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

Staying home alone is exactly like smoking pot. It takes you to the extreme of things.

If you want to party, you’ll party. If you wanna sit back and reminisce, you’ll remember the wickedest, scariest shit. And the never ending war between good and bad remains. If you ask anyone who’s ever known me closely, they’ll tell you the same thing; be it friend, family, or lover, no one could ever explain what’s going on in there. I am not a loner by choice, but I tend to know what clicks my buttons from time to time. Ever since I was a little boy, I’ve often changed my set of friends and now that I’m running out of my twenties, I have only managed to keep one… maybe two of my childhood friends.

The truth is… I don’t know why they’re still here. :P

I have lost the privilege of making decision ages ago. All I do is listen to the two creatures sitting on my shoulders yapping, spilling their beans and fighting over the rights to my will.

It has always, always, been about right and wrong where I come from. I keep defining things, setting rules and trying so hard to break them. It’s almost hard to keep up with my quarreling ideologies, changing from time to time. Earlier today, I realized that fact. I always say that we’re all psychos; that we all need treatment, but that we deny our incoherence. I always say to myself that I’m the last surviving “normal” guy out there. Damn the ego. Funny… DEFINE NORMAL, you whiny little bastard.

You are far, far from being normal. What you got is exactly what you deserve; a big… fat… nothing sitting on top of your nose for you to envision every time you look in the mirror. I don’t even notice my new hairdo.

Just another post to satisfy your need to say something clever.

An unending series of rhetorical questions for you to observe and remember for days like this.

x ² + y² = r²

Business or accounting? This twin or the other? And the list gets longer and longer and it keeps fucking with my head, stretching it with zillions of decisions to make. So what is the point from all of this? Now fucking what?

Should I have taken that leap of faith?

My nose is bleeding again. The last time that happened was in late 1997 when I first moved back here. Take about scary pollution. B+

Lately, I’ve busied myself with Yoga Joe bender. I bought it back in May off the internet. I also bought a Yoga Jane, but she’s still locked in her box. Every morning I wake up and spend two minutes shaping him into what I want to be like. I make his mood. Sometimes I wonder how he sees me. Sometimes I wonder whether, to him, I’m a merciless owner whose sole advantage over him is my breathing lungs and flowing blood, the ability to pursue the will of the mind and make decisions … or perhaps it’s the other way around after all.

Could I be bending him just for the fun of it… to see if he can bend further before he completely breaks?

I logged into my old page today by mistake. Somehow… it doesn’t feel familiar to me anymore; but then again… neither does this stupid blue page. They say that when you live somewhere long enough, you leave your lifestyle behind. It’s like leaving a trail… like an animal; a non verbal graffiti that tells the world I WOZ HERE. Today I gave myself a private tour around my apartment. It felt like a stranger has been living there for the past week. Nothing’s in place. I DON’T BOTHER to leave my subconscious marks behind.

I used to think that this page is where I can unwind… is where I can release all the tension, all the secrets; even though I never really have. All I ever did was type random shit about certain things that I’ve always managed to keep ambiguous. Why are you reading this? Is there a fucking point in reading me? I always assumed that what goes on on the mile stays on the mile; but then again somehow… the spirit of my blog has escaped. Maybe that is the reason why I don’t feel satisfied by writing anymore. Maybe the randomness that this identity of mine ever was no longer is locked inside a computer for people to read and see and say allahomma e7fazna.

Sometimes I wonder who among my frequent readers still follow my pointless writing. I mean it’s not like emails where things can get personal.

I just read through what I’ve just written. I’ve never done that before… and the truth is… I’m on my second doc page now and it’s all been one long blah.

Grrr… should I post… should I not post.

Huh… decisions… decisions. :)

The truth is… I just wanna go gracefully.

I am back to posting just so I could feel that I am back to normal, back to my daily fucking routine. I write because I wanna feel that I do exist, to spite the two demons on my back, riding me like a tamed fuck buddy.

Be it crap or words of wisdom that anyone can relate to; tonight I write to feel accomplishment…

and that only.

Haven’t been here for a while. I hate this place…

I still don’t feel like expressing… so I’ll skip a page or two, pretend that I did it all, said it all, and roll over to the next chapter. The truth is… even though I can’t express, I am only here to satisfy my urges to write. I know I lost it; I’ve already said that before. I dig in with my bare hands and I can’t find anything. It’s like a deep bucket of black paint; and the more I dig my hand in, the blacker it gets and all I am left with is a black arm that I fail to see in this dark abysmal shroud that I’ve rolled myself with to cover me from the gleaming eyes. It almost feels like walking under water; pure silence with bubbles pressing against my eardrums, creating a beat of chill-out silence to procreate my gratification.

I am living in my very own fish tank; personal, deep, secluded, private, with air bubbles to keep me alive.

I don’t want to write. I have repeated myself way too much during the past few months. But I figured that maybe if I keep repeating myself I would stop making sense and then at the end it’ll all sound the same, all gibberish and soothing to the listening ear. It’s like watching a good movie over and over. At first you don’t get it but you find yourself enjoying the hot chicks; the second time things make sense and you begin to appreciate the dialogue, the cinematography, the amazing acting of a nobody’s debut performance; by the fourth sitting you know the picture word for word. By the fifth time, you fast forward through the film and find yourself stopping only to watch the scenes where there’s a hot chick involved.
During the sixth sitting, when you’ve already jerked your juices off, you hate it, every word, every scene. Nothing makes sense anymore and you wonder why there was a time when you actually liked it. You’ve already found flaws. By that time, you know for sure that if it were up to you, you would have certainly written a better picture, that you deserve better.

It’s all about time and repetition, kills the appreciation, genetically re-engineers the valuing system that we tend to hold as our religion, our true identity, our self-definition. Same thing goes for work, for family, for love, for books, for school, for war and for death. Once you’ve been there more than once, you’re better off jerking off to the same old 50’s grind house movie Betty who once gave you an erection.

Perhaps life is overrated after all.

Like that flower bouquet that brides through at weddings like we’re some sort of monkey clan performing a ritual to please the gods of marriage. The lucky one who gets the bouquet drowns herself in her five minutes of fame as all eyes focus on her soon to be engaged fingers that are holding that round shaped petal assortment that’ll make it happen for her, finally. The truth of the matter is that… she goes home, throws her 14^th wedding bouquet in the trash, and marks the new one as number 15.

Exhibit A.

Blow the birthday candles all you want…

I went to a wedding last night. I usually hate weddings for I happen to be an anti-social animal; sit back, observe, make little jokes in my head about the lovely couple, about their choice of music, about their guests, about all the single guests scoping the room for love, and O the DJ… he usually gets the biggest jokes portion. If someone took a picture of my brain at a wedding, all they’d see is me posing as a refugee in my very self-created genocide concentration camp. Let them all be victims of my merciless thoughts. If only I could steal the guest book on my way out just to know their names.

But then again, names don’t really matter, do they? They’re just letters to which you answer when you hear them being pronounced. If it were up to me, I’d say go numbers.
Let me have infinity please…

But then again that’s not a number, is it? It’s merely a hope that something better would come your way. A lucky number that makes it all come true for you to tattoo on your shoulder or shape into a lucky charm to wear as a pendant that protects you from the evil orcs out there, judging you in return.

Eventually… I hate that word.

Part of the truth remains… the bouquet, the aquarium, good ol’ Betty, and time… they’re all mathematical equation factors that you can just replace with the letter X.

Like names, X should be a number as well… and if it is, problem solved and everybody’ll live happily ever after.

Oh well,

For now I’ll just stash all my Xs in my pockets, throw a big ass smile on my face, and inject myself with pure caffeine to get my juices pumping.

It has been a long, winding ride.