All I'm saying.

It's not the fact that I'm not accustomed to living by myself for very long.
Nor the fact that I'm temperamental and don't seem to get along very well with anyone else ever.

It's not that I'm just not good with people in general, so it seems pretty awesome when I am.
Nor the fact that it sucks that I'm apparently not entertaining enough for an eternity, or whatever the fancy duration is, kids' these days use in metaphors.

It's not like there don't seem to be a lot of people around that'll bother to listen to what happened all day.
Nor the fact that exciting things only seem to happen when you have someone to tell.

It's just that it fucking sucks, you know?
All the emotional and insecure bullshit aside. Or maybe it is just that? I don't fucking know.

All I know is, I'm a little fucking batshit crazy. Or so I like to be sometimes.
It's not the worst fucking thing in the world, you know? There are way worse things happening everywhere all the time.

It's part of the reason I feel batshit crazy sometimes.

And when I say batshit crazy, I just mean angry and shit.

It's not just that it's not good for you.
It's just the fact that, shit, come on. This is a pretty horrible spot to fucking be in right now.

That's all I'm saying.

Something funny and/or witty goes here.

I just don't want to do it anymore. I can't get myself to do it.

You know, pretend to be something? Just, something-else? Anything else?

I feel like writers are douches. I feel like every time you write something, you're pretending to be someone or something you're not. You're trying your best to be presentable. To seem witty, and smart. To have something extremely profound to say. To have something to say that hasn't been said before.

"We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars, but we won't. We're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off."

Feeding into our narcissism. The want to be heard. The irresistible desire to be desired. The dire need for attention. What is the point?

It's what social networking revolves around. Our narcissism is the sacrificial lamb, the scapegoat. All we ever do all day is whine and brag and pretend to be someone or something else. Everywhere. All the time. On everything.

And every single time I write something like this out, I end up deleting it or it ends up in draft hell.

For the sole reason that I don't want to come off as a hypocrite, because I'm doing it myself. Right here. Right now. Writing. It's like a viscous cycle, then, isn't it?

What I was going to write about, however, was childhood. I constantly find myself dozing off and remembering bits and pieces from "back in the day."

Like I remember not so long ago, summers in Riyadh. With absolutely nothing to do, and being so tired of being indoors all day that you don't even realize it, I would lay on the floor all day. And listen to things like How Soon is Now by The Smiths. Or Golden Brown by The Stranglers. My hair would be a complete mess, because I started rejecting the idea of a haircut for a few months. The red t-shirt that I wore for weeks at no end even had a hole in the bottom right. And I just walked around the house, looking like that. Not necessarily going anywhere. Not really don't anything. Just... you know, lurking.

I would go to the store every now and then. Just for the kick of it. And I remember getting stares from the shop owner guy. It was kinda creepy. He looked creeped out himself, if I remember correctly. Then I'd just go back home and repeat the process.

I learned about FServing around that time, if I remember correctly. You know, MIRC. That cool chat thing that all the cool kids use. It's so old, and it's still used by a good amount of people. There are societies that live on MIRC chatrooms to this day. It's crazy.

I also took out 8 hours of my very apathetic life, (over the course of 2 nights,) to create a 200 frame animation in MS Paint. I made an individual .gif in MS Paint... no, I made 200... and it was an animated short about a super awesome guy surfing a plane and then parachuting to the ground. I thought it was pretty cool, for such an original idea.

Then he breaks into some high-tech place and has a Matrix style bullet dodging scene. Which, arguably, might not be so original, but whatever.

Aah, yeah. Those were the good ol' days.

Jar of Pennies.

I have this jar of pennies in my closet. Technically speaking, it's not even a jar, per se. It's more like, a lot of pennies in a sandwich bag.

Every time I manage to safely put all the pennies I come across into that jar at the end of the night, I feel like I'm doing something right. I also think to myself, hey, at least I'm doing something right. I mean, I'm still alive, so I guess that's another thing that I seem to be doing right, too, but this, in a sense, is much more real. It's right in front of me, and what not. It's tangible and what not, even if I'm going to go into some mushy metaphorical bullshit in just a little.

See, every penny can signify something, you know?

No. Fuck that, I can't do it. I know I could've continued writing that and people would've been all fucking mystified by it and the amounts of fake skewed up philosophy I managed to stuff into it.

It's just a jar of pennies, all right. And for some insane reason it makes me feel just a little more grounded. You know? I also enjoy it because - hey, it's money. And eventually, one day, I'll take it over to a bank and get it converted to bills. It's probably around 10 dollars right now.

10 Dollars. That sounds like such little money, it's ... just horrible. Because that was my first thought: "Gosh, that's not a lot of money..." Then immediately after that, I felt guilty and completed it with: "... that's horrible though! There are starving kids and stuff all around the world, and people have made it with way less money!"

I don't even know where I was trying to go with this.

But uh... yeah. Jar of pennies... and stuff.

I wonder how it would've been to live in the days of text-only computing. You know, terminal based web browsing, and text-only web pages... nowadays it seems like people refuse to read text unless it's on a vintage-effect picture that looks like grandma's arsehole took it. Why are we doing that, anyway? I thought we moved on to the digital age and wouldn't have to worry about film grain and shit. Instead, people are using DSL-fucking-Rs' to take pictures that look worse than they did 20 years ago. What's the fucking point then?

Dream, within a dr- Oh, shut the fuck up.

I've been meaning to do this for a really long time.

Inception. I'm going to tear it a new one.

To put it in short, Inception is like a jugsaw puzzle that tries really hard to come off as a rubik's cube. A puzzle that is confusing and so hard to understand, that solving it makes you a part of an elite society. It's the same effect that buying a cup of coffee at Starbucks induces in people. You think to yourself, oh, this is such a fine puzzle, that me understanding it can only mean I belong to a heirarchy that involves people that understand this shit. Surely not a common man. It's only one of the many ways that money makers have found of pulling people into the loop, by feeding their egos. Because the modern day mammal loves nothing more than his or her ego being fed, a.k.a. living the dream.

The plot, the concept of Inception is so shallow, that it can be explained in very simple terms in about 5 minutes. The film makers aren't stupid, I'm not saying that. On the contrary, the film makers are smart people that know this, and could've accomplished that very task - save for the fact that they would never want to. Because that's the secret, the cash cow. They managed to take a concept so simple, and structure it, and present it in a way so tangled up (to orchestral music in the background, of course,) that the common man of today comes out of it feeling like a rocket scientist. And that is the magic of "Inception."

Also to mention, Inception's shallow plot line is not helped by how the movie has no boundaries or set rules to it. No matter what amount of imagination the film makers require the audience to bring in to the movie, I feel the experience is incomplete if there aren't any set of rules developed pre-game. Imagine playing a game of chess without any rules? It just wouldn't be a game of chess then.

Similarly, in Inception it seems that the film makers did whatever the hell they wanted to, from the beginning till the end. Oh, we can go inside dreams, hunky dory. Midway through it all, oh, we can go inside the second layer of the dream too, did ja know? No, I didn't know, because what the fuck, you just made that up.

Filmaker: You know what, how about we just flip the whole surface of the planet in this one scene.

My question here is; Why?? What did that one scene have ANYTHING to do, at fuck all, with the plot? The story line? The concept? Or should I say, the lack of all those things?

It didn't. It was just a cheap trick. One of the many cheap tricks, in fact, Hollywood deploys in the present, so movie goers can just gawk in awe without wasting any brain cells.

Also see: Michael Bay, and Transformers.

It's just pleasant things to look it. Just like Paranormal Activity. There's no plot, there's no sub plot, there's nothing going on. All that it offers, is cheap thrills. Shock imagery. Scary shit happening back to back.

Back in the days, it used to be - they would actually sit down and ponder over how to make the movie more intriguing by adding story telling elements to it. By adding msytery, by adding suspense. By developing character back stories, and somehow unfolding a character's mentality to the person on the other side of the screen.

Take John Carpenter's "The Thing," created all the way back in 1982. The movie had zero to none Computer Generated Imagery. And we can all imagine what the special effects were like back then ourselves. But what John Carpenter did have - was talent, and a way with story telling.  The following is a spoiler because I want to make the whole thing about "The Thing" quick and short, because I'm not writing  review for it:

[SPOILER ALERT - because I can't talk about the sheer genius, without spoiling a key plot element.] - You see this random dog being hunted by a bunch of Norweignans at the beginning, that fail, and the dog just takes a liking for the people that save it. For the next couple of scenes, you just see this poor shaken up dog look at them from behind windows, and slumping under a table. You look it, and you say "Awww, what an adorable puppy!" The next thing you know, the dog is the mother flipping alien that ultimately ends up killing everyone. Now who would've fucking thought? [Spoilers Ended]

Now, if you haven't seen The Thing, I suggest you watch it as soon as you can, because it's not only a great movie. But it can also be used as a lesson, and something you can compare recent movies to. It has you second guessing everything, even yourself, until the very end. Strong character development, check. Eerie atmosphere, double check. Cheap thrills? Maybe a few. But it doesn't not end up serving you cheap thrills on any expenses, and delivers on all counts.

Let's go back to Inception, shall we?

It has pretty things to look at, and that's about it, in a nutshell. It has a very simple concept/story, and it makes up for that by presenting that concept/story in a very confusing fashion.

I'm not saying anything about the actors, because Leonardo Dicaprio has done some very good things. Not Titanic, no. I'm talking about things like Martin Scorcese's The Departed.

Also pardon me if this seems like a rant - but I literally couldn't sleep at night thinking about how people make Inception up to be some sort of art. Like it's so philosophical and deep, as if Socrates himself wrote it. No, Socrates would've laughed at the lack of all logic. Now excuse me while I go catch up on some much needed sleep.

It's an ugly fucking world.

This acne medication said "Giving you the power to face the world!"


Because that's just what a teenager with acne needs to read. Confirmation that the world is just a huge sack of shit where the only thing that fucking matters is aesthetics. Because if God forbid, he created you not looking like a 'real' human, and you have some sort of disfigured appearance - how are you going to face the world? Also, he created each and every one of us to be such aesthetic praising mother fuckers, that we rarely ever think of anything else.


Because our idiotic little brains retain information by making data points of every life experience, using whatever little information is provided to us, we don't necessarily take the time out to follow through on minor things like Logic and Reasoning. And what better thing to reign over all this information, than fucking aesthetics. A good looking person vs someone with a horrible looking face, it's no fucking choice who you're going to trust on a rainy day! That job promotion needs to go to someone? Fuck Ellen in accounting, her eyes aren't the same fucking size. Johnathon, however. Who wouldn't want to fuck him. Promote the bastard!


And how do we judge or calculate what is more aesthetically pleasing? Here's the real fucking joke - we don't! For some reason or another, all this has already been fed to us before we could even stop ourselves from shitting our own pants, leaving us on the mercy of our hopeless mothers! Oh, Golly Jee, isn't the world such a happy fucking place where everyone is created equal and receives equal rights?! Jumping jupiters, yes sirry! No wonder people are born with all kinds of genetic mutations and things like congenital ptosis! Fuck yeah, equality!


And then the audacity of human kind to portray hypocrisy on such a grand scale, denying judging books by their covers, not realizing it's just human fucking nature - something we can't really fight. We're flawed, which is why all our systems are flawed. But hell no, good sir! That ain't fucking me! Why, I give everyone an equal chance! So what if I start walking faster at night if an ugly mother fucker is coming down the other side of the street? Especially if they're not the same skin color as me! And by God, if they have acne, fuck this shit - I'm booking it!


So, come on teenagers of the world already tired of being on this planet for a measly 15 - 18 years! Pay up all these big wig corporations to take away the flaws given to you by God himself! If he didn't give them to you, how else do you explain them then?? Must be your own fucking fault then, you ugly mother fucker! Now cough up the dough, children in third world countries aren't going to starve themselves.

Even more ramblings of a mad man.

How about a fake blog post by the fakest of them all? Even fakest isn't a real word, but I never let grammar and spelling get in the way of setting things right. Cue laughter.

I fail to see why any of us bothers, or even gets out of bed in the morning. Or late afternoon, or in my case - even when the sun sets. Nocturnal and insomniac bastard that I am. But I can't be blamed, it's questions like these that drive me to insanity and lack of sleep.

There is no originality, it died long before you and I came into the picture. We're just products, or bi-products by this time, of the standards and "socially acceptable-ness" that was set long before we were ... products, or bi-products...

We're brainwashed, programmed, and spoon fed with all the bullshit and political correctness that the world around us thinks is stomach-able. No less, no more.

We fake appearances, emotions, feelings. We're our own heroes, and life is our hero's journey. Each and every one of us. Whose the antagonists in our case scenarios, then? The same cliche' antagonists as always, of course.

Authority. The Man. Our own personal dilemmas. Whatever we can build up in time to be miserable and depressed, all the while - faking our way through personal relationships and "life." The selfish pricks that you and I are. There is no altruism, there never can be. The game has always been about the survival of the fittest, and don't let any asshole tell you otherwise. Save yourself and all the optimistic, drugged up on stupid shit, life teachers - all the effort.

You are born, you struggle to survive and put food on the table, and then you die. I don't see what the big fucking mystery is.

So "what masks does Daanish Arif wear?," an opportunist would ask at this time.

Fuck you, that's what mask. See what I did there? I'm the forever rebelling, sticking it to the man while sticking one up his wife's ass - not taking shit for answers, and making my own rules - motherfucker.

It's much easier to claim you don't like the game itself, to save yourself from having to put any effort into playing it.

Fuck all the rules, because I didn't make any of them - and neither did you. Then why participate?

Such a pacifist, aren't I? And so easy to get along with, as long as you don't put any rules on the table.

We're so full of hope, and so full of shit. (Thank you Marilyn Manson.) We will forever lust after results, and we're all fucking superstars according to our own rites. Right... rite, right... Whatever.

Why do I love self destruction so much, an opportunist would probably ask. Well, we all beg to feel something or the other every now and then, don't we?

We all have to play with the cards we're dealt, of course. And what cards was I dealt that hadn't ever been dealt to anyone before?

It's all been done before, it's all happened before. We're not living any special stories, we stopped a long time ago. As soon as the nth number of person born took the same exact route someone else did. Probably long before your great grandfather was even born.

The only thing that surpasses our hopelessness is our insignificance. Yet we strive to correct people on their beliefs, on the color of their skin. We continue to stigmatize the poor moron that had no choice where he was born, or under what religion. We continue to kill in the name of pissing all over the place and marking our territory.

The only thing that surpasses our insignificance, is how primitive we are. Except, we don't climb trees and throw feces at each other any more. We climb social heirarchys' and use bombs.

We're like a speck of dust in a universe so huge - our minds can't even contemplate it. It would make our idiotic heads spin, and one look at how it all works is enough to drive the sanest minds insane.

"If life is going to exist in a universe of this size, then the one thing it cannot afford to have is a sense of proportion."

What's the point to anything at all then, you speck of dust?

Us, the non contributing zeroes of the universe, just trying to contemplate it all and making our own realities. Anything to belong. Anything to help us sleep at night. To save us from the boogeyman, any shoulder to keep us warm and comfortable.

Fuck, that.

"Cynical Realism is the intelligent man's best excuse for doing nothing in an intolerable situation." - Aldous Huxley.

Musings from a plane again.

You can't smoke on airplanes, and my flights back and forth between Riyadh and New York are usually 12 hours. Nicotine withdrawal makes me a very angry person. I sometimes laugh at my anger, and write down mean things, especially on planes.

It's because I have all the time in the world to sit there and converse with myself. Observe:

My keen spirit is chafed by involuntary inaction.

There's a kid walking down the fucking plane corridors wearing shoes that light up while he walks, while people are trying to sleep. He's lucky air pressure prevents these doors to open, or I would brighten up the Atlantic ocean sky for a quick few seconds.

How fucking retarded do you have to be - not only to buy your kids this horrible fucking bastard child of disco club and shoe, but also let the little fucker run around on a plane in them?? Seriously, parents. Pay more attention to your kids, before they prove Darwin's theory of natural selection... actually, never mind...

Maybe I'll extend my foot down this dark lane the next time the little jackrabbit Christmas tree decides to come running down. Redefine 'flying colors.'

More ramblings of a mad man.

In my nightmares, I'm mostly in Riyadh. The backdrop and lighting is almost always dark red or maroon. I wake up depressed, and as if I've witnessed or experienced something deeply disturbing. I feel sick to the stomach, and very sad.

The nightmares come and go, though. Every now and then, sometimes multiple ones in a night. Sometimes they're just dreams and not that overwhelming even - but it surprises me each time when that happens and I wake up feeling just as depressed as I would if it weren't just a simple dream.

I'll wake up humming an old tune, something I heard when I was growing up. So I'll put my headphones on and revisit it for a few minutes. Sometimes I wake up humming to something I've already revisited a day or two ago. Sometimes I wake up and hum something I haven't thought about in a while, and then I revisit it. It's very weird. I'm kinda confused.

Every book I read gives me an analogy, or reference that I can't get over for a few days. That's why I like good works of art and the sort - they leave imprints on your brain for a while. At least for me they always have. I find it hard to let go of grasping subjects and details from any story. Even if it's fictitious, but not only if.

I read Farenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury a few days ago. I can compare myself to Guy Montag in this situation then - just because of the confusion.

I might just be homesick. Not so much that I'm sick of not being home, but that the thoughts of going back home are making me sick. I don't know.

I'm anxious and nervous to going back to my previous lifestyle for various reasons. Mostly alienation.

I remember the last couple of times I went back home, and things were completely different for some reason.

I hate the fact that I can't just write whatever I want here. I also hate not being able to say what I want, when I want to. This has got me into trouble in the past, and I'm afraid of it getting me in trouble again, especially when I go back home.

A question that sometimes drives me hazy,
Am I, or are the others crazy?

Redefining awesome since 1989.

I just honestly don't have anything to say.

It's kind of scary, to be honest with you. I've never experienced a writer's block of such sorts. In fact, it might have actually evolved beyond the point of being just a writer's block - into a lack of things to say. That is the scary part, and I'm not even trying to be funny (or sarcastic.)

I turned 22 a day (or two,) ago. It's funny, I got wishes from the most unexpected people and places.

My girlfriend made me a lot of cheese cake, which was pretty awesome. I might actually have just about enough cheese cake, for once in my life. My love of desserts worries me sometimes. But then I eat cake to feel better, and it always works. I think it's the reason I love cakes to begin with, it's one of those remarkable viscous cycles.

22 years old and I write about cheese cake. This would not be a problem of course, if I wasn't a man (or attracted to women,) of course - now would it? But alas, I can't resist cake.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I think I just can't do the stupid public service announcement birthday blog post any more.

I thought it was cool that Nobia remembered - I have no idea how she does it, but she did. It's a little scary.

Sheeni remembered too, even though I have long felt that she has a birthday calender on a wall in every room of her house. I don't think her (or her mom,) has ever forgotten a single birthday. Ever.

Sam remembered too! It was ridiculous, he called from Saudi Arabia. It was awesome. I really wasn't expecting from hearing from anyone back home.

And can you blame me? I think my parents forgot too, this year. It was kind of funny, but I can't blame them. I would forget too, if I had 4 kids. I barely remembered my own birthday this year, and I don't even have one!

Lala remembered too, which was pretty awesome.

I don't have any profound or introspective thoughts to offer.

Being 22 isn't anything special. Everything is the same as I it was when I wasn't 22. I don't know what I was expecting would be different. Maybe I hoped I would be wiser by now. Or have more answers to the great mysteries of life.

On the contrary, however, I find myself even more lost than ever before. This is what purgatory must feel like, in fact.

Whoops. I just gave out an introspective thought. But still, I didn't lie though, it wasn't much profound.

Or maybe it was. That'll give you something to think about while I go back to exploring things.

The love of silly games.

She slammed the door behind her, as she entered the apartment with a bucket full of fresh clothes that smelled like a valley filled with green somewhere that was fake. It slammed shut extra loud, a little louder than she hoped it would, but the doors in this building had a way of doing that. And gravity didn’t help a lot either, especially considering that the house wasn’t built on a straight piece of land. Either that, or the construction workers all had vertigo.

“I’m putting your laundry down here next to the couch. Are you ready yet?” She said in a semi-loud voice, so he could hear him in the next room.

He, was tieing his shoelaces before standing up from the bed and walking to her. “Yeah. I suppose so…” his sentence ended abruptly as he remembered to comb his hair one last time, “… almost done.” He looked up at her and she immediately knew it. She made a quick mental note to get ready for a series of questions, and then another one to remind her to stop making mental notes. She had already known this was going to happen, and she didn’t need any mental notes.

“Who were you talking to in the hallway?” he asked.

“Oh, you heard?” She pretended to be oblivious to common sense. It was either a defense mechanism, or just something she did for shits and giggles. This while, continued to comb his hair and pretend nothing was out of order or out of the ordinary. “Yeah. It was pretty loud.”

“Oh. No one,” she started, while looking around to see if she was forgetting anything of her own. But mainly just to avoid eye contact. “it was just your neighbor. The one that plays guitar?”

He smirked a little and said, “of course it was the one that plays guitar.”

She stopped in her tracks just a few multiseconds before he could even finish his sentence, because she was expecting this just as well. Although perhaps she herself didn’t realize this, in keeping up with the silly games all couples probably play. Involuntarily. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she enquired for herself.

“Nothing. What were you guys talking about anyway?” he continued.

“Oh, just this and that. He was asking if I live here by myself, so I told him about you,” she said, before quickly adding, “and us! And I told him where we go to school, and that he plays guitar well.”

He stopped combing his hair, and just stood there for what seemed like a quick second. This was another thing that was sort of expected and unexpected at the same time. Like you know it’s coming, but you’re never too sure, so you sort of push the envelope to find out. Sort of like those things, you know?

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he enquired.

“What? What do you mean? I think he plays the guitar well.” she retorted.

“And how exactly do you know that?”

This made her think for a while, but a very short while. If she had stopped to think longer it would blow her whole spot, and she was losing credibility by the second. “What do you mean? We hear him through the walls all the time…”

“Through the walls, all the time!” he repeated, trying to make a point. “And how do you judge someone’s musical talents while listening to the distorted sounds that you only hear through a damn wall??”

“Wow, are you serious?” she said, with great disbelief. Much greater than it actually was, of course, she didn’t want to lose any more credibility.

“Yes?? How do you figure someone’s good at something without even seeing it for your own eyes. For all you know, it could be a recording of some really distorted guitar player.”

“Wow, that’s one of the most retarded things I’ve ever heard.”

“Really, you’ve never heard of Scientology?

“Wow,” she repeated, still feigning disbelief, and without much else to add. “…wow.”

“That’s it? Wow?”

“I don’t know what else to say to you, that’s one of the most unbelievable things I’ve ever heard.”

“…”

“…”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is.”

“That’s dumb.”

“No, what you said was dumb.”

“wow, forget it.”

“I already have.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

With this they both finally decided they were ready to go out, without talking to each other of course. Talking to each other would mean one of them was weaker than the other somehow, wouldn’t it? Of course.

They walked quietly together for a while, her with her pouted lips, and him with a cigarette in his mouth. They decided to stand at the corner of the street and wait for the rest of the group of people that was joining them for dinner.

“I can’t believe we argued over something so stupid,” she finally said.

“We’ve argued over dumber things… and what do you mean stupid, anyway? I was making sense.” he retorted.

“Making sense? No you weren’t.”

“Yes, I damn right was. You’re probably the only person that doesn’t see any sense in it.”

With this, they saw the people they were waiting for walk towards them and her first response was to hush him up before he could continue what she considered to be “the most ridiculous thing shes’ ever heard.”

“No, no one will see the sense in that because there isn’t any. Now if you can be quiet, we can go to dinner with these poor folks.” she pleaded.

Small talk ensued as expected, hand shakes, hugs, the usual social obligations.

“So where do you guys want to go eat?” asked Jim, or Joe, or Jane, it doesn’t matter who.

He quickly made way into the conversation without even considering the question, and said:

“Ok, here’s a hypothetical question… you hear someone playing an instrument through the walls of your apartment, right?”

She just rolled her eyes.

Tumblr-ing along.

Click on this link: ----> Linkage. It will take you to [daanish.tumblr.com/linkage]

Click on "Tumblr." It will take you here: [daanish.tumblr.com]

I blog there more often. It's a place for every tiny little thought that I have or want to put up on display in a sort of online notebook. Or a bookshelf filled with really tiny books. Enjoy it, will you?

They're just words.

Remember I talked about feeling like I’m leading two lives?

I’m in bed, and my very American girlfriend makes me coffee. She’s bringing it to me in bed, and I mumble:

“Udhr rakh do na…”

She gives me one of the most confused looks I’ve ever seen before I finally realize what I just did.

“Um, I meant - put it on the table there. Sorry.”

An honest drugged-up-by-sleep mistake, of course. It’s a bit difficult to be balancing two vocabularies at once, though, I’m not going to lie.

Especially if you take pride in the fact that you’ve managed to learn more words than the average person. In both languages.

Humans: 'Social Networking' Whores.

Aah, what us foolish sheep will do to get into a fucking social group that's somehow significant or special, in that it doesn't let just about anybody in.
We cry all the time against racism, and insist we're all just one. How hypocritical, when in actuality, we try so hard to find a group to join that's somehow exclusive.


Our cliques, our social groups in colleges and universities, even the fucking clubs you can or do join.


Blackberry Messaging Service is just one of those many services/social groups/clique/club.
This is the whole foundation, or philosophical concept, of the multi-million internet company - Facebook.


But not just. It's also what powers any 'social networking' website.


Our desire or irresistible need to 'break from tradition, flow against the current, not follow the norm.' Having some chance of standing out in a fucking room when you're with a group of people.


The Blackberry Messenger Service crowd. Once you're part of this group, some things that are automatically assumed or 'enabled' are:

• You are a "professional." Period.
• You have enough money to own a blackberry, and of course - have service.
• You don't own just any other phone. It's a blackberry. Also see: ipods.
• Only the cool people have the service. You're not missing out on the action if you have a bbpin. Because even if you know what Sally is bitching about Thomas on Facebook, she might be bitching about someone else on the Blackberry Messenger Service. You need to have this information, and now you can get it

I type this with a Blackberry in my pocket, and the thought of writing this came to me when I was contemplating whether I should get Blackberry Messaging enabled on mine.


Why did I get a Blackberry? I don't think I would see everything I just wrote about, as clearly - or in whatever way I see it now, if I didn't.


To know how sweet or sour the apple is, I wanted to take a bite out of it instead of listen to the Apple seller. Funny that I used an Apple for this analogy.

Curry.

I was recently asked on a quiz in Sociology class what my race and ethnicity were. Or what I considered them to be anyway.


I've always considered myself to be free from such social obligations and never really considered the question before. Association with a group of people that you were fortunate/unfortunate enough to be born into due to sheer chance and fate doesn't make much sense to me. Admittance into this 'club,' isn't really difficult, is it now? All I had to do was ... well, nothing really, it was my mum and dad and the doctor who pulled me out - that did all the real work. I probably just cried a lot and wet everything I got within peeing range of. I didn't make the choice here, do you see what I'm trying to get it? It just happened.


And so I can consider myself 'Indian.' Because Pakistan and India were pretty much just one country, not to forget Bangladesh. And I don't care what anybody says, Kashmir should just be left alone and given their independence. Territorial bullshit about a piece of dirt that we walk on (aka 'land',) just doesn't make any sense to me.


Besides, don't India and Pakistan pretty much speak the same language? We have the same old traditions and prejudices, the only differences have mere face value and just seem so on the different on the surface. We also hold the same old fashioned prejudices and notations about how the rest of the world works.


UPDATE: This, however, does not mean I want to be considered 'indian.'  I don't want to be associated or considered a part of anything that happened any time before i was born.  I deserve to have a life that starts with a clean slate, and to not be judged by what happened before I even started. 


I'm deviating from the main purpose of this blog post, however, which is: CURRY.
I love that shit. Whatever 'Asian' restaurant you take me to, as soon as I see Curry on the menu, the decision has already been made.


So, Belal and Frank are having a completely irrelevant conversation about Curry, when one of them (presumably Belal) starts adding 'Curry' to movie names.
We came up with quite a few, actually:

• The Bourne Curry
• Curry Hard
• The Da Vinci Curry
• Lock, Stock, and Two Smokin Curries
• Curry with a Vengeance
• Curry Hour
• Curry Movie 1, 2, 3 and 4.
• I know what Curry you ate last summer.
• The Curious Case of Panang Curry
• Curry Club (of which, Rule No 1 is, you do not talk about Curry. Rule No 5 is, if it's your first time at Curry Club, you must have some Curry.)
• 127Curries
• The Day After Curry
• Curry is Forever
• Curry, Actually
• Deep Blue Curry
• Curries of the Caribbean

Musings from the sky II.

Instead of saying bio-degradable, the package to this sandwich says it will "disappear even if you bury it in your garden." How stupid do these bastards think we are?


And I realize flights can be as long as 22 hours, but i don't think that's enough time to grow a garden. Where the fuck am I going to bury this?!

Musings from the sky.

I wrote the following while I was on the plane to Qatar. I was reading "The Restaurant at the end of the Galaxy" by Douglas Adams, so all the quotes that follow are from the book. 

"In the beginning, the universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move."

Douglas Adams wrote about me!

• Hmmm, the lack of taste of these sesame crackers almost make up for the foulness that is this cheddar cheese.

"If life is going to exist in a universe of this size, then the one thing it cannot afford to have is a sense of proportion."

• This flight attendant has the cutest British accent ever. And she keeps calling me "hun," or "lovie." I could get used to this.

"The function of art is to hold the mirror up to nature, and there simply isn't a mirror big enough."

• This guy sitting next to me is watching Prison Break season 3. He's either very late to the party, or a time traveler. Hmmm.

No fun at all.

I'm scheduled to go back home on the 24th of December. That's Christmas Eve.

I'm taking a flight all the way to Qatar, from New York. Even though my destination is Riyadh in Saudi Arabia, which I'll be flying over to get to Qatar for a 4 hour transit stay at the airport. After that, I'll fly back in the opposite direction from which I came, and reach where I originally wanted to be.

Yay. So the 12 hour flights back home that I hated with a passion not only got longer, but now there's a 4 hour stay in Qatar.

Isn't that great? It's absolutely fantastic. I can't believe my good fortune.

I could've picked a much more comfortable route for much more cheaper, and have transit at a country like France or even England. But much thanks to my Pakistani passport, and ''my fellow country-men's'' willingness to cause violence - not a lot of countries around the world like us.

And not a lot of countries like me. Just because of my passport, that is correct. Note that I don't blame them. I'm just commenting on my good fortune.

I'm also a little cynical and whiny because I'm depressed about going back home. Does that sound a little odd? I'm sure it does.

I'm actually looking forward to seeing my family. I actually miss them, and don't really get to talk to them while I'm here. I hate conversations on the phone, and I made a point not to spend too much time on the internet... which didn't help of course.

It's leaving behind life here which is depressing me. You've probably heard me say this before, but I hate this feeling of leading two lives that I've had to deal with for the past 2 years... It's like I don't really have a home anymore. I don't really know much about what's going on back home in the middle east, and my parent's don't really know much about here. Other than the fact that I'm going to college and what not, but isn't that about 20% of your life?

I don't know any of my sibling's interests anymore, for instance. They've always grown so fast that I'm surprised and shocked every time I go back home, every 6 months. I don't know what they're ''into'' or what they've been doing in the not so distant past.

In short, I don't really communicate a lot with people 'back home.' Unfortunately... but can I be blamed for trying to pay more attention to life in the country I am currently residing in?

I can either live life and indulge in it's abstractness that can't be verbalized. Or I can pass by it, jotting notes down, trying to keep track and narrate it to an audience that doesn't really exist?

Besides, audiences are like the Gods we create and place on high chairs. Then they fall one day, and we're just like, "aww man." Bummer.

I'm depressed because... I like it here. And I wish my family could come to me so they could see what I've fallen in love with, instead of me having to go there and trying to verbalize it.

It's depressing... I think I've already mentioned that. Maybe I just felt like it needed more emphasis.

It's no fun being depressed, is what I think I'm trying to say here...

No fun at all.

How to be famous and liked.

Consider this theory:

Someone narcissistic is truly, on the deep-down inside, a really insecure person.

To some this might just click as a faux wisdom, something that will click just because of the irony.

To others this might sound preposterous.

Narcissists usually love themselves and nothing else as much as they love themselves.

And to add to the fun of going against the grain, I'm going to take being insecure up a notch and say truly Narcissistic people hate themselves.

In short, the more someone displays Narcissistic behavior and traits, the more insecure they are and the more they hate themselves for it.

The kick here is, they just can't tell. It's a part of being the program and just playing on to ''who we really are,'' ... this, of course, isn't who we are at all. It's just the program, running us. And we're running on an even bigger program - planet Earth's program, so we're programs ourselves.

Operating System >> program >> script.
The World >> us (you and I) >> tunnel vision and the world we see due to it.

We wouldn't go on and talk about ourselves until we felt there was something that needed to be changed there. Or a change needed to be expressed.
No one lifts a finger unless they feel something needs to be done about something or the other. D'uh, right?

It doesn't matter if anyone cares or not, to the Narcissists' tunnel vision - all he sees is himself. And he talks about it and discusses it all day because he doesn't like what he sees. The root of all critique, or criticism.

Then again, aren't we all a little insecure?

Then again, doesn't this society, or the script, harbor insecurity to begin with? Because it's turned everyone into a borderline Narcissist - to say the least?

The way to go, man, is to not give a fuck about what anyone else says. Believe in yourself, son, everyone will keep hating no matter what. What matters is what YOU think of yourself. And nobody else.

Now go out there, you little Narcissist and show the world what you can do! Let's tear each other apart with our insecurities.

Hiss like a Python!

I've started my own linux blog here; Fuck Yeah, Ubuntu!

I've started to learn how to program! It's been crazy fun, progressing doesn't seem like work at all, it's more like a game. I started with Python, and plan on studying Java, Javascript, and PHP next.

I don't know what to blog about. I'm just going to be honest and say that.

I feel like I just can't do it anymore. I don't remember how I used to... I don't remember what I used to write about, or even why... maybe that proves that it was just useless ramblings like I thought?

I also blog here ; daanish.tumblr.com

Or tumbl... actually... heh. Go check it out?