عرض وطلب

تتضائل المساحات المشتركة
وتستمر فى الانكماش والتقلص
فتبقى متفرج عن بعد، فاشل أولى تنفس
وتستسلم لألم المعدة الناتج عن الفراق
ولكن نعلم جميعا أن اختلاف الاتجاهات
يفسد كل ذكريات النبيذ والويسكى وأفيهات العشرين
كما نعلم أيضا أن مع انتهاء تاريخ صلاحية الألفة
يأتى تجار آخرين لفترينة أمك

Change is a beautiful stranger.

I now tell mad thrashing cab drivers to slow down.
It's like, for the first time in 24 long years,
There is finally something to look forward to.

Routine Retirement of a Replicant.

I love you much.

I don't remember the number of slaps both of my parents gave me, neither collectively nor separately. For they were many. I don't even recall any with despair, nor grief, nor self-pity. I don't think anyone who wasn't beaten by their parents is any better than I am. They just had it differently - not necessarily better. I love both of my parents, much.

I get a heartbreak every time I know you are fucking her. I get a reel of pretty good porn running through my mind of the ways you do it. The best porn I've seen. The only porn I've seen. Walk out on me, dear. As emo as that sounds, break my heart over and over again. One day, we're gonna wake up and you'll find no more whole pieces to break, I'll find no heart to feel the knife twist either.

I don't know much.

On nights like these, I realize I am only a Replicant. Copy pasting all my experiences over and over again, never with wisdom, always with pain. But again, I don't blame you, dear. You are just a face among the masses, a clown among a circus, a heartless in any odyssey. I was cursed by a high waist, putting pressure on my stomach making me throw up frequently at your memory. Also making my lungs smaller, less healthy and covered by a paint of French bosom that doesn't go with the rest of my Egyptian body. I was also cursed by a fish memory, one that makes me run to you at your sight by mere coincidence after you've made a vow to fuck me over. I have to live with those. Those are my own problems.

I pray to the forces above, below and even within, though. I pray I remember not to let my guard down. If I never let my guard down, never to expect nor trust, I'll just live through everything like I lived through a parent's slap. Mechanically. Mechanically. I want you dear, mechanically. If I gain back this capability that I lost over the years with silly hope that anything can get better, I'll never have another break not after a million parent slaps, not after being kicked out of a grey Polo belonging to those you let your guard down in front, not after you fuck her sideways, 69, back or front, porn soft or gore.

I never look at you.

How am I looking on your petri dish, you who pushed down the first domino? Am I squirming in pain or is my faking pleasantness getting to you? I don't mind your silver laboratory utensils as you move me underneath the transparency of your microscope lens. Just don't poke my eyes out often with your rubbing in. Pushes through the upper half are perfectly fine for now. But again.. those won't keep a constant supply seeping out of the ooze of my worm body.

Tell me about results, dear. Does the anger and successfully contained grudge give you a hard-on? Or does the strength I wake up in after each of your experiments turn you on more? Feed me in. I can help you. I can help you fake the remaining years of your life. Shall never let down the picturesque I weave you, year after year, that of a grass greener on my side to you, that of something I can never get to me.

The first of a million pushes.

Google "define:" fail.

I was selected to attend a three months script-writing workshop with a target output of writing a feature film. It’s something I always wanted to be tutored its guidelines. The workshop was reasonable in price, in timing, and in geography relative to where I live and work. More importantly, the workshop was sponsored by an Islamic community service centre – which I assume didn’t know my national ID says “Christian” when I was accepted- thus having room for me to play different mind tricks along the way with people from conservative stubborn backgrounds and all, apart from the usual conservative Copt school of thought which I happen to have dived deeper in. Guaranteed fun in other words.

The film I will have to write will have to be void of any sex. I can’t currently imagine how I – or anyone can write a long feature script that won’t strike you with the dumb idea of dude-there-is-sex-going-on-but-we-won’t-show-you-nah-nah-na-na but that’s another story. Yet that condition is feasible.. shameful and lame, yes.. but doable. The feature will also have to serve a “purpose”, I am not quite clear what’s the definition of this either but I trust myself on faking it when I have to. And finally it will have to be constructive in addressing that purpose.

Constructive... How will I ever be able to fake that?

I didn’t go.

Don't Look.

Nobody needs no saving around here. I hope we're clear on that.

We're just going to ride together in your car, hopefully a public bus,

hopefully even a train. We're going to go miserable places like

Alexandria and Fayoum, for no longer than one day, for only when

you go to a more miserable place do you feel relieved.

There won't be any talking around here. No sparse comments

about how good the food is, nor non-frequent comments about how

you enjoy red wine on winter afternoons with some French cheese

that none of us can pronounce its name right. But I don't speak

French, and I won't be able to point out your phonetical sins, only

because there won't be any spoken phonetical sins in the first place.

Nothing much will be going around here. We will read books on the

most lighted bench across the beach, or while lying on grass,

blinded by the sky light in the background of the parted thighs

of them books. If you like a particular paragraph or verse from yours,

save it for later use in one of your little pockets. And you'd better

have a few pockets...

We will go back the same way we came, we shall never switch

the medium. There will be a lot of similar rules around here.

Be it car, bus or train, it has to be the same back and forth.

You can then share what you've saved up. Make it brief.

We'll be putting music till we part, a lot of it. Sincere effort has to

be made avoiding the talk, since the most exciting sincere

form of attraction is between opposites that never meet.

Hung up.

I was counting the white stripes the other day,

Passing under the car, like I usually do,

On them winter nights,

When I heard Creep playing on the radio.

I held out my hand to press a button,

That had a plus sign on it, like I always do.

He tried to hold it as it was on my way back,

To whirl my hair that's been straightened the other day,

For the sake of passing time on a winter afternoon.

I pulled it away.. He asked why..

"I don't know, I am with someone now,"

I said, with my hand on my lap.

But I don't know if that's true, I didn't say,

He believed me and tried again.

In a heartbeat.

There was a girl I used to know. She had the inextinguishable fire in her eyes and she grabbed life by the balls. Of the few times I met her, she was telling the story of her divorce, as she tried hard to keep the smoke of her cigarette away from her 4 year old daughter. She shopped for groceries after a long day at work, carried at least four big bags of miscellaneous items nobody really needed, her handbag, and a bottle of wine, and finally climbed the four floors of her building till she got to her apartment’s door. Breathless as she was, she chose not to put everything on the floor and get out the keys from her handbag… as not to dissipate her remaining energy on dos and re-dos, but rather to ring the bell instead and just fling inside to the kitchen. Once… twice… three and maybe four times. Her husband, who was watching TV inside, opened the door and shouted outrageously at her for ringing the bell. Ungrateful as he was, he found a bottle of good red wine being shattered into pieces over his head. Their marital relationship didn’t really pick up since then.

Unlike everyone on our table, her reaction seemed completely natural to me, the normal consequence to impatience, intolerance, non-cooperation and non-controllable lust for putting the blame. But everyone thought that wasn’t the right thing to do, probably even my mom… for she never did it.

Severin, Severin.

How about you call me Venus as I dress in animal fur?

صحيت فى ميكروباص... شاكرة جدا، حطيت سماعات الام بى ثرى – اللى كنت اصلا استهلكت اخر بطاريته بمنتهى الشهوة فى الليلة السابقة – فى ودانى، عشان اتفادى اى استظراف أو استلطاف متوقع تجاه أى شئ يرتدى حمالة صدر فى ميكروباص – بغض النظر اذا كان يحتاجه أم لا. يفرق بينى وما بين السواق رجل بيقول على مراته "الجماعة" ولابس اخضر فج... ولكن السواق كسب نقط احترام، مش بس عشان اخد غرزة ما بين تلات تريللات من غير لما يشد اهتمامى... ولكن ايضا، عشان ضيع كل رصيده على السواقين اللى وراه بيشرحلهم ظروف الرادارات والكمائن...

وعادى يعنى... يستمر سواق الميكروباص فى أخدان الغرز ما بين التريللات ويتغاضى عن الثلج اللى بيزحلق العربية تحتيه... فهو على رأى المنادى... برنس الطريق... فيقرر الشاب الفج فى أنه يخدش الكادر الكوول للسواق ويسمح أن موبايله يرن برنة صراخ واحدة بتولد والموضوع بيقلب أن هى بتضحك بهيستيريا... بديهى جدا... كلنا اتسرعنا... وبديهى جدا سرق الشاب الفج الكادر من برنس الطريق... فزى اى راجل لابس أخضر... هو عاشق تافه للانتباه...

كنهاية طبيعية لأى اتنين مصريين فى الموقف ده... انتهى الأمر ان الشاب اللى عنده "جماعة" بيسمع السواق نكت عن البلديات من الموبايل... وكل الركاب... كأى ركاب مصريين طبيعيين... سمعوا كل النكت للأخر وبلعوا البضنة بمنتهى الشهوة...

وعلى اخر الطريق كدة... على الغرزة الأربعتاشر... الراجل اللى ورايا لقيته بيقول "يعنى انت ينفع الطريق كله كدة تشغل نكت عن البلديات؟" ننظر احنا التلاتة... أنا ، ناسية تماما انى المفروض باسمع السماعات اللى فى ودنى، الشاب الأخضر فى بداية احراجه ، وسواق الميكروباص فى المراية الأمامية.

يجلس خلفنا راجل وامرأته وابنته... صعايدة... وصعايدة يعنى صعايدة... جبهتهم واسعة ، تكاد تكون كارتونية... وعينيهم واسعة... وجلدهم قمحى بيلمع من اللون اللى مينفعش تبصله باستمرار... فيرد الشاب الأخضر فى منتهى السسّينة... "انا مالى يا عم ده هو اللى بيقول مش أنا..."

تنظر المرأة الصعيدية أمامها ، وكأن هذا الصوت يصدر من حشرة خضرا... لا تستاهل رحلة الى عبوة الفليت... بل فقط غمزها فى قعر أقرب قبقاب... برضه من غير أى انتباه من عينيها... فتقول...

"هو فى رچالة غير فى الصعيد؟ هو فى مرچلة برة الصعيد؟"

وكأى فتاة قاهرية تافهة ، من أصول صعيدية لا أعلم عنها الكثير... توقعت أن ينظر سواق الميكروباص والحشرة الخضراء الى زوجها ويوبخوه عن ما صدر عن "جماعته" أو يطلبوا منه أنه يلمها... ولكنهم غاصوا فى صمت... وتبللت جبهتهم ، الغير بواسعة كثيرا... ولم يجدوا الجرأة أن ينظروا اليها فى عينيها...

كسر سواق الميكروباص ذلك الصمت بمنتهى التردد والتهتهة ليقول "أيوة يا... ستى... أنا أصلا... عندى... أصل صعيدى"... فأنهى أقوى مشهد سادى رأيته فى حياتى.

iPray.

God..

Give me the money to travel around the world,

the seyaعa to always discover good new music,

the health to drink like a vulgar pig,

and the ears to hear you calling me "Mahfouz".

Sea of Beads.

For some reason I’ve been lying in a quick sand of beads for as far as I can remember. It’s been there ever since I was born. I choke on beads, eat beads, shit beads, and breathe beads. I have never had a good sleep… never with eyes closed, back stretched and legs in sloth… beads can’t make beds, can’t make pillows either. I took it for long enough now. Yet something has changed, since early last year. Somewhere along my skin where my hands cannot reach, a hole was created and the beads flood inside of my body, making me heavier, weaker, not fitter… not happier… like a pig stuck in a cage, sometimes on antibiotics. And no amount of alcohol can help me believe the lie I’ve been enforcing upon myself… that I am as strong and I am doing a good job grabbing life and people by the balls, as I always did before… and always survived.

I never stayed long enough, not to call those beads – or anywhere – home. The sea of them beads flows mercilessly and forces change. And I’m sick of change, of light bags, rental houses, evil omens and lie-convincing alcohol. Now all I wanna do is stand right in front of you, look you in the eye and spit out an avalanche of beads right at your face. To be specific, I want to bull-eye your eyes and create holes somewhere along your skin, where your hands won’t be able to reach or sew, and I will fill you with beads… make you a pig dead… in a cage… with no alcohol.

حكمة الأسبوع

حديث ما بينى وبين صديقة قديمة جدا ليا.. نسميها اكس يا ريت.. ونسمى الشخص اللى بنتكلم عليه واى

اكس: انا شايفة انك تصاحبى واي

انا: نعم؟

اكس: ايوة.. انتوا لايقين جدا على بعض

انا: ازاى يعنى؟ انا عمرى ما فكرت فيه وانا وهو مننفعش مع بعض

اكس: لازم تفكرى.. الواد تحفة.. ومزة.. وتعرفوا بعض من زمان.. ونفس اللايف ستايل
(مفهمتش اوى ايه لايف ستايل دى بس نعدى يا ريت)

انا: انتى شكلك اتهبلتى

اكس: انتى اللى اتهبلتى.. ما هو يا اختى احسبيها صح
الواد معاه باسبور.. مفكرتيش لما الاخوان يمسكوا هتترمى انتى فى انهى داهية؟

انضف بقى

For those who have gotten close enough to me, they can tell how far I have gone loathing any production created by TV. They have definitely heard me whining and giving speeches about how I puke a little in my mouth because of the bleak lame stupidity-combo present among each TV actor’s face. How my stomach squirms in pain whenever my eyes fall on a scene with too much lightning – like any TV scene should… and would. And further, how I have troubles with my breathing pace whenever they play those fake sounds of people laughing in the background forcing – for some unjustified reason – each and every one of the audience to laugh, all in a herd, all in turn, all in puppet smiles. Oh and let me not forget that words like “episode” and “season” give me goose bumps. Give me time to dwell upon… the dumb script-writing, the repeated jokes, the camera movements… and finally after skipping some dwelling-upon, my worst part, those who sit around me, watch TV productions get obsessed with them or laugh at them. For those who have gotten close enough to me, none of you know that I used to tongue-lash my brother whenever I walked into our living room to see him watching an eye-scarring scene produced by an amateurishly disgusting crew on TV. I used to rush away to force the television apparatus out of my eye sight after I have shouted at my brother…

“انضف بقى”

I have not however, closed all doors, and when finally someone broke through my racist Nazi TV walls, I thought I’d just admit it and share…



Christopher Titus was introduced to me in a setting of a very few favorite people, as all good things get introduced in such settings. Faced by a sigh or two of resistance from my side, which did not last for long, for I have long given up on catering my own personal elite inclinations among the sitting-on-sofas-and-watching-MTV-in-an-air-conditioned-room generation. But Titus was not like any MTV-watching in any air-conditioned room. Finally, someone has written something so wittingly for TV, that made me survive one and two… and three and four “episodes”… someone who speaks a language I understand and have perfectly practiced… someone who knows where I am coming from and went all the way to meet me there… and finally, someone who made me not take notice of all the elements, previously mentioned, that make me feel worse than PMSing while watching a TV production.



Dysfunctional families – or whatever those carefully dressed-up toffee-munching people who love giving big names that sound awful to normal things, give to it – are the main theme of the Titus show. Coming from a family of a psychopathic schizophrenic mother who loves her children for beer-filling her mugs at bars, and a drunkard father who is an expert at self-esteem demolishing and loving his children for being his scapegoats, and finally a brother who takes it all as lightly as Titus does, the scene is weaved, very much like most of that of most of the families I have known. Titus creates a world of sarcasm and light black comedy… giving a middle finger at what the world forces us to see as an ideal family portrait, and how guilty we grow and how self-destructively we follow in the footsteps of what this same world paints to the likes of us… product of “dysfunctional families”.

But no, hell no.

Of Fish and Bourbon.

There is a bleak piece of furniture in the only room I can stay the night in these days, which I fail to recognize what it is called. It has four drawers and two compartments where I put all my stuff and I don’t order any of them. Ordered stuff get on my nerves, I mess up my clothes whenever I find them tidy to tell you the truth. If I get into a girl friend’s house and find her clothes ordered according to colour and her shoes according to heels, I secretly declare she’s not a friend anymore. There are a lot of items on that piece of furniture, that I don’t recognize what they’re called, ranging from stuff that I use daily like slim perfume containers and black-framed eyeglasses all the way to shoe boxes that have items inside their hollow stomachs, that I never use. I know you’ve noticed how I’ve remembered the perfume and the glasses, but I like to pretend I forget things. It is a newly acquired habit, for when I actually forget things; I can always blame it on my fish memory. For example, I can save the guilt trips I am forcibly injecting into myself today for forgetting the card I was given by the most important salt-n-pepper haired man in a multinational corporate, on my fish memory that I convince myself I have… but that’s another story.

There is a bleak piece of furniture in my room and the only reason it exists is for a half empty bottle of JnB to sit on.

I get home and that’s all I can stare at.

I travel the distance between my bed and the piece of furniture. I raise a shot. I raise a second. Now I can get back to bed harmlessly and safely. I can get back and convince my body to sleep and beg my mind not to think of today. I don’t want to think of today nor any other day. There are things I have to forget like how I know things are getting from bad to worse, from expected failure to utter failure, from temporary safe to permanent hollow and from phases of vulnerable to classic modeling of lonely.

Years down the line, I might not have a room which I know I shall stay the night in nor the cash to afford proper bourbon. However, I wish I can still depend on bleak pieces of furniture having a cheap bourbon bottle on top and my earned fish memory.

كولد تيركى

نسيت شكلك. بأحاول افتكر ملامح وشك وبتيجى وتروح بسرعة قدام عينايا... كأنوار رعاشة على صالة رقص... كل اللى فاكراه منك هو جسمك الضئيل... الضعيف... الممل...

طول عمرى فاكرة أنى بأتشد للناس اللى عارفة هى عايزة ايه... بس لما بأفكر دلوقتى فى أخر اتنين أو تلاتة شدونى على مدار السنة اللى فاتت... كلهم مش عارفين حاجة... وقرروا أنهم ميقرروش... وجسمك الضئيل، الرفيع، الممل كان بيكملى البورترايت ده... بتاع الشاب اللى مش عارف... مش بس مش عارف هو عايز ايه ولكن مش عارف أى حاجة... ضد جميع معايير الصحة التافهة... ضعيف... غير قادر على أى شئ...

من اللحظات المهمة فى السينما وغير السينما... لما يضرب قائد حرب الأرض بركبتيه فى استسلام ضوضائى... درعه على شماله ملقى فى منتهى الهزل، وسيفه على يمينه... وذراعيه مفرودتين أمامه... ليس كمسطرة فارعة قوية ولكن كجزع شجرة هفأ على وشك الانكسار... وعلى وجهه نظرة... "ها؟ ايه تانى؟"... بالنسبة لى ده من أكتر الأشياء المثيرة حاليا... وده اللى شدنى فيك... أنك ضعيف... هفأ... زيى بالظبط.

كل ده دلوقتى مش موجود... اللى موجود بس شوية أنوار رعاشة رقصا على مزيكا اليكترونى... فخورة أنا بالمرحلة دى... وفخورة بأسلوب الكولد تيركى اللى اتبعته عشان أوصلها... الهفأ عمره قصير... يقدم مواساة تافهة يجب أن لا تستمر أكتر من شهر أو شهرين والا تحولت المواساة الا مآساة... وبعديه مفروض يختفى تماما... مش مفروض يظهر فى أى لقاءات اجتماعية خفيفة... مش مفروض يتشاف له صور ولا يتسمع له مكالمات تليفون... مش المفروض يتشاف اسمه على تليفون... بالظبط زى البار مان اللى بتعيطله وانت سكران... بعد لما تفوق مش عايز تعترف بيه أو بأى ارتباط كان يوصلكم...

جسمك الضئيل.. الضعيف.. الممل.. لا يثيرنى حاليا...

Hot Stuff.

Bloody 2009. Everyone around me has lost their job, been laid off, graduated with a 3.68 AUCian GPA and can`t find a job, or got back from an Arab country ball-broken and sucking on their lower lips with disappointment. One missing category is one that includes myself – those losing their jobs slowly... like someone wrapping a plastic bag around their heads for a slow masochistic death. Everyone knows that the IT community has been a melodramatic scene all over the world for the past five months – but we`re Egyptians and this is Egypt, the only immune place on Earth against all sorts of bullshit – unless of course, it has to do with cute slaughtering of 300,000 wild pigs, relating it to religious discrimination and getting the whole world to scratch their heads at what the hell Egyptians were thinking – but that`s another story.

But sigh, how long could this Egyptian shield stand against cancerous recession? They have already halted all sorts of raises, bonuses, allowances, cash-outs, promotions and social events at where I come from. Signs of poverty have already flourished all over my working place – the bathrooms are not working, cold drinking water is a rare commodity, sugar for your coffee is sometimes not a possibility and every white collar neck around me is too depressed – unlike their usual hyper over-excited unjustified bloody annoying optimistic happy attitude – knowing this is only the beginning.

Now here it comes, a twelve year old movie, one that knew very well it shall be appreciated twelve bloody years later. The Full Monty ladies and gentlemen, yes AND GENTLEMEN, is here to tell you that there is always a way out of what seems to be a “fookin` hell”.

Trentemoller`s Moan.

There are not a lot of things I do for distractions - that is because I don’t do distractions. Yet there are those who master wars of silence and magical powers of killing you with their detachment. Those people exist, and they consume you and eat you out and ruin your day.

One of them actually pushed me to do distractions today. My first trial was Jack White – knowing me, and how all my friends are named Jack. I asked him to wake Meg up and meet me down their alley. It wasn’t long before we were in London, exchanging roles to play Jack’s favorite Bleeding-on-Red-Stripes shooting thing on dull forsaken rooftops. He killed me twice and I confused Meg for having her period several times too.


After lunch in Paris and coffee in Rome, we had the afternoon stroll in Prague. I was walking next to Jack and we were not holding hands, he wasn’t putting his hand on my shoulder and I wasn’t putting my arm around his back. In fact, we weren’t physical at all – knowing me and how odd that is with all my Jacks. He asked me if I was as ugly as he is and I expressed how relieved I was with the fact that he was Meg’s brother, and how this way, I can be comfortably and intensely attracted to both of them – be manipulated by them, enslaved by them, enslaving and sexualizing them with all possible permutations of 3. He let out a brief grin and called for Meg – who was a bit ahead of us. She walked side by side with him, he put his hand on her shoulder and she put her arm around his back.

Meg asked if I talked to Heath today, she didn’t even glance at me as she asked – which made me think her words were drumsticks on my ear drums. I had to disappoint Meg soon and tell her how the person I thought was Heath was only a fake bastard – but I chose not to, I only replied;

“Heath Ledger is dead. He’s expecting us in a few.”

She let out a comfortable rare smile of hers and I thought I heard her say “Okay.”

I went back home to find the fake Heath eaten out by an army of white ants that happens to live under my bed. It made me happy and I kissed the ants one by one because I don’t need to do any distractions anymore. However, I thought I’d still give the Whites a call in a couple of days – after all, I was wearing Meg’s bra.

The place we can be alone.

It’s bloody simple really. Never own a wardrobe nor a fancy big mirror in your house and you`ll never have trouble. Don`t spend any money on hanging posters on the four-walled white room and do not… I repeat, DO NOT… hang your clothes properly after you come back dead and tired after a long day. It can be a lot easier, if you stop thinking about owning a dog or a cat or an endangered family of Queen Alexandra’s Birdwing Butterfly… and of course, don`t even consider plants. Always remember that things that run on electricity are better than those which need fire, and those that only need your hands are even better. Don`t cook a meal you don`t want to wash the utensils for. Don`t cook at all, I mean, what`s really better than food that you bring from a third party that only needs you to throw away some bags and cartoon paper after you`re done – kindly forget about the associated environmental guilt. Remember that every few months; you will be invited to a place with full fridges and some fancy almond-fudge-and-rosemary-hinted dip for your movie crackers… never get comfortable. Don’t feel uncertain about inviting people over, only if they don`t come from a full-fridge background – and trust me, most people do. On second thought, invite whoever. Do not envy them. Do not whine. Do not compare.

Kindly note that clothes are recyclable – as you buy new ones, remember you did so because there are old ones that you do not need – and there is someone who does whom you can give them to and can gain you extra points on whatever religious/moral schema you`re following. This makes you pack a lighter bag. This makes you move easier and faster. Do not own a bar, only a bottle or two if you need cocktail them together – I mean, how would you feel if you threw away most of them, or even worse if you had to carry them? However, never make your place void of wine. Red Wine. Dark clothes. A lot of dark clothes. Bleak colors, which match anything and everything. Remember that fashion does not determine which clothes to wear, but rather how tolerable and match-able they are – what good will an orange brown-polka-dotted chiffon scarf do you if you need to wash it every time you wear it?

Friends are recyclable too. Friends are determined by a few dimensions – space, time and money. Don`t get over too intimate with people, because if you lack one of the previously mentioned elements, this intimacy will not be maintained. Thus, don`t feel bad about it and don`t re-evaluate your metrics and standards of whom you should trust or whom you shouldn`t. Everyone is a passer-by and it`s never proven otherwise.

Remember that you are in a position that everyone else wants to be in but they can`t. Think that way. Think that way with a lot of Nutella and the previously mentioned red wine. Whatever you think, just never feel home.

افهموها بقى

"بجد أنا ذنبى ايه؟
أنا تعبانة أكتر منك...
أنا عند ستو... محدش عارف حاجة...
أرجوك رد على...
هأموت نفسى لو مردتش عليا...
أنا عايزاك جنبى ومحتاجة لحضنك...
والله هموت نفسى بجد"

لابسة فستان سواريه لسة مخلصش وواقفة على كرسى بلاستيك عشان الترزى يقدر طول الكعب. حواليا مليون مراية ولقيت الرسالة دى جت على الموبايل من نمرة غريبة. الأول افتكرته واحد بيستظرف عايزنى اكلمه اسأل مين لأن ده بقى الطبيعى خلاص... وبعدين قلت ممكن تكون واحدة وباعتة لنمرة غلط... طبعا عشان انا قلبى حنين قلت هأكلمها لما أخلص البروفة واقولها أن النمرة غلط... انا قلبى حنين اه بس مش لدرجة انى اقاطع الترزى يعنى... وعموما اللى بينتحروا بيترددوا شوية... فأكيد معايا ومعاها وقت... بس بلاش ننسى أنى مسطولة، فنسيت اكلم النمرة... الكلام ده كان امبارح...

النهاردة افتكرت الموضوع تانى... وضميرى وجعنى يعنى... وقعدت بقى اسأل نفسى طب لو الأنسة الروشة دى أنسة رومانسية وكدة... وعملت أى حاجة فى نفسها... عشان فاهمة أن الدنجوان نفضلها وأكيد مخها الدرامى هيوصلها أنه أكيد بيخونها وعشان كدة مش بيرد... وطبعا البنات فى حوارات الخيانة دى ممكن تموت نفسها أو يجيلها انهيار عصبى بالمستريح...


أنا: الو

هى: ايوة؟

أنا: حضرتك بعتيلى مسج امبارح

هى: لأ مبعتش حاجة... مين معايا؟

أنا: أنا صاحبة النمرة اللى بتتصل بيكى... وانتى بعتيلى مسج

هى: طب قلت فيها ايه؟

أنا: قلتى انك هتموتى نفسك وان محادش عارف حاجة وأنك عند ستك

هى: أه انا بعت المسج دى لخطيبى

أنا: لأ انتى بعتهالى أنا... وأنا قلت أقولك لحسن تفتكرى أنه بينفضلك ولا حاجة... وتموتى نفسك وذنبك يبقى فى رقبتى

رقعت ضحكة من النوع بتوع الأفلام العربى اللى حافظين مش فاهمين وعايزين يبينوا أن صاحبة الضحكة فتاة ليل ذات خبرة
هى: يا حبيبتى ميرسى أوى... أنا كنت باعتة المسج دى لخطيبى بس هو أصله عامل الخاصية دى يا أختى اللى هى لما تتصلى بيه يقولك الموبايل مقفول وهو لا مقفول ولا نيلة

أنا: أه عارفاها.. دى مودية ناس كتير فى داهية

ضحكة أعلى من الأولانية
هى: أه ولاهى... انا اسمى مروة

أنا: ازيك يا مروة، أنا مبسوطة أنك مموتيش نفسك

هى: لأ يا حبيتى متخافيش عليا... احنا بنهدد بس يعنى... بس ميرسى أوى أوى يا حبيبتى

أنا: طيب يا مروة... المهم أنك فرفشتى... سلام أنا بقى

هى: باى يا جميلة


قالتلك احنا بنهدد بس... افهموها بقى...

Legs, Wheels and Rails.

I walk for hours. I stopped counting trees and streets as I do. Street after the other, song after the next and wet tissues are left as my breadcrumb. It is as dull as that. Sometimes, I crave for action though. I walk late at night in dark secluded streets and daydream of a bunch of idle guys stopping me with a small knife or two asking for all the money I have. I also daydream about not giving it to them and insulting them coldly without blinking. Sometimes, I daydream about them hurting me and leaving me with scars, and running away with it, but I never daydream of letting go of my bag or wallet. Sometimes, a bleak car stops by interrupting my daydreams. Usually, I drift to walk on the sidewalk, thus making it clear that I am not for sale… but sometimes, I daydream about getting in and sticking a knife or two between his legs – yes, the ones I stole from the bunch of idle guys, again without letting go of my bag or wallet.

When my phone rings, I never hear it. But when I do feel it, I get really pissed. It usually interrupts my daydreams and my trail of wet tissues. However, that doesn’t really happen much. I am just playing popular over here… my phone never really rings. It did a lot today though, because it happens to be Christmas and people happen to believe am Christian and all. And it pissed me off… it really did. But I never really hear it…

When I am not walking, I am on public transport. I love buses, only if I am sitting by the window’s side. I stopped counting streets and trees as I ride… I promise I stopped. Sometimes, it’s too public though, and people can spot my eyes getting wetter and wetter, but I am too lucky, for when that happens, I find a man asking me for my ticket. I fiddle all over my many winter pockets and get him out all the tickets that don’t belong to this bus line. That’s when my eyes stop getting wet, because you know, it’s not really funny anymore. The man looks at me and tells me that it’s fine – because he really thinks am sexy and good looking and all and that is enough for him to make him bend the basic rule of his job. Right after the man gets out of the bus, I find my ticket though, sometimes I want to stick it in every passenger’s eyes staring at me with the what-a-hot-lucky-bitch expression… but I don’t do that, I just stare outside again and work on getting my eyes wet.

I am thinking currently of stopping at every Metro station, getting out of it and walk for an hour or so around the surrounding region. I am thinking of doing that over the weekend, but I am not sure which areas will be more suitable for day and which will be more suitable for the night. It really excites me that there are a lot of Metro stations, let alone two lines.

I walk for hours.

الى كل المصريين المحموقين مع احداث غزة

يا سيدى، اغفر لهم... لأنهم لا يعلمون ماذا يفعلون
لوقا 34:23