They’re In The Wrong Place Trying To Make It Right.

The Bright Side Of A Fractured Finger.

1. Suck it, Debussy.

2. You too, pop quizzes. Muahaha.

3. It’s super duper cool. And you get to make up new words like splintified and bonered. ‘Shut up, asshole, my broken finger has more of a boner than your baloney.’ - ‘I'd totally give you the finger had my finger not been giving me the finger.’

4. You’re permanently giving the French equivalent of the middle finger. Refer to #3.

5. You have a better excuse for sporting the afro. Ever tried combing a proper afro with a broken finger? Yeh, don’t. My guess is, the worse the condition actually is or looks like, the higher the leverage on the social acceptance scale. Coolness on a silver platter, dawg, and it doesn’t even have to be the 90’s.

6. You’re like a hero and stuff  and everybody laughs at your jokes. Okay, maybe not. Worth a try tho.

7. You are exponentially more delicate, and, well, French. Tough luck if you’re a guy. No homo.

8. You’re subconsciously training your other hand, hence subliminally becoming more of a ninja. You’ll be catching flies with chopsticks in no time. Oh and I made noodles and i didn’t burn down the house :’D but that’s irrelevant. (YES!)

9. You won’t have any trouble finding a pen; you can always use the one latched on to support the bone alignment on your finger. Not that you’ll be able to use it. Pro if you’re a guy, you’ll pick up chicks in no-time. Girls are suckers for gentlemen. That balances the plainfield here.

10. You don’t need long creepy fingernails to itch anymore. More points on the social scale. Unless you’re a Tyrannosaurus. Other than that, nobody likes a Tengu.

11. It will inevitably improve your math skills, since you’ll have to do most of the calculations in your head. And, as a consequence, will make you smarter! Less fingers, more IQ. Who woulda thought, eh?

12. You don’t have to carry stuff anymore, which is kind of rhetorical if you’re a chick but, look at it this way, more hope for the ugly ones. Holla.

13. You’ll inevitably be more chaste. Ahem. Hey, come on guys, at least you won’t have to worry about carpal tunnel for a while. Still doesn’t balance out the French stigma? Damn..

14. You will mean it when you say your middle finger just got a boner. Et voila, you’re more credible and streetwise.

15. You could fake re-breaking for a fraternity/sorority initiation and dodge the paddle. AKA, your broken finger literally just saved your ass.

16. You’ll get more time to think through what you type or write, and would inevitably tho unintentionally become wiser. If you’d broken an arm, you’d definitely be a guru and give the Dalai Llama a run for his money.

17. You get to mope about it all you want. Another pro if you’re a guy, since that luxury is exclusively chick-owned.

18. You get a moment of clarity when you’re enlightened by exactly how much of wimp you are. For me, seeing wiring and surgical procedures on WebMD did the trick for me. Oh heeeeeeeyyyuuuul naw. I like my pen. Thank you very much.

19. You get to patronize people who’ve never broken anything by every noob/benchwarmer joke you can dream of.

20. You get to brag about every former glory in blown up proportions without having people doubting the validity of your concoctions or being obliged to confirm it at any later point in the near future. And in the not-so-near future, you could always pin it on the cartilages and sell it with an indignant face. Damn you, non-renewable lazy excuse of a stress ball.

21. You use the chance to get rid of your writer’s block and lame cynical outlook on life and conclusively become a more functional individual with an active career. And if you don’t, it doesn’t really count and nobody can hold it against you. Refer to #17.

UPDATE: After a scary hospital visit and an X-Ray, an orthopedist who couldn’t believe I’m 18 because i kept trying to puppy face/bribe him into casting it, it turns out that it’s just a severe ligament tear thingie. Bummer. And i had my hopes up and everything. :(

The Comeback.

I haven’t written anything in a while, not that it’s worth noting since my blog became more of a bulletin board and playlist and less of a journal. I don’t feel like i have anything to say anyway, and when i do, it’s even clearer why i shouldn’t waste it on people.

Today is a good day. I gotta tell you, nothing is funnier than hearing a rapist say they got raped by their rapee, or that people miss Gaddhafi; but i repeat myself. Coldplay’s new album leaked today, and not even finding out about graduation by mistake through people talking about it in my vicinity rather than actually bothering to tell me could bring me down.

I’d forgotten what it feels like to sleep, having pulled two all-nighters to study for a physics exam that i eventually walked out on halfway through, when i enjoyed the utter bliss of 18 hours of sleep. I’ve been told i hadn’t even moved, and I'd find that hard to believe but my stiff neck and headache that wouldn’t go away with a frozen bag of aubergines confirm it. Nothing interesting about that fact, but i just felt the need to record it, like one might feel about taking pictures of their babies to look at em when they’ve turned into hormonal mofos and be reminded that one day, that actually happened and is not entirely a figment of their wishful imagination. And, well, seeing them as a baby makes it harder for people to kill them, not that it’s relevant, but babies are evil hoaxes using emotional loopholes as a means of leeching off for survival. But that’s off-topic.

Ever wanted to write on an ex-friend’s wall and then the internet crashes for two hours at that exact same second and you’re inevitably led to think that maybe, just maybe, rabena 3ayez y2ool 7aga? Or maybe you were about to make tea and found a deserted packet of 3-in-1 coffee just lying there chipping away at your conscience, seducing you by its slender figure and you’re like, I’m not cheating on you why do I feel so damn guilty? Or maybe you end up giving your favourite book to a friend on her birthday just so she’d forget the author’s name next time you fight and you’re certain that  you’re right in whatever the hell you were arguing about and that she’s an absolute and utter bitch that you never wanna talk to again and then get an overprotective instinct to your book that makes you wanna kill that friend and retrieve it? Or when your borrowed cardigan finds its way through an intricately woven web of people to your best friend the same day she’d forgotten her jacket at home and was freezing her ass off in the middle of the desert and stuff? Yeh, God works in mysterious ways man. It’s ooh-ful.

Or you’re hopelessly pareidolic.

I’ve been reading a book, an autobiography actually, about a drug addict and alcoholic who successfully pissed away his life at 23 and i find the suicidal absence of self-pity utterly inspiring. He could run against saint peter and win the elections and a bronze medal for missionary work for converting people through scaring the fuck out of them by being the worst case epitome of the possible consequences. You don’t think it’s possible for people to get better or be happier? This guy redefines the idiom ‘down in the gutters.’ And it worked for him. It kind of makes you think twice on whether or not you’re, as a matter of fact, an absolute and utter pussy.

And i could go on and on and onnnnnnn, but who cares?

Basically I’m Complicated.

In the town where I was born lived a woman and her daughter, who walked in their sleep. One night, while silence enfolded the world, the woman and her daughter, walking, yet asleep, met in their mist-veiled garden. And the mother spoke, and she said: “At last, at last, my enemy! You by whom my youth was destroyed -- who have built up your life upon the ruins of mine! Would I could kill you!” And the daughter spoke, and she said: “O hateful woman, selfish and old! Who stand between my freer self and me! Who would have my life an echo of your own faded life! Would you were dead!” At that moment a cock crew, and both women awoke. The mother said gently, “Is that you, darling?” And the daughter answered gently, “Yes, dear.”

Excerpt from The Madman, 'The Sleepwalkers' - Khalil Gibran

W genany dah 3en el 3a2l, el 3a2l dah da2 by3ayee. W genany dah she2 mesh sahl, te2dar tetganen zayee?

What’s Your Carrot?

Life Lesson #282: Sometimes all you need to get better is to actually see that better exists somewhere tangible.

Dad: “You know when you’re an Olympic runner up and you’ve been practicing your whole life only to get an injury warming up for the tournament? That’s how I feel.”

Me: “At least your runner up is not a donkey and your medal is not a carrot. I don’t want to be the donkey that keeps chasing the carrot, what if the day I get it I find out that I don’t like carrots?”

Dad: “Then you’ll have to learn not to be one, hunnie. You can start doing that by not asking winning advice of a just declared Olympic eliminee.”

Life Lesson #283: Sometimes, tangible is not enough. You can always smell the carrot dangling two inches away from your nose only to find out that it might only be given to you if you buckle for budgetary cut backs just to keep you going for a couple more miles. And what’s a medal on a wall if you’re looking at it from your wheelchair 40 years later? It might even make you feel worse just for having seen better.

Dad: “Your metaphors suck.”

Me: “And yours are too depressing.”

Dad: “I know who's the donkey, but what’s the carrot?”

Me: “I don’t wanna talk about it. And i definitely can't see any athletes in this room, your..punchline is blocking my view. What’s the medal?”

Dad: “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Me: “The only problem here is that your medal comes with the knowledge that you’ve already tried and failed towards something that’s certified. My carrot might as well be a mirage that never was and might never be.”

Dad: “Sometimes, not knowing all there is about something makes it much easier to believe in.”

Life Lesson #284: Carrots and medals are for people who need a more tangible excuse than the rush.

Life Lesson #285: But then again, most life-changing events were blamed upon a rush of blood to the head.

“And I have found both freedom and safety in my madness; the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us. But let me not be too proud of my safety. Even a Thief in a jail is safe from another thief.." - Khalil Gibran

Look over your hills and be still, the sky above us shoots to kill.

Of Grownup Stuff, Customer Service & Language Barriers.

Life Lesson #270: The ID number is the long one, and you read Arabic numbers from left to right, not the other way around, even tho the latter makes more sense.

Life Lesson #271: You don’t ask customer service which number is the ID number or the direction of reading Arabic numbers.

Life Lesson #272: It’s okay to be the laughing stock of Vodafone customer service. On the bright side, I might have made a very bored dude’s day and propped him up the ‘employee of the month’ chart for going through the drill of simplifying sentences and talking in digits.

Life Lesson #273: On giving the customer service your residential information, you don’t give them the apartment number. Apparently that’s a no-no. I now realize why he was giggling.

Life Lesson #274: Don’t apologize to the customer service representative for being impossible. They get paid for that shit. Muffling your own giggle doesn’t help either, save the self deprecation till after the call or they’ll think you’re coming onto their hairy ape selves. You really, really, REALLY don’t want that. Oh the horror.

Life Lesson #275: When asked why you didn’t call the English customer service, you don’t tell them out-front it’s because they don’t fucking get accents. Not all of them have the sense of humor of the dude I was talking to.

Life Lesson #276: When addressed with Madam, you don’t reply with a screechy ‘I’m 18 for god’s sake!’ They tend to hyperventilate and compulsively reiterate Miss for the next 15 minutes while apologizing their ass off for fear you might report them for sexual advances.

Life Lesson #277: When they explain that the ID number is on the left side of the card, you don’t reply with ‘left being the side the faces the floor, right?’

Life Lesson #278: When asked for two numbers that transfer credit to your line, you don’t elaborate that the only number that transfers credit to yours is your mom’s.

Life Lesson #279: Their coming to the practical conclusion mid-call that you’re too stupid to fill in your complete personal information by forgetting your own payment plan let alone steal a line and consequently stop the process of confirmation is sometimes a good thing, theoretically speaking.

Life Lesson #280: Try not to think about the fact that the call is recorded for ensuring the quality of the call service. It tends to make you feel even more mortified and you might be red in the face for the another 45 minutes, which, by the way, is not the standard call duration average.

Life Lesson #281: Pointing a pen towards the cellphone and screaming ‘Obleviate!’ does not help with that either.

Oh man..Can somebody please shoot me now?

I never knew I’d catch myself saying this, but I truly wish people could choose who they love. This was right sometime, but I don’t believe I know what’s right anymore.

I sometimes hate the fact that I remember numbers. I hate the fact that I think of almost everything in numbers. Because that way, I can remember almost everything. And I can remember almost absolutely nothing.

We’re Gonna Die And Stuff.

So word has it that this comet thingie is gonna be in alignment with the earth and sun and cause a humongous earthquake that’s gonna send us all in tiny little fireworks of our own blood and flesh setting Katy Perry's prophecy true and ‘skyrocketing’ her career into a ‘blockbuster.’

I’m so goddamn happy. :’D We’re all gonna die! That’s so awesome! I threw a huge fit of walking around the house making up scenarios of how I’d like it to end and of the world beyond and my dad now believes I’m officially nuts.

First of all, I want the trumpets to rock and roll, not the boring screechy lullabies, but something more like Tech N9ne meet Schubert with a touch of Axel Rose, and I wanna stage dive at the heavenly gates and the tiny little angels keep bouncing me up and down like a hero, without groping any of my packages, because they’re angels and stuff. And I want an endless supply of Coffee and chocolate, and I get to keep microcosmic clones of the people I like and do all sort of shit to/with them. Nobody sleeps so I won’t get bored and everybody’s everywhere at the same time so there’s not trouble commuting or traffic jams. And they have a 24-hour showing of the last hour as people scream and scurry all over the place and hide under cockroaches thinking they’ll be as protective against comets as they are against nuclear explosions with popcorns that I can eat with both chocolate sauce and ketchup that promise to give me eternal life from the first crunch. I don’t even need 3D glasses because I’ve already lived the 5D experience, and I get an unlimited internet connection and phone credits that will last me lifetimes, literally. I get to have an army that consists of clones of my dad that are just as cute and awesome 24/7. I party everyday, and I get a special sighting of the face of the minister of education as he realizes that I never lived to continue the medieval torture that is sanaweyya 3amma and died at the glorious score of 98%. Everybody is intelligent, because if near death experiences enlighten you then death activates your Einstein spores. I get jetpacks built in to my physique. And speaking about physique, I get to be the tallest and they’d all be short and I’d step on them and remind them everyday of how short they miserably are and will forever be. And I get to meet George Carlin and tell him that he’s my one and only. Erik Satie would compose for me and I get to pick on Debussy for being a bald good-for-nothing lard-ass with all my might. I get to tell everybody how much I love them by haunting the fuck out of them because they’re all dead too and we’d all be running after each other in dimensions but they’d be short so I’d always outrun them and hunt them done and kill them with cupcakes.

GIVE ME ALL YOU GOT! EARTHQUAKE MY ASS! COMET MY SHMOOZLE! BECAUSE I’M AWESOME AND I’M GONNA BE ONE HELL OF A HOT CORPSE! HA!

Of Jumper Cables, Stuff & Stuff That Need Jumper Cables.

It’s one of these days when everything needs to have jumper cables to gear up into a start. The headache is quite tenacious and I can’t quite talk it out of my head so I can get work done and not be screwed. The coffee seems quite adamant not to cool down before I age and my metabolism can’t seem to have enough oomph to get me off the couch and into the shower. Not that any of this is interesting to you, but who cares? As if anybody reads this shit.

Life Lesson #261: ‘If you can’t get it right after that many times, then you’re an idiot. There’s a reason why people’s tongues never get used to the scalding coffee.’ – Dad.

Life Lesson #262: Apparently nightmares don’t go away.

Life Lesson #263: I’m so not a morning person, it’s almost painful, well, not almost. But I have a theory, that if you’re a morning person, then you’re really just a blue collar away from becoming a corporate tool. I’m kidding, I’m just jelly.

Life Lesson #264: Some things in life are just not fair, like the fact that ‘Life of Pi’ runs out of pages at some point.

Life Lesson #265: Cutting people off doesn’t  work because it’s easier to just leave them around and torment them in your time off. It’s fun too. Besides, karma will give you shit for taking away her play dates.

Life Lesson #266: Always update your cheer-upper list. If you have nothing to add to it, then kill yourself.

Life Lesson #267: Ants don’t accept sugar offerings.

Life Lesson #268: Next time you try to free a moth, make sure you don’t accidentally decapitate it with the mug’s ledge.

Life Lesson #269: Love is making someone coffee and not taking a sip.

De-people-toxing.

Of Psyches, Hinduism & Arachnoids.

It has been said that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Considering the fact that Hinduism claims that all people share the same ultimate spirit, Atman, and that spirit keeps taking forms in hope of getting liberated by karma’s laws and once more united into Brahman, its reciprocal equivalent soul of the world, that would mean that the whole scheme of existence wouldn’t qualify as mentally sound in the astrophysical superior being’s sheet. On its clipboard, we’d be put away as hopeless cases, experimenting occasional electric shocks that are supposed to put some sense back into us and being kept high on pills to put us out of the terminal misery that is existing in our own heads. Why couldn’t we have been born with the same genetic modification as the Arachno-genesis? That would be the fix to that critical bug in the system; we’d inherit the experience from our ancestors and would still have the ability of choice, being distinctly human. Maybe the creator thought that life is too long and we’d get bored that way? But life isn’t long, at all, it’s frightfully short. Am I the only one who sees this as one sick cosmic joke? Has this thought even occurred to anybody else? Theoretically speaking and statistically applying in light of what I just elaborated; it has. A thousand times before to beings all over the globe. Could the mere bug in our system be the reason we have lives in the first place? To actually try the same thing over and over again, not learn but rather live, enjoy and get fucked over a million times on the way? Would that mean that the ultimate joy people get out of life is ultimately a masochistic pre-mapped built-in train of automated psychological responses? But wouldn’t that also mean that learning is the anomaly? Learning would stop people, because contrary to common belief, the act of experiencing stops when you have experience, ironically worded. What’s the use of repetition if the soul is one, or as some claim, non-existent? If it’s the same, why have its memory formatted at equal phases? If it’s not there, then why bother?

Times Square Can’t Shine As Bright As You

I swear it’s true.

Ode To Dough.

Everything changes but little goes
Less of em fancy mages and more of em sloppy joes
With 10 years worth of wages, a bitch still owes
And debts fill up the pages, every digit shows
You'll rage in paper cages, you're checks'll be your foes
And as the scene engages, receipts'll be your hoes.