Of A Post-Apocalyptic Rainy Night.

Disclaimer: Dear reader, this one is not for you, I apologize for the inconvenience. I read this back to myself and it sounded just as choppy and stripped to the bone as my memory usually is, but then again the sentences fit into little snapshots and they triggered the right images in my head. So go make your own memories and then distort them with adjectives and sentence structure until it's pretty sounding enough that you can't place the memory anymore.

I need  to keep this memory.

I was lost in Zamalek for two hours last night when it started raining.

I was dragged to an outing where I wasn't welcome by an oblivious friend and decided to head home 15 minutes into it, so I started walking around trying to find a main street where I could take a cab or a bus home. It was pretty late, and 5 minutes into it, it started pouring and there was an onslaught of vicious thunder and lightening that split the sky in two every minute.

The streets were deserted, everyone was already home or hiding it out in cafes and shops. The lights were out as well, and other than a couple of forgotten lights here and there, it was pitch dark. There was no living soul as far as the eye could see, save for the occasional gang running around celebrating the rain tribal style. I was soaked through, I had a waterproof sweater in my bag that I put on, but my bag was soaked.

I couldn't see five feet in front of me properly because the rain had rendered my seeing glasses useless, and even without my glasses, you couldn't make out where the street started or ended because of the rain and the darkness. All of my books and college handouts and my cellphone and packet of cigarettes, they were useless, and it was useless to try and save them, but I didn't care. I knew it was dangerous, but I didn't care for that either. I felt liberated. It was a post-apocalyptic walk, without the zombies.

I had no idea where I was or how I'm gonna get home, I was alone with no one (civil) in sight, but I was happy. I knew that any minute I could get mugged or harassed or some car could come and try to pick me up and I wouldn't have been able to fight back, but none of that happened, and I didn't care that it could. It was freezing and I didn't have the right clothes on, but I didn't care for that either. I don't remember feeling more liberated in my entire life. I felt free, and there. There was an air of tangible presence that I haven't assumed in a long time. I felt small and insignificant, and somehow these two made me feel liberated and good. I had no control over anything. I felt like an empty opened jar.

I was the last human on earth, and I wasn't expected anywhere. I wasn't worried about. I was completely and utterly alone, and defenseless. And by god it was magic.

I was picked up by a cab that broke down on the bridge, and the cabbie was kind enough to call his cabbie friend and pick me up on the bridge. I left a butt print on the backseat going out, and the second one was in a hurry and splashed water meter-high when he sped off. We were lost there too, since you couldn't see through the windshield and his wipers were broken down, so we could have had an accident any minute. I didn't care for that either. We took a thousand wrong turns and it took another hour and a half to make it home, after ending up in two wrong districts. He'd soaked 6 people who were trying to stop the cab a little too desperately by driving too close. He dropped me off 15 minutes away since he couldn't figure out how to battle one-way streets, they were a little too urban for what he was used to, and elaborately voiced his indignation on the matter.

I ended up walking home in the rain for the second time, this time followed by a couple of bored guys, and later followed by 5 workers on the back of a pick-up truck. But that didn't matter, try as they might, they couldn't ruin my good mood.

I met my dad by chance at the foot of the building. He'd just come back from work at 1:30 am. He started ranting about a couple of issues of his own, and all I could think about was how beautiful this planet would be without its people, trashed and all.

There are so many reasons (stated and left out) why this could be a bad memory, but for some reason, that I can't place or make sense of, it's a happy one.

42.

Re-channel your obsessions, and displace your anger. That, is the secret to life.

Fuck Semantics.

Very few things have gone on for so long without people questioning their existence and/or integrity at one point. What baffles me is how taking people for their word has escaped that. It appears to me that there's an unspoken pact on earth that says 'People are what they say, you should base all of your judgement on that and only look to action for proof if you're the type of guy who washes his hands 8 times while singing REM's Everybody Hurts. If you get fucked over because of it, that's probably because you misunderstood them, were in denial or let a couple of hints slide.' But here's the thing about words, and it's not just that talk is cheap and that actions speak louder than words or all of that crap. It's the fact that actions are in fact the only thing that speak, words don't speak at all. 

Writing is a craft, you wield words and direct thought in a subtle manipulation of accepted beliefs and approaches that would cause people to have a voluntary mindfuck and eat that shit like hot popcorn. Talking is also an art, you can talk people into anything if you talk long enough, hard enough or smart enough. People know all of that, but they seem to only know it when they're on the giving side, then completely forget about it when they're on the receiving side; a convenient human dysfunction that makes it easier for them to fit in, or think they fit in sometimes.

Here's what I think; words are a little more musical than farts, but are taken more seriously for purely aesthetic reasons.

And because people are more inclined to take someone's shit because they're pretty, or let them get away with more shit because they're pretty, or give them things they don't deserve because they're pretty, or believe they're good-natured and good-hearted and fart and poo goodness because they're pretty, the same goes with words. But that's not just it.

Words label feelings that shouldn't be labeled lest they give people a false, effortless & undeserved sense of status. All you have to do is get a twitter account really, then your self-assurance is on steroids. You know all the answers to life, you have it all figured out. You know who you are and what you're doing here and how you're doing it and you're pimping it like you're Poppa Shizzles. Watch out, you'll slap a hoe. You'll slap all the hoes. And people fall for it, instead of the more logical 'Wow you're an egocentric delusional bullshit-spewing subhuman that can't help but pattern their toe-twiddling habit on a performance chart while failing to enact that self-righteous tweet if it came to life and smacked you in the face', they'll always assume 'Hey, look how conscientious she makes herself sound, she must really be all that she says she is. Let's be completely vulnerable with her for no good reason and hand her our asses on a silver platter. After all, she has a string of pretty adjectives that she made up in the heat of the moment to account for her in case she turns out to be a total cunt.'

Words also externalize things that should be private and utilized for survival and self-acceptance to set people apart by sheer pretence. I'm a firm believer that people are just about as good as it is convenient for them. And most of the time, that goodness only exists in human beings to allow them breathing space to co-exist with what remains of their shitty selves. Their many little good things are there to make their life easier by providing cartiledge between all the other things that make them who they are and help them survive out there, and cartiledge isn't meant to accomodate other human beings, it's put there so you don't experience excruciating pain everytime you want to move around. True goodness takes effort and sacrifice, and isn't limited to things that only affect the host. That comes in at about one in a million, and half the time it's a scam. What words do is that they take those things that only affect the host and make people believe that person has so many celestial kudos and ninja high life score for nothing. So what if you're organized? That means YOU like to live in an orderly fashion, it shouldn't imply that you're somehow better equipped at handling all of the office supplies. Oh, you sit side-saddle? That must mean you're a lady! You wash the dishes? Here, have my babies.

It's taken for granted how people use words to create false form with nonrefutable credibility rather than establish communication. Words are air we shoot around, and there is no guarantee of whether or not they're true, and most of the time they're not because our brains can't handle it. It's bad enough that it has to handle you, it doesn't have to handle all the other reflections of you there will be when you're infinitely mirrored by voicing all the things you know about yourself to other people who will do the same about themselves and handle you accordingly only to prove you were right about what you thought, thus providing new but identical input that has to be processed and re-released into an inexhaustible loop until you eventually fry your brains before making it to lunch. If a person tells you they're reliable, it's a 90% chance they're about as fickle as an ADHD-afflicted squirrel tripping off crystal meth, and it's meant to be that way so that they don't wake up one day realizing they're an ADHD-afflicted squirrel tripping off crystal meth and put a bullet through their ADHD-afflicted meth-choked squirrel heads.There is no way of knowing someone by talking to them; that's like going out in the real world and buying groceries with monopoly money. Talk isn't cheap, it's utterly worthless; if you really want to know someone, all you have to do is sit back and watch what they do about different things, or what a good friend likes to call 'watching the booty in its natural habitat.'

Words assign people imaginary values that everybody else considers facts. He said he's not pissed, there's no way he could be pissed! She said she's not hurt, that must mean she's not hurt. She said she'll keep my secret, she'll take it to her grave. He said he'll never leave, he definitely put a ring on it. She said she'll always be there for me, there's absolutely no reason why I should take care of myself like a grownup when I can pathetically fall to pieces and depend on her to put me back together. He said he despises cheaters, he's probably busy because he's an undercover operative on a top-secret mission in Iraq. He said he's honest, he's definitely not lying about his thrice-dead grandmother. She said she hates politicians, that must mean she's a total saint who's incapable of dirty work. She said she feels very strongly about bullying, she probably never bullied a person in her life! Well guess what? If they call themselves tolerant, chances are they've just listened to all of Lennon's discography and would take an axe to Yoko's head any day of the week if it means they'll tap that. No matter how honest a person is, there will still be a barrier between who the person is and who the person thinks he is. The only way a person's words will completely convey all that he is without alteration and with complete clarity is if the person is in fact an idea. No such clarity exists within the realms of men, because that barrier is put there so we could live with ourselves. It's a safety valve; because if you really see who you are you'll go all Dorian Gray on your ass and it won't be pretty.

Words also build and burn bridges when they aren't trusted to carry out trivial business transactions, which doesn't make a lot of sense. You wouldn't trust people with your money unless you have their neck handed to you on signed contract that would cost them half their property and two kids but you'd trust a person with your own emotional/physical/mental/psychological wellbeing on their word? Is it just me or does the world need to get its priorities straight?

Words also give people credit they don't deserve, and have done nothing to be eligibile for. They provide a slot that's just the right size for people to fill with all the things they like to hear and really want to believe about you.There is always that one person we've known long enough to realize that nothing they say means jackshit. They start talking and it's all white noise, because you know from experience that they speak for the same reason that a dog chases its tail; they just can't help it. What people don't realize though is that we are all that person, to different degrees. We may not be that confused puppy, but then again we'll probably chase that red dot like our lives depended on it and cough up hair balls until we choke on our own aquaphobia.

Happiness (n.):

Memory Blob.

    Ich wollt ich wär ein Huhn,
    ich hätt nicht viel zu tun.
    Ich legte vormittags ein Ei und nachmittags wär ich frei.
    Mich lockte auf der Welt,
    kein Ruhm mehr und kein Geld,
    und fände ich das große Los,
    dann fräße ich es bloß.

Bach's Coffee Cantata

Liesgen: 

Herr Vater, seid doch nicht so scharf!

Father, don’t be so hard!

Wenn ich des Tages nicht dreimal

If three times a day I can’t

Mein Schälchen Coffee trinken darf,

drink my little cup of coffee,

So werd ich ja zu meiner Qual

then I would become so upset

Wie ein verdorrtes Ziegenbrätchen

that I would be like dried up piece of roast goat.

4

Aria: Liesgen [Soprano]

Flauto traverso, Continuo

Ei! wie schmeckt der Coffee süße,

Ah! how sweet coffee tastes!

Lieblicher als tausend Küsse,

Lovelier than a thousand kisses,

Milder als Muskatenwein.

smoother than muscatel wine.

Coffee, Coffee muss ich haben,

Coffee, I must have coffee,

Und wenn jemand mich will laben,

and if anyone wants to give me a treat,

Ach, so schenkt mir Coffee ein!

ah!, just give me some coffee!

5

Recitative: Schlendrian [Bass], Liesgen [Soprano]

Continuo

Schlendrian:

Wenn du mir nicht den Coffee lässt,

If you don’t give up coffee,

So sollst du auf kein Hochzeitfest,

you won’t be going to any wedding

Auch nicht spazierengehn.

and you won’t go out walking either.

Liesgen: 

Ach ja!

Alright then !

Nur lasset mir den Coffee da!

Just leave me my coffee!

Full Translation Here: http://www.bach-cantatas.com/Texts/BWV211-Eng3.htm

This exists, let's have a moment to appreciate it.

One Day.

Moral Myopia.

"One of the oldest and most universal moral precepts is the Golden Rule: Treat others as you want them to treat you. That mandate shows up in Confucianism and in the Code of Hammurabi. It was reiterated by Seneca and by the Buddha. It appears in the Bible, as the command to love thy neighbor as thyself. It might possibly have been taught to more people than any other notion in history.

It is also, on reflection, a little weird. For a guideline about how to treat others, the Golden Rule is strikingly egocentric. It does not urge us to consult our neighbors about their needs; it asks us only to generalize from ourselves—to imagine, in essence, that everyone’s idea of desirable treatment matches our own. As such, it makes a curiously narrow demand on our imagination, and, accordingly, on our behavior. Morality does not start with the self, it starts when we set the self aside. We dwell in moral myopia; literally and figuratively, we are too close to ourselves."

- Kathryn Schulz.

:)

Here Goes Nothing.

Milestone

GUESS WHO DID SO WELL ON HER GRAPHICS FINAL PROJECT THAT SHE GOT A TEACHER HUG AND BONBONAYA MEN KOL NOO3?

TODAY, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IS A GOOD DAY. AND I AM AWESOME! AW HELL YEAH!

Happiness

  

My 21st

My Life.

I'm Turning 21 In A Week...Oops?

Of Cacophonysts.

My illustrator friend asked me to create a back story for her species, and I'm terrified by what came out. The vocabulary and spelling were thrown around, so this is no prose. It can be made into prose, but I will not touch it. This is one of those things that should be sealed in a vault, and now it shall be. 

The race is called cacophonysts

They live on a carnivorous planet that feeds them by morning and feeds off of them by night

Survival is a constant struggle, but they bear it anyway because each is promised to their doppelganger, and most would rather survive the cruel planet than leave it to face their own doppelgangers on the neighbouring moon.

They're called cacophanysts because the atmosphere is so thick with a mixture of nobel and outlandish gases that their own movements make music

each cacophonyst is born bound to their doppelganger, that lives on a neighbouring moon

and most would rather live and struggle on the planet than venture to meet their doppelganger and find out the truth about themselves by contrast

fearing confirmations.

It was a wondrous life of sheer denial

They didn't even know they were in denial, and that was their gravity
They were part of that planet as much as it was part of them, and the missing part was filled by their complete lack of selves, for you can't fill what has been annulled.

There are ways for the willing

ways that aren't known except to those who've made that choice

All the willing have to do is go to the elders counsel

The symphorium

The puppet masters

The puppets

The ones who keep the balance, who are the balance

where they lose their identity by leaving the atmosphere, and go to meet their own true identity through a secret spell known by these elders

There are no ways back, for it is said that to find yourself you have to lose it.

Their race is homogenous; they can hardly be told apart. And live in harmony, almost literally

They exist in systems similar to beehives, communicating through harmonizing music by their bodies

and the relationships are fleeting, there are no families, but they're all a family

there are no secrets, no fear, no struggle, no sense of belonging but no sense of alienation

There just is.

And most are content

They have no concept of time nor attachments

nor happiness

They exist like children do, from a moment to the other, caught up in trivial wonders and blowing them up into worlds of their own

Their nervous system was more complex than their minds could understand, for they were mostly intuitive creatures. 
Electric signals were more active than any other species that they could hope to see.
Everything was very..there. The very there-ness was tangible.

He was not.

One of them was born with a disturbance in brain electricity

He was more..placid than the others

He didn't move as much, and was perceived as a mute disturbance.

They couldnt understand how he could be, nor could he understand how he was different

Since there were no mirrors, they had no concept of themselves

other than the one they get through others

His malfunction was a disturbance wherever he was, emitting an aura of inertia for a mile's radius around him

They couldn't communicate with him, and he didn't know what communicating was.

It was almost as if he was a moving vaccuum, that disspelled others with invisible forces. A bubble boy, moving within his own sphere of quietude.

For a community that existed solely on sound, his quietness was disturbing to his kin

They feared what they could not relate to, and he was impossible to relate to. It was rendered even more disturbing by the fact that even the planet reacted to their movements with its atmosphere, and he was their first exposure to an object.

He was the only object.

The symphorium had to intervene

They had to somehow eliminate this vacuum so their community could regain balance again

and they did the only thing they knew how to do

They banished him to meet his doppelganger, or not, they didn't really care, just as long as he was on the moon, there where he couldn't reach nor affect them, or rather, there where he couldn't not affect them.

He didn't realize he was, nor did it make much of a difference to him, save for a change in scenery and a lighter atmosphere, with no sounds

The place was almost like living in a Polaroid, it was perfectly still

He had to relearn how to move all over again

But that was okay because he didn't realize it.

If we were to perceive that moon from a cacophonyst's persepctive, it was an absolute nightmare, the air almost hanging heavy with distress.

The banished would convulse in an effort to make music, get terrified by the lack of it, and repel almost like magnets from their doppelgangers, afraid of learning their own truth.

The doppelgangers couldn't help hanging close, for that's how they were made.

It was also why they were made

Holograms

of their originals

They were hoping to find meaning as much as the banished, the only difference is that they were seeking to start fulfilling their existence as well, for unlike the cacophonysts, they didn't know any different.

They may have been a curse to the banished, but the banished delivered them. 

And neither knew they were the other's bane.

It was a nightmare

One that he couldn't see, nor feel, or understand

He was protected in his own bubble

Protected by his ignorance and lack of intuition. He was not affected. The same reason that caused him to be banished from his planet is the one that protected him on that haunted moon.

He had no truth to find, he had no concept of truth, and the truth wouldn't affect him.

He didn't realize he was. 

He wasn't there, not like them.

He was protected.

AND I WOULD WALK 500 MILES AND I WOULD WALK 500 MORE!

Loose Threads.

Remember the deaf/mute old man that I told you about? He has a one-eyed cat with human-like tendencies, or at least tendencies that aren't naturally peculiar to cats, like standing on its hind legs and not reacting to its own reflection. I found that out recently, and it seemed to make all the sense in the world. It seemed to make so much sense as to throw off my natural balance of things. Do things really happen for a reason? Maybe it only makes sense to me, but even I know that the world doesn't make this much sense without at least a consequential message. Only, what is the message? If it's not this, that is? It's a lucky coincidence, one that managed to put a smile on my face more mornings than most. 

He can read now, he taught himself how to read using discarded newspapers. He has the purest laughter in the world, with neglected and broken front teeth, a voice that's a note short from being whole, and a breath away from being a whisper. Scratchy and out of breath, with enough strength to breathe life into a harpy. Physics won't let it echo so it wouldn't throw off its fragile numbered systems, but it echoes loud enough if you know how to listen. 

He still gets his own broomstick and cleans around his area at 7 am everyday, even though he doesn't have to, wasn't asked to, and it's not his job. He still does it because it makes him happy, or rather because he's human enough to humanize 5 square metres around him at all times.

He's a wonderful human being, and he won't ever know it in his lifetime, nor will he be remembered afterwards because I don't think he has any family. He restores order and throws off more in my head, and he won't ever know it. The world hasn't broken him, although it has tried. Some people are just bigger than the world I guess.

His cat is a curious creature as well. I thought I may have rationalized this into my own conscious memory to add a certain magic, or maybe that's only how I saw it because I wanted to see it, for people only see what they want to see, but I like to believe it isn't. One-eyed and seems to linger longer than most of its fellows on things that wouldn't naturally stop a cat, like a twirling leaf or an intriguing shoe. It's bound to the man though neither of them seem to depend on the other. He feeds it when he can and it brings him bird offerings when it could. They greet with a 7 second or so long glare every morning, that they snatch in the middle of chores, like the look you may give an old friend with stories that don't need recounting but are shared nonetheless. It's funny.

I wonder if he has enough clothes, it's getting colder.

It's wonderful night tonight, cold and quiet and tangibly there. One of those nights that you can rest in without having to rest. I've found peace as well, it was within me all along. Bad things haven't stopped happening, they still do and they are even worse. People aren't getting better, they're shittier than I remember. Life isn't giving more chances, and taking away more than most. But I'm happy, through it, somehow. I've found peace.

I remember a good friend once telling me that no person can ever be whole or completely happy if they're not their own home. I think I found home now.

Ramona

Ramona, come closer

Shut softly your watery eyes

The pangs of your sadness

Will pass as your senses will rise

The flowers of the city 

Though breathlike, get deathlike at times

And there's no use in tryin'

To deal with the dyin'

Though I cannot explain that in lines.

Your cracked country lips

I still wish to kiss

As to be by the strength of you skin

Your magnetic movements

Still capture the minutes I'm in

But it grieves my heart, love

To see you tryin' to be a part of

A world that just don't exist 
It's all just a dream, babe

A vacuum, a scheme, babe

That sucks you into feelin' like this.

I can see that your head

Has been twisted and fed

With worthless foam from the mouth

I can tell you are torn

Between stayin' and returnin' 

Back to the South

You've been fooled into thinking

That the finishin' end is at hand

Yet there's no one to beat you

No one to defeat you

'Cept the thoughts of yourself feeling bad

I've heard you say many times

That you're better 'n no one

And no one is better 'n you

If you really believe that

You know you have 

Nothing to win and nothing to lose

From fixtures and forces and friends

Your sorrow does stem

That hype you and type you

Making you feel

That you gotta be just like them.

I'd forever talk to you

But soon my words

They would turn into a meaningless ring

For deep in my heart

I know there is no help I can bring

Everything passes

Everything changes

Just do what you think you should do

And someday, maybe

Who knows, baby

I'll come and be cryin' to you.

“Demons run when a good man goes to war

Night will fall and drown the sun

When a good man goes to war

Friendship dies and true love lies

Night will fall and the dark will rise

When a good man goes to war

Demons run, but count the cost

The battle's won, but the child is lost.”

― Steven Moffat.

Best Part About My Day

Of Flying Bisons, Liz Lemon & Dickolocausts.

I’ve been aching to blog for a while, and it wasn’t for lack of news that I didn’t, but rather for lack of words. This part isn’t covered in the grownup handbook but apparently what happens is this; you get to a point where you don’t feel the need to talk anymore, because you realize how little anything you have to say matters, and how talking is basically playing molecule fetch. We’re just here to keep the air moving, otherwise it gets stale and the fishbowl wreaks of elephants stuck in rooms and we all turn belly up.

I think aurora borealis is beautiful.

Life has been hectic and meaningless, with heartbreaking ellipses and disappointingly premature periods. I’m juggling a job and uni, previously two but then economy happened. Which I don’t mind, the mind-numbing emotion-draining robot-mutating capitalist nature of 21st century work suits me well, it comes in handy sometimes. Although, at other times, I go from worrying why momma ship is ignoring my distress signals to worrying that maybe my distress signals brought momma ship down.

I still don’t understand people, the only difference is that now I’m not even trying to because who needs that?

Let me take you for a walk in my shoes so you’d understand. For instance, this whole Saudi women driving campaign is like a guy getting kicked out of his house putting up the fight of his life to keep the doormat. Forgive me, but shouldn’t they be fighting for rights to lead normal lives first? Aren’t there severe human rights violations and freedom shenanigans to sort out? Shouldn’t you worry about your school lunch before snagging your toy back from the big bully? Priorities, people. I get it that you gotta start somewhere, but it doesn’t have to be a commercialized first-world whine in a third-world environment. That’s not square one.

Then there’s 30 Rock, which everyone finds hilarious and I find incredibly depressing. What is funny about an intelligent beautiful hardworking woman getting fucked over and having her dreams stomped and is humiliated on a daily basis for absolutely no reason at all? How is that funny? TV sitcoms should tend to escapism, not serve as painful reminders. I mean, Louie I get, we laugh in self-defense. But Liz Lemon? Come on, Liz Lemon should rule the world goddammit.

Then there’s a dude friend who, talking about his crush, quips: “It's like she's the female version of me. Well, I'm the female version of me, but she has the package.” Yes, it’s funny. But is that really all? I knew guys think with their dicks but this is a whole new level of dickhead-ism. I’m starting to think that the whole ‘Guys think with their dicks’ thing has more truth to it than the revelation most of us had at 15. Everyday it proves long-lasting. But then again most chicks these days remind me of energizer bunnies, in the sense that they’re immortally cute squeeze-balls who have nothing at all to add to the world other than their squeaks, so guys aren’t entirely to blame.

I hate adjacent lines. I think it’s cruel that two lines can overcome so many forces to meet at a point then have no choice against the same forces to part, with no hope of reprieve till they’re a circumference apart, god knows when. Parallel lines have it easy, compared to that. I wasn’t going for a bumper sticker line but it looks like it came out that way.

I have stalkers now, it was annoying at first but then I came to think of them as puppies. When trained, they fetch you stuff and bite at cue. It’s entertaining, if it hadn’t been for all the time spent in curt social interaction directed at saving the feelings of someone who has proved they have none by being there. This doesn’t make sense to me either. The only thing that pisses me off, and by ‘pisses me off’ I mean I haven’t found a silver lining with yet, is this annoying tidbit: They won’t let me read. Much like puppies, they feel offended if your attention is directed at an inedible object that isn’t them. This is equally baffling to me.

Japan would have got a lot more media attention if geishas had swag. Floating around all 'I be rocking this Okiya like it was Okinawa brah san.' What does have media attention, however, (Other than the last Airbender who likes penguin sledding and has a pet flying bison) is the release of the new iPad air, which is a lighter, faster, more expensive bourgeois clone of its predecessors. Apple doesn’t make sense either. You see, the only reason Apple is so famous in the US is because they produce quality gadgets with a cheap price tag. In the Middle East, it is ridiculously overpriced next to its more competent competition that comes at half the price, and remains the most purchased because that’s how parallel universes work I guess. US Apple fan boy vs. Arab inferiority complex. Meet Asia, working behind the curtains, beating all released smart phones for a fraction of the price, with absolutely no media attention, at all, on this beauty right here: http://techcrunch.com/2013/08/12/xiaomi-beats-samsung-to-top-chinas-smartphone-charts/

 
Amongst the many other things that I still don’t understand is how onion soup is so underrated, how Tennant never showed up on the Simpsons, how struggles and snuggles are only a letter apart and people still opt for the former - Well two, alphabetically speaking. One, mathematically speaking – why people refer to Wust el Balad as some muggle Diagon alley where they can find anything, from Unicorn blood and falcon hooves to phoenix litter, why there are 18 stair steps on each flight rather than an easily manageable 20, how no one has orchestrated a dickolocaust yet, why burger patties are so hard to make, why they’re called unicorns rather than uniswords or unispears or unilances since they don't have corn on their heads, and last but not least, why they still haven’t built an aero hydraulic Quidditch coliseum, magnetically levitated broomsticks, a repelling snitch & a ginormous remote-controlled bludger when there’s an unfunded kickstarter project begging for Quidditch to be an official sport.

I rest my case.