Dont waste your tears.

As I picked up the bottle of eye drops, I examined the title: Refresh Tears. A little green plastic bottle with a light blue sticker upon which was written in white, Refresh Tears. It seemed so comforting. To look at, I mean. It was without doubt an American product. It seemed to have that same reassuring vibe that most American commodities do. That motto: It’s all going to be all right. That same motto of the city on a hill, on which the United States were founded. That smile that comes with all their services, you know, it’s the: Would you like fries with that? smile.
But as a took a closer look at those tears in their nicely packaged bottle, I came to realise that they did not seem as reassuring as they did in the first place. This was not just a container of mildly salted water, these tears were not tears; they were carboxymethyl.
And if I can’t pronounce it, I don’t feel like I should put it in my eye.

hold your breath and say mmm...

Please not again. I don’t think I can take another blow. It hurt so much last time. Its like I know what’s coming for me and the anticipation is killing me. Its in my stomach I can feel it.

It’s just like waiting to get smacked hard on the palm of your hand with a wooden ruler. You watch that ruler slowly rise above you, and as it does you clench your teeth really hard and shut your eyes as tight as you can and there is that 0.05 seconds that feels like a lifetime and before your know it, that stick of solid wood is coming straight at you, there is no escaping it, and SMACK!
The sound is probably just as bad as the action that caused it.
And it stings, it hurts so bad. And you stick your hand in between your legs to alleviate some of the pain. And the throbbing lingers and lingers.

You know what you did wrong to deserve it. But you did it anyways.
Why?
Well you ask yourself that question every time.

Ok. My hand is out, my teeth are clenched and my eyes are shut really tight.

Go.

green light district

4:07 AM Suleymanie, Northern Iraq.

I can’t sleep.
It’s one of those nights. You know them.
Every part of my body seems to be in discomfort and every thought in my head seems to be screaming for attention.
And through the slit between these ridiculously hideous curtains a stream of fluorescent green light has decided to adorn the ceiling. Wonderful.
France 24 is the only decent channel so that is what’s playing on the television.

Anxiety.
It’s a bitch.

Anxious about what?
My future.
I am 23. What the fuck am I doing with my life?
I feel useless.
I worked hard at school, then at university. I got really good grades. I wrote a thesis. Now what?
I thought all that was supposed to get me somewhere.


Ok. I know for a fact that I am not the only one who’s panicking about this right now.
I know there are a lot of you.

So lets do this together.
This is what I am going to do and I encourage all of you to grab a pen and paper and do the same:

First let’s all think hard about what it is we wanted to be when we grow up
It can be anything: An astronaut, an engineer, an investment banker, a singer, an artist, a musician, a transvestite, married with children, a doctor, a ballerina…anything you want. We don’t judge.

Ok I’ll start:

I want to be famous for something brilliant.
Yes what a cliché, I know. I don’t care.
I have my reasons and they have nothing to do with being popular and super cool. No.
I mentioned earlier that this life is nothing but a fraction of a second in a timeline and I am not going anywhere without leaving my mark on that timeline. I don’t want to be an anonymous soul.
My father says that each life is like a firework. You can fizzle around a bit and then die out, or you can shoot up into the sky and explode and light up into millions and millions of colours.
So there.
I want to be famous. Don’t know for what yet. But I am sure it will come to me. Soon.


Ok, now that we got that out of the way lets make a list of the things that we have to get done in the immediate future.
I swear it helps because it will keep our minds busy and focused.
Let’s set ourselves goals and deadlines.
Also I think we should put the paper so that its always in our face. So like on the fridge or something. Not that I'm obsessed with my fridge. I swear. Ok, maybe a little.

I just finished making my list. I am not going to put it up because it will be boring for everyone but me. But I have it.

I feel better now.

You’re turn.

Also, I need a favour from my blog readers. I want you all to make sure I keep to these deadlines. Be aggressive if you have to.
I will do the same for you if you want.
If we are in this together I promise it will be easier.

sugar and spice

I don’t like games. I don’t like funny games. I don’t like mysterious games. I don’t like playing games. I don’t like any kind of games.
I am not a ball. I am not a Frisbee. I am not a Lego set. I am not a Barbie. I am not any kind of toy.
GO PLAY GAMES WITH TOYS NOT WITH ME.

Help me up PLEASE

Lethargic. That’s how I’m going to start this. So lethargic that reaching for the remote control feels like the New York marathon. So lethargic that reaching for the ashtray seems like a mission to the moon. So lethargic that I always have to be leaning on something to keep me from falling. I am forcing myself to get out of the house. I am going to walk to my lunch. I feel like everything is so long, wrong and boring. I feel like a blob. I big heavy blog of pudding. I’ll put on some Aretha Franklin, hopefully that will give me enough energy to put some clothes on.

touch

Touch.

A girl in my Art History class wrote her final dissertation on touch. When I heard about it, I thought to myself…damn…why didn’t I think of that.
Well I am going to write about it now.

Touch.
It is, for me, the most human of our senses. Tactility.
It provides us with contact, and a physicality that seeing, smelling, hearing even tasting lack. That shiver that goes through you when you touch cold glass or metal. Or what about when you run your hands under the tap? Sometimes I keep my hands under running water for a really long time.
What about when you feel heat? When you burn yourself...accidentally of course...and then you have to put toothpaste on it...I hate it when that happens...

What about touching flesh?Someone else’s flesh. Someone elses plump warm flesh. A piece of flesh that you could brush over softly with the palm of your hand over and over again; or sink your nails into until they pierce through.
There is a mother’s touch. That maternal one that reassures you. I guess.
There is a lover’s touch. One that kills you so badly inside.
Without a doubt, they provide you with different thoughts and feelings, but they are both humans communicating in the most sensitive manner.

I don’t feel comfortable writing much more at this point in time…

what are we going to do about this?

We have a sick relationship you and me. One that I can’t be fucked to try and understand anymore. One that would baffle even Sigmund Freud. We knowingly feed off each other’s weaknesses. We cannot seem to maintain a consistent pattern in our behaviour towards one another.
Are you afraid of growing old?
Are you afraid of me?
Because sometimes I hate you so much I can’t bear it. Sometimes I love you so much I can’t bear it.
But most of all, I want your attention. I crave it more than anything.

The dreamer, the poet, the party animal, the voice of reason, the joker, the emo, the sarcastic one, the superstar, the asshole, the one that’s “never really there”, the nympho, the one you run away from…
Freaks? Yes maybe. But I wouldn’t want it any other way.
This is for you,
I miss you. Big.
And so my darlings,
If you find yourself feeling alone on a quiet street or in the midst of a noisy crowd in Beirut, London, Oxford, Paris or Chicago remember, we are still in the same bubble, its just that for now, it’s a very big bubble.
Fear not. It will get smaller very soon.

A dark room. Two kisses on the forehead, one from him, one from her. Four hundred dollars on my night table. A closing door. And then they were gone. I knew they were leaving. It was a matter of time. But I didn’t want to come to terms with it.
I want my mama. There I said it.
Drinking a Black label on the rocks, smoking reds in a familiar bar, with a familiar buddy, watching what used to be a legend on an strangely flattened television screen was exactly what my doctor ordered.
I didn’t want to talk about all the bullshit that had been building up in my stomach for the past year. I wanted to disinfect it with the poisonous substance I was ingesting.
Saying goodbye. Saying goodbye. Saying goodbye. No matter how many times I say it, I can’t get used to the idea.
In the words of the Gossip… it’s a cruel, cruel world to face on your own.

what's going on here?

ok. so New York.
I am here and it is big. it's tall too. Big and tall.
and i am not big or tall.

pussy cats.

will you catch me.?

Reach for the stars...but if you can't, don't worry...just reach for the light switch instead.

what we do.

Summertime and the living is easy...

Eat my heart out.

If someone gave you their heart, what do you think it would taste like?

Do you think it would be soft and sweet like a marshmallow or wet and bitter like blood?

Would you feel fulfilled or guilty?

Would you enjoy keeping it or enjoy eating it?

humans

humans

We all snap from time to time. We are only human. You should understand that.
I am only human.

Its because i live in a tree

who's your Role Model?

Let’s talk about role models. Let’s take a minute and think about who your role models are. Ok did you think of one?
What is a role model?
Is yours someone who has accomplished something that you feel is admirable or even special?
Is it someone who is as close as possible to what you see as perfection?
Is it someone who you wish to be like or compared to one day?
Is it someone who you look towards for advice?

Well here is what I have to say about role models. They are no good. Remove them from your mind. They are an ideal and ideals don’t exist. Take from them what you like and leave the rest behind. When you think of a role model don’t think of a person. People are faulty. You will almost always be let down and that… that my friends, is the most heart wrenching moments that you will ever experience.

The concept of a ‘role model’ is a stupid one. It’s dumb.

**Please Note: I am not suggesting that you be your own role model. I think that concept is just as dumb.


Just set yourself your own goals. Don’t listen to idiots. And do what you’ve got to do. Simple.

yay....

thank you.

I want all those who think they are lucky to raise their glasses and say thank you. Thank you to God, thank you to life, thank you to luck, thank you to fucking anything. Just say thank you. Say thank you and mean it. Mean it. I am serious. Say thank you for your house, say thank you for your car and for your family, thank you for your money, thank you for your job, thank you for your food and for your bed, thank you for your mind, thank you for your parents and your grand parents, thank you for your health. Say it. Be grateful. Be grateful for your everything. Mean it.

Where do you go to my lovely?

I’m going to start this with a cliché. Ok. Are you ready? Here we go…
Life is such a joke. Ok. I have said it. I feel better now.
I am fucking scared of death. I know, its absurd. It’s an irrational fear but I can’t help it. I can’t. It’s not that I am scared of dying. No. I am scared of being left alone. I don’t want to be abandoned. A fear of abandonment? Maybe. I don’t know for sure. But I am scared.
Today I attended the first funeral of my life and I know it is the first of many. I hated it. I wore a black dress and under it black panties. I wore a heavy burden. The burden of being alive.
We are here for a fraction of a second and then we’re gone. Poof! Like we never existed. Please don’t get me wrong. I am not going through existential angst. I already passed through that phase a while ago… with Camus.
This is the reality of reality. Coming to terms with what it is to be alive. What? Are we supposed to distract ourselves from the obvious? Are we supposed to have the times of our lives until the grim reaper is ready for us?
I say… go crazy. I say let’s have the time of our lives (no pun intended), I say let’s go to hell laughing.
I say all this… but what I really want to say is please don’t leave me alone.
Please don’t leave me alone.
I don’t want to be left alone.
Please.

Singer

I just bought an antique Singer sewing machine. I bought it in the hopes that it will sew my new life together. In a different pattern. One that I am not familiar with. I think after twenty two years of the same design, fabric, and style, I am ready for something outrageously different. After twenty two years of living in the same clothes I am ready for a new outfit, something that will blow my mind away.
So… Please Singer sowing machine make me a new dress. One with LOUD colours and AGGRESSIVE cuts. One that will make me stand out in a crowd. I think I am ready. And if I am not please force me to be.

hey dont dont go...

Miami.

I am going through a phase right now of "Miami Vice". I am liking that theme more and more every day... you know, the bright orange sun set, the hot purple and hot pink t-shirts...cool sunglasses.... you know, a bit of gangster violence here and there...very 80's.

(oh. by the way...for the record.. i've never actually been to Miami...um... yeah.)

are you a cry baby sometimes?

white is all the colours together... something about the spectrum? ...

"Leaving yesterday was a sad feeling indeed.
The children's birthday party had ended
and this oasis of care free fandango had faded like a
mirage in the desert.
Yet for some school children it is the beginning, not the end,
of a care free summer. And to that, I raise a chilled tumbler of
golden, nectar-like umeshu."

This above message was sent to me today.
its been a long time since i've found something so exquisitely pleasant and touching. i couldnt let it go unnoticed.
To that i raise MY ice filled crystal glass of umeshu,.

mirrors are deceptive

laughing is cheaper and funner than therapy

Tonight, something very strange happened. It was the first time I have ever seen anything like it. I was in my room getting ready for bed, around 12 AM, when I heard my mother telling my dad that she wanted a smoke free house. A few moments later, I heard a low muffled giggle that turned a low continuous laughter, in other words, I heard somebody having a laughing fit, that somebody was my dad. I knew it was his because his was a low snickering. I thought it would soon stop. It didn’t. I decided to investigate. I went down the hall to my parents’ room and there I saw it. Both my parents were in bed, each on their consecutive sides. My father flat on his back unable to stop laughing, and my mother sitting up with her book in her hands illuminated by her side lamp. She was not reading her book she was staring at my dad with a very confused expression on her face. I asked her:
“What’s so funny?”
She said, “I have no idea. I think he might have gone mad. All I said was that I want a smoke free house!”
Then she got annoyed and she said, “Ok Basil, you don’t believe me? You just see if your cigars are going to still be intact when you get back from work tomorrow!”
Instead of getting upset, or even worried about it, this last comment from my mother seemed to increase the humour, which made him laugh even more.
For about six minutes straight, he would not stop. Then I started laughing with him, just because he was laughing.
My mother did not seem to find this very amusing because she said to me:
“Why are you laughing? Are you stupid?” This made me laugh even harder. And every time my mother would say, “Why are you laughing?! I don’t understand what you are finding so funny?” We would laugh even more.
The whole thing went on for about another three minutes and slowly died down. My mother said, “Your father has lost his mind” to which he replied, “Ha! That would be the best way to lose your mind!”
I think it goes without saying that laughing is way cheaper than therapy.

give me a break..

Do you wanna go dancing? NO.

I amn angry. I habvent been this angry sinvce I threw a ketchauop bottle at my mother’s head. I am so angey I am having troulrble writing thisw. But dotn worry you’ll still be able to read it because I read somewhere that we only have to look the fist and last letters of a workd to unserstand it.
Now I will concentrate more and explain myself so that you will take me seriously.
I haven’t been this angry in years. Four years. The anger which I thought had left my temperamental self did not go anywhere. It was just hiding in my elbow or something. Maybe it was in my big toe. I don’t care, whatever it was somewhere I guess. Today I felt like bashing an anonymous persons head. Those who can remember the flying ketchup bottle will know who that anonymous person is. Well I got very upset and I had to retain myself.
There is a ringing in my ears and I can’t think straight. I don’t need any help. No one can help me when I am like this. I don’t need help. All I need is for the ringing in my ears to stop.
Did I mention I went to a night-club last night. I didn’t get drunk, but the music was so loud. And my head is throbbing because of it. My ears are still ringing and my eyes are sore.
I knew I shouldn’t have gone out. Bad things always happen when I go out.
I blocked out the music and watched the people dancing. They looked so dumb. Like robots being manipulated, or marionettes.
I don’t think I enjoy the masses. I am very selective. I felt uncomfortable last night because I was surrounded by too much. Two bottles of Bellvedere, one bottle of Crystale, 3 bottles of I don’t know whatever shit that makes you drunk, 4 posers with 8 really hot girls. Mix it all up, and what you get is nothing but greasy hair, short dresses, stilettos, lots of chest hair, the acidic smell of alcohol and the stale smell of smoke. Yummy.
After being angry at about three pm. I took an angry nap and woke up at eight. I am less angry but the ringing is still there.

getting cornered in a round room

I think I would like to tell you about how I felt last summer when I had to evacuate Lebanon. I can sum it up in a few words,
Disgusted.
Disgusted with humanity and the fact that there is no respect for it. Disgusted with the idea of having to leave my home. Disgusted with having to leave my family and my best friends at the same time.
Humiliated.
Humiliated that we had to run away. Humiliated by the fact that we had to drive through Syria in order to get out. Humiliated for my mother who had to go down at the Syrian border, and bribe the officer with three hundred dollars, just so he could let us pass.
Disillusioned.
Disillusioned by the fact that humans are still capable of this much destruction. Disillusioned by the fact that humans are still capable of such megalomania, such big egos, and so much hatred.

Numb.
That’s the worst, because you stop feeling, you stop crying, you stop thinking. You just sit there like a potato and stare at nothing. This is the stage you reach when you are so tired and know that no matter how much you cry, or swear, or discuss, or brainstorm possible solutions, nothing will help it. So you just give up.

That is how I felt in the car on the way to the Syrian border. For days, I insisted on remaining in Beirut, war or no war.
I finally surrendered and agreed to leave on the condition that I could return the second ceasefire agreement was reached.
On our way out, we used the only road left that hadn’t been destroyed by the Israelis. Our escape plan was suicidal. Then there were those explosions.

Ok, listen I will finally tell you the reason that I never wanted to leave Lebanon during the war. No...Its not because I am suicidal, or super patriotic or anything like that. I have a bigger reason. I promise.

But first let me explain the background issues:
Ok, so what am I? I am half Lebanese and half Iraqi, born in Washington D.C and living in London. What does that mean to me?

Let’s use the process of elimination…

Although I was born in America, I left at such a young age that the memories I can remember well were in my home, with my family and close friends. Mostly all Arab.

Iraq is not my home because it is smitten with civil unrest. I have never been able to go there, furthermore, I was never avidly encouraged to identify myself as Iraqi. Despite my fathers numerous attempts to make us proud of our Mesopotamian heritage, I know I was never attracted to a country that I had never seen and that was lead by a psychotic dictator. Not to mention the amount of times my mother sarcastically joked about the fact that Iraqi’s were naturally violent and ugly people and that my father was the exception of exceptions.
So although I would want nothing more that to feel Iraqi, and I will never stop trying to do so, Baghdad is not my home.

After moving to London at the age of nine, I quickly discovered how this capital was in fact a hub for all ethnicities and cultures. In fact, it seemed to me that there are more foreigners in London than there are English people. It is, in fact, a melting pot, a melting pot is not a home, it’s chaos. London in general made me miserable, when we were on vacation and I thought of going back I would feel ill. A city covered with a grey film. London never felt like home.

Lebanon gave me everything every other country didn’t. It gave me my best friends, it gave me family, it gave me the best memories, it gave me the best views, it gave me warmth, it gave me an identity.
However, it is completely unstable.

The reason I never wanted to leave is because I never know if I’ll be able to come back.

bonne nuit mr. moon

the sand man doesn't like me.

Did I ever tell you I have sleep paralysis?


I hate it. It scares the shit out of me.


Do you have any weird conditions like that?


It would make me feel better if you did.

so?

My friends...

I was in the National Gallery today, walking around when I decided to meet up with a very old friend of mine. He is not your typical friend, but he is really good fun none the less, Paolo Ucello’s painting, “Saint George and the Dragon”. He wasn’t in a very good mood today because apparently, the Security guard that was meant to be on watch fell asleep which allowed a couple of young brats to poke and make grimaces at my disabled friend. Well, you know, poor thing he has no arms or legs and he is made out of wood...(I often teased him about this). Nonetheless, we gossiped for a good hour or so. He told me the Duccios were in a huge fight with the Botticellis, the latter made a silly joke about the formers not containing any linear perspective, and that got them heated up. We gossiped some more, and then I found out something very surprising, he told me, that one of the Rembrandts told him (who’s identity he refused to reveal, sworn to secrecy), that apparently, Titian’s, “The Farnese Family” was involved secretly with one of the Da Vinci sketches. Who would of thought, a member from the Venetian school of Colore associating intimately with a member of its enemy family, the Florentine school of Disegno. Well, you know, times are changing I guess, and who’s to stop them. But really, who would have thought…Ah! A typical Romeo and Juliet story. The Ucello shared my thoughts exactly. Also, I never imagined the art world to go through the same gang fights and quarrels that we go through in the human world. I thought at least they might be more civilised. The Ucello told me I could not be more wrong. Just yesterday, he and his neighbour, Ucello painting, “The Battle of San Romano” had been verbally abused and threatened by, again those lowlife Botticellis (They seem to be the main bullying group here). They were told to stop claiming that they were originally intended for the Medicis, or else…I decided that the National Gallery was in fact not the peaceful place I thought it once was, just like the world outside it, violence and anger had set up camp. I guess this happens with anything human or made by humans. The Ucello enthusiastically concurred. After saying goodbye I decided to go and meet up with another friend. This one has arms and legs and blood and a brain, Marya. I told her about the gossip I had found out from the Ucello, and to my dismay she did not at all seem shocked. She said that in this day and age nothing surprised her anymore.

Twighlight

'Twilight and evening bell
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;'

--Tennyson*

* where do you think you're going?

'suicide hotline!...please hold...'

A year has passed. I am still miserable, unable to rid my self of that dark empty pit in my stomach that cannot be filled with food, and I do love food (mmm. Risotto Milanese). What’s more I have grown enormously bored, with everything. I have decided that it is time I do it. I will be ending my stay here on earth. I will kick the bucket. I will cut the rope; stick my head in the oven (not literally).
You get my drift I’m sure.
I am 92% convinced that this is the right thing to do. It is. Right?
Well of course it is you dodling imbecile.
Tomorrow night. That’s the best option.
Where, though? When? How?
Ok. Don’t panic tackle it one at a time.
I would so like it to be done nicely and romantically without causing the least inconvenience to anyone, since that would be most selfish. Like those blithering idiots who jump in front of trains in the metro. They have to delay everyone’s day. I find that most unthoughtful of them. No, I wish to do it in the privacy of my own home. Oh! But what about my cousin? He never knocks, just rudely intrudes. Well I will just have to wait till he leaves for work. He won’t be back till six. Perfect. Puurfect!!
Oh, this is most exciting.
Now, how will I do it?
Well preferably in the least painful way…Drowning in the bath? NO! First of all, too much effort, second of all, I will look awful with wet hair.
Inhaling gas? No, too much effort, plus wasting all that gas on myself would be most unkind to my cousin who might want to cook something for himself in the evening. Jumping? Absolutely not, first of all, I am deathly afraid of heights (Haha! Deathly) (Honestly sometimes I find myself too funny for my own good… touché!).
Where was I? Yes…Second of all jumping will create a huge mess, again I know I’m beautiful, but even Audrey Hepburn would look terrible with her insides splattered everywhere. Oh and of course, thirdly, what if I land on someone. Now that is just unfair. That is why I shouldn’t jump.
I think that leaves me with the only other option…PILLS. Mmmmm. Perfect. Puurfect!! Its almost as perfect as my delicious risotto Milanese.
Ok. So…what pills?
Ok, ok, lets see, what to I have in the medicine cabinet? Paracetamol, Ibeuprophin, antihistamines, calpol for kids, I think I’ll go with the bottle of paracetamol, its full, the pills are pink, very cute! Perfect. Ok, well until tomorrow you lovely little bottled bundle of freedom.

It is today. The day. I’m not as scared as I thought I would be… Anyways, there is nothing to fear in a few hours it will be all over.
I just realised that I haven’t defecated in three days. That is my problem. I have chronic constipation. I’m usually ok with it but I don’t want to die full of shit. Literally (Haha! Touché again!). Ok well I’ll try going now.

I tried to go. No luck. I’ll try again later. Ok now, go and say good morning to Sammy and pretend it is a beautiful day for life.

“Hello Sammy!! My beautify cousin! It is such a great day for life… In fact I think today is the first day of the rest of my life! I feel so alive, so full of life and energy!”
Well-played Rawan, Bravo!! You have fooled him!! Thank you, thank you, I will accept the Academy Award for best actress.
After my brief performance my cousin looks up from his breakfast and newspaper and gives me an incredulous stare, “What are you on?”
My smile slowly fades; maybe I only deserved a Golden Globe.
No matter, don’t let him see through you…
“What am I on? How ridiculous you are! Am I not aloud to be happy for once?!” I raised my voice towards the end of it…Oops.
Then he does something unexpected, he giggles and says, “That is the little girl I know and love so much!” He gives me a grimace, the ones you give to babies.
I sarcastically return it and stomp off to my room.
Ha! You got him, you fiend! Bravo, you do deserve the Academy Award, to hell with the Golden Globe.
My cousin screams, “I’m going to work now, Ill see you in the evening! And I’m bringing Maya over for dinner so can you please make something good, I’m looking to impress. What about your incredible Risotto Milanese, you know how much I love it!”
I hate that girlfriend of his. The moron, always smiling at everything, she’s always so happy. What on earth is there to be happy about, she truly is a nitwit. I don’t think she is intelligent enough for my risotto.
“BYE!!” he screams, “BYE!” I scream back.
I guess I will have to go buy the ingredients for dinner now. Bother. Bother, bother, bother.
NO!! Hey wait, no!! I have plans today; the thought of that risotto was the cause of the digression from my original plan.

Enough! Enough time wasting.
Risotto or no Risotto, constipation or no constipation. I am going to go through with my ingenious plan.

After acquiring the pills and a glass of water, going into my room and closing the door, I take a quick look in the mirror. Perfect. I sit down on the floor by my bed, pills beside me and take a good look around.
Nothing… I will miss nothing. You will miss nothing I tell myself.
Now, time for the performance, I turn on my theme music, Pink Floyd, Echoes. Perfect. Puurfect.
I look down at the bottle of pills. I open it and take out one pink pill. I pop it in my mouth and chase it with a sip of water. There, that wasn’t so bad.
Before taking the next one, a famous last line recited by the Roman Emperor Nero enters my brain, “Oh what and artist dies in me”. God Bless him!
So I then take the second one and hesitate before swallowing the third.
Fear of death is starting to take hold, questions rush through my mind, such as “is there an after world? Will I be judged? Who will take my clothes and jewellery when I’m gone”.
Get a hold of yourself girl, that stuff doesn’t matter, you will not be conscious, you will be dead.
Ooh! But it does matter… peu importe. If I take them pill-by-pill I will be sitting here till tomorrow morning.
I grab the bottle and bring it to my lips.

A second before the contents of that little bottle empties itself in my mouth; my bedroom door is pushed open (I wish there were locks in this house).
Not having moved from the position I was in, bottle near my mouth, I freeze and look up.

“What the fuck are you doing? What’s this music?” Sammy asks with a look of disgust and disbelief on his face.
I Panic.
“What does it look like I’m doing?
I’m checking to see whether this paracetamol is expired or not. I was merely smelling it. As for the music, I don’t know what you are talking about. I don’t here any music. Furthermore shouldn’t you be at work by now?”
At this point I bring the bottle up to my nose and sniff it, “Oof! That smells terrible, yes they definitely are passed their due date!”
“You were trying to kill yourself again? What’s the matter with you are you crazy? If I hadn’t come back for my keys you would be dead?? What’s wrong with you?”
Too many questions, he reminds me of the FBI.
“Kill myself? What a notion! What an incredible imagination you have! Why on earth would I try something of the sort? How dare you accuse me of doing such a thing!?”
“You are coming with me now.”
“No I am not. And where might I ask?”
“For a drive. Lets go, get up.”
“Thank you, however I have no desire to leave the house at this moment. I am not moving from my position.” I shoot back, close my eyes and stick up my nose feigning pride. At this point my darling cousin walks towards me and lifts me up.
“You don’t have a choice.” He states, very flatly if I may add.

…Ok so all that was bullshit,
You know what, I never actually tried to kill myself…and I don’t have a cousin called Sammy, I have a cousin called Basil, though, and he has a cousin called Sammy…

Bad hair day?

My heart hurts. I feel like I’ve been abandoned here in London. Noor left to America today to start the beginning of her life. I hope that she does so well. I will miss her so much.

Many kids get a chance to have fun in University. Not me. I wanted to go to AUB, that is all I needed. I didn’t care if it wasn’t Harvard or as good as UCL or anything of the sort but I don’t care… At least I would have been HAPPY. Although I know my parents always meant the best for me… I will never forgive them for not letting me go. MY life is there in Beirut not here in London. I guess they thought they knew what they were doing. And when my dad said “At this point in time your happiness does not concern me” I guess he thought he was saying something relevant, something that should have marked me and motivated me to do the best I could. Well it did mark me, but no in the way he thought it would. It marked me in the fact that for the first time in my life, I understood that my father had no clue what I was going through and in other words wanted to pretend he did. I guess he thought he was being funny or something. Well I didn’t laugh. I am still not laughing.

When I saw my cousin’s graduation in Jordan I looked straight ahead at the stage filled in an ordered fashion with around fifty lovely young, innocent and fresh faces. No matter how experienced they thought they were, no matter how much they thought they saw; they hadn’t seen anything. They were still mama’s boys and daddy’s girls. They were standing together and waiting for their lives to finally start. After a long year of anticipation, their graduation had finally come. I sat there behind my ridiculously big Vintage Linda Farrow glasses and cried uncontrollably. My family thought I was crying because my little cousin was graduating and I was so proud of him. That was one of the reasons, but not the main one. I was mainly crying because I wished I could start over. It was as if these young kids had just been handed a fresh, clean, new notebook with pristine crisp pages that were now opened for the first time, along with a new pen from which the ink within it had never flowed. It was as if they were being told, “Go ahead guys, it’s only just beginning. Start writing!”
And people tell me, “Oh! Don’t be silly your so young, only twenty! You can start over too!” I think that is a completely ridiculous statement. How can I start over, my notebook has already been used, my pen’s ink has already been running. I’d have to rip out my old pages in order to start over. And you cannot rip out the pages because this notebook is not a normal notebook. Memories that are written in it are not easily erased.

wild blueberries

Now, I’m here,

At the beginning of my life I was a blank page.

At the age of two I got my head stuck in a wooden gate.

At the age of four, I decided my calling in life was to become a deer.

At the age of eight, my teacher hit me on the head with a wooden ruler.

At the age of twelve, I was bullied for wearing a bright green Kipling backpack.

At the age of sixteen, in my first pair of Gucci heals I walked straight into a lamppost.

At the age of seventeen, I created a masterpiece and got kicked out of art class.

At the age of eighteen, I watched my car slowly drive itself into a wall.

At the age of nineteen, I decided my calling in life was pure math.

At the age of twenty, I just realised, I’m wrong.

Now, I’m bored.

Nathalie

Coloured Sprinkles

On my last night in Beirut last summer I cried. I cried for the war. But mostly I cried for the prostitutes during the war. No one gave a shit about them. As I stared out from my balcony looking out on that beautiful destroyed whore house I cried, not a river, but a sea! I couldn’t bear to think of the night women screaming, with pain or pleasure; I don’t think it makes a difference. They were screaming in my head and I was crying for them with my eyes. I wanted to say IM SORRY!! I’m sorry for you, I’m sorry for this country, I’m sorry that it had to end up this way, I’m sorry I can’t be a part of this place because it doesn’t want me, and I’m sorry that I have to leave you. I’m so sorry!
I should add that I was very stoned when this was happening but I can assure you that my emotions and sentiments were real. Really. I promise. I swear. Ok I don’t swear but I promise.

Violet

psychics...berk!

Today, I went searching. I searched for an answer. First I searched around me, and when I couldn’t find it there, I went on the Internet. I came across “Psychic Emily”, an online fortune reader. The site said they were eager to help answer mind-boggling problems. Finally!, I thought, this is where I will find my answer! I filled out all the needed information, which consisted of my birthday, the time I was born at, gender, the original question I was in need of answering and finally credit card details. The latter shocked me a great deal. Emily does NOT genuinely care about you or your problems she cares about her bank account. Of all the nerve she had, Psychic Emily was attempting to charge me twelve dollars and forty-two cents in return for an answer to my question!

I told her I would keep the twelve dollars and forty-two cents and she could keep my answer!


So I still didn’t find what I’m searching for. Bitch.

12 am

important advice

When meeting people, one should always be a sieve and not a funnel. I say this meaning that we should not funnel every person we meet into out lives, we should sieve them and keep the good ones and leave behind the bad ones. I think that works the best. So I am a sieve and not a funnel.

La Nourice??

Do something useful with yourself... go buy a bag or something..

Frank Zappa: If we can't be free at least we can be cheap.
Me: Get a job you hippie.


Pink Floyd: All in all you’re just another brick in the wall
Me: Deal with it.


Janis Joplin: Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz.
GOD: Buy it yourself.

Zouzi

shit.

After coming back from an outing with Rahul. I sat in the dining room attempting to do my homework for the next day. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. His charming wit, his tall and elegant physic and style. Oh! Peerfect. I love being around him, I loved listening to him speak, I loved his hand movements and I never wanted to leave when I was with him. I started to get butterflies, I could not concentrate on homework! What was homework when I had an amazing guy like Rahul in my mind! Homework shmomwork! The butterflies were getting stronger, I knew it! I love him! I am in love with Rahul, and it is a physical feeling. How beautiful!! Soon, what started as the butterflies in my stomach began feeling like explosions. Wait a second. A few minutes later, after emerging from the bathroom, I am very disappointed in myself. False alarm. It wasn’t love, it was diharea.

Your ambition in life...

Blueberries.

Have you ever been so upset you just want to cry? I have. Have you ever been so blue you felt like a big blueberry? I have. They always tell me, when life hands you lemons, make lemonade. What are you supposed to do if life hands you shit? Make fertilizer? At least you can drink lemonade. Fertilizer will kill you. It’s a lose-lose situation.

Know what? Today, on the twenty fifth of January 2007, a curfew was put upon Beirut. I thought it was bad, but it never got this bad. Ayla is upset and that means a lot because it takes a lot for her to be blue. This is sick though, if you think about it. The fact that this country has already undergone a civil war and no one seems to have learnt a lesson. We always say, the next generation will fix it, don’t worry. But we are the next generation now and nothing is fixed because the last generation, this generation and the next will never learn. How can they if they are taught the same morals of the generation before them? The Middle East in general is fucked up its ass, and nothing will help it because we, Arabs, are fucked up as well. We have this laid back image that everything will be fine, that someone else will take care of it, that someone else will take the blame. We knowingly touch problems with blind eyes and when we are confronted by them, our excuse is that we “never saw them”, and therefore we are not responsible. That’s right, lets just keep on using that line, it got us pretty far already. Far up an ass hole. We blame the west and we even blame each other. We never blame ourselves.

Mimi

If its one thing I hate its getting out of bed in the mornings. The outside of my room is the bane of my existence. I abhor it, because, in fact, it is a whore. Everything that is not your bedroom gives you superficial pleasure for a short amount of time and in the end, you’ve been robbed. I’ll tell you why….
Have you ever lied awake in bed on a Saturday morning, thinking, I know I’ve slept for twelve hours, but I just don’t want to move? I have. It’s annoying because that’s when all my intelligent thoughts come to me. When I’m alone in bed, trying to avoid getting out and starting my day. All the intellectual and philosophical ideas and arguments come rushing to me and I say to myself if only people could see how broad my mind is. By the time I do get out of bed, I have wasted all my energy; everything is gone. I blame the day for taking away my intellectuality, or at least leaving me with only two percent of what I had in the morning before getting out of bed.
If the real world was a paper towel I would, first spit on it, rip it up and then burn it. It’s no true friend of mine. Everything does not happen for a reason let alone for the best.

Zouzi II

....

But I do know a few things…
I know the sky is blue when there are no clouds in it.
I also know that a paper clip has the shape of a compressed circle.
I also know that I won’t be satisfied until I try it myself, no matter how many signs come my way, no matter how many people say no. I won’t be satisfied until I try it myself.

shoo baby?

tu veux jouer?

My father built my sister and I a life size dollhouse. Colour ruled it. And my mother let my sister and I draw all over the kitchen wall in order for us to exercise and practice our artistic talents. We drew all over it. When guests visited and asked my mother, “Are you crazy? How could you let your children draw on the wall like this?” She would simply reply, “Well at least now I know they are talented!”
She was an artist, my mama. I know this because once after she had a big fight with my father she told us she needed time to think so she locked herself in room for four hours while my father and I waited downstairs anticipating the speech that she was coming up with while thinking. When she was done thinking, she came out of the room, looked at my father and said nothing, so he said:
“Well?”
So she replied:
“I’m an art and you’re a fart.” And that is how I knew she was an artist. My dad stared at her for a while with a look of astonishment on his face. I think, like me, he must have been really impressed.
She stopped painting after my third sister was born. But she was never the less an artist and she still is. She just practices her art in a different way. For example now instead of painting colours on paper she uses colourful language on people.
If we consider humanity like a cake, my mother is an interesting slice. She looks very tasty and she tastes very tasty. But you can only have small teaspoons at a time because if you take a big bite, you’ll get a really bad stomach-ache. I know this because when I spend too much time with her I get a really bad headache.

Happy Easter

Ouch,..

Tu veux un bonbon?...tiens.

I

The trees covered us. From that day on I wanted to live in the desert. That’s where I was born. Not in the desert. I was born on the east coast of the United States of America. I find the exact location irrelevant. For nine whole years I lived there and the only thing I find relevant concerning my stay in the US of A was my house. That was a while ago. Right now, however, I am sitting in the car, on Gemeize Street in Beirut, on a busy Friday night waiting in traffic. To be completely accurate I am sitting behind the wheel of my aunts Audi A6, which she let me drive around while she was out of the country on the condition that: if I fuck it up, she fucks me up. I said I understood.
It is nine PM and although it is evening and we are right smack in the middle of December I was sweltering in heat. That could have been the result of a) the fact that it was slightly warm outside and I was stuck in the car with the windows shut b) Because I was still a bit tipsy from the wine I had been drinking while playing cards an hour ago or c) a combination of both. I decide its c. The bar I am meeting my friends at is not that far along the way but with the amount of traffic I estimate about ten more minutes until my arrival. I decide to light a cigarette. After sticking the little white stick in the corner of my mouth I press my index finger down on the car lighter. It doesn’t hold. I decide that perhaps I should just keep my finger pressed on it until it heats up. So that is what I do. After around thirty seconds, I take the lighter out of its socket and examine it. Its interior is not orange, so I stick my finger in it to see if it actually heated up or not. FUCK! Ouch! Bad move baby. Bad move. I burnt my index finger. I try to light my cigarette but it seems it’s just not hot enough. My now very red index finger would beg to differ. I stick the lighter back into its socket. The Traffic still hasn’t moved a centimetre. With the cigarette still hanging on for dear life to my now dry lips, I decide to give the lighter another attempt. So again I stick my finger onto the lighter and wait. Now I wait for around forty-five seconds. After taking it out and examining it, I notice that it still had not turned to orange. No matter, I try lighting my cigarette, it doesn’t light. Is the cigarette at least even hot? To answer my question, without thinking, which is rather typical of me, I bring the cigarette to my face and stick the “supposedly” unlit end on my cheek. FUCK! Bad move nitwit. I burnt my cheek. Why did I do that? I ask myself while rubbing my cheek? Why would I ever want to test something’s heat by using my face? After this idiotic act, I get so frustrated, that I open my window and ask a random kid in the street to light my cigarette. This time it worked.
As the traffic moved on and I finally got out of the car and into the bar, I found myself on a slightly cramped table sitting in good company, the usual, Marya, Ayla, and a couple of others. There are two new faces, however. One belonged to a girl and was big and round with short wavy hair surrounding it. The other belonged to a good looking boy, Ayla’s potential new boyfriend. I say potential because, their initiation as a couple depended on my assessment of him, which was meant to take place tonight. He’s cute but the new girl wasn’t. Not a pretty girl poor thing, and she gave me the impression of a lesbian intellectual. That, by the way is neither an insult nor a compliment, it is a fact. It turned out to be a friend of Marya’s who went to Cambridge University. Since I see myself as an amicable and social human being, I of course take it upon myself to feign interest in her. After being introduced I ask her, “Well then, how do you like Camberidge?”
“You know, I really like it, except, the only thing is, its all white…”
Not exactly understanding what she meant by it being all white, I didn’t know what to say. I concluded that she meant that the city itself was white, like the buildings and houses, or perhaps it had snowed, and so on.
“Well that’s beautiful! Why is that a bad thing?” I asked.
Before I finished my question I realised everyone had become wide eyed and Ayla was blushing. What did I say wrong? I didn’t get it. Then again this wasn’t the first time something like this happened…
After a few seconds of silence, Marya bursts out laughing and manages to spit out,
“She meant the PEOPLE are white you idiot not the city!”
And everyone starts laughing. Not me.