It's Gotta Get Better, Because It Can't Get No Worse.

Of Matchmaking Moms, Misdated Birthdays & Bieber Last Names.

I’m writing this post on the loo, for a lot of reasons. Most prominent of which is the fact that it’s about the only place a sanaweyya 3amma student can have time off and not have parents screaming the sound of conscience at them on how to better implement the precious remaining fragments of their time. Another is the fact that it’s probably the core of everyone’s comfort zone, even tho they may not get themselves to admit it. So now that I’ve jumpstarted your imagination to this beautiful mental image, I will now proceed to rant about things you equally don’t give a fuck about.

My birthday is originally on the 11th of December, 1992. It’s also on the 7th of January, 1993. It’s one of those family conflicts that never got settled, my dad insists it’s the latter and my mom states it’s the former. As unsettling as the whole matter is, I’m more inclined to believe my mom, because I don’t know about you but I think in this context, it’s a lot more disturbing to believe that your mom was confused about the day she gave birth to you as opposed to the more digestible decision of ‘hey, maybe my dad just completely repressed that memory for a month until he got himself to like babies and admit that one exists in his own house, just not enough to register that it has for a month now.’

Also, 11th of December sounds more in tune with how my life seems to be about, a near-miss, or how George Carlin chooses to put it, a near-hit. It’s a day away from being memorable yet has a mathematical air of symmetry about and gives off the feeling that something’s off. It’s like a huge analogy of everything that my life is and has been about since I knew how to call it for what it is.

I don’t know what got me to think about that, but then again none of these posts make sense so suck it moron. However, I think my train of thought got derailed right about where I ran into a diarrhea of baby posts on Facebook with chicks typing theatrically prolonged and admittedly squeaky awwws everywhere in sight and it got me thinking about how much I hate babies.

My mom’s a piece of work. Most would argue that goes for everyone’s mom and embark on hour long debates whose mere objective seems to be about showing just how much their mom’s more of a cuckoo than yours, and you grow up having it as one of those unsettled bets with your friends that you tackle when you run out of conversation one day, and they’d always try to win with the same passion as every other day.

Let me further elaborate. I woke up this morning to the news that my mom got me the sheets I missed and had trouble procuring since I got bullied senseless at school and none of the chicks are really helpful if they can help it. On asking how she managed to do that, she says that she hit it up with a guy about my age that she didn’t know, and was sure I didn’t know either, and convinced him to let her copy the papers for a juice box and the promise that she’ll introduce us the next class. That was about 18 hours after the heated argument where she decided that all of my problems would be solved if I managed to flirt with one guy per class because they’re a lot easier to take advantage of than the more experienced and vicious chicks. Now, in her defense, cultural gaps have treated her to worse ditches. And, to be honest, the comic relief is worth the trouble really, but no matter how much I try to make her understand how it works around here, the conversation always has the same pattern and I find myself always coming to the same punch line: ‘Oh my god mom why mom why did you do that mom you don't..alright, okay thank you mom, okay, thank you, great.’

It got me thinking about life again, and how maybe they’re more of built-in, free of charge anger management courses that are integrated as part of your training into becoming a functional adult and maybe one day someone else’s parent. The logic went as follows. Nine times out of ten, you always get the irrepressible urge to take a baseball bat to your mom’s head. Ten times out of ten, you’re not allowed to by the natural course of things and the fact that you really can’t help how much  you love her regardless of the numerous cringing opportunities she ladles onto your plate 24/7. And then you get to that aha moment where you go: Life, I see what you did there.

Maybe twenty or thirty years from now, if the blog host handles it and I still manage to have these entries when I’m some oblivious turd’s mom and stumble upon this post, it will make all the sense in the world.

Along the lines of culture shocks and what they may get you into, I’ve had quite an odd morning. I’d like to break the news to all the fellow coffee addicts in the world that I managed to sleep for the uninterrupted impressive number of 16 hours last night and I have no idea how that happened or how to maybe make it happen more often. I’m not very happy about the fact anymore because it got me into a tight corner with a couple of friends where my deep seated comforting sense of the hold I have on my own linguistics was shattered when I failed to understand a friend’s status, link it to spoken English, and misread one of his friend’s last name as Biebers. And for the life  of me, I couldn’t get them to empathize that I meant no harm but rather genuinely couldn’t spell his last name.

And for now, since my glorious mug of coffee is done, I leave you with a post that I’ll undoubtedly regret 2 seconds after I click publish and get back to work. Top of the morning everyone.

Freud, It’s Really Not That Hard.

This picture has everything you need to understand a woman’s psyche. You’re welcome.

Of Oreo Milkshakes, Short Circuits & The Mark Haddons Of the World.

I’m starting to think that people who listen to electronic music think too much that lyrics just don’t cut it for them anymore, they could always find fault with it, all they really need is a soundtrack to the credits rolling in their busy heads, something that sits well with the purring and crackling of their cranial engines.

It’s gonna be harder to find someone else who’s as sarcastically lashing as Mark Haddon and is equally inclined to believe they’ve been put in the wrong body, and should’ve been a dude after all. But hell, that’s what’s life is about, innit? Making you feel inadequate in the most creative of ways.

It got me thinking whether that’s why bad things happen. The big dude in the skies thought that maybe if life was bland and alright all the time, people would get bored after a while. With that same logic that presumably trespasses that of humans’ by a couple of bigfoot leaps then postulated that if life was great most of the time, people would have nothing to wake up for the next morning; they’d have accomplished everything they ever wanted out of life before they hit the glamorous two-digit privilege. Shit is there to make us not want it enough to give tomorrow and ourselves the benefit of the doubt.

Or that’s how I choose to see it, because I don’t know about you, but I’d hate it if life was a series of unfortunate events knotted and buckled into the shambles that are what is left of you with absolutely no hope of relief in the horizon. Or maybe I’m discovering the joys of the delusional phase after lingering around the angry phase for too long.

Maybe that’s why he left all the forums unanswered, he probably thought an army of seraphim and a fleet of cherubim wouldn’t make for enough admins to handle all the counter-arguments when people have to face one absolute truth once and for all. It’d take a lot longer than eternity to clear that up.

A couple of weeks ago, I would’ve laughed at whoever attempted to make me look at the bigger picture, and see that somehow things work out for the better even though we might not see or expect them to with so much bird poop clouding the windshield, but right now, I think smashing headfirst into that tree was probably one of the best things that ever happened to me.

You may not get it. But some of these posts are written so that only certain people could, and most are written in a way that only I could. So, again, don’t try to analyze my head dumps for calcium, and for the sake of all that is holy, fingering my poop to make sense of your own life is not only pathetic, it’s a new level of sad that has bypassed trekkie gatherings.

About the bigger picture, a funny thing happened today. It was funny because it wasn’t supposed to be. The little quips that are lost in the rush of every day’s folds and later erased to refresh your RAM. However, taking a glimpse at life from my mom’s glasses set light on a lot of things. Running for top of the list is this: Parenting is not for the faint of heart.

Me: Mom, do you have any idea how many times I get the urge to kill you throughout the day?

Mom: Yes actually, do you have any idea how many times I get the urge to run for my life throughout the day? You’re a fucking scary kid.

There is one thing I’m learning to appreciate though, and it is my tendency to entirely detach from reality and the entities roaming it when it gets too much. Psyches have restore points too. Mine seem to be automatically updated and set to a functional point of time and crash back to it without conscious prompts. Dad has always said that if it hadn’t been for my short circuits, I would’ve probably choked a kitten with my bare hands before I turned 6.

Man am I thankful for em short-circuits.

Work is starting to feel more and more like school as days go by. They’re doing the same mistake, getting people competitive to the point where they’re ready to bite each other’s heads off to get ahead. If only I could’ve taped my elementary school years and played it back to them for proof that it’s a failing regime that kills every hope of passion for the actual damn thing and turns people into death-eaters. Oh well.

A new friend of mine put up a decent fight with the cashier because her milkshake didn’t have whipped cream as it so promoted in the flyer. For the first time in almost half a decade, I’m starting to remember what it felt like to spot shit out without sky-scraping billboards flashing and pointing at it two feet away.

Life Lesson #332: اللي يسأل مايتوهش؟ اللي يسال يتوة بدينه علي فكره

Of Feuds, Scape Goats & Mordor.

Things have been pretty weird lately. Last night I got a really desperate text from a random number asking me for a ride, and I replied. Then the next morning I realized I have no idea who that is. Also, I don’t remember what I texted back saying because I was half asleep, which is a rather scary thought because I usually don’t turn down people asking for rides. And this morning when I tried to call back to find out who it was or what I said on the slight off chance that I’ll have a stranger following me around when I leave the house, they didn’t pick up. Now my instincts are telling me that I’m gonna die. Those same instincts are telling me I need coffee.

Also, my call register says I called a friend, and I have no recollection of the incident, and my friends list is missing 3 people and I have no idea who they are.

Now that you know what I'm dealing with, I don’t know whether I wanna find out what actually happened or if it’s better to just sit here and face the palm of fate whenever it decides to hit. Or, in this case, a stranger and three incensed friends.

It’s an interesting morning, to say the least.

Life Lesson #331: When you haven’t slept for a number of hours that exceeds 4 times your current age, stay away from technology as much as you possibly can.

Well, until I’m sober enough to link enough dots to figure out what just happened there, let me ramble on about my week.

I blew up in a stranger’s face last night in class. To my stressed out self, it seemed perfectly plausible to pitch a minute long repartee – most of which I don’t even remember – to her innocent ‘Excuse me, has class started yet?’ that includes but is not limited to ‘And what the fuck does that have to do with me? Last time I checked, I wasn’t listed on your emergency contacts for when you need a brain transplant. And stop following me around like a zombie. I don’t know you, and I don’t want to. So take that little bum of yours and scamper off to the frigging receptionist to ask about class and stop wasting my precious credit, my page loaded a minute ago.’

As if the language switch didn’t shock her enough. To be honest though, I’m glad I didn’t punch anybody in the face. I’ve been feeling like it lately and my level of consciousness at that point didn’t afford such an intricate calculation of the circumstances it would entail had I still felt like it when she was staring at me with those big puppy eyes of hers.

For all of you who think Karma will be giving it to me soon with a big momma slap across my juvenile cheek, it already has, that’s sort of my little version of ‘Bitch, it’s payback time.’ As if it wasn’t enough that I lost about 4 people in the course of the past week, with their crowd of faithful followers which added up to a huge sum and, as a consequence, a huge bite out of my social life, they turned to hate texts which turned into hate calls overnight. You know, the ones where you obliviously pick up to find out that a friend is greeting you with the most fluent verbiage of hateful cussing that hits just the right spots and sends your subconscious into convulsions. That’s what usually happens when a good friend, who knows enough about you to tailor the perfectly hurtful strain of sentences to your psyche because they’ve switched sides, that kind of thing. I’ve been wondering how long it would take them until I get hate e-mails and somebody feels loyal enough to invest their college funds in a hit man that swooshes in to end our misery, but by the looks of it, it’ll be sooner than I expected.

Things turn ugly pretty fast, and nothing is quite hard to handle than having friends turn ugly when your own ability to retort is that of a 9-year-old who dropped their ice cream.

Oh and did I mention that I have enough hate tweets on twitter to dub me a hash tag worthy of Justin Bieber?

Splendid week.

I have a meeting today, that conveniently includes two of the people who want my head on a silver platter, and I’m hoping that they’ve had their coffees this morning because I really can’t handle ghetto slander as much as I give off the impression of being capable of handling. I’m too short for this shit. Oh well.

I guess this is what it feels like walking into Mordor as a hobbit.

Wish me luck.

Lle ume quel.

So as I was sitting her possibly ruining what remains of my life by wasting precious time watching online sitcoms, I realized a lot of things, like for instance, people would have so much more time to do something productive if they didn’t have to work, or perhaps how it took me four years and a half to realize that the people I was hanging out with were absolute pieces of shit, or how they showed the entire series of Lord Of The Rings about 5 times in the past two months that I could probably recite them better than my assigned Arabic texts (I really wanna speak Elvish by the way I think it’s totally cool.)

I realized that I miss my dad’s Tom Thumb bedtime stories and that there was really no reason to stop them at all, except maybe the fact that I stopped participating in the public’s march to their beds when night falls by the time I turned 10. Here I am, not sleeping for 6 days and I sleep halfway through one of my dad's tom thumb bedtime stories. Now that's what I call magic.

I realized that there’s a hotdog line called British Bangers, even though there’s everything wrong with that, I’d probably lose count before I hit the word limit for a blogpost. I realized that I attract condescending Wonkas, that I am one and I’ve been suppressing it for too long. Hell, if I let it loose I’d probably beat Louis C.K. at his cynical diarrhea of verbiage with Busta Rhymes’ ability to pack a book in 30 seconds and beat the Penn & Teller Bullshit Show at smashing the common beliefs of thousands, but then again that would make me realize how much stupidity I’m surrounded by in painful HD more than I already do and I’d probably kill myself before I turn 27.

I’m rambling, and I got class.

The Wrap-up.

I got a long week ahead of me, a couple of simulation finals, an important meeting and classes with tons of work to muddle through, but coffee’s the silent guardian that makes sure your body doesn’t give up on you as long as your head is still up and functional.

I found an old version of Hallelujah, the cover by Leonard Cohen, and it’s making me wanna fish out the sheet and work on it till my fingers are numb, but I don’t have time for it till next Sunday, so I guess I’ll have to wait for then.

I’ve come to learn how to say el 7amdulilah, and I now get the feeling everyone was talking about that I never got before. I can sleep now too, I don’t have to read through my very boring copy of ‘A Million Little Pieces’, about a rehabilitating drug-addict, whose depressing air and very poor manner of writing never failed to send me fast asleep. I don’t need that now, and for that, too, I’m grateful.

Most nice things, and I mean really nice things, are short-lived. It seems as if that sort of knowledge works both ways too, rendering all ephemeral things nice, giving them a hue of beauty that only thrives in a time bubble. Almost like Coffee, no matter how big the mug is, the ring is bound to stare back at you at one point or another. The ‘nice’ part, however, is that now you know that it’s a part of you. A fraction of it might end up in a strand of hair that you’ll trim in 20 years, some of it will to construct that wisdom tooth coming out, some might end in a nail that you’ll bite off watching Dawn Of The Dead, a couple of sips would go into the new inches you’re sprouting, another will go into the make up of your complexion, the sugar will make you drudge on two more hours through that stubborn physics binder and the rest will be absorbed by your growing body. And you chug it down to the last sip.

‘Baby I have been here before. I know this room, I've walked this floor. I used to live alone before I knew you.’

Now that there’s no going back, and it’s all over, there are three things it all came down to. I have never been more grateful with the turn of events, I never left, and I think I might need to get used to the fact that my dad is the only who will never really leave, no matter what happens.

Some things are bought at too high a price, but I’m grateful because now I know they were worth it.

El7admdulilah.

'There's a blaze of light in every word. It doesn't matter which you heard; the holy or the broken Hallelujah.'

Cheers!

But Love Is Not A Victory March.

‘I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I learned to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come all of this way to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I'll stand right here before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah.’

Of Red Bull, Cake & History.

Life Lesson #316: When you think about it, and I mean really think about it, you’ll find that the real problem lies in the fact that cyanide smells like almonds.

Life Lesson #317: Whatever you do and no matter how hard you try, in two out of three contexts on average, you’ll still be an asshole.

Life Lesson #318: More has been lost than gained on the account of right and wrong, but then again nothing has been lost or gained on the account of not giving a fuck. Which is better? Trying to find out would require a million casualties. Life, well played.

Life Lesson #319: It is always folly to invest without a dependable profit prospectus. And no matter what books say, you will always learn that after going completely bankrupt.

Life Lesson #320: 'Can you build a spaceship out of history?' - 'No.' - 'Then history is bullshit too.'

Life Lesson #321: If AIDS was god's way of punishing homosexuals, then why does god love lesbians so much? That's right, get your head out of your ass.

Life Lesson #322: ‘And the strangest thing was waiting for that bell to ring, it was the strangest start.’

Life Lesson #323: The only consolation is finding an honest answer to the one question: “Was it really worth it?” And the bad news is that there’s no answer to that question that’s not up for debate. Conclusion? The idea of consolation is the only consolation you’ll ever get.

Life Lesson #324: ‘Humans have a knack for choosing precisely the things that are worst for them.’ – Albus Dumbledore.

Life Lesson #325: There comes a time in a man’s life when the only emotional recovery he finds within reach is his Harry Potter and Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy book collection.

Life Lesson #326: ‘One day, humanity will conquer disease, and after that we’ll conquer aging, and after that we’ll slough off our mortal coils. No longer tied to location, we’ll spread out through the cosmos at near light speed. We’ll continue experimenting and theorizing until we’ve determined the exact limits of knowledge. At which point, nothing will remain to explore. Discovery will end, love will be dispassionate. Hope will be meaningless, art will have no purpose. Religion will have no transcendence. Having conquered our deaths, but not the universe’s, we will enter a  collective hyper-ennui and begin the slow somnolent march back toward oblivion. The only scintilla of meaning in the last waltz of Torpor will be the stillborn wish to have lived and died back when we were made of warm flesh and the gentle lapse of sunlight in the summer dusk was enough for our happiness. So in the grand scheme of things, what’s really the point of nihilism if you can’t use it to buy stuff?’

Life Lesson #327: The human psyche works in mysterious ways. Who would have thought it’s plausible that the sight of cake now sends me into a fit of tears?

Life Lesson #328: Bottled messages are the reason closure isn’t so hip anymore. They’re often lost in the tide. If it makes you feel better, think of all the radio signals in outer space that were never picked up. Someone bothered to send them so much that his efforts fired them beyond the coverage of man.

Life Lesson #329: Too much love can be almost as destructive as no love at all, if not more profoundly scarring too. The reason everyone is trying so hard not to give a shit is that loss is not something you get used to. Peace, as opposed to War, was never custom-crafted for the idealistic, but then again it has never really killed anyone. The irony lies in the fact that all wars started because someone loved a person or an idea too much, and peace was about two people deciding that not giving a fuck is probably best for all parties involved.

Life Lesson #330: Red Bull gives you wings, that’s why you crash so hard.

All I needed was a call. It never came.

Real Friends Bake Chocolate-Coffee Cakes For You On A Bad Day.

Because when everybody else bails, some obscure badass soul will come out of nowhere and make it all better. You just gotta know where to look.

Bittersweet.

Life Lesson #312: To every kid out there, I just wanted you to know that when parents told you to do the right thing at all costs, they left out the part that says but you're probably gonna be alone for the rest of your life for it. I just thought you should know that it’s one of the entailed costs before you decide to be a good person.

Life Lesson #313: 'The truth has pain in it. It has bitter sacrifice, loss. It has blood and tears and poignant moments of powerlessness.'

Life Lesson #314: ‘'They show you a place in your head where you remember why we were never meant to be alone. And you try and act surprised.'

Life Lesson #315: ‘And the hardest part was letting go, not taking part. You really broke my heart.’

Airplane Mode.

Airplane mode is a setting available on most cell phones, smartphones and other electronic devices that, when engaged, suspends many of the device's signal transmitting functions – thereby disabling the device's capacity to place or receive calls or text messages – while still permitting use of other functions that do not require signal transmission.

I wish I didn’t have to make that choice ever so often. When a pattern seems so adamant to loop every four years of your considerably short life, you start to think whether you deserve it after all. You start to project the unpleasant results onto how you are and you start thinking, hey, maybe it’s my fault after all. Maybe there is something wrong with me. Maybe I’m the one who activates it regularly, almost as if it’s a deadline that you have to hit on a certain date set on your subconsciously scheduled calendar. When you’re so flagrantly different than everyone you’ve ever met, whether or not you think it’s the right thing, you start to think that maybe you really do bring it upon yourself to be in so much pain. Which leads to the ultimate question: ‘But do you really deserve the pain?’

You’d think that after a while you’d learn, get something out of it and maybe have a firm grasp on what went wrong to try and fix or avoid it, but it’s always the same thing. And whether or not it is after all your fault, you still blame yourself for it.

Is the right thing worth it? After all you have loved, and you have been loved. The kind of love that’s so strong it’s almost crippling, the kind that has a person willing to put themselves for someone else if it means it’ll protect them and guard them from harm, even if it means it’s you that has to go down instead, and almost as an automatic response you’re willing, and that registers as irrelevant, hardly a cost to haggle down. The one that obliterates your survival instinct and renders you incapable of having it as a valid option to begin with, knowing full well that it’s not the type that can be reciprocated. The kind that makes your well-being sound like a selfish pursuit. That kind.

And you’re met by an incomprehensible resistance. You’re fighting against the other person’s survival instincts, and you can’t seem to get your head around how their survival instincts are set to kill them when yours are set to die for them. How does that even make sense in the natural order of things? Why do you have to make a choice of either having two go down or just one, when neither seems fair?

That’s where the grey area comes, the one that argues that it’s their personal choice that you have no hand in and should accept. And, again, you start wondering. If it’s a personal choice, then does that mean that the protective instinct you have is wrong? Does it mean that in that context, you’ve found a loophole in the mechanism of human communication? That you’re a faulty prototype that was marketed and circulated then dropped like a hot potato and eventually, the CEO decided that retracting it from the market would mean more financial losses and decided to just leave you there till your stock has self-replenished? The update is more lucrative and there’s no sense in further investing in a losing hand?

And yet you still try to comprehend it. Is it still a personal choice when you’re tied up watching someone you love and care about so much hurt themselves? Suicide is a personal choice. If your son let you know that he was gonna shoot himself in 8 hours, would you stand back and say son, you do what you gotta do, but I certainly don’t like it?

It doesn’t make sense. If it’s wrong to go the extra mile to save someone from themselves because it entails trespassing on their personal choice, then why is it still an option in the human psyche? Why is the impulse still activated? Is it put there to torment humans? Is it another loophole that sets our world apart from a utopia? Are you a faulty prototype, a travelling soul that lost its way from the chivalric medieval eras? Is it only tolerated when put in the context of a parent to their child because it can’t be avoided but ostracized in lesser forms of relationships like a friend or a loved one? I don’t get it.

And when you’ve done everything you could against their defense mechanisms, you’re left to handle a conflict with your own. You can’t get yourself to stick around and watch them hurt themselves because it’s too much pain, and leaving would cut off your own air supply, because you loved too much. And it seems cruel. It’s cruel that you have to make that choice ever so often. And you always do the same thing, because it is no longer a choice. You willingly obstruct your own coverage, and you no longer have signal, hoping that it would cause the least damage and leave you pseudo-functional.

Flight mode –other names include airplane mode, offline mode, and standalone mode – is a setting available on most cell phones, smartphones and other electronic devices that, when engaged, suspends many of the device's signal transmitting functions – thereby disabling the device's capacity to place or receive calls or text messages – while still permitting use of other functions that do not require signal transmission.

His Holiness the Dalai Lama doing a traditional Hawaiian ha, or exchange of breath, with a student from Kamehameha Schools who performed at welcoming ceremonies on his arrival on Oahu, Hawaii, on April 13, 2012.

Growing Up Is All About Getting Better At This:

Shattered Windows & The Sound Of Drums.

It’s been a good day, even tho  it started off on the wrong leg with almost 40 hours of no sleep, big shit poppin’ and lil things stoppin’.  The kind of good day that comes with a hue of sadness and inconsolable disappointment over battles you’ve lost.

Eid was great, with an animatedly chuckling  family, a couple of close friends and inhumane amounts of cholesterol-choked food. It offered this pause that comes with priority of quality over, well, life, you know the kind where no matter what important shit you’re doing, you always stop everything and enjoy eid gatherings, and despite an awful strain of weeks.

And I daresay you come out of it with a thing or two over the coffee you’ve made in the middle of the night even tho you had to sleep because you felt like it, with the laptop on the window ledge and your dad sleeping right there against a pillow looking out because he couldn’t get himself to sleep on a day off.

Life Lesson #304: You haven’t been loved if you haven’t spent Eid at an Egyptian home.

Life Lesson #305: There are still good people out there. Somewhere.

Life Lesson #306: You haven’t been truly heartbroken if you haven’t had to see someone you care about fuck up their lives irrevocably and nothing you’d say or do mattered. And you haven’t been truly broken if you’ve never found it in you to stop trying anyway. Whoever said that with great love comes great sorrow was not rolling high on hormones after all.

Life Lesson #307: Sometimes seeing that better people exist is enough to save someone. And sometimes, not even an apocalyptic march of saints could suffice.

Life Lesson #308: You stop being a child at heart when you learn when to walk away.

 

Life Lesson #309: Nothing screams out ‘I’ve lost hope’ than an atheist praying for a friend. Giving up doesn’t come in a worse package. And seeing someone revert to an option that to them never even qualified as a last resort, is like seeing  a rundown terminally ill patient travel halfway across the world for acutherapy in that little uncharted institution in Asia he read about in one of the brochures handed out to save face when the doctor gives the ‘We’ve done everything we could’ speech. It is the saddest experience you’ll ever be unfortunate enough to behold on this godforsaken planet, so much that  you’ll wish they hadn’t ‘lost’ – for lack of a better word – against whatever believe you may hold. If you have, then congratulations my friend, you’ve seen what a person looks like when he’s completely and utterly defeated.

Life Lesson #310: You know when you have that fight with your parents where the inevitable age gap causes a disagreement that neither of you could phrase logically to the other and you call them overprotective and they quip the usual ‘You’ll know what it feels like when you have kids of your own’ line? Ironically, you don’t have to be a parent to know the full effect of that blow.

Life Lesson #311: All is well if it ends well, but what it really depends on is your definition of well.

Of Jokes That Stopped Being Funny.

I haven’t blogged in a while, but it’s not because I suddenly popped out a life or shit stopped happening. Au contraire, it was the kind of writer’s block where you back off from the damn blank post for fear you’ll spill your heart out to absolute strangers at a whiny moment and come to regret it when the Kübler-Ross model shifts – which is a technique, might I add, that most of you bloggers out there should learn.

Also, I’m re-discovering the cathartic pros of working till you’re numb – which reminds me of a friend who, on the topic of Prozac, backfired my joke by saying that they could chip me into tablets and send the Prozac line filing for bankruptcy. I would have been pissed, hadn’t she been right that is.

I’ve recently had a blinding moment of clarity that has sent most of the givens I had about life, the universe and everything into 42 shooting stars that I was desperate enough to wish upon. I’d rather not further elaborate, but a good friend says it’s something we thank God for. I’m taking his word because I’d rather not go nuts this soon before my finals. All I gotta say is that I’m at that Tupac phase of my life where I have three years of bad choices to fix and consequences to own up to and I have a feeling I’ll end up getting shot too early on at it. And I don’t necessarily hate that one bit.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m writing. Not that it matters, because neither do you.

I used to believe that being a good person is a conscious choice you make everyday, now I understand how people might wake up one morning and forget why they’ve been making that choice for that long because all those who used to remind them haven’t been around for while. I used to laugh at people who say the wrong crowd would make the most self-righteous lose their way and lecture them about strength of character, but then again I wasn’t the one who laughed last, was I?

Assholes aren’t born, they’re made, carefully-crafted and programmed into being one. And I now see why being an asshole works, and how it works, or rather worked, in this context at least. After all, I’ve learned from the best.

But that’s probably because I woke up one morning and found out that I have become one.

And I don’t mind that one bit either. But I guess that comes with the package.

On a lighter note, pun intended, I used to have this joke with my dad where instead of asking him how his day’s been, I’d check his cigarette pack and look at my wristwatch.

Then you grow up and that joke stops being funny for several compelling reasons and you start wondering what the hell happened, when you’re probably the best one to answer that question.

Problem is, after three years, it’s kind of hard, if not impossible, to retrace your tracks back to that specific point of time where everything took a wrong turn, because life’s not a videogame. You tend to be given the map AFTER you’ve lost all of your lives trying to get to the wrong objective with ‘Game Over’ flashing on your screen.

You know what the funny part is? If I had the chance to go back in time, I wouldn’t take it back. I’d go about it differently with the knowledge I have now to fuck them up the exact same way, sit back and watch with popcorn.

I’ve learned, yes,  just not in the conventional definition of learning.

Oh well.

Because Nothing Else Matters.

What All Food Should Look Like.

In response to theories of evolution; it’s 2012 and you can still rule the planet with the right set of mammary glands.

Proof?

..I rest my case.

‘Nothing is true, everything is permitted. The wisdom of our creed is revealed in these words. We work in the dark, to serve the light. We are Assassins.’