What All Food Should Look Like.

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

Proof?

..I rest my case.

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

Mercy Kill.

Today, I came upon the realization that my automatic reaction to puberty is nothing short of this:

Needless to add, it wasn’t pretty.

Because, you know, it wasn’t a mere subtle transformation as it is with all the hormonal zombies that recently acquired the functioning ovaries, ‘woman’ noun and dubbed suitable by the most recent form of the dying ritual of sending a teenager all on his own into the jungle and asking him to bring home a butchered gorilla to assert his manhood. It was a full blown mutation, in full throttle, with the appendages and the sticky goo coming out of the mouth letting out little, though amply voiced, graaaawrs.

It involved slaughter.

And three innocent casualties whose only fault was being at the wrong place, at the wrong time and inconveniently sitting with their ears angled towards the, formerly latent, explosion.

It’s a little funny how people call it a mercy kill; it’s become so common as to acquire the social acceptance of a posh downtoning Merriam-Webster-certified term.

It’s humanity going: ‘Oh well, I guess that can’t be stopped, might as well make it a thing so when aliens land in 5012, they think we had a grip on things and all. Coin that shit in the books.’

It’s evolution going: ‘Kill all the pussies, and make the surviving minority carnivorously man-eating, in any meaning of the word that qualifies. Make them bitches think it was my idea.’

You know, this whole chick thing, yeh, I don’t buy it. It wasn’t a great sight to see myself being a chick, you know, concentrating on actual semantics and shit.

Shortly afterwards, the whole I’m-a-dude-at-heart thing started getting more attention than it should. False advertising works best I reckon. They started begging for that shit to come back. The same ones who debated the tranny theory with a passion I never knew possible away from an ‘eat all sushi you can and you’ll get it for free’ buffet.

The kind of passion you see on a morbidly obese American male on seeing a ‘Fried chicken wings, 387 flavors' ad.

I now know why this whole ‘wiping out humanity and start it again on a clean slate’ scene stopped at around 14 BC. God knew better, because by then, they were more than qualified to finish themselves off and like him in the process. You see progress right there, changing the attitude from ‘flood them bitches’ and ‘torch them hoes’ to ‘get me some popcorn, she got a tight grip on his spinal cord and he’ll be oozing pudding anytime now.’

Chicks survived the same way Chihuahuas do, they have admirable tantrum phasing, you’ll fear it no matter how small and harmless it may look as soon as you realize just where it can bite you.

Dudes survived the same way that rat in an anaconda's death vice, he’s oblivious enough not to know that they feed every two weeks to warm up and start cuddling themselves into the hug that will irrevocably throw their spine out of alignment.

Evolution didn’t leave males defenseless tho, it gave them a couple of pointers, shoved them so deep into their subconscious that they wouldn’t know it’s protecting them, because if they did then chicks would know too. Subtle: ‘Girls who like soccer are hot.’ and ‘Man, she actually watches Top Gear. I’m proposing next week.’

Yes, you got it right, they’re protecting themselves by looking for dudes. Or the next best thing.

Shitty day, just like the former and prolly like the next. I now turn in with the hope that tomorrow has more hours, less events and enough coffee. Good night, loathsome humans.

Also, kids got totally scammed. I don’t like growing up.

Of Senioritis.

Disclaimer: If you’re a fan of good ole consistency and/or not given to rants, this post is not for you. Mind you, the comment box isn’t, either.

Readers should be noted that I’m writing this post sleepless and inebriated, because waking up three hours into a good night’s sleep after staying awake for 23 hours only to get doped off of the wrong allergy medication, conveniently after you’ve ingested a generous portion of coffee, is an epileptic combination I should patent to being a Rory. And mind you, by rules of equilibrium ruling the universe randomly, justly, and having considerably small odds of perishing, there can only be one Rory.

Also, I can’t feel my head. And I like it. It’s growing on me.

It’s the end of the week, at last. As usual though, it will only go out kicking and screaming. What’s with getting academically raped, random incompetent freaks taking the consensual bit out of hiring and, well, overall weirdass people. The whole goddamn country is having trouble getting a job and I wake up to find myself employed. Don’t get me wrong, I actually wanted the job, I was just under the impression that I have to apply first. Oh well. I guess I’m just that awesome.

A friend once said that she liked marketing because it was evil; convincing people and probing at their subconscious to put their money in all the right places, which happen to be all the wrong places, making her feel like a charismatic villain, only a tobacco roll away from another Clint Eastwood. Well, I can now honestly say that I know what she means; and I’m hooked.

Not quite the opportune timing.

Along the lines of volcanoes shooting chocolate fountains and garden gnomes who gave up on your backyard before you were enough of a failure to know they could actually do that, I flunk two exams; the only two I sat anyway. I get through puberty as a straight A-student, without having flunk once in my life, and I manage to do it two months before the biggest finals I may ever have to sit. I don’t even know what to say to that. Except, well, fuck.

They call it senioritis.

I call it White tea.

Coffee stands in a corner, with its grin setting the smoke swirling into its own pseudo halo and your conscience seizing back into its iron clad enamoration, takes you back into its loving bosom and says bitch, get sipping, I don’t have all day.

And you take it, like the vampire you are; cold, stale or plain crappy, with gratitude.

On an unrelated note, I love my father, with a passion. The kind of father who takes two months off, promising to sleep when you do and wake up in time to your schedules, just to sit there with his newspaper and coffee and support you through the last 80 days that could make or break your future, is nothing I had the luxury of seeing walk this earth any other place on this godforsaken planet.

Dad, you get a shout out.

In Case You Were Wondering, That’s What Genius Looks Like.

Beauty.

Sappy Late Night Nothings.

It’s a beautiful night. I’ve been working ever since I woke up, and for some reason, I blanked out for two hours. I did absolutely nothing, and it felt..it felt like nothing, which in turn felt great. The weather is beautiful tonight, painfully chilly, and very ‘there’. It got me thinking about the last time I just sat up to watch the sunrise. It’s been a while since I did that, I liked to stay up late at night just to see if I could tell the rate at which the sun comes up, and yes I mean the actual mathematical rate, and I always miscalculated it, which in turn made me stay up late the next night, and the next night, and the next night. I’d make my mug of coffee and watch old plays and feel like a grownup. Sometimes I’d bring my blankey and cuddle into a ball on the desk in the balcony, so my sky vision is panoramic. I’d pretend there’s no ledge, and no gravity. It’s the kind of cold night that fills your head and nostrils with its presence, stops your weary head and compels you to hear its whooshes, and only its whooshes. It doesn’t leave room for any of your worries, and it consumes the illusion of time, warps it, replenishes it, extinguishes it, makes the time tunnel take all sorts of tumbles and turns, bringing you back and forth like a copper boomerang in an AC magnetic field, lost, controlled by a random pattern that can neither be pinpointed nor formulated into an equation. It tricks your head into not registering memories, since you can’t really feel time, or acknowledge it, and you’re free of time, remembering and being. The cold gives even the intangibles presence, it somehow freezes your feelings over so you don’t get emotional sickness, and things that used to hurt are only ‘there’..and they don’t hurt anymore,  it makes you aware of how many things are ‘there’, and somehow, with so many things that are there, there’s no room for anything else. Not even you. And it feels..splendid.

The kind of night that sounds like this:

We’re Half Awake In A Fake Empire.

Sappy Can Be Beautiful Too. Sometimes.

My Will.

1. I want Tech N9ne to rap at my wake. And not the sad existentialist songs, I want a fucking party, with stage diving, lighting and smoke effects. People get to be groped while they’re at it too. You’re welcome.
   
2. I want a funny tombstone that makes it impossible for people to mourn properly. It has to include the following words: ‘Awesome, Rory, Coffee, Badass.’ 
   Or:
                                                                                                                     
   
   
3. I want my coffin to be a TARDIS.
4. I want people to take turns throwing coffee beans inside my TARDIS coffin (in the wake), in the old tradition of letting go.
   
5. I want Baileys to be incessantly served at my funeral until everybody gets sufficiently shitfaced, but never quite pass out. Hors d'oeuvre shall be sushi, and the waiters should be welsh so that when they give the guests a creepy fairytale about my haunting their ass if they don’t swallow, people actually buy it. And after the inevitable success, the waiters are to quip an annoying ‘That’s What She Said.’
   
6. I want all that remains of my fortune to go into buying my dad a cabin by a lake, the one he always wanted. He could live there with Grandma and be happy forever.
7. My collection of dystopic novels goes to Reem Adel, Laura Raef (if she'll have it) and Hadya Mansour. Ali Moneib gets to have my blue jeep wrangler that I'll undoubtedly own by the time, or matchbox of a car which I’ll most realistically own, if it’s in one piece by then (that could be the way I go, have you seen my driving?) as well as my credit card which he can abuse online, on etsy, or on one of those shady forums on the dark web, I don't judge. My Maths notes which are too invaluable not to be passed on to another human being (Laura would want this) and all my graphic-related gadgets, gaming laptop and a 10-year subscription to Nola cupcakes goes to Amr Rifky. And make sure they don’t arrive daily because then he'll get fat, stop doing capoeira and hate me and that’s all I’ll ever hear when he comes to visit, and I’ll be a little too tied up to retort. Yara Al Sayes gets to have any and all cult or fan merch I might own at the time, and Andre Michel gets a freepass to use my memory to pick up chicks.
   
8. I want to be remembered every time someone has coffee with my very own custom roast.
   
9. I want Kurt Vonnegut to pitch a sarcastic existentialist speech that, again, makes people unable to mourn properly without short outbursts of breaking out in hysterical laughter, which they’ll feel awfully guilty for, at which point Kurt would go on and the cycle continues. In case people’s spirits are actually there at their wake, that’d be terribly entertaining.
   
10. When people take turns giving a word, they have to do it in a British accent and keep a straight face, or else they have to start all over again.
    
11. I want Danny DeVito to show up and make everyone who ever made fun of midgets feel like a paramount failure of a human being and give people midget torso hugs on my behalf.
    
12. I want a Rory comic subscription addressed back to my slot.
    
13. I want Snoop Dogg to be disguised as the wise bartender, and freestyle people’s grief away by talking about how I kept it hood until everyone’s sick of how awesome I was.
    
14. As for the scripture that is to be recited when I’m put into the ground, I’d like Tech N9ne’s Hope For A Higher Power to be reiterated by a pimped out priest who is absolutely required to wear bling and have fairly good flow. The sermon is to be wrapped up with “Peace out.”
    
15. I’d like a piñata to be hung in a corner for all the people I pissed off, I’d hate to go without having a clean slate.
    
16. I want a double who keeps running from room to room and confuses people as to whether I’m actually dead or not. That should go on for a while until someone thinks they’ve lost it and start claiming they see dead people, then the double is to walk out and stop being a creepy motherfucker.
    
17. And last but not least, I want an incredibly hot actor to be hired and wail uncontrollably at the lost love of his life that cannot be possibly replaced by any other fun-sized boob-bearing creature.
    
18. Whoever remains of the Timelords should carry my TARDIS coffin back to my slot, I'll be lead to the next life on the shoulders of a wibbly wobbly doctor procession in a timey wimey manner.
19. After everyone is gone, I want someone to sell my slot and give my body to one of those companies that turn your organic remains into tree fertilizer. After all, I don't want to be buried, I want to be a tree when I'm dead. In all seriousness.

Of Strangers That Don’t Know They’re Being Watched.

I miss being able to take the evening to myself and read a good book. I think that’s what they wanted out of education in Egypt, to shove so much information down people’s throats that they no longer have the ability to ingest it on their own, let alone know which ones they want or have the time for the mere process of free thought. I thought I could beat the system, have a life and an education, the good old hardcore way. Now I’m wondering  if I’ve overestimated my abilities or am underestimating them right now because of a shot morale.

Watching people  is entertaining. I may come off as a classist bourgeoisie bitch after this post, but I don’t really care. Your opinion of me is something that doesn’t really concern me, and this, I write for me. It gets pretty boring in class sometimes.

There’s the socially inept nerd. The genius who works his ass off every waking hour of the day and hardly gets any sleep, with huge eye bags hidden behind disproportionately thick reading glasses, perceives classes as his only chance to socialize, since he can’t really function in any other field than academe. He’s always trying so hard to fit in and being rebutted, because people around this age have a cruel cool-o-meter. He’s always laughing nervously in conversations, starting and stopping abruptly when the people he’s talking to are not even smirking. He hyperventilates and shakes when made fun of. He comes early to class every time, and tries to strike a friendship up with the teacher by trying to think of a smart question, who now ignores that he’s even talking and lets the laughing hysteria handle his breaking voice till it dies out. It’s not a surprise that he can’t come up with something that is beyond his conformist head, for someone whose only knowledge comes from a third-world country, government-assigned textbook, his only intelligence is in his finding out the patterns of medieval curriculums. We still use the same Arabic syllabus as that of my grandma’s, and their idea of modifying it is adding the mechanism of CRT in physics. Needless to add, he always makes a fool out of himself, and doesn’t seem to have any friends, if you don’t count the people who are getting him to do their homework. He’s always ignored if it doesn’t have anything to do with work, locked outside of a tightly-knit circle of bros, interrupted and never heard. I don’t think he’s aware of it, since he seems to be enjoying the attention of being given their copybooks. His friends are demeaning and abusive, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him relaxed. His clothes look like his dad is trying to get him to look socially acceptable, about the only 18 year old sporting an 80’s design polished brown leather shoes I’ve seen. He can’t keep eye contact with anyone and settles for keeping his broken look fixated on people’s shoulders, or at a point in the horizon beyond their heads. I’m guessing the conversation makes him nervous enough that if he tried to lock another person’s gaze he’d die of tachycardia. I see him an overworked and underpaid accountant in a company where his ideas will be stolen, he’ll never get promoted, marry a chick he’s never seen that his mother has picked out for him and grow into a brown tie and never see any different till he turns 80 and dies in his armchair, working at a crossword puzzle like his life depended on it.

There’s the neanderthal of a chick whose greasy hair bypasses her ass, and long fingernails that make her incapable of picking up objects, old nail polish that’s never tended to, wardrobe that smells of stagnant sweat and looks like a grocer took his ambition of fashion design to the next level. She draws a cross in pencil on top of every page, rubs her finger in it and kisses it with every page she turns, leaving it smudgy and wearing the paper down to shreds by the 6th month. It took me a while to get my horrified expression to be understandably poker-faced. Mentalities like hers scare me. You try so hard to convince yourself that those are a minority, that you pick your own community and even though you’re living around them, you will not be affected, that you don’t judge people according to their looks or backgrounds, you’re only being a classist asshole by thinking along those lines, but you can’t, because people’s looks, backgrounds and manners of speech are a rooted in who they are. They’re acquired, just as their beliefs and morals are. They show you which era they’re stuck in and how they react to progress.

There’s the huge faction of girls who look and dress like a tiny microcosms of their housewife of a mother. They make it a point to breathe quietly, and never say what they think. Sometimes, they make it a point not to think anything other than what they’ve been told to think, and sometimes, not even that. They walk in, keep their eyes on the tiles they’re stepping on and make sure the copybooks don’t make a sound as they hit the desks. They run a little when out of a crowd, and breathe normally again when they’re part of the background again. They all look alike, talk alike, move alike and huddle. They don’t know any different, and they don’t want to. They have their little quiet crowds, and its bubble is almost discernible, an entity with its own vibrations and existing in its own medium. They’d choke if it was poked through, or if they were forced to come out of it, even for a fraction of a second, to maybe talk to a new person, think of an advanced question that’s not covered in the curriculum, or laugh out of cue. The thought of their lives kill me. Not necessarily having it, even just seeing that some people live like that. Reduced to that.

There are the plastics. The Barbies and Jocks, the ones all of the above stop to look at when they saunter in. They’re all perfectly cloned and a little hard to distinguish from in my head as Asians are to the rest of the world. Same shoes, haircuts and blackberries. Same fake smiles and exaggerated hugs, same lingo. Same everything really. They’re especially sensitive to the smallest shifts in social trends, and make sure to keep up. It almost seems like they’re in on all the unspoken rules of a secret fraternity/sorority left from the days Nazism was in. They know all the right proportions, lengths and forms of acceptable conversation. They’re usually selfish snobs who never help if they can help it, and never concentrate unless they don’t have enough coverage. There are the hunks, who are a lot similar to that category, with a little addition of making sure the ratio of their muscle to brain grown is 5:1 at any point in given time.

There are the religious fucks, in all religions and mutations, the ones who spend 78% of their time researching theology and quoting scripture, then complain about not having time to work on their assignments. They’re self-righteous assholes who think that getting to heaven is by scoring points, by hours spent in research, bullying outcasts and obliterating their sex to the point of no return, looking like a tranny. They handle their bodies the same way a person would handle a deformed baby; they keep it covered, unisex and untended to. Their speech is integrated with religious aphorisms and what god wants, as opposed to what they want, which I don’t think they even know. They’ve been taught that different is atheist, that being sweet is whoring yourself out and that caring for worldly matters such as studying takes out points out of their heavenly score.

And there’s the nonchalant cool guys, the ones that everybody can’t decide whether they wanna be like or be nothing like, and settle on not really figuring it out because they never dared to be that different. They’re outspoken, think outside of the box, usually have one or two things they’re exceptionally good at and are every teacher’s nightmare. They have their own clan of worshippers, of all of the above categories. Much like how one would like to keep their friends close and their enemies closer. They can’t understand him, they can’t be like him, they can’t control him, so they keep him close, but not to close. They have a lot of friends, neither of which are really friends. And they can think, but were never given the chance to use it.

People watching is much like bird watching, except that it’s not for the faint of heart.

I need to get away.

*Snorfindesdrillsalgoho

Doudou atwal menni!

Time stands still to record the day that not only is Doudou taller than me, but she’s taller than Marine too. I had to miss your birthday but you know I miss you like a fat kid on a diet misses chocolate cake. Happy birthday <3

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.