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    Яαgιи Яαvєи
    Cairo, Egypt
    God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I can not change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
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Tapping at my chamber door



In 2008, I'll Get Me A Shotgun


I will also:
1.
Yield
2. Get closer to
God
3.
Job hunt some more.
4. Get closer to my
family.
5. Learn a new language.
6.
Finish at least one screenplay.
7.
Lose the extra weight.
8. Get a
driver's license. I will not buy a car.
9. I will
rule my world.
10. I will have my
revenge.

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Madrid

I wake up. I take a deep breath. I take a shower. I make myself a sandwich. I like sandwiches. They give the body what it needs the easy way. I hate waiting for something to cook. I hate waiting period. Waiting fucks you up. Statistically speaking we spend about a quarter of our lives waiting for shit to happen, and once it happens we go to sleep at night just to recharge our bodies so we can wake up and wait again. Fuck it. If only vitamin pills tasted like cheese or cold turkey. If only payday was here. If only weekends were a day longer. If only the doctor’s waiting room had prescription drugs you could take prior to the diagnosis.

If only…

The truth is… even when we’re dead we’re going to wait until the Day of Judgment.
Sometimes I wonder what the point is…

My answering machine reads 88 messages. It was 87 last night before I went to bed. Maybe that new one is hers. I don’t want to know. I never check my messages; that way there’s always the possibility that she’s called. The ratio is 1:88 now. I’ve always hated mathematics, but I do know that my odds are rapidly shrinking.

I put on my “inconspicuous” clothes; grab my keys and my ID card off the counter and leave. That ID card is probably the only thing that remembers my name aside from my parents, and her… possibly. It reads a name and a profession; same ol‘ same ol‘. It takes me places where others can’t go. It couldn’t get me to her side of the bed though. It couldn’t get me my fucking desk job back home. Just another yellow sticky note that tells me to wait, that it’ll happen. I should have been a cartoonist. It’s stable like a fixed phone line. You get paid for being funny. I’m only funny when I’m with her though. Otherwise I think of funny things to tell her when she comes back to me.
What more is to life than to plan ahead?

So I left the building and off to work. “The building”… is another one of those thirty year old three-story renaissance-looking tragedies that they have all over Europe. “Work” is flexible. I get paid for staying here to report back everything and anything. Like people at home actually care. I get paid for being a corporate globalization tool. I’m all for globalization; bringing economies together, countries closer, makes you know for sure that the grass is always greener. Hey, it brought us war and oil for our cars; that way we can drive-in and order a Big Fuckin’ Mac. Information globalization, my field, however, is frankly overrated. “The truth will set you free” is our slogan. The truth is nobody gives a shit. Nobody wants to know. It raises too many questions. Is the world ok, are we heading downhill, do we have energy problems, is the world fucking round?

Will she ever call me?

We don’t wanna know.
We… hate questions, unless there’s money involved. ‘What’s in it for me?’ is the only question that we fancy. A Game Show needs a comedian host before it becomes watchable. We don’t watch it for the questions. Subconsciously we bet on contestants. We bet on their accent, on their looks, on their dreams and high hopes for world domination. We bet on their big boobs and their charisma. We bet on their lives. If they had a tail we would probably name them all Butterfly and Godspeed. We convince ourselves that we feel for them just in order to spend the next thirty years making sense out of it all, creating that point. Nobody goes to bed remembering the world’s tallest tower or the world’s deepest vagina. Nobody gives a fuck. Half of the audience is probably drunk anyway. If we’re not drunk, we settle for the round table of the cunningly lucky - the poker table of salvation. We make-believe that poker requires a talent, a poker face; that it requires skill. In the end, you either have it or you don’t. The guy who has it walks away with the cash, cash to be lost to a guy of a higher class of luck; a better game, they call it. The guy who doesn’t have it walks into a bank and either robs it or applies for a loan. That’s why banks were invented.

Me? I report the goddamn robbery. I report the loser’s sentence. I report the suicide. I sit back and observe. No questions asked. We hate questions. I hate words. I’m the quiet type. I take pictures and write words that give meaning to people back home. And if a picture’s worth a thousand words, so am I. I am nothing but a thousand words that say how much I want her.

I slam the door behind me and wait for a sign; a sign not to leave, to wait for something incredible to happen. But then again… what magical thing could possibly happen to a guy standing at his doorstep? The only sign that I see is a No Smoking sign that I have so managed to ignore ever since I’ve moved here. I have always believed in signs. I’ve believed them so badly that I almost search for them, hunt them, chase them down like a rabid dog. I need reason.
It’s 7 o’clock at night now according to my inverted watch. I entertain myself with turning It upright as I leave the building and get into a cab.

The radio’s playing. I know this song. She called it our trying song. I must have played it over a thousand times that night; shuffling that one song over a one-track play list, believing that maybe, with the right amount of luck, that the tunes will change and we’d be together again.
The same luck we summon for our everlasting Butterfly.

But oh well… the song’s over and the radio’s playing a live song sung by an artist known as Big Penis on his children fund raising gala.

I guess that life goes on after all…
I tip the cab driver to go faster and have my view changed to laundry machine mode, where the world’s too fast for you to catch up and all you do is wish for your sins to be cleaned out.

I step out… and they’re still there; the whole bunch of them.


Excerpt from Madrid
A cheesy rant by Яαgιи Яαvєи


Dude, you just said fuck 6 times.

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