Take-Your-Kid-To-Work Day.

One of my favourite places is my dad’s clinic. Most people would roll their eyes at a parent’s invitation into their workplace and make the stupidest excuses to get out of it. But then again, it’s one of the reasons I don’t understand people most of the time.

You know how some people radiate off of the things they own? It’s like that with my father. Walking into his clinic is nothing less of taking a stroll down an aisle in his brain. Everything in there has a reason. He’s much like monk with the OCD of having to put everything in place with a certain angle, or else he wouldn’t be able to function properly.

For instance, there’d always be light new age music playing in the background. The volume has to be loud enough to be heard and low enough to fade into your subconscious and not submerge the conversation. When I asked him why he didn’t play classical like he preferred at home, he’d answer that the patients don’t appreciate that raw unedited kind of art, that it has to be processed into a more digestible form, and new age is his most tolerated compromise. When commenting that the roses downplay the beautiful green Murano vase, which happens to be his favourite, he’d say that it’s the only way to bring it out in such an obscure spot. For a while there he couldn’t sit right until his desk was spotless, I noticed that was the case and got up to clean it myself, to which he added that he scolds the cleaning lady every morning for forgetting to do so. I can’t blame her, she doesn’t know my dad.  When asked why he tore out the page full of previous appointments, he caught my drift and answered that it’s not there to boast through, but organize. He’d then note the most outlandish observations, and put a satirical moral twist to them, lending a mere routine as cleaning his reading glasses into an analogy that makes life giggle at its own shortcomings.

And that went on with everything, nothing was just there because he had no other place to put it.  The intra-oral camera was covered in neatly cut out plastic for when the patients reflexively bit down on it, the phone would only be answered in between appointments and never during, or before. He’d always block out a full 30 minutes during which he’d be so absorbed into his personal medical notes that his coffee would grow cold and he’d not even hear the receptionist walking in or my random comments as he studies what he’s about to work on for the day, the kind of focus that breaks through thin air, enviable and revered, but never fails to be awfully sweet when he notices the extra entity in the room.

The receptionist is an old man, as old as my grandpa were he alive, who leads a modest life and gets me all sorts of chocolate and candy, sometimes even when he couldn’t afford them. He’s the kind of man that vibes out love and rekindles your hope in mankind, even though he’s not much different in outlook than the people you’d be scared to cross lives with if met in a different walk of life. He cherishes my dad for not being the usual sadistic boss figure and seems to not help how often he radiates that comfortable air of gratitude that seems to trail along the breaks of his sentences.

My dad would then take 10 silent minutes staring into one of his favourite spots in the room to gather his thoughts, during which he’d often storm out of the chair with a preset destination that he wants to set right, like a cord that was out of place or a towel that wasn’t perfectly folded, or the plant that was pushed a couple of inches to the side and set to lean against the surreally brush-stroked wall. The set of colourful lotions are set on the sink in prioritized order, so he’d reach for them by habit without wasting time on thinking which one he needs, much like a mad scientist’s lab. He’d giggle when I ask him which one is normal human soap, and respond without a moment of doubt that it’s the third one on the left. A blue luminescent liquid that catches light and makes your hands smell like something from planet Vulcunupiter. That’s the smell I’ve always mind-linked dad with when he’d stroke my face when I was 6 up to this day, a blend of latex glove powder, cigarettes and planet Vulcunupiter.

I’d inevitably feel that I’m disturbing his mind bubble, and tread off into the balcony, which never fails to have the perfect ratio of sun and breeze. A ratio that is hard to come by in winter. For those who think I’m exaggerating for literary acclaim, it’s facing south, which means it only gets sun as it sets, making the morning a weird blend of indirect sunlight and a warm yet sufficiently chilly breeze. The prefect equation to integrate a summery afternoon during winter, rendering it to  improvement in the first and third faction of the day, especially that he only has morning and night appointments. Needless to say, he explained the latter as well, because even the strategic balcony position had to have a reason to him. I’d drag a chair from one of the waiting rooms and a tiny table and start working. It’s always so quiet in there, with the air hanging around like an old friend, and time seems to have its own pace, another peculiar attribute to everything dad touches. It’s never rushed. I’d lose track of time and get so much done only to find out when he walks in to take a smoke and 5 minutes to himself between appointments that it’s only been a mere two hours, a record for my entire physics assignment that would take 5 hours on a good day to get down.

Then after what feels like a whole day, he’d clean up and put everything back in place, always in the same order, always making sure to leave the music on for as long as possible, and we’d go home after the 4 hours that make up for his morning appointments.

Commuting Potential.

I was in a cab today, since most of my everyday life for the past year and a half was spent going to and fro classes, and somehow this one was unlike most.

This cabbie took special care of his car, he had new air fresheners hung in strategic spots, he had the unwrapped stock in his glove compartment which, when he opened to put his sunglasses back, I saw was perfectly organized. It had a pack of cigarettes, an extra lighter, a neatly folded towel and an apparently worn poetry book by Salah Jahin – one of my dad’s favorite compilations. His tissue pack was kept in a leather keeper, his seatbelt had a small leather wrap at the point where it is to touch his bare neck for comfort. His steering wheel had a bumpy leather cover so his grip doesn’t slide under his sweaty palms and have him skid on a sweaty summer day. He had light fusion jazz improvisations playing in the background and his leather arm rest was as presentable as it was practical. Everything was taken care of with the precision of an owner rather than a renter, and he seemed to have the relaxed countenance of someone who not only accepted, but embraced his fate. Would you call him unfortunate? I certainly didn’t dare. I wished I’d have the same level of acceptance he had about most of the things that I have, or might come upon at one point or another.

And it hit me, that’s what people meant when they said it’s not what you got, it’s what you make of what you got.

Then a corolla came out of nowhere and took his designated alley, and right then and there came the most fluent set of vulgar verbiage I’d ever had the chance to witness. It was full of envy and bitterness at  the juxtaposition that has just been accentuated to the seemingly oblivious soul whose only fault was that he was dealt a better hand at life than the next one.

Then it hit me, that’s what people meant when they said that nothing is what it seems.

Does the new realization replace the former? Subjectively speaking, yes. But for all I know, neither could be true. So I choose to keep both, as I would have had they happened in two separate time bubbles, because there’s no point of linking dots when you’re never gonna run into either personages again. They’re all surreal plots one concocts to make the lost time in transportation a little more tolerable.

What do you make of this? It’s different with everybody. I, for one, see that you can’t ask that much people. It’s good enough that they manage to be good people for short intervals. It makes life easier, and it makes theirs relatively happier.

Maybe the cabbie used to lead a life that was a lot more similar to the corolla driver at one point, and a vicious turn of fate reduced him to his current state. Maybe he lashed out at fate, or the materialization of fate in that incident. Maybe he was angry at the metaphor, the reminder of a better time.

Maybe if I was in the Corolla, I’d see the cabbie as one of the zombies that roam my vicinity and make for nothing but monsters that I have to swim through to get to work, hopefully scratchless. Maybe that Corolla was the driver’s last reminder of his past better life, and he’s driving to a job whose paycheck doesn’t cover his electricity bill, and he can’t get himself to let go of this one last luxury.

Or maybe none of this is true.

Then it hit me. Just as the same Solid Geometry problems was drawn from three different angles by me and the couple of students sitting next to me in class, there’s never one right answer. The endless variables to everything make for a chance, that’s hardly taken, for people to momentarily step out of their shoes. Instead of judging one and idolizing the other, taking a step back to observe the possibilities could prove better than being the judge, jury and blind momma justice. You’re not really sentencing anybody but your own vision, so much that even you can’t see it.

You can see so much, if you’d just look. And I mean really look at things, hard enough that you’d see through them and back a thousand times over. Even if you don’t come up with anything worthwhile, which is highly unlikely, it’d make for good entertainment and creative potential.

And a blogpost.

And It’s No Coincidence I've Come. And I Could Die When I’m Done.

I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind

There was something so pleasant about that place.

Even your emotions had an echo

In so much space

And when you're out there

Without care,

Yeah, I was out of touch

But it wasn't because I didn't know enough

I just knew too much

Does that make me crazy?

Does that make me crazy?

Does that make me crazy?

Possibly

And I hope that you are having the time of your life

But think twice, that's my only advice

Come on now, who do you, who do you, who do you, who do you think you are,

Ha ha ha bless your soul

You really think you're in control?

Well, I think you're crazy

I think you're crazy

I think you're crazy

Just like me.

Stay Sane.

Stay sane, please stay sane. There’s no reason, there’s no cause, and there shouldn’t be effect. For the sake of all that is holy, stay sane. For your sake and the sake of all the good that may happen when you don’t see it coming, stay sane. You’re not what they’re making you into, and you’re not what’s happening to you or around you, and you need to stay sane. It’s vital that you stay sane. Stay sane, for the life of you, in all meanings of the idiom. Stay sane, you will one day look back on it and laugh, and admire your own strength and sanity. Stay sane, for you. Stay sane, despite of everyone else. Stay sane, regardless of everything. Stay sane, and it will be alright, even though it very likely won’t be alright in that sense of the word, but stay sane anyway.

And don’t forget, stay sane.

The Reason Clocks Don’t Tick Backwards.

It’s been an odd couple of days, to say the least. But then again when has it ever been normal for me? Good and bad don’t really cut it anymore, there are always too many ways I’m looking at one thing to decide which with enough clarity. Objectively speaking, it’s been bad. Subjectively speaking, it’s been bad. For some reason, something right there, stuck in the middle of the rebellious teen concept and his equivalent uptight father figure lies a weird hue of contentment.

Things are looking good, for some reason, in my head. And I learned one or two things; one of which being that there are some things I’ll have to accept even though I might never understand just because I wouldn’t have gone about them the same way. I’m guessing that same urge is the one that’s not questioning, for once, why whatever this is, is labeled as good up there.

Today, I made the same decision a friend of mine took three years ago, and for the first time, after so much resentment, I understand it. I understand how being the asshole can be the highest form of altruism if used at the right time, all I needed for that to properly sink in was to grow up and be in that asshole’s position, find out I’ve made the same decision, and by knowing my reason, I understand theirs. I walked in someone else’s shoes today, but not because I lost mine, but rather grew out of them, and they weren’t the right fit anymore. Just a couple of tiny dots have been joined and now the helix is complete, and it all makes sense.

And the saddest part is that even though you know exactly how it’s gonna turn out and how long each and every little thing is gonna take and just how much and what aspects of that other person it will inevitably destroy, just because you’ve been there, done that, said that and fucked that up before, you can do absolutely nothing about it to save the other person the drill of having to find out the same way you did. Absolutely nothing.

Then you realize karma has it that you’re that same asshole to another person, and suddenly your asshole isn’t an asshole anymore. An intricate balance, through an unfortunate turn of events. A cycle that never ends because nobody’s interested in its theoretical postulations and they always feel a nagging urge to use themselves as a guinea pig to see if the practical observations fit the description. That urge keeps the planet turning.

And it’s a little unfair that only someone who has been through it will know that it’s at too high a cost, but will never be listened to. Some things, people just have to go through, and sometimes you’re lucky enough not to witness it, or you’re hired as a tool, the same one that once smashed you. And you can’t do zilch about it. Loophole in the system? Hardly.

The only consolation is the little hope that maybe life will extend the same courtesy to them as it now has to you and one day they’ll understand why, by being in your shoes. What sucks is that it will involve popping someone else’s life cherry. It will render them incapable of giving it their all that readily again. It’s good that I finally understand, and bad that it had to be that way. But that’s what you get when you want everything out of life, nothing exists without it’s absolute opposite, so brace yourself for a little bouncing around until the cosmic debts have been settled and equilibrium has been reached.

You don’t get to make that link most of the time, and it looks like there’s no way you had this coming, that you did nothing to deserve it, when in fact all you did was not notice which cause triggered that effect. I like to believe this mind link gave me the experience most people would spend life times oblivious about, or maybe it’s a longshot at an amendment, but who cares? If it’s happening, might as well get something out of it.

And that’s probably why it’s called ‘making’ sense of things, not ‘uncovering’ the sense behind things, because that’s the closest you’ll ever get to the ultimate truth; by little scattered versions of it diffracted by your own background of experiences to your understanding. All you can really do about it is hope you got enough quantum for the version to be somewhat compatible with the general term.

I was watching ‘The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button’ this morning, and it struck me how much sense it makes for people to be designed intricately enough for their peaking potential and ability to fulfill it to never meet at the ends. The time window only allows inversely proportional quotas of the limited amounts simultaneously. If you think about it, if people’s knowledge and the experience they acquire by the time they’re in their 80’s is combined by their ultimate physical and mental abilities they might have at the height of their youth to carry them out, the world will self-destruct in a couple of decades, and we’d not only hit WWIII, I daresay we’ll be working on the VIII’s by the end of the century. It all makes sense somehow, that seemingly unfair balance is actually fair in its injustice. It’s the only way to be fair in a dystopia, which makes it the closest approximation of perfection.

Our shortcomings make sure the world goes on, at our own expense. You’ll get something out of it, yes, but it will be taken from another person’s happiness. And that person will get something out of it at the expense of another’s. And the cycle continues, and never stops because a higher mathematical formula has been put that makes sure a generation dies out at just the right time for another to be absolutely clueless, to start from scratch.

Fair? Yes. And no. Equally. Perfectly.

Of Wiley Coyote, Nuclear Shelters & Rum.

Looking back on an academically wrecked week of missed classes and overdue work, today is looking a little too suspiciously bright. I have two finals to work on and an 11-hour window to work with. The day is starting off wonderfully tho, with coffee, catching up with a friend halfway across the universe and taking the barn quiz only to find out I’m Rory, not Stan, not the butcher and to my special consolation and guilty pleasure, not the cynical wise old Ram. I choose to overlook the fact that it’s a deafening confirmation that I’m not grounded in reality, but as long as it’s working, then being grounded in reality is an overrated concept, well, unless you’re a tree..

Also, my TWSS-integrated head is ruining Keane for me. ‘And iiiiiiif you have a minute why don’t weeee goooo?’

I woke up craving dessert, so I tried to microwave a forgotten old piece of cake with strawberry jam. Well, looking on the bright side, even tho I didn’t get my dessert, I think I may have uncovered one of the lost secrets of mummification. Humanity is one step closer to making mummies again, because of me, be proud.

One of the shushed marketing hoaxes is finding ways to say things that make absolutely no sense in a way that people would buy it. For instance, ‘This sizzling shower experience will leave you invigorated and smelling of fresh pomegranates.’ It smells nothing like pomegranates, actually, I don’t think pomegranates have a smell, but then again they can’t market a product saying ‘This sizzling shower experience will leave you invigorated and smelling of nothing!’

Anywho, I’m in the mood to start working, as soon as I’m done with my nuclear shelter routine. To further elaborate, when I’m looking at a day as stuffed as this one, I head to my nuclear shelter, known to regular human by the bathroom, taking a long shower and swear on everything holy that I’m not coming out until I’m ready to face the world again. It helps. It’s one of the few places where time seems to stop, like for instance, it doesn’t feel like you’re gonna be screwed if you don’t finish work on time when you’re washing your hair and working through the stubborn curls. Another place is under the blankets, when it’s dark enough for you to neither see nor acknowledge the clock tick-tocking your career away. Or waiting on the water boiler looking into the coffee crystals waiting to transform into that magical beverage that pumps through your caterpillar veins turning you into a human being with the attention span of a meth-charged butterfly. To each his own, but this is my secret recipe of sugar, spice and everything nice.

My list of nuclear shelters extends to encompass an old tree, Photoshop, a Coldplay list and this blog. Combining them by sipping my glorious coffee in the bathroom with Coldplay playing in the background and blogging while you’re at it sure beats meditation at running away to your happy place in just your tumultuous head. Also, it’s three-dimensional, better and a lot more hygienic than carrying your old blanky around everywhere you go.

On an unrelated note, I just realized that the lead singer of Keane is chubby. That’s comforting.

Along my list of comforting realizations are the following:

People grow up when they stop asking why the rum is gone. They start getting better when they stop wondering why the rum is gone, and they’re irrevocably healed when they stop hoping there’s another stash of rum in reach that they forgot about.

Also, people grow up when they start relating to the Simpsons or relate to Tom and Wiley Coyote in Tom & Jerry and Road Runner, and find it a painful reminder of how the asshole always gets his way.

Some people are turtles. They have this agonizingly heavy shell they carry around everywhere and can’t help but whine about the burden when the sun’s out and there’s nothing to hide from. A little ambitious thing like trying to climb a set of stairs would kill them, because once they’re overturned, they’re not resilient enough to bounce right back up. After all, they’ve always depended on problems sorting themselves out just by swooshing back into themselves.

You can take your tree everywhere, all you have to do is take a picture of it and set it as wallpaper on your phone. To all of you who thought I chopped it off and shoved it in my back pocket, get therapy.

Memory Maintenance.

This blogpost is a reminder. It’s a reminder that I write for me, and not any of you. It helps straighten my often wonky perspective . It’s a reminder that work makes me happy, not because of the outcome, but the actual mind-numbingly gratifying process. It’s a reminder of the assholes certain people have been which is a fact I somehow forgot about and was reminded of through retrospect and a memory jogged fresh by old entries. It’s a reminder of how loins can reduce a person to their stupidest, most disloyal and overall pathetic versions of self, which can’t be helped, but somehow understood. You can’t ask a person who’s high on hormones to think or be themselves. Those are a minority that I have yet to meet. I’ve learned to be tolerant of it, but sometimes, all a person needs is a shot of endorphins up the right vein and they’ll turn into the worst person they could have ever become in a fictional parallel universe. It’s a reminder that keeping your distance is never a bad thing. It’s a reminder that white tea contributes to world peace by making your urges to smash people’s faces in a little more repressible. It’s a reminder that Ralph Hagen stalks me and sends me life lessons through his barn comics. Unluckily for me, since I’m his muse, they come a little too late to be applicable at first try, but hey, even I couldn’t say no to little snippets of wisdom that I can use next time in that adorable form; they definitely beat that senile voice in your head looking down on you over their glasses with their do’s and don’ts. It’s a reminder that no matter how badly one person may think of you, there will always be one person, maybe one you haven’t met yet or is stuck halfway across the universe in the north pole with a fishing stick that will think you’re the most perfect human being that ever walked the planet, and that the only consolation is to have a tiny capsulated version of that person in yourself to keep the abusive voices company and maybe even be loud enough to be a trend setter at one point. It’s a reminder that you’re never of what anyone thinks you are as much as you’re of what you know you are and are too scared to admit. It’s a reminder that, believable or not, I will never be fully awake and sober without my certified coffee dosage. It’s a reminder that the stupid things I’ve done were done by everyone else at one point who may not be at peace with themselves enough to admit it and are insecure enough to deny them space and time patches. It’s a reminder that listening to Keane and watching standup comedy shows are one of the many excellent ways of starting the day. It’s a reminder that it’s not in my sanity’s best interest to be awake at night, since not sleeping is still not a good reason for my head to shut down the nightmare department. It’s a reminder that what you think and what you believe are not bound by right or wrong. It’s a reminder that right and wrong are determined by you, not the majority. It’s a reminder that choices make the person as much as their implications, but would amount to zilch if you’ve learned just that; zilch. It’s a reminder that people show their true colors when shit hits the fan, and it’s not until then that you should come down to a list of constants. It’s a reminder that the aforementioned list of constants is not to be used until it’s dog-eared, worn through and fingered beyond recognition. It’s a reminder that goodness is acquired, a conscious choice you make everyday that is never made into a habit, so you shouldn’t depend on it being one. It’s a reminder that people are stupid, too. They fuck up too and more often than not, they hardly know any better than you do; they’re just better at hiding it and worse at owning up to it. It’s a reminder that you should never let go of the little routines at which you’re at your absolute happiest, latently speaking. Be it working, practicing piano or reading a good book, because no one will give up their equivalent for you. It’s a reminder that people put themselves first, and that it’s a fact of life that is rarely compromised by fairytale-oriented concepts like love, including every possible variation, semblance or void statement of it. It’s a reminder that I do not for the life of me regret missing prom and may not attend my own graduation ceremony, and it’s because I have priorities which do not include spending one of the most pivotal moments of my life around haters, even if it means I spend it at home reading an online article about the origin and history of soap operas. It’s a reminder that even tho at nights like these that I wish I had somebody, I know that I don’t need them. It’s a reminder that nothing is pathetic, as long as it works. And last but not least, it’s a reminder that nobody gets out of this ditch alive, so you might as well get a kick out of killing yourself.

Women..

Spineless Dreamers Hide In Churches.

 

I shake through the wreckage for signs of life

Scrolling through the paragraphs

Clicking through the photographs

I wish I could make sense of what we do

Burning down the capitals

The wisest of the animals

Who are you? What are you living for?

Tooth for tooth, maybe we'll go one more

This life is lived in perfect symmetry

What I do, that will be done to me

Read page after page of analysis

Looking for the final score

We're no closer than we were before

Who are you? What are you fighting for?

Holy truth? Brother, I choose this mortal life

Lived in perfect symmetry

What I do, that will be done to me

As the needle slips into the run out groove

Love, maybe you'll feel it too

And maybe you'll find life is unkind and over so soon

There is no golden gate, there's no heaven waiting for you

Oh boy, you ought to leave this town

Get out while you can the meter's running down

The voices in the streets you love

Everything is better when you hear that sound

Woah, woah, woah

Spineless dreamers hide in churches

Pieces of pieces of rush hour buses

I dream in emails, worn out phrases

Mile after mile of just empty pages

Wrap yourself around me

Wrap yourself around me

As the needle slips into the run out groove

Maybe you'll feel it too, maybe you'll feel it too

Maybe you'll feel it too, maybe you'll feel it too

(Spineless dreamers hide in churches)

Pieces of pieces of rush hour buses

I dream in emails, worn out phrases

Mile after mile of just empty pages

Spineless dreamers hide in churches

How I Ruined Today’s All-Nighter.

Of Dadoscope, Doppelgangers & Sophia Loren.

It’s been a rather relaxed day, with the exception of a couple of incidents where the accumulation of assholes made me blow up in the face of one of the sweetest people I’ve come to meet. Quite a recurring incident, it’s how karma likes to be funny, or maybe how evolution tends to those who have not been morphed yet by survival’s better judgment. I have no idea what  I came here to write, but I’ve had quite an interesting conversation with my father and judging from my goldfish memory, I’d hate to let that go to waste in the folds of my troubled mind.

It wasn’t anything that special really, we were just sitting there, him after a very long day at work and mine just barely starting, I had an all-nighter ahead and I wasn’t that pepped up about jumpstarting it. As usual, I turned off the lights, made us a couple of glasses of white tea and we sat there enjoying an old 60’s movie called ‘The Countess Of Hong Kong’, starring Marlon Brando and that chick with the unbelievably awesome boobs called Sophia Loren. My dad, as usual, made the most observant and abstract comments, which usually but not always had a hidden meaning he was hinting at. It’s one of his method of getting advice into my subconscious past my defenses. He commented on how Sophia Loren has been made to wear flats so she wouldn’t be taller than Marlon Brando, how the acting was theatrical because at the time, movies were a foreign concept to them. He commented on how all the girls have been casted and scripted to sound ordinary and paling in comparison with Sophia, even though she wasn’t that slick herself; just a pretty face and mysterious demeanor really. He mooted my outraged observations about how much of a male-dominated society it used to be by asking me what Marlon just said, which I didn’t remember, hence proving his point that after all, it was Sophia’s lines to which our attention was directed. He told me that boob jobs didn’t exist back then, and laughed at how I retorted defensively that they don’t make em like that anymore.

Somehow our conversation drifted to our dreams. Not the ones you have in your sleep, the ones you wish for when you’re wide awake with your head given the pink slip. I already knew his by heart, but I like to hear him say it. I get my goldfish memory from him so he never fails to cover all the details. Sipping on his white tea and staring off into the reluctant shadows, with only the TV giving his facial expressions just enough lighting and the movie chatting up the background into a comfortable haze to give room for his speech to be personal yet laid back, he’d talk about how he’d always wanted to retire in a little cabin by an expanse lake, somewhere in the outskirts of a tranquil little town. He’d press that the food needn’t be that great and the cabin would probably be more on the shack side than an actual reputable condo. He’d say that was all he wanted out of life, with the luxury of a quality fishing line, a comfortable reclining chair and access to a beautiful library and good classical music. Somewhere quiet, away from all the confusion of modern needs and commitments of the city life. He’d say that the only adventurous version of that dream of his would have to be roaming the world on one of them yachts that have been furnished into a little floating house.

He’s always been a hopeless romantic, one that has been undercover as a working class blue collar for so long that he’d effortlessly fool anyone into thinking that person has been obliterated long ago. I daresay he’d give the thought police a run for their money had his first name been Winston. He’d talk about his father when I ask him why he wouldn’t go fishing as often as he’d like, much like he used to till I turned 8, and that’s when the story always comes, the one about my grandpa. He was a rebellious soul, confrontational and took life by the balls. The bad boy who took idiotic risks and made it big despite his own father’s expectations of him yet never failed to enjoy the little niceties of life, the redhead on the basketball league and the flirtatious playboy who knocked all the ladies off their feet yet managed to maintain a sense of integrity and chivalry that seemed to have been travelling down the same line since the medieval times and almost gone extinct. He’d say how much of him he sees in me that it scares him, reminding me of how my grandma always follows every little thing I habitually do by an ‘Oh my, just like your grandpa, bless your soul’, and I giggle at the irony, since I’ve never actually met the guy. I’d inevitably start thinking about how a lot of what feels like our choices has been predetermined by genes.

The story that inevitably follows being how he stopped being confrontational and didn’t take the risk of telling his boss he was a total ass after he got married. He’d quip his line, how he stood there in the middle of the bank and told his boss off saying ‘If I wasn’t married, I’d make you into the fool you are, lucky enough for your new set of front teeth, I have kids who’ll pay for this.’ In case you were wondering, he was shortly promoted afterwards. Then my father would never fail to add in the little footnote that I should never try that because people are no longer grounded in a sense of morality and I would most probably not only get laid off, but no other place would hire with that mole on my CV just so the asshole could save face. And yes, dad never forget to add in a ‘Don’t try this at home’ when he’s talking to me; he knows I’m nuts enough to try it against every reasonable argument common sense or self preservation may offer.

He’d always ask me what my dream is, the form of life I’d like to lead, and I’d always say the same thing, an independent life void of attachments and being tied down to a spouse, family or any form of preset agenda or zip code, leading a career that I love doing which doesn’t have to bring in that much money but enough to get me by on my own without tagging me as a kid who can’t pay her own electricity bill and getting evicted for failing to meet the deadline of payment after so many notices. He’d again comment of how much of his father he sees in me, using adjectives like bohemian and existentialist to describe it in retrospect. I’d always ask him what he thinks of it and he’d follow with the usual line of how the striking resemblance I have with his own father is gainsaid by the amazing contradiction I have with my own father, giving a little smile, the one that makes me feel he can see through me more clearly than he can see through the white tea he’s holding; I call it dadoscope. He’d comment on how I always liked it in stock as opposed to his choice of enjoying the tiny luxuries life offers in retail. I always say I get better discounts and he’d retort that his losses are not as paramount to the invested capital.

Then, like every other night, we’d agree to disagree as we drudge on to the things we have to do, cussing at the clock for stealing our time and academia for occupying our heads, only to do it all over again.

And I’m Afraid Because I Have No Fear.

Eshtery Dma3’ak.

Happiness Has A Price Tag.

Of Sparky.

‘Let me tell you about a Labrador retriever named Sparky. Sparky could not wag his tail, because of an automobile accident many years ago, so he had no way of telling other dogs how friendly he was. He had to fight all the time. His ears were in tatters and he was lumpy with scars.’

– Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut.

Every Criminal Was Made Into One. Or So Say The Pussies.

When you're the only common factor in a great diverse number of heinous things, you start to wonder if it was your fault and they're all derivatives. I don't know which higher power believes in my superhuman abilities but I'd like it to stop trying to win the bet with the one who doesn't.

'لا نكلف نفسا إلا وسعها.' - Well, I gotta say, I'm flattered.

And no, I’m not being sarcastic.

You’re Looking At Me But I’m Looking Through You.

Now I Gotta Get Used To Not Living Next-door To Alice.

Life Lesson #302

يعني ايه كارما؟ يعني تفضل تقابل ناس وحشه طول حياتك فا تخليك لما تقابل ناس حلوه متصدقش نفسك و تديهم بالجزمه

Of White Tea Ring Stains On Kübler-Ross Models.

I’ve had an odd month, it’s been one of those months when life doesn’t seem like it’s gonna give you a break any time soon. A good friend postulated that life just realized I’m turning 20 soon and decided to give me a painfully accelerated crash course which I might as well gain experience from.

It gets me thinking about how people think a baby dear surviving in the jungle all on its own is so damn tough, hah. Well, Bambi, wait till you get a whiff of this. Humans have it a lot worse, they’re handling the animal/neanderthal/intelligent beings/psychotic mutants  integrated version of survival’s book. That’s numerically quadruple the work, but would amount to a lot more if the value was assigned according to the level of difficulty. We’re looking at a six figure here people. It doesn’t seem like it’s taking any coffee breaks, because it’s been surely interrupting mine.

I woke up this morning and it took me thirty minutes of all the verbal variation of  ‘Everything’s gonna be just fine, I’m stronger than this shit’ to muster up the guts to get out of bed, because somehow, right there, with the lights off, doors closed, no people, no technology and no phone, absolutely no means of connection to the outside world, it felt like I could finally pause life, or at least its effect reaching me. The blanket was the cape that deflected all the warped psychic bullets coming out of everywhere.

But then I needed coffee, and it was all the way to the kitchen, passing through a vulnerable time tunnel with phones, laptops, people and news broadcast in the way. You could say that coffee got me out of bed and saved the day. And it’s not even Irish.

Work is good, I’ve voluntarily been working for almost 10 hours, and I’m not done yet. I’ve got another 8 ahead, and it’s splendid. It’s amazing in the way how it takes the guilt and all the unnecessary brain activity and turns you into a happy bot. I’ve always wondered why the natural course of life would state it logical to put our brains on overdrive while our bodies were on overdrive, but looking at  it with a glass-half-full-of-coffee perspective, it now makes sense that puberty and high-school are simultaneous, much like how a drunkard’s vehicle would only revert to uniform velocity when it’s reached maximum acceleration. Either on its own would leave too much room for thinking which has a small possibility of making room for your creativity as opposed to a humongous and a more likely possibility that you’ll have enough time on your hands and ram in your head to fuck up irrevocably. Conclusion? Burnouts are in badger-less bliss.

Also, white tea is great for all-nighters, because it offers the comfort of the illusion that you might or might not get sleep some time soon, which is otherwise eliminated with a caffeinated shot up cranium in a mug of coffee or a guiltily fattening coke. It doesn’t mean you’ll sleep soon, it just means you can if you want to, and the choice is always liberating. Even in a stupid little irrelevant thing, because let’s face it, you’re more likely to hang around if you don’t really have to. It makes you look at the piles of Advanced Maths and Physics with the rejuvenated lust of a hook up rather than the grudge of a spouse.

Along the lines of all-nighters and white tea, help could come from more unexpected routes, like a med student who happened to be up at just the right time, ogling a glaucoma text with a droopy sleepless eye. A shout out to all the little tools of desperate luck coming at you from all the angles you’d have your butt towards at just the wrong time who manage to hit you in the back of the head with an annoying little hopeful blow.

Funny thing happened today, when I recounted the series of unfortunate events to one of the odd birds I call friends, I was called lucky, and it made me think about how of all the adjectives, lucky was the one to fill the designated clearing. Maybe being lucky doesn’t necessarily mean the right things happening to you at the right time, but rather the wrong things happening to you at all the wrong times just because you, of all people, were up for it. It would give off the sense that you’re a working-class underrated hero, which is yet another illusion that humans seem to find comforting. Another shout out to the old soul who said that weakness is a self-fulfilling prophecy, taking people’s word is much like looking in a  reverse mirror and first impressions are a second chance at a third person perspective.

And for now, I leave you with the thought that bad things might be an indicative, though a paramount fail at a funny cosmic joke, that you’re up for great things, regardless of  how little you are.