My room is done. :-D
Now it looks like a prison cell.
I need shit to hang on my wall. I remember when I was 13 there was a poster sold at Abu Dhabi’s Coop Music store that I regret not buying at the time. It was a surreal painting of blue stairs intersecting one another; a cold blue city made of stairs.
It was fucking beautiful.
If only I could have at least grabbed the artist’s name.
Poster shopping is my next step probably.

I went through some weird shit while I was “doing” my room. It was like a journey through my past. I found songs lyrics that I wrote when I was 14. I found letters sent by some friends whom I’ve lost contact with permanently. I found pictures, music albums that once were faves of mine and now I’ve left lying at the bottom of a “box of crap” that I shall store forever under my bed.
I don’t believe in selling used shit. I’d rather buy more space… even though those tapes and CDs have a zero sentimental value to me now and will probably spend eternity unheard.

Tape: I found a tape that I made back in the day when I thought that I could make it into the music business. Well… actually my parents found the tape first in a box of old tapes that I figured were of old rock songs from the 80s that I wanted to throw away. [Yes. It was weird]
I don’t like to brag, but I sounded real good back then. Of course now things are different. Everything changes, including vocal cords. When I moved to Egypt in 97, I figured I’d record some songs and send it over to a studio or whatever.
Of course, they all turned me down. English wasn’t born yet back then.
I was also an excellent songwriter.

All that glitters: Back in Abu Dhabi, I used to play football for a local club. I own three gold medals, one of which is for best midfielder in the 1994 tournament. My application was rejected by Al Ahly club in 1998. They didn’t even try me. I didn’t have the right connections. All our national players look like they suffer from HIV, yet… they’re still rolling.
I found the medals in some random box and stashed them away to hang them later on the walls my apartment’s toilet maybe.

But then again… 3asa an takraho shay2an…
If I had made it big into music… what if I had become one of those zebala people?
What if I brought fasad akhlaqy to the society?
What if I had realized that it’s all 7aram eventually?
What if I sought a career in sports… and failed?

In the end, my room is clear. I have lots of space to think.
I couldn’t be more content. :)
Al 7amdulellah.

What the fuck is wrong with people?!

Ten years ago, Egyptian didn’t even know what a cell phone was. Now, it’s the only means of contact available. It’s like we’ve all turned into fish, swimming with the waves of cell phone signals.

Now when the network’s not available, I just smile.

Working at a service oriented organization means that you must have clients. Egyptian clients are the worst. They somehow always feel the need to swipe their I-know-the-fucking-manager card in your face whenever they feel low on their profile. But then again, that’s not why I’m writing this.
I’m writing this because… I HATE MY CELL PHONE.

No matter how different my ring tone is, it only takes one week for me to absolutely loathe it. Why is it that a business card’s not enough? I can understand why the address doesn’t help a client… but what about the office numbers? WHAT ABOUT THE FUCKING EMAIL ADDRESS YOU FUCKING BASTARDS? If emailing isn’t convenient for you, then perhaps you’d like me to bend over you fucking retards.

Why the hell do they all ask for the inglorious mobile number?

The only problem is, sometimes potential lurks within the deep and dirty mysteries of the request. Eventually, sometimes I just give it out.

And… it never stops ringing now. I hate my number, I hate my jasjam.
GOD BLESS FLIGHT MODE.

If I could, I’d totally give my phone the finger.

It’s common knowledge. At job interviews you either be completely honest or completely bullshit your way through. I happen to be a very analytical person. I choose to find ready made résumé templates and clichéd answers to questions written by Mr. Interview a thousand years ago that interviewers still fancy using. I can not be creative when explaining the value I would add at an organization. I can not explain my benefit to my current employer. I can not lie and every truth I say to myself sounds way overrated and over told.
At job interviews, basically, I lose my ability to wit.

My least favorite moment is when I’m asked to describe myself. Who is Job Applicant? I have absolutely no idea. Hard working, kind, and a fucking team player… sound like bullshit, bullshit, and bullshit. I can’t mesmerize myself into the trance of my being and morph it all into words. I wouldn’t even be able to pronounce the letters of MY PERSONALITY.

I once watched an underrated movie titled Final Cut. It was set somewhere in the future where people surgically plant a camera behind every born baby’s eye socket to record every moment of that baby’s life, edit it when they die, and play the special moments on their funeral.

If I could have stored my life on a CD, I would just drag it along with me and play it to the Nazi interviewer.

I need an answer to that question.
Any ideas?

I get back from work at around 7 pm at best, but I’m not complaining.
It’s Sunday today. In Egypt Sundays are usually the worst.
I couldn’t get enough sleep last weekend. I usually need at least 11 hours straight of sleep on Saturdays or Fridays in order to recuperate. I didn’t get that so I tried to steal an hour of sleep from 8:15 pm to 9:15 pm.
The snooze alarm caught me again at 9:30. At that point, I fell into the paradox of whether to sleep or not to. I knew I was gonna wake up at 2 am to pull an all nighter if I turned off the alarm now, but I needed the rest. I needed it to be dreamless.
Fuck it. I turned it off.

At 10 pm a meow woke me up. The sound of the sick and scared cat drove me insane. It wasn’t just a cat sound. It was that playback sound they use in horror films; like the ones they used on The Exorcism of Emily Rose (Excellent horror flick, if I may say). Any horror film fan would totally know what I’m talking about.
I live on the second floor. The meowing did not come from the street. I would know. It so felt like it came from inside the apartment.
I usually sleep with the door locked.

I kept trying to figure out where the cat sound came from until I forced my brain up. I decided to get out of bed and check the apartment out. Nothing there of course. The meowing was gone and all that was left was my brain open wide and stupidity running through my tired muscles like steroids.

Now even though I’m a cat person… I’m beginning to learn that some cats deserve to be roadkills.

I can’t sleep now… I’ll go watch a movie.

Today at 7 pm, I decided to clean my room. The last time that phenomena occurred was about a decade ago when I moved to Cairo.

I had a profile picture on facebook (the biggest scam this century so far) on which many people commented that it looks like a storage room or an airplane hanger. That is my room, proudly.

Yes. I am a very, very messy person. I do know where everything is though, but to spare my memory from remembering everything, today I decided to throw everything away. I threw away CDs of songs and movies that I once liked and now hate. Books that I bought and never read. I only kept the ones whose cover I value. I do judge a book from its cover.

I actually own a CD with a Britney Spears MP3s folder on it. (Don’t tell anyone)
I am not proud. That, of course, I broke before I threw it in the trash.

Those who know me KNOW that in order for me to decide to clean my room I must have been really bored… or really seeking change.

Neither… I need space… lots and lots of space. (Reminds me a bit of Kramer when he wanted to redecorate his apartment into levels.)

I own a HUGE DVD collection; I could actually start a rental business.

Today I realized that I’m a spender. I shop when I can. (I hate the internet). Shopping online is fucking addictive. (Shopping offline in Egypt is for suckers though)

When you’re a parent, your house is basically storage room for your children’s future furniture. Mothers fill all rooms with antique coffee tables that they paid a fortune for 15 years ago. There are two in my room, covered with sheets. I NEED THAT SPACE.

I dunno what I’m doing… but I feel like I’m furnishing a new apartment.

That was day 1.

I do this when I’m having a nightmare. I also do it when I’m having a good dream.

I yell to myself, ‘wake up!’

I’ve been like that ever since I was a little boy. I can’t help it. I have become too practical, too attached to fucking reality that I can’t enjoy a few seconds of pure imagination. It doesn’t matter whether it’s soothing or devastating. During, I know that once I feel that shock coming, I will force myself to wake up.

Funny how you realize how much you love someone only when you’re asleep. Your guards are off, and your emotions have no borders.
Everything is possible.

You have no control… except right at the end, when your mind can’t take it anymore. Maybe that’s why some people roll off their beds when they’re having a nightmare. The body’s act of revolution against what’s not standard.
I never roll off. I just yell to myself ‘Wake up’… and I do. I know what I need and what I don’t need.
I need reality.

It’s like when you feel a new pain emerging out of a side of a tooth and your mind refuses to look at that new potential tooth cavity in a mirror fearing that your perfection could be declining. Let the pain be as long as I'm OK.

My primal fear is that one day I will scream it out when I’m having a nightmare… and I won’t get up.