I miss it

Living that is. I miss living. I could end the blog right here, but I will elaborate since I have nothing else to do. 

I am alive, true. And although I never thought I would miss drinking or partying and the like, I actually do.

I can't stand sitting in this grim coffee shop anymore.

I miss having a job, having money, shopping, among other things of course.

It seems to me as if I am the only 25 year old who spends her Friday nights online, only virtually living. 

What I would give for a live game of scrabble instead of the thousands I play online. 

What joy I would feel if I liked something and were able to just go in and buy it.

I know most people think I am a spoiled girl who allows herself all kinds of privileges and who never manages to save a dime. And what if I am? It is just who I am.

It is true that being that kind of girl leaves me clueless when I find myself without money, but I am impressing myself by coping with it.

I am not exactly happy with my current situation, but not breaking down is an achievement in itself for someone like me.

I forgot why I wanted to elaborate on this. I just want to say that I miss having plans for the weekend or something. Maybe soon. Who knows.

Insomnia

Hello, my name is Mireille and I am an insomniac. Such a cliché you may say, but wait till I tell you who greeted me one night while I was fighting my way to sleep. 

I was tired and had to wake up early the next morning. It was already too late to hope for a decent rest, but I thought I should get as much sleep as I could get, even if it was only for a couple of hours. 

As I struggled, I remembered what a friend of mine had told me once about relaxing one's eyelids in order to go to sleep and so I did, I relaxed them and waited endlessly to fall asleep, but it just wouldn't work. 

I tried to think about what people do to go to sleep, and after some pondering, I remembered the oldest trick in the book, and that is how I decided to count the sheep!

I closed my eyes one more time (eyelids relaxed), and lavishly planted the prairie in my imagination with the greenest and freshest of lawns. I put a door frame in the middle of the prairie and stood by it. The sheep started coming, and I started counting.

I had counted around 300 sheep when I remembered a billboard next to the office where I used to work at the time that encourages Lebanese to use the Arabic language and I realized I had been counting in French. I told the sheep to go back from where they came from and started the count again, this time using Arabic numbers.

Having counted yet another batch or 300 or so sheep, I decided that I need a way that enables me to identify my sheep if I should like to count them again another night, so I told the sheep to back away again and I labeled them each with a sort of marathon costume with a number, and when I was through, I counted yet again 300 or so sheep before I realized the labels were in Latin numbers!!! Horror of horrors!!!

"Back away sheep!"

I relabeled the sheep in Arabic numbers and made sure to count them in Arabic too this time.

Another batch of 300 had been counted one more time before I reckoned that the stable they were going in to only had a door frame, no walls and nothing to keep my sheep from straying or to keep a wolf from snatching one of them. I decided to place a bell around each sheep's neck and started counting again...Do I really need to tell you that I made - yet again - the counting in French mistake? I am sure you would rather be spared!

Before I decided to go to sleep, I had been watching the David Letterman show, and I think it is fairly understandable what had happened next. The bells around the sheep's necks were tolling and tolling, which gave me an awful headache, and hallucination at this point is perfectly justifiable...The sheep with their marathon labels (in Arabic!) and their bells around their necks changed their heads! Yes, their heads were replaced by David Letterman's head laughing at me!!!! Just imagine, or can you??

The other night, I couldn't sleep either, but I was determined not to count the sheep, understandably if you will. Instead, I recalled what another friend had advised me and I thought I should go with her opinion this time. She had told me I should decide what I would like to dream about and that will make me drift effortlessly to sleep in order to see the dream I longed to glimpse.

And since I had a feeling of heaviness over me that night, I decided I would like to dream of something light and floating in a way. The first thought that came to my mind was flying, but then I decided against it because it felt like I needed to be doing some sort of effort to fly, and I was tired. I then thought of being in a room full of feathers, but considered floating on a beautiful lake in a cave before I finally opted for the lake with the feathers spread in it.

Yes I had decided! This is what I want to dream about tonight! I want to float in that lake and be surrounded by feathers on the surface of the water!

Such a beautiful dream I am about to have, I thought as I relaxed my eyelids and chased the last sheep from my mind. Such beautiful dreams... oh wait, the feathers, where will they come from? From birds! Innocent Birds!!! But hunting is prohibited in Lebanon!!! Come here hunter! Police, quick! Arrest this man for he had broken the law and hurt innocent, innocent fragile birds!!! Police.... I called while floating in the lake of guilt and tumultuous sleep...

Your Fuckin Standards

As bloody usual, I have nothing in particular to say. I just feel like swearing a lot tonight.

I rehearsed yet another silent/ in my head monologue last night while I was trying to go to sleep. I have acquired this habit ever since I was a little kid. After another endless horrible day has washed down, I give out long bold speeches in my mind, addressing all the people who dedicated their day to annoying or upsetting me in one way or another. 

If the issue is private, I am usually standing up, facing the person with my harsh words, words I would never muster the courage to say for real.

If the issue is more of a collective one, mainly economical, I would be standing up on a podium with a large crowd in front of me. I would be taking down politicians like it is nobody's business.

Last night, the monologue was addressed to a number of people, some whom know personally, and others whom I don't.The topic was "people's Fuckin standards".

I am sorry but I can't live up to the standards!!! I mean who can??

It is all kinds of standards that I am talking about, starting from how people think you should look and ending with what they think you should do with your life.

Don't get me wrong. It is not that I care about people's standards and their stupid opinions, it is just that I am thoroughly annoyed by their constant nagging and their random splashing of unsought and unnecessary advice.

I will not stop smoking because YOU think it affects my health.

I will not live through yet another diet because YOU think I ought to be thinner.

I will not work as a waitress because YOU think it is better than sitting around unemployed.

I can go on and on with the list, but I won't, because I think you get the point.

This begs the question: What are standards? Who creates them? And most importantly, why do we even worry about them?

Shouldn't everyone have their own standards and live by those and those only?

You can go ahead and shove your standards up your asses - I told you I am in a swearing mood - because that is exactly where they belong. You don't need to share them, you don't need to "spread" them. All you need to do with your fuckin standards is live by them - if you can. And good luck with that.

Girls, Gays And Tea Selections

I myself am wondering what I really want to say in this article. It is just that the title has been haunting me for over a week now. 

I got the idea when I noticed several of my friends - girls and gays especially - fussing about their tea selections. I simply didn't understand what it was ever really about.

For me, tea means a yellow Lipton tea bag, a mug of hot water and two cubes of sugar. For them, tea means a ridiculously colorful selection of boxes, paper bags, nylon bags and tasteless aromas.

When did tea become so complicated??

I remember when I was little and we would go to my grandparents' house in the village, my grandmother would send us out to the woods to collect flowers - I am not sure of the flowers' name but they were pretty much basic white flowers with lots of petals - and then she would somehow make tea leaves from the bouquet. 

There is a small coffee shop - or tea shop to be more precise - that I really like, but I stopped going there a while ago, because frankly, I never know what to order. And whatever I do eventually order turns out to suck! People specifically go to that shop because of its wide variety of teas. I have tried nearly everything. Jasmin tea, blueberry tea, bla bla tea. None ever worked for me. None did the trick. I always end up with the feeling that I am the victim of a tea trick or something as stupid as that thought. 

I am simply dumbfounded by all this complexity. I mean tea should just be tea. And this goes for all kinds of beverage. I couldn't care less if the coffee I am drinking is a Brazilian brew or a Colombian one. You could sell me a Malaysian brew for all I care. Coffee is coffee. It is either good or bad, regardless its country of origin, regardless whose feet it was stomped on with.

Stung By A Bee

Last night my mom tricked me into sleeping at my grandmother's place in a village I really despise. We were supposed to come back in the evening, but it turned out she had other plans and I had no choice but to stay put.
It wasn't so bad. I had fun playing cards and all but still, I felt tricked. I wasn't there by my own free will.
After everyone went to sleep, I set my laptop on the balcony and sat there for a while. The power got cut and I was out of battery. While I was shutting my laptop down, to top it all, a bee stung me in my neck.
I am more pessimistic than ever these days. I am broke. I am unemployed with no prospects for a job. I am single. I am lonely. I am surrounded by all kinds of people but I am too impatient for people. I am not sure how that may be but I am.
The bee sting gave me the feeling of being bitten by a vampire, especially since the bee chose my neck to dump its poison.
I am not sure if it is the effect of loneliness, but I am having lots of illusions lately. Everything has a weird connotation to it. Maybe it is the boredom and not the loneliness after all.
Spilling white chawarma sauce all over my favorite top had a connotation as well, although I am not sharing this one.
I have nothing to say really. I thought the bee would cover a larger subject but it doesn't.

Reminiscence

When does one stop reminiscing on the good old days? Why did we fail to notice how good they were when we were living them? Why is it that we have missed on savoring those days when we had the chance to do so?

So many phases, so many friends, so many moments… Why did they seem so ordinary at the time? Why do they seem so special now? 

What was it that was missing then and what is it that they can fulfill now?

Most people’s memories are triggered by a place, a song, a situation… Mine begs to differ: it is triggered by its pure and simple existence. I keep finding myself lost in thought, going back in time, trying to recapture those moments and those friends in their purest essence. 

I look like I have moved on. I haven’t. My all remains in those days. Each meaningful day that passes keeps a token of me in it. My mind keeps living those days and those days keep hacking into my system in turn. 

I wish the relationship I have with my days is a platonic one, but it isn’t. It is definitely a lot more sadistic than I would have liked it to be. 

I can even find it in me to feel nostalgic about the bad days. I can’t push myself to regret them. Something about those bad ones, or something about me for that matter, just can’t overcome them. 

Do you smell unresolved issues? Ah well, maybe.

Do you think I might be a bit off? I am. I am not sure what the hell I am writing about. 

I am looking around me today, trying to do some effort, trying to fit in somehow. I can’t. It is as if today wasn’t in my calendar, as if I am being compelled to live a day I wasn’t meant to live. I was supposed to skip this day. 

Not that there is anything different about today. Today looks almost exactly like all my unemployed status days. I just don’t feel like living it today.

Because I Have Nothing Better To Do

I considered reading, but I am not in the mood. Instead, I decided to lose my virtual poker chips while listening to depressing songs. 

I am sure you have heard this advice before, but there is no harm in repeating it: Don't listen to depressing songs when you are already depressed. 

I am sure that like myself, you never listen to your own advices. 

Question: Are anxiety and impatience caused by depression, or is depression generated by anxiety and impatience?

Comes a moment when the only people you can stand are the exact same bunch who can't tolerate you at this very moment.

No need to elaborate on the ones you can't currently stand and who, for some reason, won't leave you the hell alone at least till it goes away. What would it be you may ask. I can call it depression but I am not sure if it is the correct term for it.

Whatever it is that I am going through right now, there are some adjectives that can describe it, but no scientific term that I know of that can give it justice by name. It is sad, pathetic and peculiarly mind numbing.

Did I bring this upon myself, or was it merely universal justice?

I am suffocating by the sight of the same people, over and over and over again.

Self esteem: Is it its lack or its abundance that is fueling this feeling?

I am in deep shit, shit caused by arrogance, stupidity and lack of analysis. I just throw myself into impossible situations. I am aware it is my choice. I still blame it on others. 

And where the hell is my stop button?? Just STOP!!

Lack of control. Lack of will. 

French rock tunes. I hope they help me out of this mood.

I Am A Sinner I Am A Saint

What is the difference really? It all boils down to what exactly? Everything is relative. What you may find wrong I may find right and vice versa. 

Don’t get me wrong, I am not defending sinners or sins; I am just trying to figure it out. 

But wouldn’t you agree if I said that almost every pleasure on this planet is in one way or the other sinful? Not necessarily sinful in regards to one’s own, but perhaps to someone else. 

What are the rules? How far can one push the limits? 

I remember a civism lesson in which we learned that “your freedom stops when the freedom of others begins”. This is a literal translation. I am not sure why I associated it in my mind with the sinners’ subject. The important thing is that I did and now I should find the connection. 

Should I stop in my tracks and refrain what I am thinking of doing because it might be hurtful to others – though not so at all to me? Should others’ rights be respected by me? Are they really entitled for those rights? Why are those rights theirs and not mine?

I have tried to put myself in other people’s shoes. I couldn’t. I am not the others and the others are not me. I may never know the harm I am causing them unless I get to be in their position someday.

Till that day arrives – if it ever does – should I be blamed? Should I really care?

I am not a monster. I do have some feelings. I do feel sympathy for example. But I am also selfish. 

I am selfish and I am not afraid to admit it. Everyone knows it. It is not something I try to shadow. 

But how far can I take this selfishness before it gets me into real trouble?

Should I fear the trouble? Should I dread the consequences? Should I step back?

Should I this, should I that.

I wish the series of questions would stop at could I this, could I that. 

Because I could. Because I can. 

Because I want to.

Because in my twisted world, I want to, and in my compulsive mind, I have to.

Sorry for all the abstractness, but although I want to, although I have to, although I could, although I can, although I shouldn’t, I am not proud.

Uncertainty

I am not sure what to write about tonight. Eva said I should tell the exorcism story, but I had my mind set on writing the cat story, which leaves me uncertain...

I am going to take the request first and tell you the exorcism story. I am not sure if it could be put into words, if I can tell it again or if it will be meaningful at all, but here is how it went. 

My mother was convinced that all my bad luck was due to a higher, evil force and so when her colleague told her about an exorcist priest, she decided he was going to be the solution to her daughter's problems, the long awaited and finally found one. 

On Monday morning, she asked me if I was free in the afternoon. I said yes, why? *and that is when I learned that I should always answer with no, why* She said she would like me to go with her and my father to church tonight; there is a priest she would like me to speak with. 

I didn't want to disappoint my mother, I am already a disappointment to her in so many ways, so I decided I should go just for the sake of pleasing her, it seemed such a small effort to make. 

And so we went. I hadn't been to church in a long time, and it seemed that since I had last been to the service, they have added a load of prayers and rosaries prior to the actual mass, which left me feeling exhausted even before the service started. And when it finally did, it took yet another hour if not more to finish.

I am not sure how I used to withstand all these ceremonies. I remembered that day why I stopped believing in all the rituals and put an end to my practicing them. I couldn't stand how fake everyone was. How mean they were. How they said the prayers between their teeth while looking at each other with utter disdain. The rosary sounded like a school poem they felt forced to recite. The mass sounded like a test they studied hard to pass. And if you ask for my opinion, they failed miserably. 

No one seemed truthful. No one seemed there because they wanted to. They all somehow "had" to be there. They either had nothing else to do, either felt it was a duty they needed to fulfill. I so desperately wished one of them would smile or seem in any way sincere.

Anyway, it was what happened after the service that needs to be told. After having waited in a "queue" of people who wanted to meet with the priest, my turn finally arrived. I went in his too white office with my mother. What ensued was so bizarre I don't even know how to describe it, but I will try. 

It started as a simple conversation. But soon enough my mother told the priest that I haven't been going to church for many years now. This occurred right after I tried to pull myself out of the session by telling the priest that I had felt peace while in the service. She just had to tell him all about my lost devotion. As if I had defected from Christianity. I haven't actually; I just did from the church. 

This led to the priest asking my mom to leave us alone. And he started bombarding me with all kinds of unnecessary questions, not to call them stupid. He tried in every way he could think of to convince me to rejoin the church. He then proceeded to make me repeat some long sentences after him, and repeat them I did, until he reached the last syllable, and then I didn’t. It exasperated him, but I felt no guilt; I had warned him not to try with me from the very start. 

At the end of a frustrating hour or so, somehow the subject of my insomnia came up. And the priest’s face lightened up as if he had just found the missing piece of my puzzle. He inquired about my dreams, and when I said that my recurrent dream was cockroaches, he gave me the title of a book to read and referred me to yet another priest who would REALLY help me. 

I wasn’t going to go to the other priest if it hadn’t been for the first one who insisted in telling my parents about it, there was no escape from going after that.

A couple of days later, I went to see the other priest. And I am not feeling into going into lots of details anymore, but the essential is that he performed the same ritual on me among many others in the church’s yard. It was an absolutely ridiculous ritual which involved him and another priest praying over my head and blowing “the Holy Spirit” IN MY EYES and noticing that when they blow their disgusting breath in my face, my eyes TWITCH!!! Oh yeah, they twitched!!!! And that of course meant that I was “possessed” by something and the treatment includes taking off my “Satanic” pendant (it was just a random piece of metal!!!) and puncturing the bottle of holy water with a pin and spraying the water every night in the house in the form of a cross. I would also have to come back next Thursday and bring with me water, olive oil (not frying oil) and rough salt, they would “pray” on those too and give me the guidelines on their usage.

Needless to say I never went back there.