It All Boils Down to a Vacuum Cleaner

It’s that time of the year for me again when most people rejoice and commemorate the day that their mother’s water bag broke and curse their father off to the most excruciating execution for causing that much pain as they shoot them off of her vagina – and this day is also known as birthday! Yes you heard me, that was called birthday. Oh so what if I’m cynical!?! Sue me! I’m just tired of this yearly event and right now it does not serve that good of a purpose to me as I step into a new decade of countless who-knows-what. How did I get here? I mean, I hope somehow someone in some parallel universe has a perfect explanation for what I have become. I used to be the person with utmost interest to save the world. The one with the greatest attributes to make this world a better place; now I’m just an exhausted soul buying Vacuum Cleaner as a birthday present for myself and actually finding bliss with the thought of cleaning my apartment during this day, numb with all the calluses carved on me by various circumstances both fortunate and unfortunate. I used to care so much about what others go through and what they think and if they are with great values and how I can help them. I was gonna build a community, adopt the homeless, nurture the abandoned babies, nurse the ailing and help people reach their dreams and ambitions. Where did it all go? I’m flabbergasted by how much my life took a completely different spin and I sat there watched it all happened as if I’m helpless and could not stop anything for taking place no matter how wrong it felt. The sad part is in this moment, as guilty as I feel for letting my dream slip away I find myself nonchalant about it. The feeling of defeat somehow becomes familiar that it broke all my strength down to pursue the goodness in me as though I am this evil person who will watch someone die in front of me and I won’t even bother to blink. Sometimes I sit in the dark and go through this extensive inquisition with myself to search deep down who or what I really am; at some point it frightens me that I could not seem to find the answer. Like today I’m beat and yet I could not sleep so I opted to blog instead while Sarah Mclachlan tortures my invisible emotions. All my memories of the last decade suddenly come rushing in and I felt pins and needles aggressively poking the left side of my chest which most people calls heart. I wept for something beyond my level of comprehension. All these people in my life seem like these fragments of my imagination and I’m deliberately flushing them down the drain while my solitude brings me to ecstasy. How can some find great pleasure in loneliness? Is it because I failed to follow my dream so I subconsciously punish myself by isolating me from the company of people that I enjoy?
Is my guilt so powerful that it eliminates my reasoning from justifying the things I deserve regardless if I failed or succeed? It might take more than a session of sitting in the dark to analyze the events in my life which I have lost control over. Must I lose interest in the things that used to make me realize my existence? I sure hope not. I should never cease to be compelled to seek for that real purpose I once thought I got all figured out. Life appears to be an infinite search of its core sense before one find profound happiness and sometimes people find the answers back to where they started.
Little did I know; it might be the case for me but now it doesn’t feel like it yet.

All I know is, on my birthday I’m using the vacuum cleaner I bought as a present to clean my apartment – that is already making me smile.

Isn't it Ironic?... says Alanis

I’m slightly irritated but not as much as I'm amused by the poor people who try ever so hard not to show that they care if not obsessed over someone still by saying “I don’t care”

Why write about this? Since I asked, let me just recollect all my bizarre memories and experiences of countless souls that dodged the icky feeling of obsession over another person. I talk so much everyone knows that, but when it comes to my shrink chair I am all ears to everyone who is anyone who is going through some blah-ness in their lives. Sometimes they talk about their would-be significant other, used-to-be significant other, want-to-be significant other, or just somebody who is someone. After the endless ranting and raving it ends with “I never really care about her/him anyway”, “I never really love him/her”, I don’t give a shit!” Sometimes they write on their shout out. “I’m too busy to care” but apparently not busy enough to have a time to write that shout out down.
At some point when they accidentally hear an update about that someone, they update the shout out to “I’m too happy to be affected” Whaaaat? LOFL! I don’t get this, seriously, my idea of not caring for real is to just NOT CARE period, shut the fuck up, just live your life, enough with the contradicting statement and move on. It makes me beef and I don’t even know why. It’s just so booooo!

If you think about it, the musicians that writes song about their ex and bash them in the lyrics and pretend that they are over them and done with them. Well what the hell are they still singin about then? For someone who is done and over with they had to still spend sometime reminiscing and reliving the painful memory and write a song about it. That doesn’t look like DONE to me. And that’s the irony of this whole thing with people who sing about goodbye, bitterness and denial. In their lyrics they claim they have moved on. Yeah clearly, I mean ok the mean lyrics is one way of getting back at the painful experience and somewhere somehow some depressed heartbroken somebody is going to obsess over that song and then a whole bunch of other depressed people likes that song and then it becomes number 1.Well awesome! I mean I would also writer a song about my bitterness to make money out of it but then again at the end of the day I would realized I never really gotten over it and even more so sunk myself in it cuz this stupid song that I wrote will follow me till eternity and that memory will carve an even deeper scar on me. But then I can always use the cash! Lol! I just can't be bothered
All I’m saying is why are people so hypocritical? I won't say I never did because it's a lie. I always admit that I liked that someone but now I don't feel that way anymore. It's not so hard to say it, why the pretentions? I don't get the pretentions! I just can't lie to myself - I won't be able to sleep like a baby at night. :-)
I’m blah-ing about this cuz it makes me sad to watch them torture themselves.

Do You Know What Your Tattoo Means?

I have always supported freedom of expression, no matter what form they maybe as long as it doesn’t violate anyone’s rights. I have a few antics of my own which includes writing, photography and tattoos. Sometimes I sit around and bash people in my vivid imagination – oh wait, that was a hobby and it violates people’s right to defend themselves against what I think of their outfit, body, hair and personality, so yea maybe it’s another level of my own freedom expressing my opinion. More to the point of my subject matter of the day – tattoo.

I have about 5 of them. I would say 3 out 5 are my favorites. I’m currently in love with the latest addition to this mild obsession I have. Let me help you locate this piece of art in my anatomy – it’s on my forearm so it’s pretty visible to the human eye. Usually on my carefree day I wear t-shirt or a tank top (sometimes I wear pants too hah!). It’s hot here so obviously pullovers are not really in fashion mostly.

As I walk around the fabulously hot and humid streets of Dubai this piece always gets some stares and it usually starts a conversation on its own. It’s so annoying how much attention it gets that it got me buying long sleeves lately and damn it it’s hot! When my arm is free from the sleeves it talks to people. I’m telling you there have been ridiculous amount of conversation this arm had with random people. My arm is like this chic with humongous boobs and men don’t look at her face when they talk to her the only stare at her tits. She is a walking breast; her personality is completely over ruled by the boobies.
October of last year was when I got it and since then I probably had hundreds of people that had asked me this irritating question whenever, wherever.

So they stare at my arm and I’m fine till they ask – “Hey, so do you know what your tattoo means?” For the first 10 people that asked me that I was all nice and smiley. I gladly explained the whole history of how this piece came about (the story will only be told if necessary). After few more of that I’m violent! I mean what the fuck are these people thinking? This question is stupid and not to mention insulting! Who would mark their body something they do not know of? Ok granted I obviously do not look like an Arab and I also don’t look like I could speak Arabic let alone read it but damn it I wouldn’t mark my body something I have no clue about. And I live in an Arab country for crying out loud so gimme a break for appreciating the language and the calligraphy! If I saw someone with an interesting tattoo on their body I think the proper conversation would be “That’s and interesting tattoo, what does it mean?” sounds lame but not insulting as:

Dude: So, do you know what that means in your arm?
Me: Yeah
Dude: Enti Shereerah. It means you are evil. Are you evil?

(Ok first of all I already said I know what it means, I never implied he had to explain it to me and furthermore to ask if I am evil! I have few responses for this question)

- Depends on who’s asking

- I will be if few minutes if you don’t get out of my way

- Yeah, your mom didn’t tell you?

- Excuse me I need to go that way.

This dude in the gas station chased me (or maybe he was chasing my arm) from the counter to the parking lot just to explain to me what my tattoo means. I am so sick of this shit if I get one more question about this tattoo I will just automatically bite my arm till it bleeds in front of them!

Oh my neck hole this is just a tattoo not the apocalypse!

The Late Night Food...(late post cuz i suck.. written 26 March)

just cuz i can’t cOOk and can’t dO shit in the kitchen...i ate pOpcOrn fOr dinner last night...well i tried...twice!...i read the instructiOns On the thingy it says under five minutes suppOsedly...hmmm...i had the micrOvawe set fOr 2 mins just in case it gOt burnt...and then 2 mins later there were still sOme pOppin happenin inside sO i thOught...maybe 1 mOre minute...i remOved it after 20 secs and my kitchen smelt like a burnt-i-can’t-explain-shit...(i thOught - mOm!!!...i’m hungry feed me!!!)...the secOnd time it was better...half Of the pOpcOrn were cOOked and half were...well..it was still cOrn...they came undOne!...4 years living alOne in anOther cOuntry...it makes me wOnder hOw i still manage tO survive...the Only perfect thing i can dO in the kitchen is a mess!

i wOke up in the mOrning drOve tO wOrk...listened tO the news...and hOly pOpcorn!!!.. the city was On fire!...the cause - EXPLOSION Of an illegal Fire Cracker WarehOuse...uhmmm...sOrry i didn’t think the pOpcOrn wOuld have that much Of an effect!..
well tOnight me and my dOgs are just eating marshmallOws fOr dinner!...