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!

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?