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I haven’t posted anything here for a long time. What happened since? I started high school, my fears became reality, my doubts were answered negatively. I found out that when that moany, bitchy, ungrateful persona that one builds up to protect oneself (The commonly known “Emo” persona); one begins to discover a person with hopes, dreams, the capacity to love, the ability to taste the pluck of life with all its beauty and jazz. You discover a beautiful complex person unadulterated by media’s thoughts, by MTV’s utterly fucked and empty perception of reality and “drama”. Real “emos” or introverts have been banged into a shell of alienation and self doubt and self hate caused by the shit that they endure. Some people just act so for the hell of it; but one in three has had a life full of shit, lies and endless family drama.
I’m still an introvert of sorts, I’m still slightly pissed off at the world and at god. . . . but at the same time, my anger towards these things has become ‘real’. I really don’t really know how to explain this, but ever since I just shut my trap and listened to my thoughts; everything seems so much more…….. prettier. Every meal I taste is more sharp, every sound I hear is repeated in the confines of my mind until I understand it, every incident that occurs is analyzed in my head thoroughly, and the most important change I recognized: pain has become an experience that simply proves that I am alive. Not to say that I cut myself or purposely hurt myslef; but when I encounter pain; it is now embraced as signed proof by God that I’m alive. In short, I have become more alive. I’m asking everyone who feels alone in the world to simply shut up and stop rebelling and to listen to his or her self.
You know when people say “She cried herself to sleep that night.”, I just thought it was a metaphor for she was really sad or something like that. But then the last two days, I actually cried like a little fucking girl into my pillow, and I didn’t stop crying until I fell asleep. When I woke up, I remembered crying. Andrew, it’s not a fucking metaphor. And here’s a note to mothers, fathers, idiots, victims, and people: When you know that you’ve made someone sad purposely, and you don’t apologize, after the tears come and go, anger settles. This anger is raw and pure and focused. This anger is real fucking bad.
For the last one year, I’ve been beaten and pounded by my brother on various occasions for various reasons. I often dreamt of hiring a seven feet tall black man to beat the fuck out of my brother. I sometimes dream of doing it myself, baseball bat in hand. But in the morning, it’s me beaten up. There are never scratches, there is never blood. It’s just like UFC without the blood. Without the taps. The reason there’s never blood, is because mom and dad are scared shitless of blood. But day before yesterday… day before yesterday was different. I fought so hard, I fought so long; at the end I just sat for five minutes breathless, worn out. My brother on the other hand was near fainting. He couldn’t drink a fucking sip of water. (For the record, I’m 5′7, he’s 5′11 and a half. I’m 132 pounds, he’s 182 pounds.) It was fucking glorious. He drank half a sip, spat the other half out. Mom was in fucking tears. Dad on the phone was screaming his fucking balls and brains out. I was scared that my brother would’ve gotten real bad and that he wouldn’t wake up the next morning. The Shawshank Redemption played out in my head three times before I woke up again. I was scared, but I felt like I’d gained something. Like a pyrrhic victory. I cried myself to sleep.
The next morning, mom was still in tears. I hated myself for that, I hated myself for causing such pain to my parents; but I was fucking invincible goddammit.
Morning after, another fight almost started. I was holding on to the collar of his t shirt, then I asked myself, is it fucking worth it? Is it fucking worth it? I walked way. I told mom what happened. I shouldn’t have. Mom was in tears, dad was screaming on the phone. Somebody put a gun to my head and paint the walls with my brains. Please?
The road to hell is paved with good intent. Fuck. Why do I always destroy what’s beautiful? Is God a part of this? Is Satan a part of this? I know for a fact that I’ve created friction between mom and dad. I know for a fact that nobody will talk to me for the next three weeks. I’m the bad guy right? I’m the fucking bastard bad guy. I keep telling myself, just two years more Andrew, you’ll be able to leave then, but somehow, I don’t think I can wait, but I have to. Fuck. Fuck Fuck. Fuck the *free* world. Fuck stereotypical dysfunctional families. Fuck our ultra conservative culture. FUCK.
I’m the good guy. I swear I am. Why do you fucking keep sabotaging this relationship? It’s already fucked up and stupid and meaningless. Why can’t you let that subtle understanding of one another just be? Why do you have to be a pricK? Why the fuck do you have to do the things that you do? You think I want to retaliate? YOU MAKE ME DO THE SHIT THAT I FUCKING DO. I SACRIFICE EVERYTHING FOR YOU AND I’M THE BLACK SHEEP OF THE FAMILY FOR YOU AND ALL I CAN ASK YOU IS WHY THE FUCK YOU DO THESE THINGS THAT YOU DO? YOU THINK YOU’RE THE DON OF THIS FUCKED UP FAMILY AND YOU’RE GOD’S FUCKING BEST FRIEND. I’VE GOT NEWS FOR YOU YOU FUCKING ILLOGICAL SOULLESS BASTARD, I TRY TO KEEP THE PEACE IN THIS HOUSE WHILE YOU SIMPLY WREAK HAVOC. I’M NOT SCARED YOU FUCKING EXCUSE FOR A BROTHER. I’M NOT SCARED OF YOU. I’M SCARED OF ME HURTING YOU. UNDERSTAND THAT IF AND WHEN YOU HURT ME, I’LL CRIPPLE YOU. BUT YOU CAN’T HURT ME SO YOU HURT THIS FUCKED UP RELATIONSHIP. WHAT FUCKS ME INSIDE IS THAT THIS COULD HAVE BEEN SO FUCKING BEAUTIFUL. WE COULD HAVE BEEN DENIS AND HIS BROTHER. WE COULD HAVE BEEN ZENON AND HIS FUCKING SISTER. BUT SLEEP WITH THIS IN YOUR HEAD, “You wanted this. You earned this. Enjoy this.”
Yeah, you’ve all heard me going off on how *great* I think Canada fucking is. I kept going on and on in my head. Fuck you crappy Tim Horton’s. The cream in your Boston Cream tastes like mayo fucking bastards. ‘Thank you for shopping at Staples. Keep hanging on.’
“Huh? Why’d you say that?”
Blank stare. . . .
“Why the fuck did you tell me to hang on?”
“Please restrain yourself sir otherwise I’ll have you escorted outside.”
FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKFUCK FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!
I wasn’t escorted outside, but fuck. Don’t you just love that word? The way its harsh consonants roll off your tongue? The way the U and C bang between the F and K in your mouth. Say it with me. F-U-C-K.
It was outside staples I had what Beethoven would call an epiphany. I’m resisting. I keep fighting what is and I keep comaring it to what was. I keep fighting and fighting and fighting until I thought I was right. Well I’m not. I’m human. I’m sorry mom. I’m sorry I kept bitching and bitching about coming here when you knew it was best for the me. I’m sorry I haven’t given you an honest smile in fucking three months. I’m sorry ma. And I can’t make it up to you. I know you don’t like me, but I know you love me. I’m sorry that I’m a fucking coward and I’ll never gather the courage to say that to your face.
Acceptance is the hardest part of any change and the simplest. And that’s a very very good thing; becuase most of the time the hardest thing and the right thing are the same.
You know one day you’re going to die. That’s the gosepl truth and you know it, one day you will die, you live, you breathe and you don’t give a fuck; but when a doctor tells you that you’re days away from death, you panic, every day, every second your heart goes thump thump thump. Thump goes your heart. And I kid you not when I tell you that that is the fucking exact same reaction that took place when I received a timetable of some sort from the school I signed up for. It’s a completely different school system, it’s a black school and the building is scary as fuck. I’m not a racist when I say that it is a black school, it’s in a horrible neighbourhood and there is an astounding number of gang related shootings in the area. I haven’t been to school in six months because of the different times that school starts in the UAE and Canada. I’m starting
11th grade, I don’t know anyone and I’m scared shitless. This is sort of a cathartic release, it helps me feel better; but not a fucking thing will prepare me for that day. It might not be as bad as I think it is, I don’t know what I’m fucking scared about, it might be a fucking nightmare. I don’t fucking know and maybe that’s what the fuck scares me the most. Fuck.
I just finished James Frey’s new book a Bright Shiny Morning a couple of minutes ago. Whoa, it was fucking beautiful. It wasn’t A Million Little Pieces, but it was pretty fucking good. I’m still kind of pissed off that A Million Little Pieces was a lie (well sort of), but this one almost makes me forgive him for that. The novel revolves around Los Angeles, and follows the lives of four people all for different classes of society. If you have a library card, then you should fucking read the book, it’s worth it.
Other than that, there’s been nothing to write about lately. I haven’t posted in three days and since then the traffic to this blog has dropped significantly. Okay, a lot. Staying at home and waiting for school to start is like watching paint dry watching paint dry watching paint dry. Enjoy the weekend.
First off; the blog is doing okay; on the first day, 67 people visited. On the second, 77 people visited and on the third 124 visited! It’s not amazing but it’s a good start.
This took place during one of my last days in the UAE. We all have had at least one of those moments, you know those moments that seem to last a fucking eternity and more? Well, this right here, this is mine.
It was fucking beautiful, it was bittersweat beauty; like when you peel of a scab and watch yourself bleed. You should have taken a picture, we’d have stared at it forever. It was nine thirty, me and a beautiful girl a fucking mile out of my league were standing by one of the most notorious parks in the city; and we didn’t give a flying fuck. We’re on the way back from tuition, our faces were refreshing to each other as we had been barked at for two straight hours by a fat lady in an abaya. She knows I have a crush on her (not the tuition teacher), and maybe that’s all she knows about me, but she’s told me every little fucking detail about herself. I knew every place on her body that had been marked, I knew the exact distance between her two eyes, I knew exactly how much I’d have to reach forward to drop one on her cheek, how much I’d have to reach forward to drop one on her full lips. She knew that after that day, she wouldn’t see me maybe in a while, maybe never.
We stare at each other, our books on our heads, rain pouring everywhere, making everything else seem unimportant, stupid, worthless except for her and me and her dark brown eyes. Even right now as I write I can remember the smell of the air at that moment, and I can still remember the way my heart thumped against my ribcage. We waited in the shelter of our hardcover books for the rain to cease falling.
“Andrew, I know that I might not see you in a while, but can we just act like it’s a regular walk? I’m not that good with goodbyes”
Every third day of every week for three months after torture by an evil woman always in an abaya, I walked the girl home. Her place was a couple of blocks from mine, I always left her at her doorstep. That was our walk. She spoke a lot during that walk, I hardly did. I just listened.
“It is a regular walk isn’t it?”
She smiles, she pulls the book above her head down and then the one above mine. She looked at me hard in the eyes, I returned the favour. Our heads met, our lips collided. I remember my knees going weak, I remember not knowing what to do with my hands. I remember her’s holding mine. I remember peace, I remember a taste of what I don’t think I will ever have again, I remember our history together running through my head in a flash second; and then it was over. Our lips parted, and so did our hands.
The kiss lasted for about three seconds tops, but I remember it with such intense vividity that it makes me lightheaded at times. It was fucking beautiful, like heaven and hell made a pact of peace for three seconds. What happened next? I walked her home like one of our regular walks and I listened to her, to every single word she said and I hung onto it. There was no goodbye or I’ll miss you; or I hope I’ll see you again. There was just ‘See you!’. It wasn’t even ’see you’, it more like ’see ya’. I’m grateful to you for those three seconds, I’m grateful to you for giving me that memory.
This memory is extremely personal and close to my heart; I hope you’ve enjoyed it.
Slept well? Yeah. . . The whole night since two A.M, some motherfucking jobless cockless retard kept calling and said “My name El Wahad, what your name?” in a very, very fake Arab accent.
The first time; it was ok, you must have mistaken me for one of your retarted friends. No biggie.
The second time, “Oi, listen, you fucking called the wrong number. You f-u-c-k-i-n-g called the wrong number. You fucking called the wrong number. Call me again and I’ll fucking chop your nuts off.”
“Hehehe. What your name?”
I got up at about six thirty A.M, called Rogers and some snobbish chick kept murmuring something that only she could understand. About two broken pencils, a flurry of extremely bad language and eight dollars later, the bastard’s number had been traced but could not be given to me for privacy reasons. That was it. What the fucking fuck? Someone deprives you of seven hours of sleep, talking in a punishably bad accent and irritates the piss out of you and THEIR privacy needs protection now? Bottom line; if I get one more call from El fucking Wahad, the cops fine his fake Arab ass. Yeah. One more time bastard, call me one more time for me. Canada is turning out to be a real treat.
It’s been a pretty shitty day and it’s just one A.M. I’m sleepy and I can’t go to sleep and one of my favourite actors ever passed away. Damn.
A rumour that has been circulating the net since today morning has been confirmed. Bernie Mac, died Saturday at the age of 50.
Bernie Mac has been one of the most influential and respected actors in the entertainment industry and his loss will be mourned by all who grew up watching him on TV.
I’ve been watching Bernie Mac’s movies ever since I saw the first episode of The Bernie Mac Show, and his untimely demise is. . . odd.
The comedian suffered from sarcoidosis, an inflammatory lung disease that produces tiny lumps of cells in the body’s organs, but had said the condition went into remission in 2005. He recently was hospitalized and treated for pneumonia, which his publicist said was not related to the disease.
“Wherever I am, I have to play, I have to put on a good show.” -Bernie Mac
