Oh The Beauty. *Swoons*

Because Who Needs Men When We Have Tiramisu?

Are You Readeh?

And I Looked At My Life And I Choked, From There No More Ever I Spoke.

I haven’t written anything for a while, mostly because twitter has been sapping all of my creative energy and expending it on insomniacs who care for only as long as their mouse reaches the retweet button then you’re launched into oblivion, along with any point you’ve been trying to make, and in part because of my work schedule. Not that anybody really cares, I’m pretty sure most page views never really sink in far enough into any reader’s subconscious for it to make a change. It’s not like people go through blogs to make up for their lost revelations. Writing is there for catharsis, because the obscurity of phrasing still qualifies as therapeutic against the obscurity of a bundle of unexpressed emotions or dismissed thoughts. What am I saying? It doesn’t matter.

Disappointments are an odd craft. And I say craft because they’re never inborn, but tended to. You breed your hope, and put energy into rearing it just so you could smash it at the expense of someone else’s shortcomings, if not your own. Problem is, smashing your own is a lot messier for your janitor to clean up after,  it’s a frigging fraternity initiation ceremony of the alpha, beta and kappa cross continent conference union next to the former’s ugly betty hen party.

It could be argued that disappointments are god’s way of jumpstarting your battery, or that it’s evolution’s way of slapping your ego back into our dimension. Though contradictory in the postulated purposes, they have the same effect in the bigger picture; crashing your page so you’d use the refresh button, because after all, we all know it’s impossible for you to even consider that with so many tabs on if not absolutely forced into it, it’ll undoubtedly stump your connection.

Some people handle disappointments better than others, some feel psychologically obliged to switch ISP’s altogether. You can’t help that, you can only hope to sometime learn not to place someone else’s expectations before your own well-being, no matter how important that person may be, because even though you may not currently realize it, but you may have been hiring a nanny for your own only to bathe in the glory of someone else’s falsely high expectations of you since you don’t really have to work to prove or moot those. The fact that someone is enough of an impressionist to think that you’re something more or less than you are doesn’t mean you should believe it. I’m not saying it’s not fun, but it won’t do you any good if not actually add in harm on the long-term. So? They’re disappointed. Fuck em. You’ll never be back as you were, good riddance. Are YOU disappointed? Now that matters, because you can’t afford to wait till you’re ‘back as you were’ with yourself. Unless you had Voldemort’s powers of soul partitioning. I daresay not even then, because his soul was not whole enough to counter the expelliarmus spell of an undergraduate with the the charm knowledge of a 10th year, and you can’t possibly think it’s a good long term plan for your soul to be wedged, let alone dislodged, by another’s disarming spell.

Or you can give up on expectations altogether, live your life with no disappointments. Might as well hire a basement and invest in a yearly subscription of Cheetos, playboy and a faster internet connection. Oh and while you’re at it, tell your friends to go easy on the pepperoni, because trust me, the only social life you’ll be getting will be with the pizza delivery man and e-bay shipping staff. Don’t worry about your career either, I’m sure the 2o cent per article rate will go up once you’ve sent 50+ years on Helium.

We Are Basic Lies.

‘It's Better To Burn Out Than To Fade Away.’

Family <3

Etla3 Ya Hassanein!

Fine, fine. I’ll grow up. Sheesh.

Being a kid may be the toughest job in the history of man. You’re shoved into this world, with zero experience and plenty of liabilities, and you’re asked to turn into a human by a certain deadline.

Tick, tock. Grow up little fuck.

You end up having less moral consciousness through the first decade and a half than a challenged poodle and  ignoring the one you have in the remaining half, much like one would a zit that they can’t pop out or pat properly.

Then, out of the blue, you’re a certified fraction of the population who’s about to have their own car, go to university and have a life, when the truth is, you’re just an old kid, you still get lost in your own neighborhood, make the stupidest mistakes on a daily basis and have absolutely no idea how to be a grown up other than maybe looking a little more serious doing everything. You lose the luxury of being excused when your experience fails to be up to par, the tolerance of people who choose to look the other way when you show their expectations into a dry wall and the clarity that comes with being young enough not to see everything in HD.

Much like Spiderman, you’re left with superpowers that make grownups go jelly and the motor functions of the aforementioned jelly, coupled with the prospect of your life crashing face-first into a brick wall on the slight off-chance of doing it wrong, you’re suddenly made into a desk clerk who’s been assigned more office hours during power cut, left to fill in the high-tech gadgets’ shoes at the price of losing your own job if you don’t get those 23423469762343 files proofread and  handed in by 5 o’clock.  Cheers buddy, power cut time. Now work your ass off if you wanna keep it.

The irony lies in the fact that you were supposed to pick up the required experience for that having the emotional capacity of an ape for a quarter of your life, of a Bulgarian cockatoo for another quarter, that of an ancient, 1st generation computer for another and a, surprise surprise, an ape again for the last quarter.

Makes you think of the popcorn theory again, doesn’t it? And you get the mental image of a whole extraterrestrial audience laughing their ass off at the poorly cut, edited and produced show that is your life. I am having trouble juggling a senior year with a social life, how the shenanigan am I expected to add in a couple of more pinches here and there? You go from not being allowed to leave a 30 metre radius around your building to driving across the Nile, commuting on a 2 hour drive to university every morning, not to mention the couple of errands here and there during and afterwards. You’re left with organizing, managing and directing a life through paperwork, other people who don’t know shit about what they’re doing and very fucking bad traffic.

Fuck this shit, I want my mommy.

Of Marshmallows, Marshmallows & More Marshmallows.

My dad, roasting marshmallows on a knitting needle in front of the heater and a good movie. And just so you know, my dad roasts the best marshmallows on the planet. Be jelly, bitches.