But I Know.

Life Lesson #90: You know that sappy bumper sticker with “Everyone’s fighting their own secret battle” written on it? It’s not sappy. Well, yeah it is, but you know what I mean. No you don’t.

Life Lesson #91: Sometimes, you’re meant to be out of it. So you’re there when others are in it. That’s as far as “meant to be/have” goes as much as I’m concerned. Other than that, nothing happens for  a reason.

Life Lesson #92: Dina’s Farm Products are really good. The milk is wow, that cow knows what she’s doing.

Life Lesson #93: Good still exists, it’s just  anonymous, outnumbered and ultimately misunderstood. Sometimes it’s that little green bug that wouldn’t be shooed that stalls you long enough to see it coming. Sometimes it’s that guy on TV who wouldn’t stop talking about irrelevant crap that even he doesn’t give a flying fuck about so that you wouldn’t have to deal with the workings of your head for just two more hours. Sometimes it’s that really annoying song stuck in your head that gets you through the night. You never see it.

Life Lesson #94: I’m not sure what the hell that author from “The Secret” was thinking about introducing her theory of thinking stuff into existence because if you kid yourself long enough to actually lie to it and believe it, the universe will push it in your way to balance out the fucked signals you sent out into space and keep the Feng Shui of everyday life in alignment. So, all you do is sit around on your ass all day and keep saying “I have a Ferrari, I smell the leather seat, I see the shiny red paint, I can taste the first odour of fuel precipitating on the insides of my nose" and you wake up the next day to find that mommy earth PMSed all night to handle your tantrum and now there’s a red Ferrari on your doorstep. Why? Because you brought it around with your power of belief using the loophole of the ultimate and irrevocably automated balance of nature. I have never seen so much bullshit woven so intricately and so exorbitantly mass-marketed in my entire 17 years of pathetic existence. This is beyond retarded. It’s way past religious false promises and political schedules. I can’t even find a word for it. She was on crack, fucked a publisher and the bullshit sold itself since everyone is looking for anyone to lead them, even if it’s a horoscope or a stupid fortune cookie slip, because they just can’t handle the brain-frying process of ‘Thinking’. Or worse, ‘Acting’. She actually used weight loss as one of the examples. Can you fucking believe it? Why yes, I understand you’d want to. Just lay back and wish the fat away. Yeh, good luck with that. Luck is one of the forces anyway.

Life Lesson #95: Symbolic angles of Footage are pure surrealist art. You never see that either.

Life Lesson #96: That kid breaking my 3x3 Rubik’s cube the other day made me realise that I never started on my 5x5 one, not because I wasn’t ready for it, but because I was afraid I would fall from my one side every 2 min average. A 4-year-old bugger was my equivalent of ninja comics’ perspective man. I still hate kids though.

Life Lesson #97: You’ll do what you think is right. It doesn’t mean it’s right though. It never is.

Life Lesson #98: Quoted Script – The Kite Runner.

“Before you sacrifice yourself for him, think about this, Hazara: Would he do the same for you? Have you ever wondered why he only plays with you when no one else is around? I said, "Why," Hazara! Because, to him, you're nothing but an ugly pet. Something he can play with when he's bored. Something he can kick when he's angry.

Amir agha and I are friends.

Friends? You fool. Enough of this. Give us the kite. Last chance. As you wish. Keep it. So it will always remind you of what I'm about to do to you.

Nothing is free.”

Life Lesson #99: Raisins are mortified grapes.

You Mess With My Rubik’s Cube, I Mess With Your Joints…

I hate kids. No seriously. I hate them.

Today school was boring, and I knew it was gonna be, like every other day, so I decided what the hell, I might as well be bored intentionally. So, aside from the fact that I talk to more people than I can keep track of in the course of the day , ones I know and don’t know, I packed in my Rubik’s cube and piano sheet I’m working on for those disappearing fits. I didn’t pack a book because I knew for sure that most of my school time is spent sleepless and caffeinated, so much that it would consume most of my calories just trying to keep the lines from jumbling up when I look at them. Not to mention the fact that most of the people there have never seen an extracurricular book in their entire life and would either call me snobby for it or they’d finger it beyond recognition, then call me snobby for it. Since I save my sarcastic bite-backs for special cases in which the person in front me ending up in tears doesn’t mean squat, I settled for spending the day without picking on anyone’s complexes. I spent most of Arabic and break-time working at the Rubik’s cube, autistically-complacent and just, well, walking around with a couple of people that I changed every once in a while. I checked on the piano room and found out that it will be free on Saturdays from now on, then I did my rounds. That’s when I talk to people out of the blue about random stuff but not stay long enough for any of the stuff to be serious. One of the groups I hung out with had a kid that had wandered off from nursery. She took my Rubik’s cube, which was in the process of being fingered by people who give up on it after an average of 3 minutes, denouncing it as either ‘too smart’ for them or ‘too stupid’ for them, according to their self-esteem prop. The kid played with it for 2 seconds, then she threw it with all her might, at which point everybody looked at me then at the Rubik’s cube, which was inevitably broken. And that’s why I hate kids. Why do people like kids? They’re stupid, clingy, icky, selfish and they touch a lot. They’re like puppies, except that puppies are cute. I so wished I could swap roles, so that the Rubik’s cube re-incarnates into its hulk and defends its microcosm by breaking the kid into tiny little pieces. Slowly.

Don’t worry people, I’ll fix the Rubik’s cube.

The Kid Should Die.                                                                                   …Die.

Anywho, I stopped dreaming, again. And eating. I forgot to eat yesterday and I’m not hungry today. My body doesn’t seem to mind though, so I’m cool. As long as my head doesn’t register anything as missing. Those three days I dreamt were nice. I should have known it’s bound to go away though, I actually wanted it to go on. Meh.

“Pretend he just made excuses that were so paper-thin, they could blow away with the wind. Marshall you’re never gonna make it, makes no sense to play the game there ain’t no way that you’ll win..”

I could really use a wish right now. That blue turns to beige again.

Show Me All The Things I Shouldn’t Know.

Why are all Metallica songs sung in “he”? Or for ‘him’?

Despite the fact that I think they’re pretty emo to be macho with no apparent reason for their ‘suffering’ and ‘pain’ and ‘whipping’ and ‘torture’ that caused ‘him’ to lose the ‘will to live’ and made him ‘learn their rules’ or whatever. Why he? The all macho Metallica’s lead singer could not possibly by gay, or can he? According to a good friend, “james hetfeild slept with hookers more than abo treeka ra2as nas”. But then again, why does he keep singing in he? He can’t have sensibly hated all the hookers can he? There are two logical conclusions as to why. A) He’s a narcissistic chauvinist prick. B) He’s gay. According to the amount of senseless unreasonable whining in their songs, alternated by self-advertising of how much of a hero he is that all people can come to and he’ll save them, I’d say he’s a narcissistic chauvinist gay prick, wouldn’t you say? Find me ONE Metallica song with a she in it. ONE. I really WANT to believe they’re not, because Metallica being gay redefines everything I ever held true in this universe. No. In this Milky way. What next? Cookies aren’t pastry? ONE. I implore you.

How come nobody else noticed?

I’ve been dreaming. It’s quite odd. I never dream. I’ve been dreaming for three nights in a row now. I didn’t want to jinx it, but I genuinely stopped believing in all things supernatural, jinxes included. Dreaming though? It’s so beautiful. I never thought I’d live to see the day I’d say something as sappy, but it’s true. They’re so fucking beautiful. Dreams and nightmares alike, just that psychedelic brain activity that’s activated the moment your conscious thought stops being the boss around. When the leash on that entity inside your head slips and it gets to show you what you never let yourself see, for fear of running through your adrenaline and endorphin storages all year round. The stuff you keep stashed out of sight in case they clash with your sanity, because you know they hold opposite charges. Stuff. It shows you stuff. It wasn’t the coffee that took it away. A good friend once told me that the reason why I never have dreams is because my caffeine intake interrupts my REM cycle. I’m still on coffee, same as ever. In fact, yesterday my caffeine intake was shot up by three coffees and an espresso because I had a lot of work that day. Thing is, I just started dreaming all of a sudden. That entity decided it had something to show me. And it was so beautiful, even though I don’t know what it is most of the time, but it feels so good. Not all the time though, but I don’t care. They’re so beautiful. I don’t want to go to having time gaps bitten out of my consciousness that I define as sleep. Those little bites of death. I want to have those images. Those People. That uncharted territory. I want to see the things I wasn’t allowed to see, by whoever decided I shouldn’t. I love that my head doesn’t know it’s happening. I don’t want to change them so they’re more pleasant, because they’re not. I want to see them. All of them. Every night.

Why?

Life Lesson #80: People react oddly to care. Tested theory, it will only backfire. The misinterpretation can be traced back to the assumption that people were leachy organisms at one stage of evolution. The category that most people fall in, to my experience, is “cactus”. They just sit there and wait for things to happen to them, waiting for people to talk to them. So, when a non-cactus comes by, the interest is perceived with suspicion. After all, what gives a shit about a cactus if it wasn’t a parasitic bug sucking up its juices? Cacti know that. Odds are, You’re a cactus. What’s pathetic though is that most cacti don’t have juices. If they’re hovering, appreciate it. If they’re not, stop looking at em. They’re not coming and you’re not moving.

Life Lesson #81: You’re not a vampire slayer, you’ll never be. You can’t walk away either, just try to die and not turn into a vampire while you’re at it.

Life Lesson #82: I dub thee unforgiven.

Life Lesson #83: It All begins with a ‘yes or no’ question, and ends with a ‘yes or no’ statement.

Life Lesson #84: Maybe reading the manual isn’t so bad after all ..

Life Lesson #85: Things don’t work out, you just stop being a jerk about them.

Life Lesson #86: Walk away.

Life Lesson #87: Death Metal beats choking pillows on the catharsis scale.

Life Lesson #88: Stop. Turn. Explain.

Life Lesson #89: Blekh.

Find A Way To Lie About A Home You’ll Never See

It’s when home changed to 'a home’. What a change an article can make. It’s when an imaginary vampire left a hickey on her neck. You’d think those go away with time, or ‘grow back’. They don’t. Except eye bags. Now They grow. Into eye suitcases. A locker a head, a bed a head. You get your own food. Visiting hours till 9, makes you think what happens if you got held up in traffic till 9:15. 7 phone numbers, and counting. None work. Anymore. Cabs work. Cars don’t, when owners can switch it to gear but are too short to reach the gas pedal. Clutch brake gas rest. Rest is out of reach. Home is out of boundaries. Not to siblings who choose hickeys over eye suitcases. Not to uncles who choose sprawling over sitting. After all he has a life. He has 5 lives. I guess it’s when the 5 turns into a 7 that the smile melts off into a clown’s grin and all the way into a growl. You boil a frog, it dies, and it doesn’t know what went wrong till it’s dead. Omelettes don’t stick to the pan, unless the heat is turned up. It’s when the Where and How questions are always answered in the negative form. It’s when all other questions fade. You can’t react. You’re not allowed to. Poker-faced. You can’t let anything through. Who do you think you are? You’re nothing, less than nothing. You don’t deserve a spot on the couch, let alone holding the remote control. You can make spaghetti. You have to. Because after all no ‘can's are left that haven’t already turned into ‘have to’s. You can’t afford a ‘can’. You don’t have to. “Men want men to ride with clouds between their knees.” Unless the clouds have to be bought for you. Clouds are not cheap you know. An extra lunch is not cheap, let alone two. It’s all about Maths you see. It gets disproportional when anomalous becomes the case with most. When an “I don’t know” answers stuff you should know and an “I don’t care” answer to home. A couple of the former to Wheres and Hows and some of the latter to Whats here and there. You walked away. You got scared and walked away. You were selfish and more of a coward than you thought you could be, then you have a why question you have to answer to. But if ‘can’s are ‘have to’s, doesn’t it follow that ‘have to’s are ‘can’s? There are a shit load of 'cannot’s, why can’t one be optional for once? But you can’t. All ‘can’s are ‘have to’s. All 'cannot’s are ‘should’s. You have to stand there and take it, because you can. Take ‘your kryptonite’ telling you how she managed to fall asleep the last couple of months. How is the keyword. It’s all about keywords. Nothing is ever ‘just because’ anymore. It’s a luxury you can’t afford. Paradoxically, you can afford deities. Deities with compulsive mosquito-squashing habits and unrealistic contracts with inflated profit percentages and unending rights ownership. I kill your parents and you love me. It’s for the best. If you kill yourself I will hate you. Only I get to kill you. We’ve got ourselves a contract, now sign. I don’t sign. I watch. Normal? What’s normal? Dystopian monotheistic creatures who’d die to die and kill to have the dead back, still they worship the sole theoretical causative. Why? Just because. You can afford that. Just that.

“Maybe there’s a God above, but all 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.”

Go Away.

Breathe

I realise that I haven’t updated this in a while, it’s just that with school starting off on the wrong leg, I really don’t wanna tell you about the amount of things that have gone wrong in my life during the course of the past month, peaking this week to an irreversible spiral. I will not, anymore. Talking never did anyone any good, every body has their own shit to deal with, so I decided to regress to my past dumb self. Everything was so much easier when people were just moving interactive entities. I just have to get through the first week I guess, then the piano room will be available again, and I will have this one outlet, just like I always have and everything will be alright again. Steinways beat Adams and Eves any day of the week.

A shout-out to Markus Zusak about the ending of the Book Thief. Dude. The fact that you’re so fucking oblivious what that might do to people who actually relate on some level to some of the brutal unfurling of the plot is sick. Toying with people’s feelings and aggravating it with that objective narration makes me want to truly hurt you. The lengths you’d go to put the book on the bestseller list have proven how much of a pathetic wannabe you are. You don’t do that to people. You just don’t. Shout-out goes to a friend who thought they were helping, or whatever the hell they were thinking, by pulling on the big guns. I should have stopped you, it’s my fault. Then again you should have known that using them is not an option, whatever you were thinking. Not An Option. Not Ever. Why did you have to say that? See, that’s what I meant by the other part. Everything was so much easier then. If no one knew the big guns existed in the first place, they wouldn’t pull on them now would they? Just the way it should be.

Loopholes are funny. I always had a knack for using em. You see, all I have to do if I wanna switch off the lights once and for all is to drink a little too much juice. Speaking about that, last night, I kept falling in and out of sleep, so, spur of the moment, I wanted to pick on death, so I got two juice boxes down, sat there and waited for the lance of fate, or whatever the hell the thing that this scary cloaked dude holds is called. The one day that I want allergy to hit in, it doesn’t. Isn’t that just dandy? To all the Markus Zusaks of the world. Go fuck yourselves. I wanted one of your plots and I didn’t get it. You owe me two Piňa Colada juice boxes.

Since I’m on with shout-outs, lets get em all in one place shall we?

Hey mom, you didn’t feel like making lunch today, you forgot that I might feel like eating.

Take #2, you felt guilty and ordered out. Ma kan mel awel?

To the big gunner, you’re getting unbearable. You don’t even know it.

One off into space and back to my happy place, the piano room, switch back to one of your past lives and go all organ on the teachers who decided to use you as storage room. School book surplus never did anyone any good. I need you. Holla for me.

Coffee, thanks for being selectively suicidal today, choosing my oesophagus as a last resort over the wooden drawer.

Gravity, thank you for not claiming my coffee today.

Heil unspoken codes, why am I the only one who speaks you? Why doesn’t anybody else like it? Terrorist much?

One out to People, go back to being spectres that I swim through to get to the piano room. I don’t appreciate your materialization. Reverse it. I don’t like you.

My momentum capsule, the elliptical trainer. You keep me sane. You, I like.

Einstein, I will never forgive you for creating the illusion of time, why couldn’t you just keep those little bites of space reserved to you? I will also never forgive you for not bringing it down as an illusion when you mathematically proved it is.

And to wrap it up, to the two bookstores in my vicinity, if it hadn’t been for you, I would have pursued civil engineering as a career and build myself one of those skyscrapers just so I can jump off it.

In the name of coffee, maths and the holy crap. Peace out.

Don’t cry over spilled milk, if it’s coffee though..

Me: You know what? you shouldn’t have been that suicidal this morning. That adjective is rights reserved and trademarked to me and only me, you better know that. Obviously your sense of self-preservation is slightly dislodged lately.

Coffee: Speaking of dislodged, You’re the one who knocked me off into your drawer! And don’t you start on who’s fault it is I ended up all over the commode.

Me: And you’re lucky you didn’t ruin my books. Being on karma’s good side is not such a pro given karma’s a bitch, it just says you’re pulling the right threads eh? Isn’t it bad enough that you took the last drops of milk with you? I had to do with black coffee for God’s sake, and don’t you dare use the discrimination bite-back on me or I swear to God I’m biting your virtual head off.

Coffee: It’s not my fault that I’m under the strict laws of gravity. If you weren’t such a klutz I’d still be here. I’m the one who was spilled, I should be the one fighting, but as always I’m enough of a philanthropist to settle for being soaked in wood than your caffeinated intestines that I call home.

Me: Not really, smooth ass, because I was the one who had to go through the first school day with the fake concoction of you that I patched up a minute before I rushed off to catch a cab. You tasted horrible. I never thought I’d live to see the day..

Coffee: Oh don’t be such a drama queen. Coffee’s not for wimps. Tastes horrible my ass, go get a taste bud transplant.

Me: Wimps? You’re calling me a wimp? It’s your fault you weren’t mixed in right. What? You’re too good for that? You just had to stand out from the overflowing water molecules eh? Couldn’t you just forget about chemistry for a minute and merge with the cold water? I bet you didn’t even think about that, because you don’t care, do you?

Coffee: Oh it’s my fault you decided to pull an all-nighter and forgot to stir me in? My job is to keep you awake, and so I did. It’s not in my job description to override chemical laws because you ran late and didn’t have time to heat the water OR handle your hand/eye co-ordination glitches OR work on your motor centres. Actually, I do punch up those centres in the brain, so I’m overqualified and you’re under justified.

Me: Oh the size of that ego on you. Not only do you ditch me when I most desperately need you, but you also wanna run away from the responsibility of it?

Coffee: What responsibility? Gluing myself to your hand or installing a jet pack instead of a lateral holder?

Me: Dude, man up. You let me down.

Coffee: I did not, you’re the clingy klutz. I’m just the way I’ve always been and will always be. Don’t you go all nirvana enlightenment on me.

Me: Oh so now I’m clingy? What, you’re overflowing with general certificate students throwing themselves at your feet that old faithful clients don’t matter to you anymore? Aren’t you getting a little too materialistic favouring quantity over quality? And I thought we were tighter than that..

Coffee: And what makes you think you were ever on the quality side of the bargain? You’re just another sipper.

Me: If you weren’t addictive, you wouldn’t risk talking to me like that. How demeaning.

Coffee: Learn it, live it, love it babe. You can’t live without me. You can’t even afford to consider that with Sanaweyya looming on your horizon.

Me: And you have it in you to shove that in my face..

Coffee: I have beans.

 

It’s Not Me It’s I

To tell you the truth, I’ve been staring at this empty blog post for almost 4 hours now. There’s so much going on, and so much I don’t wanna talk about, because, well, opening up to a nonresponsive word document is not the sanest option in my book. Scabs are nice, they landmark stuff. Picking at the scabs feels nice, masochistically speaking.

As usual, the last thing I can do when I seriously need to sleep for the first day of school, is actually sleep. It’s odd. It’s not just that, I needed to cry too today, and I couldn’t. I forgot how to. I kept getting stuck at that phase when it burnt when you breathe deeply then it looped back to the relaxed phase. Not even a tear, my lachrymal glands ran dry. How pathetic is that? I haven’t properly cried in…keteer. Jumbled wires maybe? A blue wire is patched up to a red one up there? Point is, I have school in less than 5 hours and I'm almost done with a hugeass book because of it.

School. It’s different with everyone you know. School:

• More piano-room hide-outs : More practising.
• More Nutella and Peanut butter sandwiches : Fatter.
• More masochistic exercising sprees, 2 hours on end : balances out the peanut butter and Nutella sandwiches.
• More ranting at chemistry : Setting stupid incentives such as the more mind-boggling it is, the more calories it burns, the better the chance I get at sleeping at night from fried brain cells.
• More sleepless nights, because everyone knows the last thing you use f sanaweya is *wait for it*  YOUR HEAD!
• More Droos…Except that the morning ones are the white noise you sleep to and the night ones are that boring movie you have to watch at 4 am because nothing else is on.
• More human pets. Yes, you heard that right. Dexter, Fetch! Good boy…
• More Barbie-world-meet-zombie-underworld, an inevitability to confining hormonal female beings in one place for too long is that they get an overwhelming impulse to decrease their own numbers in hope for a better chance at a survival/mating statistic whilst indulging in the luxury of burning calories.

The Little Things

Sometimes it’s the stupid little things you know. The stupid little things that no one actually notices, the ones that are hardly categorizable, that sometimes make or break something, or worse, someone. I wish this can go to prove an epic punch line, but it’s really an in-your-face thing.Premises of their own, stuff you might read off of a bumper sticker or a friend says on the phone in the middle of some entirely unrelated subject, and you make fun of it or let it slide, then it goes to eat at you, chipping at every last piece. You could leave an episode of some show you like to load as an incentive as you drudge through that maths sheet that seems to have a black hole in it, and halfway through it you look up to check on it and see that it has failed. You could actually stop caring for what someone might be thinking long enough to fool yourself, then something flies at you that sticks somehow, and you wonder if you ever actually stopped giving a damn. The little things. It’s never the big words, or the paramount slogans. It’s that little “When” that turns into an “Are” and later into a nod. It’s the insertion of your name somewhere in an argument, as if somehow your name has turned into an adjective for that thing that pisses them off so much. It’s those little patterns you might make in your head for something when a little thing falls out of alignment, and that little recessive OCD gene in everyone of us comes back and shifts into gear because that hot shower you take before you sleep is actually what makes you fall asleep in the first place. It’s the dead that are stuck in your “Reconnect” tab up on the right on facebook. It’s that song you keep projecting your stuff unto and listening to it, over and over again, almost in guilty pleasure, because no one gets it but you. And oh, how you revel in it. The suspense of it all, how it’s so close to a slam dunk, yet no one else can hear the swoosh but you.

And you know what’s the biggest turn off about it? They never actually go away.

They’re always there, because unlike what most people think, you’re not supposed to let go of crap. Sometimes, it's the one thing that keeps you grounded. Just when you think you want to be the one and only experimental lab rat and have a memory wipe-out process like the one in “Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind”, somehow you know that it just has to stay there, because it’s holding hands with your sanity, and if one goes, well, the other one will not let it go that easily.

And it has absolutely no relation between how strong someone might be, or how genetically predisposed to being a tough ass they are. The little things get to you, they jumpstart the degenerative aspect of you et voila. Borderline or not baby you’re going down. You’re not getting up this time either, and it has nothing to do with docking an acuate Frisbee or an expired cupid’s arrow because, well, Karma doesn’t work that way.

You’re not supposed to get it, this is just like my guilty-pleasure songs. You’ll never get it. It is designed so you never will. It’s one of the little things, my little things, that are entirely my own. You do not belong in my head, and I’m pretty sure if you ever find a way in my antibodies will slaughter you.

It’s that, the knowledge of those mini ninjas and huns living in my head, along with the knowledge that at any day of the week if things get too much I have the ability to sniff a little more gas than my lungs would welcome and it’s asta lavista dimension.

The little things. That song. This mug of coffee.

It’s always the little things.

Choppy Serenades

A couple of days ago I was arguing with a couple of friends whether ignorance is bliss. Well, when you’re listening to Nana Mouskouri’s alteration of Schubert’s serenade and it is ruined for you because you know that they radically modified the time signature so that the bass clef holds 6 8th notes instead of 8, and cut out the 7-minute-long piece to 3, making it stuck at the theme giving a ‘Minimalist’ air – I like it, just not as Schubert’s serenade anymore – it doesn’t click because now it sounds a beat away from a waltz, especially when you bust your ass practising how the treble clef part merges with the bass clef part in syncopation because of those extra cancelled two.

Ignorance IS bliss, because now I know that if I were Nana Mouskouri I’d just leave it out now wouldn’t I? Sing it like it is bitch! Covers don’t include messing with the fucking helix! That’s even worse than when I heard lady  Gaga’s cover of Coldplay’s Viva La Vida, oh the horror…

In the course of my blogger’s block, at times I retreated to polls, I asked people what to blog about, those who replied always gave the exact same line. “Blog about how sexy I am”. Well, do I look like I know sperm donors or does my blog hold some far-fetched resemblance to a dating site? I hate to disappoint you, but I will not blog about how sexy you are. Oh and did I mention that blogging about ‘how’ sexy you are beats blogger’s block at lack of potential substance? Go put on one of those “I’m with sexy” T-shirts, hold a two-metre long mirror at the side of the arrow’s head and take a walk down your block. Or better yet, try and cross a street while you’re at it. Amazing results I assure you. If you get ran over, resuscitated and eventually out alive you’ll literally ‘Bring sexy back’.

Oh for the love of coffee, people!

Which reminds me, there’s nothing you can do to skip reading the manual…except watch a video tutorial. Just make sure it’s the same machine or the cappuccino will be so wimpy it’ll start to taste like…well...it will  start to taste like wimpy cappuccino. The machine’s giving me the finger again. Yeh yeh I know it’s the steam, that’s its way of hiding it. You might be thinking that the machine has nothing to do with the cappuccino recipe right? However, getting confused as you go through it will provide enough time for the cappuccino to wimp out as you spill way too much milk trying to figure out what the hell you should be doing for the thing to turn out slurp-able.

Brain-Fries

Has anyone tried studying chemistry, practising Debussy and solving advanced maths while on an allergy pill and going out on that same day? You should. You know in Tom and Jerry cartoon when Tom is so mad he fills up with red stuff like those old alcohol thermometers? Now merge that with the idea of a hollow skull and fumigating ear holes. Exactly. There has to be some chem. rule for overworking a radioactive element or something that works as a good analogy, not that I’m aware of it. I sort of identify with Maxwell’s applications of Newton's law of mechanics as he thought a revolving charged body loses its charge gradually in the form of radiation and decreases radius till BAM, it hits the nucleus. Let’s say I’m that charged body, the velocity is proportional to the shitload of stuff I have to get done for today’s two major evaluation quizzes, the assignments due tomorrow and the party tonight, and the nucleus is my sanity. BAM. Too bad Rutherford burst Maxwell’s bubble, eh?

I was thinking, how come people always relate people with short-term memory loss to goldfish? How would anyone know if goldfish have a short-term memory glitch if they hadn’t in fact reincarnated in the form of a goldfish in another life, then somehow, by laws of karma, were so good as a goldfish that they were again reincarnated as a human being, with the actual memory glitch better-evolved so that they'd have enough recollection to record in the form of a scientific research. Otherwise, why would anyone wanna know what a fish was thinking let alone how and for how long? There’s of course that other plot where there’s some bestiality-indulging masochistic maniacal scientist who had a rough day and wanted to take it out on his goldfish by electrocuting it until its brain fries, then someone walked in on him and he didn’t wanna look all that bad, so the first thing that came to mind: he was testing it for memory loss by checking its brain waves. Well, does anyone have a better explanation? Thought so. Keep your trap shut then.Don’t get me started on Elephant’s hypothetically remarkable memory retaining abilities.

Oh and since I’m in the #$$@&@%!$&%#*@^#%-mood, I’d like to issue a shout out to fellow earthlings, if you touch my hair again like it’s a blob of goo to see if it feels as fluffy as it looks, I will break your arm. Going around touching people’s heads that  you’ve just met is not socially acceptable, even if accompanied by innocent intentions such as seeing if the mass of mane will swallow the entity of your finger or not. I’m not hairy Cousin Itt off of Addam’s family, nor am I related to him twice-removed, so I don’t have the habit of storing a medieval torturing equipments inside of my hair mass. Stop Poking My HAAIR!