Sanity is easy.

I am the sanest person that you're going to meet. Yes, I tell you, my sanity is something that people sets examples with... all the time. It's true, if you don't believe me go ask anybody we both know, I can give you my parents' numbers too. Everyone enjoys my company, they like it when I speak and when I listen, everyone loves my jokes, I always have a large table with a lot of booze, laughs and people. The people are never the same each year, but it doesn't matter. I have a few flaws - but again, they are made up for by my big table. I mean, it's not a big deal if I cry all the time, is it? Today, I cried when I listened to Massive Attack's "Live With Me". I also cried when I watched the court scene from Kramer Vs. Kramer when Meryl Streep was asked if she thought she was a failure at the most important relationship she ever had. My blanket had cherries, hearts and flowers drawn on it, so I cried. My mother cooked then asked me how I was, so I cried. My father told me that the door porter's son died this morning, so I corrected him and said "you mean the little girl?", he nodded, so I cried. In the elevator, on my desk, in the bathroom, in Aldo - the Korba branch, during conference calls to the United Kingdom and the United States... I am a crying devotee. Sometimes, I am on my way to meet people - who love it when I speak and love it when I listen - but my parents decide to go out as well, so I make a few phone calls pretending I am sick and nauseatic and can't make it to my big table, yes the one with a lot of booze and laughs... so that I can stay home alone and cry. I mean, one wouldn't waste such a chance of uninterrupted crying, would they?

It's easier to win. It's easier to be a healthy woman, with a bright face, shining eyes, expensive perfume and well-done hair. It's also very feasible to lead a healthy relationship, one that's full of big tables that are full of people and laughs, the sounds of cheek kisses, cell phones declaring the arrival of late night messages and choosing the same plate off two different menus. Again, it's a lot easier to smile in photos and to choose to answer your cell phone. Easy to remember the names of the actors rather than the director and easy to have your picture taken rather than take somebody's. I mean, isn't it very easy to call up a friend and blabber thoughts and complaints instead of sending letters to yourself? It's easier to befriend popular women whose photos come up in magazines with a caption saying "ياسمين وميار والجميلات" rather than the girl at the back. The capability to laugh at weakness, that's a piece of cake too, in addition to making fun and public ridicule. It's easier to hate Radiohead and Anathema. Impressing people and having them yearn for the next time they meet you, is also very easy. It's a favored easy thing to make fun of addicts and women and people who are biased-against without any second thoughts. It's easier to go mainstream, to be liked and loved and favored and yearned for. It's easier to be a hero, to be a slave to drama, to make a god out of Ledger because he overdosed... I am a loser - but still the sanest person you're ever going to meet.

Murk inside, murk outside.

“I am supposed to act like they aren’t here, assuming there is a ‘they’ at all. It may just be my imagination. Whatever it is, that’s watching… it’s not human. Unlike little dark-eyed Donna, it doesn’t ever blink. What does a scanner see? Into the head? Down into the heart? Does it see into me – into us – clearly or darkly? I hope it sees clearly because I can any longer see into myself. I see only murk. I hope for everyone’s sake the scanners do better. Because if the scanner sees only darkly, the way I do, then I’m cursed… and cursed again… and I’ll only wind up dead this way… knowing very little… and getting that little fragment… wrong… too.”


A Scanner Darkly - Philip K. Dick

no-reply@companydomain.com

Dear Tinkerbell-

This email is sent to you upon nobody’s request. Personally, I felt the need to send it to do myself a favor. You might not understand this, because you do not vent out your disgust when you are filled with it, instead you suck it inside. Upon observing you, I realized this is not a very healthy trend to follow – thus my disgust is to become a subject of this letter.

I have known you now for around six weeks. You probably never noticed me because you are self-indulged, even though we spend quite some time together on a daily basis. It is needless to mention that we are not friends, even though I thought that this is going to change by time and I wanted it to. You can be stuck in an elevator for six hours with somebody you don’t know and you won’t bother to initiate a conversation, because you believe the probability that you will not be disappointed is too low. However, from what I have seen during the past period of time, I do not think I want to commit such a crime to myself – your friendship or even companionship.

Tinkerbell, self-indulgence isn’t your sole problem. Let me rephrase; self-indulgence is too light to describe what you have. You move in a bubble and you do not wish to change that. You know that your five senses collect data that aren’t necessarily accessible by others, and you do not wish to give this up. Thus, you are a very selfish creature, indulged in your own needs and world, separated from what everyone around you want to take from you or even give to you. The words you utter out that are not in the form of a song’s lyrics are too minimal. The number of people you trust, who don’t happen to be dead, musicians or movie-makers, doesn’t deserve to be mentioned. You have absolutely no friends.

In addition to the increasing self-indulgence, you are going to suffer from decreasing self-confidence. Every day I have to look at your miserable face and I have to tolerate it. Your unhealthy hair, your eyes that squint, fragile skin, elf ears and weak physique send me an unbearably negative vibe. Let alone your pathetic moves; your playing with your hair, your restless legs, the veins that show on your hands upon different movements, your breath… They all give me something that I can hate just for the sake of doing it, and isn’t that what you do? You hate things and people, undeserving of your bubble, just for the sake of it? I forgot to inform you, that as I was forced to stare at your stagnant face today; I noticed a white hair growing on your left side. It is right in the front of your face, Tinkerbell. All your hair is going to turn white and your eyes won’t remain magnetic for long. The people that try to get to you will decrease day by day as you turn into a bubble – that is not so beautiful. I wait that day impatiently.

I do not feel any sort of sympathy or compassion as I tell you all of this. Why should I when those who should care about you… simply don’t? Let’s start by your family, who constantly fail to touch any trail of your isolated island. Your friends? I already told you… none. Sometimes a man can be interested in your magnetic eyes – that won’t stay so for long, as I previously mentioned – but it takes a maximum of a month before he realizes how worthless you are.

I tell you all of this, Tinkerbell, partially because I just want you to feel worthless as much as I think you are. I also want to fill you with self-loathing. However, more importantly, I tell you this, because I hope you can do me and yourself a favor and stop showing up every day for me to stare at your face for hours. I don’t care where you rot, but don’t make it here.


Thanks,

Dell Desktop Screen,
Company Name
no-reply@companydomain.com

One thousand rules and one.

I am having an excessively exciting reading experience on this.

It's been such a long long time since I said such a thing. I wonder if he wants to adopt any 22 year old women. If not, then I wonder if he wants to marry one.

Napalm Love.

That’s the truth. That’s the simple bloody truth. Tomorrow I will wake up early in the morning, will snooze the alarm for 15 minutes, or sinfully for 20 if I was to give myself a treat. I will turn on my laptop, to put on some music that I don’t really wanna listen to, then leave it to go shower. I won’t forget to put some water to boil. As I get out of the shower, all dressed and smelly with glittery body lotion, I will pour myself a hazelnut flavoured cappuccino. I’d probably munch on some biscuits, sip on the cappuccino, listen to some music and stare at a white and blue website that I’ve been checking for a while now. That will probably take around 20 minutes, my lazy morning treat. I’ll get down and I’ll good-morning a door porter, whom I don’t really like but have no authority to just burst into his face and tell him how much I just hate his guts for no apparent reason. Apparently, I just nicely good-morning him, because he has a nice wife and a nice little girl – so basically two women save his ass every morning, but that’s another story. I get out my mp3 player and I stick the two headphones in my ears, and the bloody thing always plays “Napalm Love” as the first track, in other words, it has the same seed for its random number generator – but I wouldn’t want this talk to go any more technical. I cross the street and then cross a very big square with a lot of intersections. If this was any normal day, I’d walk for a couple of blocks and await my usual bus to work. But no, tomorrow I will trample over a gun that is just lying around in the square and that caught nobody’s attention but mine. I pick it up and it’s fully loaded. I point it to my heart and its dirtiness makes a mark on my well-ironed white shirt, one of those shirts I wear to work and all. I pull the trigger without hesitation. On the contrary, I do it with the energy the hazelnut-flavoured cappuccino filled me with and with the same extroversion that I spread around… and that’s the simple truth.

عبادة القهوة السادة

العقل المدبر لهذه المدونة بتقولكوا تسيبوا اللى فى ايديكوا واللى فى رجليكوا واللى فى اى طرف تانى وتروحوا مسرحية "قهوة سادة" النهاردة بمركز الابداع الفنى بالأوبرا.. العرض بيبتدى الساعة 10 مساء.. ولكن لازم تكونوا هناك من الساعة 9 مساء عشان تعرفوا تلحقوا تذكرة.. التذاكر عددها محدود جدا وكل واحد لازم يستلم تذكرته بنفسه وليس لهم مقابل مادى.. العرض مستمر لحد يوم 25.. سبتمبر او رمضان كله واحد.. بس نصيحة تروحوا قبل يوم 25 عشان يبقى عندكوا وقت تروحوا مرة او اتنين كمان..

اه يا كافانا اه

يا جماعة انا ابتديت اقلق على اناتيما وعلى عيلة كافانا كلها... ماشاء الله يعنى ربنا ينعم عليهم زيادة ويزيد حالة الفرح والتفاؤل اللى هما فيها دى... بس يعنى لازم نعرف ايه سر التغيير ده... ماهو مينفعش بعد لما يثبتوا انهم يستحقوا الثقة اللى ادينهالهم وياخدوا توكيل الاكتئاب بتاع ملايين المعجبين والمعجبات... يخونوهم كدة ويتحولوا الى كائنات متفائلة مستحمية بتظهر الصبح والدنيا ملونة والزرع اخضر والسما زرقا وشكلهم مزز ولابسين شيك جدا وناقص تشم ريحتهم الحلوة... لازم نطالب بمبررات... مينفعش كدة... انا خايفة شوية كمان الواد فينسنت كافانا يقول كلمات زى اللى بتقولها مادونا فى البومها الأخير...





من الاخر يعنى... لو دى مرحلة وهتعدى ربنا ينتعهم بالسلامة، ولو مش هتعدى لازم مبررات... عايزين نعمل زيكوا يا جماعة...

Eye Candy.

Finally, something made me drool..

The Black Angels' logo...



Inspired by Nico...



She's the classic favourite.

White-Collar Blabber.

Apparently, my silence is annoying a lot of people. Even my father, whom I’ve always thought goes into competitions of silence with dead fish – and eventually wins, can’t tolerate my silence. But what do I have to say? I don’t have anything to say to anyone, not even here, even though that’s supposedly an anonymous blog and all. In fact, I hate this blog, because all I ever blabber about lately is personal outbursts, and I have no fucking clue why are you here reading this. It’s bitter to admit it or write it down and then read it later. It highlights the fact I’ve already reached, that nobody has control over anything. Oh, I miss the good old days, when I thought and people thought I am a master of puppets and I am the control goddess that they look up to when they’re lost. No, that’s another lie, I don’t miss those days, and I wouldn’t want them to be back, no, no, not at all. I don’t want anyone to believe in me, it sets standards. And I fight standards now. I fight standards so hard, that if you saw them standards, you’ll find explicitly sadistic scars on its bloody face. I mean let’s face it, my greatest fear was mediocrity, now I don’t fear it anymore – I embrace it with devotion. There was once shining glamour inside my chest, which attracted travelling wanderers, and now it’s gone. There was once a business I led and my title was “The Dream Merchant”, but not anymore. And in mediocrity, I am lying around - in sloth and sweet laziness. At least, I admit it.

I pray my father stops getting annoyed with my silence… but that’s the maximum I can do about it.