Worthless.

You realize you are a worthless bitch when in one week you’ve heard about five murders and three rape accidents in Cairo and have witnessed a demonstration about the welfare of atomic energy scientists in Nasr City… and all you can daydream about is shooting yourself in the head.

Fear tastes.

Things are not going to be okay. I thought time will heal a lot of things and I put a lot of stake on it, but nothing can help me out of this. I am not miserable... I am scared. I think for the first time in my life, my knees are shaking of tomorrow. Partially because I know my misery will never go away, but more importantly, because of the recent changes I have been witnessing.

I've been buying Vodafone cards only to find there are ones in my wallet that I haven't consumed and I don't even remember when I bought them. I've been forgetting appointments I apparently gave to people. I've been forgetting names of people. Lack of concentration is a bitch - and it won't be long before I lose my job. I've been forgetting all those little details that seem so little to everyone but seem like mega sins to any corporate fella. Last week, I sent an email to a client in the UK without a subject header - can you fucking imagine? I've been boasted off with for the past years at my mastery in verbal and written communication... but alas, I am a mediocre 22 year old maid who can't tell what day is today without looking at her Windows blue tool bar. I am failing constantly to be the corporate bitch because of my lack of concentration, and at those depression times, it won't be long before several corporate bitches slit each others' throats to take my place.

That's not where it stops... After I lose my job and I am penniless, I will probably go down a Heliopolis street to have a walk for a break or so, because that will be all I can afford. However, even then, I shall hurt myself greatly. Last night, I walked into an iron piece hanging out of a wall and it hit my forehead and glasses... I am so lucky it didn't break my glasses or I would have lost my sight, but now my forehead is swollen greatly. Furthermore, I nearly killed myself crossing the street three times in the past seven days because I can't 'concentrate' enough to remember to look sideways for crossing cars.

Thus, I am scared. And I am scared greatly. I am scared I will wind up as a victim of tasteless repetition. I am scared I will always be a slave to heartbreaks... an open door for a man to come inside, break and shatter my insides, light his cigarette out with his foot on the floor of me and leave without a word. I am afraid, very afraid, I will have to spend more time thinking about how to avoid my parents' pressure than ever wondering what do I want for myself. I am scared I will never get out of my past... I will always suffer yearning and nostalgia to people who were never deserving. I am... only afraid.

بتنجان

“I could say,” her mother went on, “that living among the hakujin* has tainted you, made your soul impure, Hatsue. The lack of purity envelops you – I see it every day. You carry it with you always. It is like a mist around your soul, and it haunts your face like a shadow at moments when you do not protect it well. I see it in your eagerness to leave here and walk in the woods in the afternoon. I cannot translate all of this easily and except as the impurity that comes with living each day among the white people. I am not asking you to shun them entirely – this you should not do. You must live in this world, of course you must, and this world is the world of the hakujin – you must learn to live in it, you must go to school. But don’t allow living among the hakujin to become living interwined with them. Your soul will decay. Something fundamental will rot and go sour. You are eighteen, you are grown now – I can’t walk with you where you are going anymore. You walk alone soon, Hatsue. I hope you will carry your purity with you always and remember the truth of who you are.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*hakujin: The white people.


سبحان الله.. كلام الأمهات لازم يكون فيه جو البتنجان.. سواء الأم فى الأصل مصرية أو من اليابان..

Fuck Me.

Since the author of this blog is everyone's spoiled brat, and thus finds random movie files on the hard disk of their laptop - while they have no clue how they got there...



..they are obliged to pay it forward.



Thus, the author of this blog recommends you to..



Baise Moi.

:/

She refused to tell me her name. Google refused to tell me her name. She poured half the bottle of gin down her throat the way she always did. Purgatorio looked at her then stared at his gin bottle. Before she put the bottle down, he had already poured himself another drink… with ice - crushed. I stopped him from raising the glass to his mouth and put him some lemon remains. He stared at me and all he said was “:/”.

I never was able to break my mirrors.

Stills... are only stills.

Those photographers with black cameras stuck to their noses and grinning mouths to fake looking indulged and professional drive me crazy. Photography was never an art - I am sure I. G. will agree with me on that. To me, photography is too new age, too kitschy – too “Paolo Coello” to say the least. If we go a few years back – four or so, one could have taken a Calculus book or two and went to Cilantro Merghany to study on a Friday morning. That was always a quite resort – apart from all the domestic civil wars and all. But then… things grew too quiet. One Friday morning, I was solving some mathematical problems on Integration by Parts and I looked up for a second away from the Calculus drill, to see everyone around me has grown long – but not too long - hair, smoked Kent cigarettes, held a Paolo Coello book in one hand, an American coffee mug in the other and had an expensive mobile phone on the table – that can save several ringtones to several people, but which had Buddha Bar’s “Secret Love” as its one and only ringtone.

The air grew too stinky… I left… to no avail of course.

Now those people wear out their eyes on a Brazilian journalist’s cheap philosophical words in the morning and spend the money left in their pockets – after extravagantly spending it in Diwan Zamalek and Cilantro Merghany, and isn’t that what’s money is made for my dear new-age intellectual friend? – at night, on photography classes and tripods and camera accessories. Then comes the harder part… what should be photographed.

If you are not a photographer, you will not understand what kind of a-fucking-important-thing-this-is. Those people go far… real far. There are several types. The most expected of which are the nature sissies. Those spend whatever money is remaining in their pockets – after the Diwan Zamalek, Cilantro Merghany and make-Kodak-a-bigger-corporation shopping spree – on trips to places you probably never heard of – which is the part I greatly appreciate. However, after our devoted photographer has travelled by bus with other fellow photographers or by his new-age Jeep Cherokee to a place that is very far far away and full of desert and some stones they refer to as mountains and after our devoted photographer takes them pictures and satisfies his/her sissy sexuality towards Mother Nature… you look at them pictures and you just wanna look them in the eyes and tell them that they could have just drove to Sha2 Al Te3ban or to the stones-full Wadi Degla to capture the same exact photos of some sands and some stones – but you wouldn’t wanna tell them that, after all nature sissies can be quite amusing in other aspects of life – of which I can’t remember any right now.

Nature sissies are very easy to spot and are the gum that loses its sweetness after a very very short while. The more interesting kind is the intellectual highly-educated new age stratum of detectives. Those Sherlock-Holmes of photography have such a sharp eye – you wouldn’t want to fart in their presence. The first step is that they spread in poor areas or areas that are so very full of “culture” – sigh, I have to use their vocabulary for a second, bear with me. The trick is that the more the photo they capture satisfies two elements, the more they get too proud of themselves and each goes home – him thinking he has a bigger sexual organ and her thinking she has bigger boobs. The first element is how contradictory is the picture to the bourgeoisie-ness of your expensive camera… for example, picture that street kid who is too dirty and is begging for a McDonald’s fry off of your lunch, or that door porter sipping on tea and dragging on a Cleopatra “Soopaarrr” – the more your picture reflects agony of the Egyptian nation and the more it is an option for a cheap Leftist newspaper, the more you gain points. See, here comes the feeling of purpose and hey-I-just-found-an-existentialist-answer sort of pride. The second element is how the elements in the picture appear as if they didn’t know the picture was being taken – even though the flash is made to blind them, but never mind. Now that’s very easy to achieve with things that don’t breathe – like a sheesha that you pay 1.25 pounds for (remember, we are in a poor area) or a broken wooden window pane. However, things get slightly more complicated as you take pictures of begging children or door porters – thus, our devoted photographer might want to tip them to pretend they don’t notice his flashy existence.

Another type of our devoted photographers is them with a details-fetish. Now those can take 9 to 99 pictures of those tiny salt and pepper containers found on restaurants’ tables, put them up on Facebook, add a caption to each and every one of them and never bother to convince the world of the difference between those bunch of pictures that just look the same to me – let alone the need to take one in the first place – because they “know” their artistic sense of “details-capturing” is well communicated. I will not indulge into details about this kind – I dated one of them.

Let’s be fair, though. There is this guy whom I consider the only Egyptian photographer who has any taste and style to what he’s doing. But again to me photography, will always be an everlasting failing technique to bring soul to stills… and soul cannot be flavored with poses nor with expensive devotion – but rather with drunken smiles on a table having some empty bottles of wine on it and perhaps a caption saying “Cairo 2005”, “Alexandria 2006”, “Beirut 2009”…

Necessary Invitations.

Mr. Mahmoud Hemeida-

You are cordially invited for a French billiards game. This will be an all day event and it is going to take place between our steel brain compartments – serving as the sides of the French table. We have been informed that you prefer snooker; however, the steel lacks the pockets. In addition, French billiards has proven to be very existentialist and supreme, in the sense that no one ever gets the whole point of it. You are encouraged to bring a friend; in fact, you are encouraged to bring your Catholic snooker companion – the one who owns our favorite Snooker and Billiards place and who usually stares at our curves as we miss our shot. If not, you can always French your score on a sole basis. Your favorite drinks will be served with topless escorts. There is no dress code – unless you want to have one. It won’t be necessary to have any clothes in the first place.

Your acceptance of this invitation will bring a lot of purpose and gratitude to our steel brain compartments.

Thank you.