath for no other reason than to prolong your life for yet another agonizing fit of “IT”. Being detached doesn’t help you with that, I should know. It’s almost as if that little number on the calendar strips you of all defence mechanisms to ostentatiously prove to you like a 3-year-old crying its lungs out for momentary attention that it’s not just another day. When that annual coincides with a friend’s birthday, supposedly a happy occasion, you shut up and hope to god you can keep that little 3-year-old motherfucker locked up in your head.

I need new posters since two of the ones I have up are ragged and torn beyond recognition, in part because of the temper on one of the housekeepers when armed with a dusting towel and in part just because everything seems prone to affliction by time and gravity, even if their parallel and weightless let alone not human. I found out that I like it when the breathing shows as you’re singing, even though it’s one of the leading mediocrities for vocalists, it humanizes the song. At that Jeff Buckley is very human. Perfect is ugly, Shrek is beautiful. Be an Onion, or better, an Ogre.

They both begin with Os anyway.

“I heard there was a secret chord, that David played and it pleased the Lord, but you don’t really care for music do ya? It goes like this the fourth the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift, the baffled king composing hallelujah…’

‘Well maybe there’s a god above, but all that I’ve ever learned from love was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya, and it’s not a cry that you hear at night, it’s not somebody who’s seen the light, it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah, Hallelujah”

Hallelujah – Jeff Buckley

Baffle out.

23 days

Coffee. Oh. *sniffs* Ooooh. Ah. Ehhhhmm. *sips* Nom. Ahhhh. *gulps* Aaaaaaaaaaah.

Euuh

Life Lesson #50: It’s probably for the best not to have internet access when you’re doped, or else you’ll end up with an inebriated blog post you don’t remember you wrote about how much you miss coffee and whether carrots love you back. Oh and did I mention how everyone keeps asking you if you’re drunk?

Life Lesson #51: Nothing beats hot chocolate and your lucky sweater on a cold day, even if it’s in the middle of august and it’s supposedly blazing hot when you’re actually shivering, reason unknown.

Life Lesson #52: Chamber music and hot chocolate are probably the best things you could leak into the orifices limited to your head section.

Life Lesson #53: Don’t call people in early mornings. Never. Not ever.

Life Lesson #54: The Man Who Sold The World – Nirvana

Life Lesson #55: Annuals hurt. Even when they coincide with the birthday of a close friend, you’ll always be worried you’ll be the one moping and ruining the whole setting. Annuals fucking suck ass.

Life Lesson #56: If you know what katanas are, well, you’re a geek. :)

Life Lesson #57: When all your =@ turn into =/ start worrying.

Life Lesson #58: When you’re watching a cartoon movie called “Batman vs. Dracula” on a perfect Monday morning, something’s off.

Life Lesson #59: Richard Clayderman is knows his way around diminished 7th, but Mercuzio would kick his ass any day of the week.