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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.

« Home | Madrid » | I am Joe's bending container » | Water Breathing Potion » | Breathless » | Excerpt from My Page » | Stagnant extension of the preserved waiting room » | The space underneath my skin » | Folie de Grandeur » | ι нєαя тнєм » | After Hours »

I am Joe’s long awaited plague

Seems like forever since the last time I was angry at anything. I’ve always blamed myself for my fuck ups, but never ever was I hesitant to search within my own reasoning for a cure for whatever mess I find myself buried underneath. My trails never bore convictions like ‘They did this’ and ‘They did that’ no matter how easier those would have made me felt.

But I’ve had it…

Egypt prevails as always. No matter how hard you try to cope, survive, and adapt, the sweet tunes of something different always returns to haunt your ears, reminding you of what could have been.

To cruise through the streets of Cairo with friends, family, and loved ones is bearable; almost fun to point at things and situations and laugh… and feel sorry for things and people and try to make a change whenever possible. To endure Egypt alone though is hard. Everything’s the same. Every day looks familiar, smells familiar, tastes familiar… and that aftertaste you’re left with late at night right before you shut your eyes and drift off to a better Egypt is excruciatingly painful. Everything feels like a set up; like they’re all out there to get you. Everybody is a fake somebody else. I try to cover their faces with my hands to look beyond, but all I feel is their masks merging into my face, fucking it dry, camping like goose pumps on my skin. Everything is a result of an unpublished political statement. The truth is each of us bears their own politician setting an infamous example of themselves, setting rules, crowning themselves kings and queens. We are born to take advantage of this land, aren’t we?

I demand my locusts. I await thy plague. Give me my 1967 back.

Let it all burn.

Whine, whine, then whine a bit more. It won’t make any difference, but at least you’d have said something to your surrounding walls.

The new trafficless traffic law, the orderless custom duty charges; 10% my ass, the unavoidable taxes, the stoned poor and the ridiculous rich, the wasta and the cheap soccer team, the dark fumes filling up my lungs, the morally grey population… I can’t take it.

And the downer it gets… the number the air makes you feel.

Ladies and gents… allow me to blah endlessly.

Oh fuck it. I am done.

I… am… out. My dream of serving my country and the purpose that I’ve grown inside for the good of a better home… I have lost my ability to give a fuck.

It’s been a wrecking streak of surprises, these past few years and… well... I must have outgrown my playlist of numb patience that has only led to my weakness and giving in to circumstantial hatred towards everything that reminds me of what it’s like to just fucking be.

Just… such an unusual word.

I am my very own corroded mess and nothing will ever change that.

10:21 And the LORD said unto Moses, Stretch out thine hand toward heaven, that there may be darkness over the land of Egypt, even darkness which may be felt.

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