On Love

I still remember the first time I fell in love.

It was a gloomy Monday morning and I was but eleven years of age. I was feeling a little under the weather, and after pleading with my mother to let me stay home, insisting that I had a fever that would surely kill me if she sent me to school, and even after she put the back of her hand to my forehead and raised an eyebrow at me in amusement, she granted me a "flop" day and I was allowed to stay home. I snuggled under the sheets in my parent's huge bed and watched the morning cartoons. But after they ended, I started feeling bored, and it was still early in the day. I shall read then, I thought to myself. Seeing as I was still very young, my book collection did not expand beyond The Boxcar Children Mysteries, which I was very fond of, and the Goosebumps series, which I had already read enough times to know the text by heart. I resorted to moping around the house, searching for my school bag to start my school reading, which was to be from Frances Hodgson Burnett's The Secret Garden. I took the book back to my parent's room and crawled back into my cave of blankets and comforters.

At first, I only looked at the cover. I was quite sure who ever had made the cover had a big box of 64 count Crayola crayons sitting on his desk, and he chose Sea Green for the cover. Ah, Sea Green! One of the prettiest crayons in the box, but it could not be used anywhere! I remembered how I would hold the crayon in my left hand, sometimes for so long that the paper had started getting damp from my sweaty palms, and I waited for the right time to use the pretty Sea Green color, but the time never came. One could not, after all, color the sky or the grass or the forest Sea Green!

But this! This must be what Sea Green was made for; the cover of The Secret Garden. I cracked open my new book and began reading it, and I immediately fell in love. I fell in love with the writing style I was not accustomed to, I fell in love with the setting that I had never heard about (I even remember pulling out a picture Dictionary to look up the word 'moor', for we did not have a computer at the time, nor did we know about Google). I was so engrossed in the story line, and I felt that I knew the characters intimately, almost like I was reading an old story about a friend I had lost touch with.

I finished the novel in one sitting, and I read it again with the class in assigned readings, at a pace of one or two chapters a night.

I experienced love-at-first-sight that very summer. I was at the library one afternoon, strolling the young adult sections, when I spotted another green book and remembered my first love, The Secret Garden. This book, however, was as thick as my wrist, but I pulled it off the shelf and looked at the cover anyway. It was titled Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I stared at the cover some more, letting my eyes take in the expression of the dark-haired speckled boy, and ended up checking the book out. I poured over its pages for hours, and I took it with me to school the next day and continued reading it after I ate my lunch. I remember it being slightly confusing, but it was wonderful. It was about dragons, and witches and wizards, and magic; it was everything my active eleven-year-old imagination craved.

We left for Egypt the following year, and I longed for a library. We had two school-reading novels for the entire year, and I finished both of them rather quickly. I remember one of them, The Prisoner of Zelda, fondly, for I had read that one three times and thought it was quite clever. Then one day a Pakistani girl in my class who was also from the U.S. (as were many of my classmates) told me she'd trade me one of her books for the book in my hand (I was sitting on the school bus reading one of my favorite Boxcar Children books). I agreed, and the next day she gave me a book, Sweet Valley Junior High: Twin Switch. I looked at the cover and remembered The Secret Garden and Harry Potter and how "normal" the cover of the book in my hand was in comparison. But beggars can't be choosers, and I was hungry for a read.

The book was so unsatisfying, nothing like the ones I had read, but when my Pakistani friend offered to trade more of her books for mine, I agreed nonetheless. And so it came to be that my beloved Boxcar Children Mysteries and Bailey School Kids and Nancy Drew and my two Joey Pigza books were replaced with Sweet Valley Junior High and Sweet Valley High School books.

My Pakistani friend, on the other hand, told me day in and day out how much she loved my books, and she would often sit with me during lunch for the sole purpose of discussing a particular character, an interpretation of a certain scene, or just bonding over our books. I remember asking her if she had ever read The Secret Garden, and she said she hadn't, and did I have it? "No," I lied. I did have the book, but it was the only book I was not willing to part with; I couldn't, I wouldn't, trade my first love for a book about a beautiful blonde teenage girl who has a crush on an equally beautiful teenage boy. I asked her about Harry Potter, and she was familiar with the name. I told her about the one book that I read, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and she frowned. "Why are you reading them out of order?" she asked, and that was when I found out about the series.

Eight grade found me back in the States, and this time, I started taking my literature text book home. I was introduced to Greek Mythology, and I checked out Adele Geras's golden-covered Troy. It was the first book to make me cry.

Later on, I read The Case of the Speckled Band in my ninth grade literature text book and I fell in love with Sherlock Holmes. He was my role model, as were The Boxcar Children and Nancy Drew. I read an excerpt of Charles Dicken's Great Expectations the same year, and I went on to reading the entire novel, followed by his A Christmas Carol.

And that's when my love for the classics blossomed. I read into Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, Mary Shelley, Mark Twain, Lewis Carroll, Daniel Defoe, oh the list goes on and on!

I've been in different types of love, but quite honestly, I can say that the love I have for books is my favorite type of love.

Do It For The Lulz

You know what should be on your next to-do list?

This.

Let's say I'm sitting in a boring class with a friend, let's call her Sarah, and we're having a conversation with a girl sitting in front of us, who is sitting sideways in her chair. Since I am an uberly cool person, anyone that hangs out with me is also an uberly cool person by default. The girl realizes this, and she wants in on the coolness. That's right. She wants to be friendssss.

Ponytail Girl [to me]: So, what's your name?

Me: Nehal.

Ponytail Girl [to Sarah]: And yours?

This is when I'd lean over and whisper in Sarah's ear, just loud enough for the Ponytail Girl to hear, "Sarah. Tell her your name is Sarah."

Sarah [to Ponytail Girl]: Sarah.

Ponytail Girl: *no longer smiling* I just heard her tell you to say that. So. What's your real name?

Sarah: *a little uncomfortable* My real name is Sarah.

Ponytail Girl: *looks like she's about to cry* Oh.

Sarah: I'm serious!

Ponytail Girl stares at us both, and then turns back around in her seat.

Sarah [to me]: I don't wanna be your friend anymore.

Y'ALL SHOULD TRY THIS ON SOMEONE.

Meya Meya!

Words in italics are listed and defined at the end of the blog post in the order in which they appeared. Yeah. We mad official.

You know you're Egyptian when...

1. Your parents yell at you for making the shay wrong. That's right. There's a wrong way to make shay.
2. If you're a female, and you do bad in school, your parents tell you to just drop out and marry a makwagi. If you're a male, and you do bad in school, your parents tell you to just drop out and become a makwagi.
3. If you have class at 2:30PM, showing up at 3:00PM is considered "on time" and perfectly admissible.
4. Soccer. You worship it.
5. Supporting a non-Egyptian soccer team against an Egyptian one is nothing short of treason.
6. You are either an Ahlawy or Zamalkawy and you have no reservations in expressing your loyalty to which ever team.
7. Winning the African Cup is something 3ady now.
8. Cario-ans think that Alexandrians are "zibala" and Alexandrians think that Cairo-ans are "be2a".
9. If you're not the doctor, or the lawyer suing the doctor, you are a HOBELESS CASE.
10. Unless you're an engineer of course. Yalla, zay ba3do.
11. Your Palestinian, Jordanian, and Syrian friends make fun of you when you say stuff like, "Ezayek? 3amlah eih? Kolo tamam? Tab kwayes."
12. You walk into a room and say, "Hi ya gama3a."
13. When you ask a stupid question, you're told, "La2 ya gahla, bas kefaya keda. 2omi e3mely shay."
14. People are never happy with what you've achieved. When you graduate, people say, "3o2bal el shehada el kebeira", and when you get that, they say, "3o2bal el 3aroosa or 3arees", and when you get that, they say, "3o2bal ma nefra7 be awladkom", and when you get that, they say, "3o2bal ma terfa7o be shahadithum", etc. It's a never ending circle.
15. "Eshtaaaaa" is your equivalent of "sweeeeeet".
16. Ahmed Elsakka is your equivalent of James Bond.
17. Soad Hosny is your equivalent of Marilyn Monroe.
18. Any hot person is referred to as a "mozza". This is a unisex term.
19. If you're a tan female, you say, "El samar nos el gamal", and if you're a white female, you say, "El bayad el gamal kolo." At the end of the day, white female > tan female (even if she's missing a nose).
20. Speed limits are only advisory. No cob, no stob.
21. Out of respect, you call a male who is older than you "3ammo" and a female who is older than you "Tunt".
22. Everyone is a family friend.
23. You assure your non-Arab friends that there is in fact a difference between your dad yelling because he's on the phone and your dad yelling because he's mad.
24. You eat everything with ruz be shi3reya or 3eish balady.
25. Breakfast includes beid be gibna, fool, ta3meya, anything with eggplant, anything with te7eyna, basterma, etc. and of course, shay bilaban!
26. You think its okay to substitute olive oil for vegetable oil in cake batter and say, "Well at least it's healthy!" when it comes out like crap.
27. You must say that anything your mom cooks is "better than the one we tried at that restaurant".
28. Your dad often started stories off by saying, "Ayam Gamal Abdelnasser…"
29. You've been told not to walk around the house barefoot because you'll catch a cold.
30. You catch yourself telling your little cousins not to walk around the house barefoot because they'll catch a cold.
31. You have na3na3 growing in your back yard, along with at least one fruit tree (we have four…).
32. Your mother has an assassin's accuracy when throwing a shib shib.
33. When you cross the street in the middle of oncoming traffic, your fellow Egyptian friend tells you, "Lemmy nafsek! E7na msh fe masr! Balash fadaye7!"
34. You start off a fiqh question with, "Baba, I heard…" and end with, "Howa dah halal wala haram?"
35. During mango season, your mom buys enough boxes of mango to support a small village during an apocalypse.
36. Your brother can belly dance better than you can.
37. You've watched El Limby at least three times.
38. You start your stories with, "Salli 3al naby."
39. You end your stories with, "Bas ya sedy/ siti".
40. If you're male, there's an 87% chance you are almost always surrounded by a cloud of cigarette or sheesha smoke
41. You have at least one item (a key chain, necklace, bracelet, etc.) with your name written on it in Hieroglyphics.
42. You boast that "Egybshans are za best beoble!"
43. Whenever you watch a new Arabic movie with your parents, they have to say, "Eh dah? Howa lessa 3ayesh??" about at least one actor.

Egyptian-to-English Language Dictionary

Shay: (noun) tea.

Makwagi: (noun) a person who irons clothing.

Ahlawy: (noun) a person who supports the Ahly soccer team and frowns upon the Zamalek team and its supporters.

Zamalkawy: (noun) a person who supports the Zamalek soccer team and frowns upon the Ahly team and its supporters.

3ady: (noun) normal; regular.

Zibala: (noun) trash.

Be2a: (noun) literally, "(bad) environment". It means something to the effect of "trash".

Yalla, zay ba3do: (phrase) Whatever, it's all the same.

Ezayek? 3amlah eih? Kolo Tama? Tab Kwayes.: (phrase) Whatsup? How are you? Evrything okay? That's good.

Hi ya gama3a: (phrase) Hi everyone.

La2 ya gahla, bas kefaya keda. 2omi e3mely shay.: (phrase) No, you ignorant (person). That's it, get up and make tea.

3o2bal el shehada el kebeira: (phrase) 3o2bal your college degree.

3o2bal el 3aroosa or 3arees: (phrase) 3o2bal your wedding.

3o2bal ma nefra7 be awladkom: (phrase) 3o2bal when you have children.

3o2bal ma terfa7o be shahadithum: (phrase) 3o2bal when your children get their degrees.

Eshta: (noun) sweeeeet or niceeeeee.

Mozza: (adjective/ noun): babe.

El samar nos el gamal: (phrase) Being tan is already half the beauty in the world.

El bayad el gamal kolo: (phrase) Being white is all the beauty in the world.

3ammo: (noun) term of respect for addressing older males. Can also mean "brother of my father".

Tunt: (noun) term of respect for addressing older females.

Ruz be shi3reya: (noun) rice with noodles.

3eish balady: (noun) pita bread.

Beid be gibna: (noun) eggs with (feta) cheese.

Fool: (noun) Fava beans.

Ta3meya: (noun) Falafel.

Te7eyna: (noun) Tahini

Basterma: (noun) Pastrami

Shay bilaban: (noun) Tea with milk.

Ayam Gamal Abdelnasser: (phrase) Back in the days of Gamal Abdelnasser (a well-loved Egyptian ruler)...

Na3na3: (noun) Mint leaves

Shib shib: (noun) plastic slipper

Lemy nafsek! E7na msh fe masr! Balash fadaye7!: (noun) Behave yourself! We're not in Egypt! Stop embarrassing us!

Howa dah halal wala haram?: (noun) Is this halal or haram?

El Limby: (noun) Movie starring some dude.

Salli 3al naby: (phrase) literally, say "Muhammad rasool Allah."

Bas ya sedy/ siti: (phrase) That's it.

Eh dah? Howa lessa 3ayesh??: (phrase) Whaaaat? Is he still alive??

Lulz, what did you think I take to school? A car??

She Drives for a Relationship, He's Lost in the Transmission

I Stumble Upon'd this earlier this week, and I just thought it was too funny. And it's so true too! Admittedly, I used to be one of those reads-too-much-into-everything type of girls, and I guess it was because the friends I had at the time were read-too-much-into-everything type of girls as well. However, my circle of friends changed and I guess so did my view points. Sometimes a "hi" is just a "hi".

Contrary to what many women believe, it's fairly easy to develop a long-term, stable, intimate, and mutually fulfilling relationship with a guy. Of course this guy has to be a Labrador retriever. With human guys, it's extremely difficult. 

This is because guys don't really grasp what women mean by the term relationship. Let's say a guy named Roger is attracted to a woman named Elaine. He asks her out to a movie; she accepts; they have a pretty good time. A few nights later he asks her out to dinner, and again they enjoy themselves. They continue to see each other regularly, and after a while neither one of them is seeing anybody else. And then, one evening when they're driving home, a thought occurs to Elaine, and, without really thinking, she says it aloud: "Do you realize that, as of tonight, we've been seeing each other for exactly six months?" 

And then there is silence in the car. To Elaine, it seems like a very loud silence. She thinks to herself, "Geez, I wonder if it bothers him that I said that. Maybe he's been feeling confined by our relationship; maybe he thinks I'm trying to push him into some kind of obligation that he doesn't want, or isn't sure of."

And Roger is thinking, "Gosh. Six months." 

And Elaine is thinking: "But, hey, I'm not so sure I want this kind of relationship, either. Sometimes I wish I had a little more space, so I'd have time to think about whether I really want us to keep going the way we are, moving steadily toward... I mean, where are we going? Are we just going to keep seeing each other at this level of intimacy? Are we heading toward marriage? Toward children? Toward a lifetime together? Am I ready for that level of commitment? Do I really even know this person?"

And Roger is thinking: "... so that means it was... let's see... February when we started going out, which was right after I had the car at the dealer's, which means... lemme check the odometer... Whoa! I am way overdue for an oil change here."

And Elaine is thinking: "He's upset. I can see it on his face. Maybe I'm reading this completely wrong. Maybe he wants more from our relationship, more intimacy, more commitment; maybe he has sensed--even before I sensed it--that I was feeling some reservations. Yes, I bet that's it. That's why he's so reluctant to say anything about his own feelings. He's afraid of being rejected."

And Roger is thinking: "And I'm gonna have them look at the transmission again. I don't care what those morons say, it's still not shifting right. And they better not try to blame it on the cold weather this time. What cold weather? It's 87 degrees out, and this thing is shifting like a goddamn garbage truck, and I paid those incompetent thieves $600.

And Elaine is thinking: "He's angry. And I don't blame him. I'd be angry, too. God, I feel so guilty, putting him through this, but I can't help the way I feel. I'm just not sure."

And Roger is thinking: "They'll probably say it's only a 90-day warranty. That's exactly what they're gonna say, the scumballs."

And Elaine is thinking: "Maybe I'm just too idealistic, waiting for a knight to come riding up on his white horse, when I'm sitting right next to a perfectly good person, a person I enjoy being with, a person I truly do care about, a person who seems to truly care about me. A person who is in pain because of my self-centered, schoolgirl romantic fantasy."

And Roger is thinking: "Warranty? They want a warranty? I'll give them a goddamn warranty. I'll take their warranty and stick it right up their..."

"Roger," Elaine says aloud. 

"What?" says Roger, startled. 

"Please don't torture yourself like this," she says, her eyes beginning to brim with tears. "Maybe I should never have... Oh God, I feel so..." (She breaks down, sobbing.) 

"What?" says Roger. 

"I'm such a fool," Elaine sobs. "I mean, I know there's no knight. I really know that. It's silly. There's no knight, and there's no horse." 

"There's no horse?" says Roger. 

"You think I'm a fool, don't you?" Elaine says. 

"No!" says Roger, glad to finally know the correct answer. 

"It's just that... It's that I... I need some time," Elaine says. (There is a 15-second pause while Roger, thinking as fast as he can, tries to come up with a safe response. Finally he comes up with one that he thinks might work.) 

"Yes," he says. 

(Elaine, deeply moved, touches his hand.) "Oh, Roger, do you really feel that way?" she says. 

"What way?" says Roger. 

"That way about time," says Elaine. 

"Oh," says Roger. "Yes." 

(Elaine turns to face him and gazes deeply into his eyes, causing him to become very nervous about what she might say next, especially if it involves a horse. At last she speaks.) "Thank you, Roger," she says. 

"Thank you," says Roger. 

Then he takes her home, and she lies on her bed, a conflicted, tortured soul, and weeps until dawn, whereas when Roger gets back to his place, he opens a bag of Doritos, turns on the TV, and immediately becomes deeply involved in a rerun of a tennis match between two Czechoslovakians he never heard of. A tiny voice in the far recesses of his mind tells him that something major was going on back there in the car, but he is pretty sure there is no way he would ever understand what, and so he figures it's better if he doesn't think about it. (This is also Roger's policy regarding world hunger.) 

IT'S ANALYSIS TIME!

The next day Elaine will call her closest friend, or perhaps two of them, and they will talk about this situation for six straight hours. In painstaking detail, they will analyze everything she said and everything he said, going over it time and time again, exploring every word, expression, and gesture for nuances of meaning, considering every possible ramification. They will continue to discuss this subject, off and on, for weeks, maybe months, never reaching any definite conclusions, but never getting bored with it, either. 

Meanwhile, Roger, while playing racquetball one day with a mutual friend of his and Elaine's, will pause just before serving, frown, and say: "Norm, did Elaine ever own a horse?" 

We're not talking about different wavelengths here. We're talking about different planets, in completely different solar systems. Elaine cannot communicate meaningfully with Roger about their relationship any more than she can meaningfully play chess with a duck. Because the sum total of Roger's thinking on this particular topic is as follows: Huh?

from Dave Barry's Complete Guide to Guys" by Dave Barry, c 1995 by Dave Barry.

Character Sketch #1

"Radleigh Collins?"

Rad stood up and buttoned his suit jacket. He gave the receptionist his award winning smile, and she blushed. "That would be me."

"The nurse will see you now," she said with a smile, her eyes never leaving his. "Right through those doors."

Rad gave her a wink before walking in the direction she pointed to. It led him to a small office with a patient bed and two chairs. In the corner was a bare desk. He took a seat in one of the chairs and waited for the nurse to come in. He thought about what he was about to do and let out a long swear.

As he surfaced to consciousness he was vaguely aware of the sound of a dog whimpering and scratching at the front door. He opened one eye groggily and tried to focus on what he was looking at. It was a dark blue surface. He blinked and waited for his vision to clear up. Still dark blue. He closed his eyes and flopped over onto his back and waited for the rest of his senses to kick in. He could feel a headache building up behind his left eye and his nose detected the smell of something burning.

His stomach growled. God he was hungry.

He opened his eyes again. Now he was seeing something off-white. He dragged his arm up and reached for this off-white surface and caught nothing but air.

The dog was still whimpering and scratching at the door. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyelids and tried to sit up.

He was on a couch. A dark blue beat up old couch. He started laughing as he looked around at his surroundings and recognized the off-white walls of his apartment. The sound of the dog whimpering caught his attention again and he frowned. He couldn't remember whether or not he always had a dog.

His stomach growled again and he absently put his hand to it and that's when he realized he was shirtless. Shirtless and hungry. He figured he'd tackle the "hungry" part first. Before he knew it, he was pushing the duvet off his legs and onto the floor. He swung his legs over the edge of the couch and stood up shakily. He tried walking around but he felt like he was walking on clouds, the floor was so soft. Like a cloud. He wondered if he was dead and in heaven. No, that's silly, people didn't get hungry in heaven. Besides, heaven couldn't be the exact replica of his apartment. Because that would suck. But the floor was so soft. He sighed and sprawled on the cloud that was on the floor. He closed his eyes and drifted off.

"Mr. Collins?" The nurse walked in, holding a chart in her hand. She was tall and lanky, with short dark hair that was streaked with silver. Rad stood up and grinned. She smiled back, and the corners of her eyes creased in their familiar laugh lines. "Here you go dear." She handed him a paper cup. "Bathroom is right through there." He thanked her and was about to turn around when she stopped him. "Oh, one moment." She disappeared momentarily and returned with another male wearing the same green scrubs she was. "This is John, he's also a nurse here. We just have to pat you down, its standard procedure."

Rad smiled. "Of course. You never know these days, its crazy." He held his arms out and stood with his legs shoulder length apart. He held his breath as the male nurse quickly patted his arms and abdomen, then his legs. 

"Alright Mr. Collins, all clear. When you're done just leave the cup on the table in the bathroom dear." He nodded and flashed another grin before heading to the bathroom.

He awoke to the sound of his cell phone ringing and the noise was loud and too high pitched. He rolled over and groaned, covering his ears. He looked around and wondered what the hell he was doing on the floor, sleeping on top of his duvet when the couch was less than a foot away from him.

The phone stopped ringing and he put his head back down and closed his eyes, trying to get his train of thought going. His throat was dry, he had a headache the size of Texas, and his stomach was growling. The cell phone beeped once, telling him he had a voicemail, and he was suddenly aware of someone watching him from the doorway.

He craned his neck up and looked. It was his room mate, Kaz, and he was leaning against the door post of the kitchen, chewing thoughtfully, a sandwich in his hand.

"Rise and shine sleeping beauty," Kaz said dryly as he walked over and plopped himself onto the couch, peering down into his face. When he didn't answer, Kaz gave him a slight nudge in the ribs with a socked foot. "Yo. Rad."

Rad frowned. "Time is it?"

"Two in the afternoon."

Rad cursed and opened his eyes, eyeing Kaz's sandwich. "Is that peanut butter?"

"Yeah."

Rad held his hand out for the sandwich, and Kaz took another bite before handing it to him.

"I found a dog this morning," Kaz said as he brushed crumbs off his pants.

"Yeah."

"In the apartment. I found him in the apartment."

Rad bit into the half eaten sandwich and blinked back tears. Wow, this sandwich was so good. He chewed, savoring the taste of the soft Wonder bread, slathered with peanut butter and grape jelly. He took another bite and sighed. God, the sandwich really hit the spot. There had to be something else in it. It couldn't be just peanut butter and jelly. I mean, damn, this was the stuff dreams were made of, it was that good. He wondered if Kaz has laced the sandwich, but that couldn't be it; Kaz wasn't into that type of thing. But why did it taste so heavenly? Curious, he opened the sandwich--

"Rad."

He closed his sandwich and glanced at Kaz, suddenly aware that his high had not completely wore off yet. Kaz raised an eyebrow at him, expecting an answer. His bright blue eyes registering his annoyance.

"We don't own a dog," Rad stated matter-of-factly. He tried to bite into the sandwich again, but his hands were empty. Gone already? He looked around in confusion and then he frowned. God, the after math of getting high was a ball buster sometimes.

"Seriously, you gotta stop smoking the stuff." Kaz stood up and walked into the bathroom. He emerged a few minutes later, his dark hair gelled into a faux hawk. Besides the three inches of hair standing up down the middle of his head, the rest of Kaz's hair was cut short. It made him look a little intimidating, which was the last thing Kaz was. "Your phone went off a few times," he said. "Might wanna get to that."

Rad closed the bathroom door and locked it. He looked around and saw that there was no sink in the bathroom. He smiled, no hint of surprise on his face. A sink in a bathroom was an asset. Warm tap water, added to some contaminated urine with a Mc Donald's packet of salt would lower the specific gravity and creatinine level of the urine, and ultimately, the sample would pass as clean. But it was a risky move. And there was no sink. He glanced into the toilet. The water was a bright blue color. Dyed. So that water wouldn't have worked either. 

Three cups of coffee, an aspirin, and one shower later, Rad was in the kitchen, eating everything and anything in the fridge, his cell phone propped between his ear and shoulder as he checked his voicemail. He opened a Tupper ware container and sniffed its contents. He had no idea what the stuff was, but it looked a little like pudding. Except it was pink. And it smelled sweet. Like cupcakes and Pop Tarts and--

Stop it, he scolded himself. He listened to the message on his voicemail once more before shutting his phone and stuffing it in his pocket. He took the Tupper ware container out into the living room and stood in front of the TV, blocking Kaz's view.

"I can't see."

Rad ignored him, sticking his finger into the pink substance and putting it in his mouth. God, it tasting fantastic. It was like--

He shook his head to clear it. Seriously? He couldn't still be high.

"What the hell is this stuff?" he asked Kaz without looking up from the container.

"Don't know. I think its cake batter or something. Could you move."

Rad stepped aside and leaned against the wall. "I got a call from the office."

Kaz didn't look up from the TV. "And?"

Rad didn't answer right away. He waited until Kaz looked at him before he looked back into the pink batter coolly. "They've randomly selected me to go in for a drug test."

Kaz set his jaw and his dark brows knit together in a glower. "So?" he said in a dangerously low voice.

"So I need a favor." Rad kept scooping the batter into his mouth with his finger. When the container was clean, he went into the kitchen and tossed it into the sink. He came back into the living room and resumed his position against the wall, crossing his arms. He finally looked up at Kaz. "What'chu looking at, rooster?"

Kaz stood up, his fists balled up at his sides, his grip tightening on the remote in his right hand. Rad regarded him calmly, his brown eyes focused, his lips turned up in a smile.

"I'm not covering your ass again," Kaz said through grit teeth.

"Kaz--"

"No! You ever stop and think for a second? You think maybe they do drug testing because oh, I don't know, maybe the job requires you to actually be drug free?" He threw the remote at the couch. "Dammit, Radleigh, you're on your own." He shoved his feet into a pair of beat up converses and made his way to the door when Rad intercepted him, shoving him back. Kaz looked surprised. Rad stuck his index finger in Kaz's face.

"You will do this for me, dammit!"

Kaz's face darkened. He grabbed Rad by the front of his shirt and pushed him back. Kaz had a good twenty pounds on him, and he was probably three inches taller, but Rad was faster. As soon as he was back on both feet, his fist made contact with Kaz's jaw. Kaz swore and he pushed Rad into the wall, jamming his shoulder into Rad's midsection.

"I'm not fighting with you," he said with an icy glare.

"I need your urine."

Kaz pulled himself away and fixed his shirt. He took one last look at Rad before opening the front door and slamming it shut.

He worked quickly. He put the empty paper cup on the table and unzipped his trousers and let them fall to his knees. He unbuttoned his dark dress shirt and lifted the two black Under Armour shirts he had layered underneath the dress shirt. Taped to his lower abdomen, right below his navel, was a Bard Dispoz-A-Bag with his sixteen-year-old cousin's urine in it. The tube that started at the bottom of the Dispoz-A-Bag went down his abdomen and disappeared in the waistband of his boxers. He tugged his boxers down and opened the valve of the tube, emptying the bag into the little paper cup and placed it back on the table. The he did his business into the toilet. He had to leave some evidence of urine. He dressed again, taking care not to wrinkle his dress shirt, and donned his suit jacket again. He didn't bother trying to flush the toilet, he knew that it wouldn't flush. He glanced at himself in the mirror and gave his reflection a smirk as he unlocked the door and stepped outside the bathroom.

Another drug test, in the bag. Literally.

My Emotional Spectrum

Yes, Hermione. I have the emotional range of a teaspoon. In fact, my emotional spectrum consists of five different emotions: curious, satisfied, indifferent, angry, and enraged.

Curious. 
My favorite emotion. Its when I write posts, ponder other emotions such as "love", read up on some interesting things that caught my attention, and drink a lot of tea. :D



Satisfied.
This is the normal-people equivalent of "happy". It includes laughing. I love to laugh. :3



Indifferent.
This is my most common emotion. Its when I'm doing homework, going on facebook, etc. When I'm in this phase, I shoulder-shrug a lot, or raise my eyebrows a lot. I'm not easily phased, I'm usually just like, "meh" or "cool story brah".



Angry.
Tight-lipped, frowning. This is when I usually get very defensive. I argue a lot and lash out with words. If I'm at this stage because of something a person is saying or doing, I'll usually get up and walk away because believe it or not, I don't like being angry. If I'm at this stage because of an event (traffic that makes me late for something important, etc), I tend to get a little watery-eyed and my throat feels tight. I guess its because its out of my hands, and I hate feeling helpless. So I just get angry instead of succumbing to my helplessness.



Hurt.
Yeah, I know I didn't name this as one of the five emotions on my spectrum, but I didn't feel like it deserved that much acknowledgement. It's a short area, and most of the time I pass right over it, straight from "Angry" to "Enraged". In the occasional circumstance that I do end up in the "Hurt" phase, I do what a girl does best: I try not to cry. You know what bothers me? When I'm in this phase, people will be all, "Oh wow, Nehal, are you okay? What happened? Oh my God, are you crying?? You look like you're crying. Do you want to talk about it?" Please, please, please. If I appear to be on the verge of tears, don't ask me these stupid questions. Just hug me, dammit.



Enraged.
It's a short trip from "angry" to "enraged". All it takes is for just one tiny little action/ word to tip the scale. For some reason, I get very quite during this phase. I guess it’s the calm before the storm, and when dealing with a storm, the best thing to do is just wait it out. MOST of the time, I go to my room, close my door, and I just lay on my bed in fetal position and I wait for it to pass. Depending on how enraged I am, it may take something from 15 minutes to a few hours. If I can't seclude myself, I'll try to go outside or something; this phase is quite suffocating. If I'm already outside and enraged, I'm not a pretty person. I get very cold and I say stuff I end up regretting. Alhamdulilah, I haven't been "enraged" in a while; lately I've been stopping short at "hurt".

The Conspiracy Against Females

You know what sucks?

A vacuum?

…okay, you know what sucks in a metaphorical sense?

A black hole?

Alright, alright, you know what just isn't cool?

Lava?

-.- CHUT UP AND LET ME GET TO THE POINT. The universe is conspiring against the female sex. AND I HAVE PROOF. AND I WON'T STAND FOR IT.

Seriously, like its not enough that we have to deal with menstruation and child birth, but we have all this un-cool (un-lava) stuff to deal with as well.

POCKETS. I love pockets! AND WE DON'T HAVE ENOUGH OF THEM! You walk into a store to buy some clothes and then you realize, the article of clothing has pockets! And you get all happy! And then you realize, wait a sec, these are fake pockets. And then you get all melancholy.

DEODORANTS. Our deodorants stink (metaphorically, not literally. If they stunk literally, that would really stink (pun intended. Mind blown yet?)). What the hell is "Revive" and "Powder Fresh" and "Diva la Daisy"?? Guy deodorants smell so much nicer. How come we don't have an equivalent of Axe? Body spray is not the same. I want something I can Pit-Pit-Chest with.

THE HATE GENE. This is phunny, because … it's phunny. You don't usually hear a male talk about one of his best friends saying, "Oh, we stopped being best friends. He was totally trying to make me look bad in front of my crush." I like that about the male sex; they're very laid back about things. Everyone is "cool people" to them. Girls on the other hand, we're blessed with the hate gene. "Best friends" is 90% of the time just code for "we still hate each other, but we can deal with it". WHY CAN'T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG.

MESSY HAIR. On a guy, its cute. On a girl, its "ew, go do something about that."

Anyone else share the same sentiments?

Irrelevant (sorta/ kinda?) but still phunny.

Every Cloud Has A Silver Lining

The ER physician pulled back the curtains of the room and gave the patient a quick hello before reaching over and turning the hospital TV off.

"I'm just going to turn this off for a few minutes or I might start watching TV and stop paying attention to you," he said with a chuckle.

The patient stared back, twisting his fingers nervously, a polite smile on his face. He seemed young, maybe mid-twenties, for his hair was still thick and dark, and his features still carried the reminiscence of obstinatious college days. The physician folded his hands behind his back.

"So what seems to be the problem?" he asked, even though the answer was staring him back in the face, literally.

The patient pointed at his right eye. "My eye. It hurts and my vision is kinda fuzzy." His right eye was slightly protruding, but not too much to notice unless you really looked hard. It looked like he was glaring, except he was only doing it with one eye.

"When exactly did this pain start?" the physician asked, walking closer to the bed and taking a pen light out of his pocket.

"Uh, I don't know, three days ago?"

"Can you describe the pain?"

"Yeah, it's like a pressure almost."

"Okay, I'm just going to ask you to lay back please."

The patient toed his shoes off and laid back on the hospital bed. The physician leaned over and passed the pen light over the patient's eyes, testing his pupil reaction to light.

"Just follow my finger with your eyes. No, no, don't move your head, just with your eyes."

The physician put the pen light back in his pocket and frowned. "I'm not seeing any redness. You don't have a headache, do you?"

"No."

"What about the visual changes you were referring to. You said your vision is a little fuzzy?"

"Yeah, its like looking our of a camera lens when its out of focus; everything is fuzzy."

"Any darkness?"

"Yeah, a little I guess, just around the edges."

The physician nodded. "Do you work?"

"Yeah, I'm the manager of a Walgreens photo department."

"Do you smoke?"

"No."

"Alcohol?"

"Yeah, but just socially."

"Drugs?"

"No."

"And you live alone?"

"No, I have a room mate."

"Okay. So here's what we're going to do. I'm a little concerned about the visual changes, so I'm going to order a CT scan of your head, just to make sure everything's alright there. Then we're going to give you some Percocet for the pain. In the mean time, I'm going to have a nurse come in and give you a visual acuity check, just to see where we stand. Sound fair?"

The patient nodded.

"Okay, I'll put the orders in. We'll talk again in a little." The physician turned on his heel, his white coat flapping behind him, and suddenly stopped short, the curtain in his hand. He paused and looked back at the patient. "Are you on any medication right now?"

"Well, no, not at the moment."

"What about the last twenty four hours?"

"No."

"Any medical problems?"

"No."

"Okay, sounds great."

The doctor left the room, the curtain billowing behind him.

* TWO HOURS LATER *

The physician walked back into the room, followed by two residents in white coats over sea green scrubs. The patient looked at them nervously as they crowded the small room.

The physician spoke. "These are the hospital's OMFS (Oral and Maxillofacial Surgery)residents, they basically deal with dental problems and things of that nature."

The patient blinked. "Dental problems? What's wrong with my teeth?" He absently lifted his hand to the right side of his jaw.

"Did you have any work done on any of your teeth recently?" One of the residents asked.

"Y-yeah, I had one of my wisdom teeth pulled out last week. Why?"

The residents exchanged knowing glances, then the same resident spoke. "And have you had any accidents within the past five years? Any fractures?"

The patient looked worried now. "Well, yeah, I used to skate board back in college. I had an accident and fell down pretty bad and, uh, I fractured my cheek bone."

The other resident grinned. "So you're saying you broke your face?"

The patient flushed. "Yeah, basically."

Now it was the physician who spoke.

"Okay, here's what we think happened. When you had your wisdom tooth extracted, the area got infected, which is common with these kind of things, especially if it was a deep extraction, but that's why the dentist usually prescribes Amoxicillin, or an antibiotic of some sort, just to, you know, prevent an infection, but anyway," the doctor waved his hands dismissively, "what happened is that the infection spread from your mouth up into your head, in the area behind your cheek bone. Luckily, you had scar tissue there from when the fracture healed, and that's what kept the infection from spreading further up. So instead, it kind of stopped there and stared pooling up until it was right beneath your eye, and as it grew in size, it started pressing against your optic nerves. That's the pressure you said you were feeling, and its also the reason behind your visual changes." 

The doctor stared at the patient. "Quite honestly, had you waited a few more days, you would have been blind."

* * *

He was only fourteen when he moved to a new neighborhood and switched schools. It was then that he met one of his to-be-closest friend, who was also a "new kid" and who liked skateboarding. And that was how he decided that for his birthday, he would ask his parents for a skateboard too, so he and his new friend can go skate together. And then one day when he was practicing at the skate park, he accidentally rolled over on a lizard of some sort, and later told his science teacher about it. And that's when he decided he wanted to be a Wild Life Sciences major in college, and that's exactly what he did. And then one day when he woke up late for class, he had to take a back seat in his sophomore English lecture, and that's when he happened to notice the girl sitting next to him, who had brown eyes and a pretty smile. And that's when he decided he had fallen in love, and he switched his major to photography to be with the girl, who dumped him two years later because she was a lesbian. And a few months later, he graduated with a photography degree and was jobless for six months and started drinking. And then one day in the middle of September, his high school friend came knocking on his door, with his skate board tucked under his arm, and a sad smile pasted on his lips, and he told him to put some shoes on, they were going skating. And that's when he remembered how much he liked skating. And then he found out about a skateboarding competition that gave a good wad of money for its first place winner, and his friend told him to sign up. And that's how he found himself in a hospital bed a few hours after the competition, with a fractured cheek bone. And that's when he sobered up and decided to go job hunting again, and that's how he landed a job as a sales associate at a local Walgreens. And two years later, when the manager of the photography department was fired for embezzlement, he told his boss about his photography degree and got the position of photo department manager. And then two weeks ago, he felt annoyed by the pain in his jaw, by his wisdom tooth, and a week later, he had it extracted. And that's when he got the infection.

And had he done one thing differently, had he not moved to a different neighborhood when he was fourteen, or caught his friend's contagious interest in skateboarding. Had he never run over that lizard and taken up an interest in animals, or had he not gone to the college he went to. Had he only pressed the snooze button twice rather than three times, and gotten up on time for his sophomore English class, and had he never asked the girl sitting next to him to a movie. Had she never broken his heart two years later, or had he found a job right after graduating, or had his friend never came back to ask him to skate. Had he never signed up for that competition, had he not gotten that fracture that gave him that scar tissue, and had he decided to ignore his wisdom tooth pain and not go to the dentist to have it extracted. Had he waited just another day before deciding his eye pain probably needed medical attention, and maybe today he would have been blind.

All The Ugliness Inside

I'm gonna be 110% honest here. There's no point of writing my thoughts if I'm just gonna lie through all of them, mold them into what people wanna hear. I'm just gonna tell you what I think, maybe what I feel. And sometimes, that involves revealing some of my most intimate thoughts, the ones I hide under my pillow every night, the ones I run through my hands without really understanding them, before I toss them back under my pillow again.

Except sometimes, these thoughts are bulky, not at all smooth. And sometimes, when I slip them back under my pillow, I can still feel them underneath my conscious. And sometimes these same thoughts, with all their unwanted bulkiness, keep me up at night.

This is what I feel like it means to be one's own enemy.

And this? This is one of those thoughts.

To be honest, I'm not the greatest person in the world (shocking, I know). I'll let you copy my lecture notes, my homework, anything. I'll go sleepless worrying over something that's worrying you. I'll think of you often. I'll try my best to make you smile. I'll pray for you.

But honestly? I wouldn't take a bullet for you. I wouldn't catch a grenade for you. I wouldn't give my life up to save yours.

(My God, I can already feel the social glare burning holes through the back of my neck.)

It's selfish, I know. But I'm not gonna sit here and tell you, "Yeah, of course I'd die for you," when in reality, I have no intention of doing so.

Maybe that'll change later on. I hope it will change. I think I just haven't reached that level of Eman yet, where I can place someone else's life before mine.

And it bothers me. I'm not comfortable with myself for being this way, and that's the only thing that makes me think that hey, maybe there's still hope. Maybe one day I'll wake up and take a bullet for a stranger and be at peace with my decision. Because when you're uncomfortable with something, you'll jump at the first chance you get to change the situation.

Just keep this "shameless and selfish" blogger in your prayers.

*This only applies to people outside my immediate family circle (i.e., parents, brothers, or sisters). I'm comfortable with giving my life up to save one of theirs.

Dear Rhetoric Major

God, I hate you.

And in order for me to get my recommended 8 hours of sleep, I have to go to bed now.

I'll finish my hate-post later.

I HAVE A SENSE OF HUMOR.

...AND I'M NOT THAT PARANOID.

Mini-Auto Biography

I figured I'd need one, y'know, for when I become famous and people start google-ing my name. :P

I was born in the bustling city of St. Petersburg, more specifically in Peterhof, the youngest of four daughters and I was raised a Grand Duchess. When I was eight years old, my father threw a grand ball to celebrate the 300th anniversary of Romanov rule. My grandmother was giving me a beautiful music box that sang a song we both knew so well, and a sparkling necklace that said "Together in Paris". Suddenly, a bad man (who wasn't invited to our grand ball)with a bat (the flying type) interrupted our party and cast a spell on my family. I know right? Mad rude…

I would hope that if you are a sane person reading this post, you know that I am in fact, not the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna of Russia. I just really liked the Disney movie.

I was actually born in Africa, in a place called the Pride Lands, to a King and his Queen. My birth meant that my Uncle Scar was second in line to take the throne and--

Okay, okay, I'll stop now.

I really was born in Africa though, but in Egypt. Cairo, to be more specific. We moved to the United States when I was two years old, and I don't remember much before the age of three. My first memory, actually, involved a yellow dress that I was very fond of wearing, and sitting on the beach in Sharm El-Sheikh with my parents and younger sister, who was still in diapers at the time. I remember being upset because I had dropped ice cream on my yellow dress.

But that's enough about toddler me.

The summer before sixth grade my parents decided that we'd move back to Egypt for a year, so they can go perform Hajj, the Islamic pilgrimage to Makkah. Why did we have to go to Egypt for that? Well, one of my aunts living in Egypt wasn't married at the time, and she would be able to look after us while my parents were away. Hajj occurs roughly during the middle of the school year, so we'd have to stay for the entire year.

The schooling system in Egypt is not the same one used in the United States, but it's very similar to the one used in the United Kingdom. Education was based on three phases: pre-primary, primary, preparatory, and secondary. Pre-primary is two years long, and it is synonymous to America's pre-school and kindergarten years. Then is primary, which is five years long; followed by preparatory, which is three years long; and finally secondary, which is also three years long. When telling someone what "grade" you were in, you'd say, "Preparatory Year 2," and so on. So you see, a student graduating from a school in Egypt would go to college a year earlier than a student graduating from a school in the U.S. It was just my luck that I had finished my five years of 'primary schooling' and I was placed in year 1 of preparatory school. When we returned to the United States, I took the entrance exam for Al-Ghazaly High School, and they placed me in eighth grade. And that's the story of how I "skipped a grade". It wasn't because I was some kind of super smart child prodigy; I was just in the right place at the right time, so to speak.

High school was whatever, I guess. I transferred to Marist High School, a catholic school in Bayonne, the summer before my junior year and I hated it with every fiber of my being. I was one of two of the first Muslim girl who wore the Hijab to enter that school, and I was the butt of everyone's racist jokes for a good month or two. I would come home every night and cry to my parents about how terrible my day at school was but they wouldn't hear it. So I trained myself not to care, and I found that if you do that long enough, you become numb. I had no friends, and I was the poster child for depression (not the clinical term, just the "I hate everything" term). I had a lot of free time, so I studied (I know, its sad, but I told you I was depressed). I'm not even gonna lie, I was pretty damn smart. And instead of people noticing me for "that thing I wear on my head", I started getting noticed for being "that smart girl from physics class". I was also taking studio art as an elective, and I guess I unearthed some hidden talent there too. My art teacher would display my work in the school hallways, and well, I was noticed for another "something else". Then one day, a group of girls came up to me during lunch and asked me if I wanted to sit at their table. And slowly, I made friends. And that's when people felt comfortable enough to ask me questions about my religion, rather than just make fun of it. And that's when I realized that in order to answer their questions, I had to answer my own first. I bought books about Islam, I asked questions, I searched. And that's when I started feeding my interest in giving Da'wah (literally, "summoning to a call").

Thinking back, I guess my junior and senior years were my golden years. I was smart, I had friends, I wasn't in love (which is always a good thing in my books; it's too distracting), and I was my parents' pride.

Someone once told me that in order for life to maintain its yin-yang balance, you couldn't have a good life all the time. When I first heard that, I thought to myself, "What nonsense." I was a high school senior, I had just gotten an interview with Yale, and I was on top of the world. Three years later, I can say that that person was right. I had a great childhood, and the first half of my adolescent years were even better.

I wish I can say the same about the second half.

College is…not what I had anticipated, to say the least. I hate NJIT, to say the least. I've developed anger issues, to say the least, and I swear I have never been more introverted than I am now.

Meh, there isn't much to say I guess, or to elaborate on, and I don't wanna write just another sob story. I'm just hoping my adulthood will be better, insha'Allah. Y'know, to go back to equilibrium. I just want my life to go back to normal. But 'normal' is a relative term, isn't it?

Lecture Hall Etiquette 101

We've all been there. Y'know, that one class you take where everyone else in the lecture hall is an absolute idiot. They're so lost and clueless, and I felt bad for them, so this is the list I made for them. Maybe we can have a movement dedicated to printing the list on handy little 3" x 5" index cards and hand them out around campus.

1. Do not, I repeat, DO FREAKING NOT, sit three rows from the front and play Tetris on an iTouch in teams of two, complete with a cheering squad and betters, while simultaneously having conversations about how many parties you've been to over the weekend or how many people "that girl" has hooked up with or how warm your socks are.
2. Do not kick the back of the seat of the person sitting in front of you and then act innocent when the person turns around and glares at you.
3. Do not have conversations with the Professor under your breath. Someone is probably sitting near you thinking something along the lines of, "Oh my God, HE CAN'T HEAR YOU, JUST SHUT UP."
4. Do not put your foot on the arm rest of the OCCUPIED seat in front of you. Yes, I understand that the person in front of you only uses the front half of the arm rest anyway, and that it's at the perfect level for you to rest your foot on, but don't do it, k?
5. Do not be that annoying frequent hand raiser that everyone wishes death upon.
6. Do not try to hit on the cute graduate student who is teaching the course. He's married, and you look retarded asking questions like, "Have you seen that video of the hamster playing piano? Oh my God, its so cute, I have to send it to you!" Sure, its adorable, but contrary to your belief, it has NOTHING to do with statistics.
7. Do not bring your five year old child to lecture. I can't believe I had to write that one.
8. Do not try to be a wiseass and answer rhetorical questions like, "We can't do that can we?" or "But who am I to judge?" or "We have to make more NAD+ don't we?"
9. Do not click that stupid pen of yours over and over again.
10. Do not make out during Power Point presentations when the lights are conveniently dimmed.

Thanks,

Management

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

I pulled my 1956 Volkswagen Kharmann Ghia off to the side of the road and turned the engine off. I left my headlights on though, because it was nearly 10PM and night was enveloping us with its dark cloak. Cecilia opened her door first and stepped out of the car. It was typical weather for September; scorching days and brisk cool nights. The night air felt refreshing and when I looked over at Cecelia, I know she was thinking just the same. Her brown eyes smiled at me and we walked side by side toward the lake.

Cecilia, or Cece as I used to call her, was still the same girl I remembered from North California High School. We had gone together our freshman and sophomore years, but then the summer before our junior year she had her braces removed, gained weight in all the right places, and began using a hair straightener. People started noticing her, and that's when our relationship started deteriorating. We broke up on a warm afternoon at a house party I wasn't invited to. I guess we both needed the break.

Now, four years, two relationships each, and three years of college later, and she looked exactly the same. Her blonde hair was shorter though, curling inwards slightly at the ends, and stopping just short of her jaw.

I imagined I still looked the same. Taller perhaps, but not much else. I was still the same thin and lanky kid with glasses, the kid who read too much even for his own good. But at least now my appreciation for books was rewarded. I loved my major, and I excelled at almost all my classes.

We followed the light from my headlights closer to the calm water of Lake Berryessa and I shifted the plastic bag with our Colas in it from one hand to the other as Cecelia picked a spot for us to sit. When we finally settled down, I handed her a can and opened my own.

"How are you Bryan?" she asked as she sipped her Cola.

I nodded. "M'alright. Fancy seeing you today. It's been what, four years?"

She smiled. "Yes, long time no talk. How's Pacific Union? You like it there, don'tcha?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. It's great actually."

"What is it you said you were studying?"

"Pre-Law, with history and psych."

"You always were the smarty pants," she said as she dug her sandals into the sand. "How's Amy doing?"

Amy was my girlfriend. She went to Pacific Union, too. "She's good." And because it was too short of an answer, I added, "She's into that whole Animal Rescue thing."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

We sit silently for a few minutes, each engulfed in their own thoughts. The best thing about it all was that it wasn't an elevator silence, where the awkward tenseness is thick enough to slice through with a butter knife. No, this was different. Comfortable almost.

I sip my Cola and look up at the sky. The stars were shining brilliantly tonight, and I laid down in the sand and linked my fingers behind my head. I always told myself if I hadn't been a pre-law major I'd be an astronomy major. The stars, I told myself, they were what fascinated me. They were dazzling, always. I used to wonder what their secret was.

"You still think about the starts, don’tcha?"

I laughed sheepishly. I still wonder what their secret is. "You ever hear the story of Andromeda?" I finally ask her.

She put her Cola down, pushed it down securely into it's own little sand cup-holder, and laid down a few feet away, her hands linked behind her head as well. "Tell me."

I watch the constellation, diamonds against an ebony velvet quilt, and begin the story. "She was a beautiful princess, born to King Cepheus of Ethiopia and his boastful queen, Cassiopeia. One day, Queen Cassiopeia foolishly bragged that she was more beautiful than Juno, who was queen of the Gods. When Juno found out, she was furious, and she asked her husband, King Neptune, to send a sea monster to ravage the Ethiopian coast. Cepheus was horrified and pleaded with Neptune to remove the curse on their Ethiopian seas. Neptune, of course, wouldn't listen; he told Cepheus that the only way Juno would be appeased was if Andromeda, the virgin princess of Ethiopia, was sacrificed to the sea monster. And so, Andromeda was dutifully chained to a rock, awaiting the jaws of the sea monster. Fortunately for her, Perseus--"

"Is that the guy who killed Medusa?"

"Yes, the very one. Matter of fact, Perseus was on his way back from killing Medusa when he saw Andromeda chained to the rock in the middle of the sea. And he fell in love with her. So he--"

"Bryan," Cecelia was sitting up on her elbows now, squinting curiously into the darkness. "There's a man in the trees over there."

I don't sit up, I continue watching the stars. "He's probably a picnicer, Cece."

"He seems a little odd."

"Many people do."

"And this is an odd hour for a picnic, don'tcha think?" she snapped.

"Cecilia, do you want to hear the rest of the story?" She glared at me. "I'll talk, and you keep your eyes on the man in the trees. Fair enough?"

She huffed at my indifference and sat up, brushing sand out of her hair. "Go on then. He fell in love with her."

Even in the darkness, I can see her eyes focused on the trees behind us.

"He did, and he asked her why she was chained to a rock. After much persisting on his part, she finally told him the name of her country, and her own name, and how her mother, a beautiful woman, was too confident in her beauty."

"Bryan, I can't find him. I don't know where he's gone."

"God, Cece. You say it like it’s a bad thing. Good riddance."

"I have a bad feeling about this, Bryan."

"So Perseus went to the King and Queen of Ethipia and made them an offer--"

"Bryan," Cece was suddenly inches away from me, her fingernails digging into my flesh. She squeezed my arm. "Bryan, he's wearing a mask," she squeaked. "And he's coming this way."

I bolted up, and sure enough, standing a few feet away from us was a man in a mask, with sunglasses on top.

"Oh my God," Cece stammered. "Oh my God, he's got a gun!"

And sure enough, sticking out of the waist band of his pleated trousers was a gun. I try to raise my hands in the universal sign of submission, which was a task in itself, as Cece was still attached to my right arm.

"What do you want?" I ask him, albeit a pointless question. I figured I already knew what he wanted; I had studied the criminal mind in several of my psychology classes and knew a thing or two. That gun, for instance? Probably no bullets. It was just a scare tactic.

"I need your help."

And then I laughed sheepishly.

"Listen Mac, you're welcome to what ever is in my pockets, but you'll only find seventy-five cents." He doesn't answer me, just moves closer. "I can't help you right now, but if you need help that badly, I can probably help you out in some other way maybe. There's no strings attached, I can write you a check or something, and we can both just--"

"Nah, time's runnin' out." I look at him questioningly. "I just broke out of Mountain Lodge Prison and I killed a security guard. They're lookin' for me."

I snicker silently. The man was about 5'11" and chunky, and Mountain Lodge was in Montana, which is almost 1,300 miles away from here. Not the survivor type. Plus, the prison break would have been on the news at least.

"Hey, man, I don't mean to blow your bluff or anything, but wouldn't you rather hijack my car and be stuck in a stealing charge rather than a homicide threat? Y'know?"

"Don't start playin' hero on me," he spits. "And don't you try to take the gun out of my hands neither. I seen the way you're eyeballin' it!" So I decide not to lunge for his gun just yet.

I sigh. "Y'know, you're really wasting you're time with us. I've got this much change and probably a billfold in my car, but that's it really."

He tossed a rope toward us and it landed at our feet. Where he got the rope from? I hadn't the slightest idea.

"Girl, tie him up," he orders. "I'd feel much better if you were tied up."

I put my hands behind my back and look at Cece as she ties the rope around my wrists, binding them together. "You know, I think I can get that gun," I whispered to her. Her head snaps up and her fearful eyes say no, that it's a bad idea. And I figured that since there were two lives at stake here, and not just my own, I wouldn't try to get his gun.

After Cece had finished putting a few loose knots on me, he walked over and inspected her work. He snarled something unintelligible about her being an idiot girl and he tightened the knots. Then he tied up Cece similarly, and I could hear her sobbing softly.

"Okay, lay down," he says to me as he removes his mask and sunglasses. "I've got her tied up."

"Aw, c'mon man, don't make us lay down! We could be here for hours!"

"Get down!"

"We could freeze to death, dammit!"

"I SAID GET DOWN RIGHT NOW!"

And so he grabs Cece first and pushes her onto her stomach in the sand and binds her ankles. I look at him carefully for the first time all night. He was two inches shorter than me, but he probably had a good fifty to sixty pounds on me. His hair was dark brown and disheveled from when he pulled his mask off. His clothes weren't expensive, I noted. A navy blue windbreaker that was zipped up at the front, over pleated pants. He looks at me.

"I can fix this," I begin, my eyes serious. He grabs my arm. "I can help you!" I try to shout, but I don't finish the sentence. I eat a mouthful of sand instead as he pushes me into the sand and binds my ankles tightly.

"Do you have bullets in there?" I ask him, spitting sand. I can't see his face, I can barely see anything at all, but seeing didn't matter just then. It was what I heard. I heard the dull sound of a piece of metal hit the sand, and the sound of metal against metal as more bullets fell into the sand beside my head as he emptied out his clip, letting them fall to the ground as he laughed. I could see the bullets laying in the sand now and my breath caught in my throat. This monster was going to kill us.

And then it wasn't about seeing, or hearing.

It's what I felt. 

I felt a sharp pain shoot up my spine and I cried out. And then again, and again, and again, and I felt a sharp sensation in my back, under my shoulder. Suddenly, I couldn't breathe right, like someone had deflated one of my lungs. And that's when I heard Cece screaming for him to stop, and surprisingly, the sharp pain ceased. And that's when Cece stopped screaming and started shrieking. I didn't know what was going on, so I turned my head toward her to see what was happening, and that's when I saw him stabbing her repeatedly. I tried to scream out, but my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my lips were dry. My voice was hoarse and I couldn't speak. I watched him stab Cecilia seven times, I counted. And then he tossed his knife aside like a toddler tosses an unwanted toy and he put his hands in his pockets. He stood there for a few seconds admiring his work no doubt, and then turned around and walked away.

He left us for dead.

I hear myself yelling, "Help!" before I knew what I was doing. Cece was awfully quite. "Cece! Cecilia!" I roll over on my side, ignoring the searing pain that runs up my spine, and give her my back. "Cece, I need you to untie me. I can get us out of here, please Cecilia."

"I can't," she whispers, and her voice shakes me. I put my head down on the sand and stay quiet. I hadn't given up just yet. My heart rate was racing my mind, and I still couldn't breathe right. Thinking was a challenge when I was too busy concentrating on taking in oxygen, and suddenly I was remembering Robert Collier. He had once said, "As fast as each opportunity presents itself, use it!" 

That's it. I was just waiting for an opportunity. I started seeing, not just looking, and I noticed that from the way my head was tilted, I could see the lake. And through the thickness of the night, I could see the lights of tug boats headed to shore. 

"No matter how tiny an opportunity it may be, use it," I whisper, echoing Collier. One boat in particular is closer to us than the rest. I raise my head and shout, "Help! HELP US! HELP!" But the boat doesn't stop.

Time passes by, seconds blending into minutes, phasing into hours, and another boat passes by, this one a little slower, and I cry out for help. My heart is in my throat, and I can't seem to swallow it down, and I want to cry but I can't, because I can't breathe right, and my God, we were gonna die. We were gonna die.

But then the boat's motor turns off and the night is strangely silent. "Help us! We've been attacked!" I yell. I see a figure stand up in the boat. "HELP US! PLEASE!"

"Is he still there?" The man shouts back.

"No, he's gone! Just help us! PLEASE! My friend, she's hurt badly!" Truth is, I don't know if he's gone, but I didn't care. The worst was already happening.

And I get no response. So I roll over onto my back and stare up at the stars, and they shine on. And suddenly I hate them. I hate them so much. And I start crying. Not softly, no. I bawl and it doesn't matter to me that I can't breathe anymore. I can't remember the last time I cried, but it feels so good right now, to just let my warm tears bathe my scratched up face. And when I finally stop crying and regain my breath sounds, I stare at the stars, because they were still blatantly shining. They shone on while Cece and I got stabbed, they shone on while I called out for help from a world that didn't care, they shone on as I cried, and they'd keep shining while I died.

So I closed my eyes against them.

And I whispered my last dying prayer.

"What happened to Andromeda?" Cece asks, her voice in a barely audible whisper. I keep my eyes shut tightly and I ignore her. I don't want to hear her dying. I don't want her voice to be the last thing I hear before I die.

I don't want to be the last person she talks to before she dies.

And because I can't stand her question echoing in my ears, in my head, and in my conscious, I answer her.

"Perseus made her parents an offer. He told them he'd kill the sea monster in exchange for Andromeda's hand in marriage. And they agreed. So he killed the monster and Andromeda is freed. The two joyously marry and they lived happily ever after." I pause for a minute, thinking. Then I continue slowly,"Andromeda is represented in the sky as the figure of a woman with her arms outstretched and chained at the wrists."

Cece is quiet for a few minutes, and then she speaks again. "Bryan, I think I can try untying you now."

And she reaches over and I feel her freezing fingers picking at the rope binding my hands.

And after what seems like hours, my hands are free.

I untie my ankles and then untie Cece, trying my best to ignore the numbness I feel. "Stay here," I say to her. "I'll go find help." She doesn't move, doesn't speak. "Cece!"

"I'm here."

"I'll come back for you, I promise."

So I push myself up and my legs don't move the way I want them to. I try to focus, but after twenty feet, I have to lay down and breathe. I count to fifty and try to get up, but decide maybe I can crawl and cover more distance that way. I search blindly for my headlights. They were supposed to be on. My vision is a little cloudy around the edges so I stop and count to fifty. Twice. I focus on breathing. I can see the road from where I am in the sand and I wonder what time it is. My alarm clock is going off, I can hear it. I frown, because today's Saturday. Or is it Sunday? Will someone silence that damn alarm? I can't seem to find the snooze button. Where is my flashlight?

They were supposed to be on.

But its not my alarm clock going off. Somehow, I'm laying in the sand by a phone stand, a few feet away from the road, and I assume I crawled there. The phone is hanging off its hook and the dial tone is beeping in my ear. Is the dial tone always that loud? I'll have to check it out when I wake up.

But I feel like I shouldn't be sleeping. And I can't see very well, there's all this darkness interrupting me. And my vision is hazy. Why am I so tired? Something…something was supposed to be on.

I wonder if I'm dreaming.

I see a car parked on the other side of the road. It's white and it has something scribbled on it in black marker.

And that's when it all comes rushing back. That's my car. My headlights are smashed.

They were supposed to be on.

And so I wonder...

What happens when you find the light at the end of the tunnel? Only someone had taken a bat to it?

The Cheshire Cat Moon

It was 1:40AM and I was making my way down to the security office at St. Joe's. My shift was supposed to be over at 2:00AM but it was a Friday night and the attending physician decided to let me go 20 minutes early. I had my car key in my hand, holding the bow in my palm with the blade sticking out between my index and middle fingers. Sure, it's a strange way to hold a car key, but the hospital was practically empty (except for the patients and physicians of course, and the occasional janitor) and I'm paranoid, and I had read about the damage a key can do to a person's eyes. There's a Self Defense 101 lesson for you, free of charge.

So anyway, I get to the security office and peek over the desk. It wasn't a properly lit area; the only source of light was coming from a lamp on the desk. The security officer on duty was leaning back in his chair with his hands folded behind his head. He was facing a corner where a blue light shone on his face. TV, I assumed. He saw me and sat up, turned the TV off.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"I need a security escort to my car."

"Where are you parked?"

"Overflow lot."

"Overflow," he repeated as he pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. He glanced casually at the larger TV to his left, the screen of which was split into four sub-screens, each showing a different section of the hospital. He picked up his phone and dialed a four digit number. "Yeah, I need a 1308 to overflow." The person on the other end spoke, and the security guard answered, "When is she coming back? ...Okay…Yeah, I'll let her know." He hung up and looked at me. "Can you wait until 2AM? I'm the only one on duty here, and the other security guard is at the front desk covering for the receptionist until she comes back from her break. She should be back around 2."

So much for getting out early. "I'll wait."

The security guard nodded and glanced at the large TV screen again. "There's a bench right there if you want to sit down," he said, motioning vaguely in its general direction. I absently run my thumb across the teeth of the key in my hand as I debated this in my head. Stay in the security office, or in the hallway on the bench? Which is safer? Well, the security guard was a little on the chubby side, and although he was sitting down, I was pretty sure he was a good six inches shorter than I am. Moreover, his hair was graying at the temples, and he looked old enough to be someone's dad. Best-worst case scenario? A psych patient walks in with a pen (which does plenty of damage, mind you), Security Dad ducks behind his metal desk and I run like hell in the opposite direction. That being said, I guessed it didn't make much of difference where I waited; either way it was an every-man-for-himself situation. So I decided to wait on the bench a few yards down the hallway. At least I had phone service there; the security office was a dead zone (kinda ironic, huh?).

I checked my inbox. No new texts. Well, yeah, its 2AM, maybe everyone's asleep. I checked facebook. No new notifications. Okay, so maybe no one's on facebook now. I checked my mailbox. No new e-mail messages. Okay, so maybe-- Alright, alright, so maybe no one loves me. But just in case, I check facebook again. Okay, for sure, no one loves me.

A few Brick Breaker games later and my peripheral vision detects movement. I snap my head up and hold my car key tightly. Its only Security Dad. I scold myself for being a paranoid baby. Then I scold myself for nearly pissing my pants over nothing. Then I scold myself because I need to stop having conversations with myself, dammit! STOP IT, SELF.

"I'll walk you out to your car, miss," he says from where he's standing. I nod and gather my bag and walk a few strides behind him toward the exit. The first thing I notice when we get outside is the sky. It's so clear, with no evidence of the rain it had poured earlier. The second thing I notice is the moon.

It's the Cheshire Cat Moon! The real one, not the sideway one, like this: 

Or upside down one, like this:

No, this was the real, legit one.

Perfect.

I suddenly get this need to share it with someone. I look around. Just me and Security Dad. But I don't care, this is The Cheshire Cat Moon, and I'm sharing it dammit!

"You ever hear of the Cheshire Cat?" I ask him, walking a little faster to match his stride. For a short man, he walked pretty fast. Or maybe I just walk slow.

He looks a little caught-off-guard, like he wasn't expecting a conversation, and I secretly smile smugly. He probably thought this was gonna be a quick and quiet walk to over flow lot, but just his luck he got stuck with my annoying self.

"The what?" he asks.

"The Cheshire Cat," I repeat. "You know, the cat from Alice in Wonderland? You ever see that movie?"

His brows are knit together in confusion and he looks at me. I don't say anything, I just point at the moon. He looks in the direction I'm pointing at and the furrows in his eyebrows and in his forehead smooth out. "Ohhhhhhh!" he says, and he starts laughing. "I seen that movie with my kids!" He laughs again and keeps looking at the moon. "The cat that disappears, huh?"

I nod with a grin. "Yup, that's The Cheshire Cat Moon. Y'know, 'cause it looks like--"

"The cat's smile, right?"

"Exactly."

The rest of the walk was pretty quiet, except for one or two comments about the weather, but I didn't care. I saw The Cheshire Cat Moon and so did Security Dad, and maybe he'll go home and tell his kids about it.

Because It Needs To Be Said

Guilty as charged.

I'm a judgmental person, I always have been and I always will be.

I judge you when you use poor grammar. I judge you when you use 'u' and 'lolz' and 'wut' in texts and facebook status updates. I judge you based on the books you choose to read, the clothes you choose to wear, the people you take as friends. I judge you based on your hair style, your sense of humor (or lack thereof), the classes you choose to take. I judge you according to who you find 'hot', who you find 'too serious', and who you find 'stuck up'.

I judge people, and guess what? So do you.

You judged this post as interesting enough to keep reading thus far. You judged me as smart, nice, funny, shy, stupid, or "mad weird bro." You judged your professors as 'not knowing how to teach'. You judged that kid snoring in the back row of lecture as a nuisance or an 'idiot'. You judged Justin Bieber. You judged Edward Cullen. You judged Miley Cyrus. Nah, I think we can all agree no one likes her, right?

You judged Hermione Granger and you judged Draco Malfoy.

You judged so-and-so as a liar, and you judged so-and-so as a sweet heart. You judged your significant other as being suitable for you. You judged them as being understanding, loving, caring, and being 'the one'.

The thing is that there is no right or wrong judgment. I might judge 'Jersey Shore' as being the most stoopit show ever, and you might judge it as fist-pumping-good. I might judge Coldplay as being a monotonous and boring band, and you might judge it as amazing.

It’s the judgments that we make on a day-to-day basis that make us who we are, and it makes the world around us what it is, to us. Everything has a little 'profile' in our mind, and our judgments simply add to that profile, or edit some of the things already there. For instance, my initial judgment on Person A might be that he's quite, seems smart, and has a nice smile. Ten minutes later, Person A opens his mouth and my judgment is writing 'JERK, PERVERT, POTTY MOUTH, REALLY OBNOXIOUS LAUGH' on his 'profile'.

I'm sick and tired of people saying, "Don't judge me," or, "Don't worry, I won't judge you."

Because I will, and you will too, and now it's out in the open.

A Minute and a Half

It was a Friday night, unusually chilly for April. Four girls made their way across campus, one skipping ahead with a grin, her slim figure throwing her dancing shadow across the cement pavement. She turned around occasionally, waiting for her companions to catch up, challenging them to a race to the car. A few feet behind her was another girl, this one with olive skin, and she smiled as she shook her head at the grinning girl's teasing remarks. Behind her were the last two companions, their heads huddled close as they spoke in whispers. The shorter of the two had moonlit-skin, and it was the tallest of the girls that took up the challenge to a race.

So they raced to the white Nissan that belonged to the tallest of the girls.

The four girls all lived in the same town, streets apart, but farther in life. The tallest of the girls slid behind the steering wheel, and the girl with the moonlit-skin took shot gun; and that left the girl with the grin and the olive-skinned girl in the backseat.

And just like that, four almost-strangers became close for a minute and a half.

They talked about boys, about life, about what they heard through the grape vine; they wrote their names on the windows, and sang along to the songs on the radio, even the ones they didn't know the lyrics to. Stories were told, secrets were spilled, confessions were made.

Five months later and I'm starting to realize, maybe it's better to keep some people as almost-strangers. And maybe a minute and a half is a minute and a half too long.

This is for Yasmeen Rasheed

who checks my blog everyday like a little creeper because it's the closest she gets to communicate with me.

I adore you. <3

Yeah, more about that later... (y'know, about how I'm a lousy friend).

In the meantime.

WANT:
Ivanhoe, the 1928 edition.

Birthday gift? :D

Sigh. Friggin' vintage.