Ay, No More Talk.

I haven’t properly blogged in a while. Something about the sanaweyya experience seems to take the urge to speak out of you. I’m not whining. I won’t. So what do i talk about?

So all i wanna get out of this scant vacation is as many outings as i can, something that i can feed off of when it’s over.

I don’t really feel like talking, so if this blog post turns out to be a disappointment, you have been warned.

I just finished the first HHGG book. It’s one of the best mind jogging experience i can dare to call a book. It’s sort of a mind pizza, fulfilling and light. Well, that may not be the best metaphor, how about a donut? No, donuts are too boring. Ice cream? Yeh maybe. Cerebral Ice Cream. Haha.

That wasn’t really funny.

I’ve been crossing over to the dark side for a while. You know, how everybody has a phase where they kinda find out where their boundaries are and stretch the fuck out of them till they nearly snap? Yes, i’m right there, and i like it, and i’m tickling it and it’s almost cracking now. And i like it.

Here’s to hoping i don’t ruin my life for a couple of stubs. Or maybe i will, i don’t really care at this point, and that’s what makes it oh so damn awesome. The forbidden fruit experience, on meth.

I like killing people in head, repeatedly, when i’m mad at them. I kinda embark on a series of scenarios where i brutally murder them in different medieval methods simultaneously. It’s good catharsis, and it highly contributes to the fact that i’m ice cold more often than not. So it’s gotta be healthy, no? Join the dark side, black is the slimming colour. You know you want to.

Agaza.

I’m watching knocked up, and the script is awesome. And retarded. But yeh, it’s awesome, and true.

So yeh, agaza and stuff. Yay. Yep. Partying and all. Uhuh.

I’m spaced out. That’s great too.

You know when you’re eating cheese out of the box and you don’t wanna get your fingers dirty but then the block slides and smears it all and you start thinking oh yeh, life’s totally like that. Because once your fingers are smeared you go ahead and go all like oh what the hell, i’m toasting some bread. And you end up with delicious cheese bites. Now you see, you wouldn’t end up with cheese bites if your fingers weren’t ‘accidentally’ smeared now would you?

There’s a very thin line between being a gynaecologist and being a gynachiatrist, mom. A. Very. Thin. Line. You tip over a lot. How many penises were in the car? Seriously? Being tipped over all the way to gynopsycotic is a whole other thing.

I Can’t Stand To Fly. I’m Not That Naive.

So i was looking at my home feed, and it hit me. Why does everybody wanna look like they don’t give a fuck? Well, i do give a fuck, most of the time, i just dunno where to put it. Unless, of course, they just really don’t. Which is most probably the case.

I’m almost done with my finals, 3 days now, and i’m going at a slow rate. It’s so slow actually that i’m actually considering it’s just my subconscious trying to postpone the inevitable. I want to believe everything’s gonna be alright, but i just don’t see it coming. It’s rather comforting that i’m not specifically known for my astute psychic abilities, but then again i have documented historic events that can prove to the most optimistic dweeb in the milky way that everything can always find a way to go wrong when you least expect it. I’d rather expect it and get disappointed. Now that’s what i call optimistic, all in favour say ay. Anyone?

Yeh well..

I’ve been dreaming of sanaweyya 3amma for the past couple of days. I can’t quite seem to remember the dream, i just wake up knowing what it was about and that i wasn’t exactly that happy REM’ing in its folds. Theories have been put forward that i’ll continue to have those dreams for up to 31 years later. Others  propose that i’ll get an inexplicable depression towards June of every year. But then again what’s new with that? At least i’m dreaming. Optimistic, again.

Anybody?

Screw y’all.

And You’ll Be Lost.

Three days left. Three days left of this shit, and i can’t get my shit together. I’m tired, and what a fucking opportune timing to be. I can see that my entire life is dependent on a fucking sheet of paper, lying so damn innocently and cluelessly on a ragged desk, and i can’t focus.

You Got Your Passion, You Got Your Pride, But Don’t You Know That Only Fools Are Satisfied?

Sea Otters Holding Hands To Keep From Drifting Apart While Sleeping.

Now THIS is cute. Not babies. Egh.

[ Dad + Classical Music ] x Sanaweyya = Moral Cupcake.

No, I Won’t Be A Sport.

Babel Fish.

"The Babel fish," said The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy quietly, "is small, yellow and leech-like, and probably the oddest thing in the Universe. It feeds on brainwave energy not from its carrier but from those around it. It absorbs all unconscious mental frequencies from this brainwave energy to nourish itself with. It then excretes into the mind of its carrier a telepathic matrix formed by combining the conscious thought frequencies with nerve signals picked up from the speech centres of the brain which has supplied them. The practical upshot of all this is that if you stick a Babel fish in your ear you can instantly understand anything said to you in any form of language. The speech patterns you actually hear decode the brainwave matrix which has been fed into your mind by your Babel fish.

"Now it is such a bizarrely improbable coincidence that anything so mindboggingly useful could have evolved purely by chance that some thinkers have chosen to see it as the final and clinching proof of the non-existence of God.

"The argument goes something like this: `I refuse to prove that I exist,' says God, `for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing.'

`But,' says Man, `The Babel fish is a dead giveaway, isn't it? It could not have evolved by chance. It proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own arguments, you don't. QED.'

`Oh dear,' says God, `I hadn't thought of that,' and promptly vanished in a puff of logic.

`Oh, that was easy,' says Man, and for an encore goes on to prove that black is white and gets himself killed on the next zebra crossing.

Sanaweyya – Day 1

Howa elli 3ayez yenam w teezo wag3ah bas mesh 3ayez bokra yeegi w teezo lessa wag3ah ye3mel eh?

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. I Hate You. Tomorrow. You’re Only A Daaaaaaaaay Aaaaaawaaaaaay.

For those who haven’t already figured out what imma talk about in this pathetic post, i’d like to inform you that i’m 5 hours away from the first slip of paper in my detrimental national certificate <sanaweyya 3amma> that’s gonna undoubtedly determine a lot of shit in my near and not so near future. I’m not helping aren’t i? Well, that’s not what I wanna write about. I have to get up in a bit anyway to try and save what can be saved.

What’s interesting is that, while i’m perfectly calm <and scared shitless> it seems that my body is reacting the same way you’d expect it to under a terrorist raid. I visited the bathroom for exactly 39 times in the past 2 days. I didn’t pick up the phone twice because i thought the music was just in my head. Refer to yesterday’s episode of my singing along to music that i thought were coming through the walls but apparently, according to my mom and dad, weren’t really there. I have successfully ingested 2 slices of pizza, a cookie and enormous amounts of coffee since last Wednesday. Yesterday I had enough caffeine in me to support Cambodia. Fired up with 3 mugs of coffee, a mug of tea, a litre of coke and two red bulls and Arabic still managed to knock me out. I’m also a walking chimney. And while everybody is crying and wailing and moaning their fucking throat out, I, on the other hand, am laughing. I’m laughing hysterically out of cue. I formulated a theory that laughing and crying are both two sides of the same coin, but it varies according to the person really. I happen to be a hopeless midget with a tendency to laugh off masayeb, which is cool, i guess, until you end up having a laughing fit that leaves you with three phone calls, being medicated into sleep and losing 59% of your hydration. The object of one of the phone calls stopped IM’ing. Yeh. Apparently it was that bad. The common opening line was: ‘Are you drunk?’

I keep thinking what’s gonna happen tomorrow is that while everybody in the uncharted shithole we’ll be sitting our exam at is wailing and passing out, i’ll be laughing as if my life depended on it. Various scenarios have been introduced to complete the picture, including my getting kicked out for possible cheating since that’s the only reason they could conjure up in their melancholic heads as to why i’m finding the slip of doom lying on my wrecked desk any funny.

Of Nazism & Neuters.

Life Lesson #230: Altruism is projected Nazism in disguise. If you don’t love yourself, then don’t be so surprised when time decides another holocaust is due.

Life Lesson #231: Nobody is at their worst as when they pretend to be at their best. You are no good for yourself. But then again nobody is. Next time you say you’re fine, make sure you mean it. If you don’t, say it anyway. Because in the end, nobody else needs to know, they don’t give a shit; they have their own shit to handle and they like and cherish it like their own pet, and if they do know you’ll just end up with a huge pie of mismatched manure. That doesn’t make any sense.

Life Lesson #232: Expatriate (noun): Culturally Neutered.

Life Lesson #233: In times that your body reacts when your head doesn’t want it to and your heart yb2a zy el m5alas maynobsh 3’er ta2tee3 hedoomoo; you end up with more bathroom trips than a diarrheic and worse swollen heels than your jogging glory days.

Life Lesson #234: You know what’s the worst thing about Gawaz 3orfy? You were never married in the first place. You know what’s the best thing about Gawaz 3orfy? You were never married in the first place.

Life Lesson #235: Come on, come on, put your hands into the fire.

Life Lesson #236: It has been proven that you can keep the existence of a person a secret for almost half a decade with absolutely no glitches – well, save for bin laden that is, given the fact that he was already dead half the time, but anyway you probably get the point. And you thought keeping secrets was hard? Naw, all you need is the right amount of terror, be it social, cultural or plain wimpass-ness. You’d think one would be flattered that they’re oh so important; judging the fact that somebody took a huge ladle out of their time and energy to keep you in their life, but i just gotta say it rates second right after being listed in their restraining order.

Life Lesson #237: A white blank page, and a swelling rage.

Life Lesson #238: Avoidance is good. And no, i’m not talking about nukes.

Life Lesson #239: Why?

Every Siren Is A Symphony.

I Guess She’s An Xbox And I’m More Atari.

Bet-ow Bel Gebna El Beida.

Bo2la Wla Ba2loola?

The hustle and bustle of daily life is after all the muse behind every work of art, and in my case, cartoon. Endorsement much? no.

• I burned my thumb on a halogen lamp as i was studying chemistry, ‘iron’ically enough. You’d think i’d see it coming considering the fact that i’ve been studying that shit for 9 months, but noooooooo. On the bright side, i am now the proud owner of the first microcosmic prototype of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in flesh – pun intended – and i can now give people three thumbs up, considering the fact that i have two right thumbs at this point. I now have a valid excuse to skip my much dreaded detrimental chem final – not that i needed any, but now i can always think, with enough conviction that only memory maiming services would offer as an ego pat, that i would’ve gone had it not been for ‘fate’ deciding that i should lay back because i ‘deserve’ it – on the basis that i can’t hold a pen without shrieking in agony. Yep. Agony agony agony. <snicker> Aaaaaaaaaand, wait for it, i got no fingerprint! I can kill y’all without getting caught. Mwahahaha.

            Well, that’s not that much of a newsflash.

            …Nobody suspects the midget in glasses.

• My friend, who has a final tomorrow, has gone through the entire Kübler-Ross model and invented some transition stages of her own alleviating it into a full-blown psychosis, what’s with talking to people as if they were other people, thinking celebrities have added her on facebook and last but not least, or the least that is, the fact that she’s holding elaborate metaphors linking people to her set of blackberry covers.

• During the course of the last few days, i discovered that my anger issues extend to china, phones and booby trapping pillows.

• Suicide bombing sorts everything. Pathetically enough.

• Apparently taking a migraine pill when you have a headache is like trying to go jogging with one sneaker on. It just doesn’t work that way, and you end up with a bleeding foot and another with a muscle spasm. Gynaecologists treat headaches better than future brain surgeons. Which is not only ironic but just sad.

And you know what I find most funny? When i finally get my sanaweyya magmou3 and i realize that i’m officially screwed, none of this will sound funny anymore. What WILL sound funny is oxygen.

Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

 

But they were fucked up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another's throats.

 

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don't have any kids yourself.

See The Cat? See The Cradle? Exactly.

‘ "No wonder kids grow up crazy. A cat's cradle is nothing but a bunch of X's between somebody's hands, and little kids look and look and look at all those X's..."
"And?"
"No damn cat, and no damn cradle." '

Excerpt from Cat’s Cradle – Kurt Vonnegut.

You Don’t Really Know What You Got Till It’s Gone.

Of Chicks & Conical Flasks.

I’ve always kind of known that being a woman has its powerful pros in getting what you want. Not that I ever knew how to implement it, but needless to say those who do have never failed to instil a sense of awe in me. I’ve always wanted to be able to do that, manipulate what i want out of people…but it never quite worked. I’ve had my phases of blaming it on age, stupidity and last but not least, that i’m probably a dude at heart after all. What’s the point to being a chick if i’m not actively using it? And I don’t mean the bitchy sense. I actually mean emotionally extorting people in a way that makes them feel it is their duty to provide with what you wish and be happy about it. It’s almost a superpower, something you might expect of a science fiction movie where the hero radiates an aura towards creatures and they momentarily start tending to your wishes as if under the imperius curse, and then they feel like they’ve contributed to humanity by making it happen. Like when jean-baptiste made a perfume out of beautiful virgins in ‘Perfume’, and he had two choices:

‘He still had enough perfume left to enslave the whole world if he so chose. He could walk to Versailles and have the king kiss his feet. He could write the pope a perfumed letter and reveal himself as the new Messiah. He could do all this, and more, if he wanted to. He possessed a power stronger than the power of money, or terror, or death - the invincible power to command the love of man kind. There was only one thing the perfume could not do. It could not turn him into a person who could love and be loved like everyone else. So, to hell with it he thought. To hell with the world. With the perfume. With himself. Within no time, Jean-Baptiste Grenouille had disappeared from the face of the earth. When they had finished, they felt a virginal glow of happiness. For the first time in their lives, they believed they had done something purely out of love.’

There are so many rules, to being a chick i mean. Unwritten rules that you’re supposed to inherently know. So many rules that make me feel glitched in every way possible. And not in the way that an update can fix.

It scares me sometimes.

It scares me to know that I’m gonna have to be able to do that at one point of my life, when i know for a fact that I’m enough of an idiot not to know where to start and everything is gonna settle, as always, on blowing up in my face like an acid that you rushed into a conical flask. What i mean is that, if you’re a chick, then you’re intrinsically set to know the rate at which to add that acid. You’re supposed to know that kind of shit to survive. But I don’t. I really don’t. Where does that leave me?

Malignant.