Back when I didn’t have access to internet, I wrote on Word some useless things. Here are some of them:
August 1, 2006
I’ve been craving writing the entire morning. So here I am back at my comp, typing away stuff that makes absolutely no sense and has no particular significance, except for satisfying my insatiable need for writing.
Actually I remembered some of the surreal sentences I’ve been writing a while back. They were actually kinda fun. I wonder if I still got it.
Your voice is as brutal as the snapping of a belt buckle on a beehive…
*BARF* I can do better than that, come on!
Your puke reaches my decapitating nails in a projectile that sends my significant other’s spatula running headlong into oblivion…
Hmmmm…. That one actually did not manage to make me gag… If I keep at it, I might actually get my groove back
The brutality of death metal is as arousing as the spreading of mashed potatoes on the first sprout of your blushing foreskin, as lightning sends ripples into the laundry machine.
You know, that one IS actually arousing.
The fluids you dispose express the most intimate reality of a kitty litter as the microcosmic droplets of dusk witness a goldfish flushing a human down a used needle.
God! This is so addictive!
I better stop this before it gets out of hand like the way Bratmobile uses and abuses of the word “Fuck” and its derivatives.
Shall we write one for the road? A necromantic fetus kills the sound of its wing-flapping with yet another oedipal episode, as God steals the innocence of a nihilist.
That one is just pure genius.
I don’t want to eat. I hate eating. I hate being lazy, and I love not eating. I love writing and I hate eating. I hate food. Kill all of it. Kill my digestive system. Eating is a waste of time. I love Showcase, but I hate TV. I love Queer As Folk and I love the Gay Village but I hate eating fucking food. I like being hungry and I love PMSing and being in pain when I get my period. The combination of pain, PMS and a perfectly clean stomach and intestines following a week-long enema is fucking heaven for any self-respecting me. In my feminist mind, I wanna kill any part of me that fits the status quo, starting with shit. I hate shit, and I hate food. Food leads to shit. Shit leads to the status quo. Status quo leads to food. And the cycle resumes. Fuck yeah.
So in times of absolute, complete, utter, pathetic, pointless, and desperate boredom, I sit and fantasize about my future crib. I want a cute little apartment. Spacious yet cozy for a single woman like myself. Hopefully, I’ll manage to land a good enough job to be able to afford the place and pay the bills by myself because even the word “roommate” makes me quiver. I just really enjoy solitude. Not only do I have a strong sense of privacy but also a strong sense of independence when I’m by myself.
And I also want some life in my apartment. I want some pretty plants. Not flowers, they’re too hard to take care of and the color hurts my eyes. Just regular plants to purify the air in my apartment should suffice to make me smile. And another life would also be cool, some living thing for me to actually care for instead of just watering. I’m thinking of maybe a rat or a cat. Cats can get really annoying with their nails and shit, but they’re so pretty and fuzzy, so I’d really have to think twice about that.
I think a rat would be chill. I always wanted a rat. They’re so cute. You know the Dumbo ones with the big ears that don’t have any fur on them? On the ears, I mean. They’re like little, round, furry, fluffy poopooloos. If I ever get a rat, I would want a female… I think. If I get my hands on a black one, it would rule.
Anyways, I find it useless to look for a reason for which I keep writing. Previously, I used to ask myself “why am I writing any of this? Nobody will read it anyway.” Now I know that simply writing is the reason for which I write. I love it. LOVE IT!! I don’t care if no one reads this. It’s not exactly meant to be read. It was only meant to be written.
August 3, 2006
I’m listening to an awesome metalcore song by Arch Enemy, Dead Bury the Dead. In-fucking-credible! The first time I heard it, I came in my pants. It’s the first and only time I ever got a spontaneous orgasm from a song. Even now, it gives me shivers…What would I do without music? I would be dead! I would be in a straitjacket in some insane asylum, slamming myself head-first into walls.
August 8, 2006
I just finished reading the book Aviv Geffen wrote and I must say he should really stick to poetry because as far as prose is concerned, he’s definitely no Rousseau. And the book is written in a very cowardly manner. I don’t know if I can really put my finger on it but if this book were written by a ballsier person, he wouldn’t leave out as many details as Aviv Geffen so bluntly and so deliberately left out. In any case, there were a lot of inconsistencies as well, and he kept contradicting himself any chance he got. Maybe that was the intention, and if it was, he should have been a little more obvious about it because as it stands, the book, now, just looks like a big blob of confusion he had to put on paper and feed to the public, and let the readers deal with the indigestion and the constipation that follows. He also seems to really hate Israel. And I just can’t stand people who live in a place or a situation and keep complaining about it. If you hate it so much, don’t sit your lazy ass down and complain. Do something about it! If you hate this country, fucking leave. You’ll do us all a big favor. We sure ain’t gonna miss you.
Another thing, he kept talking about Pink Floyd like they’re gods. And to him, they probably are. And sure everyone is entitled to their opinion, so here’s mine: Pink Floyd sucks major cock. Yes, they play music like I only wish I could, but that’s as far as it goes. I would never listen to their music and actually enjoy it because I would fall asleep two minutes into one of their songs (which btw last like 14 minutes). My attention span gets shorter as time goes on. And it gets even shorter when it’s a ballad. God, I hate ballads!! That’s why I like punk. It’s so fast, you can’t even tap your foot to it. And the songs last no longer than 2 or 3 minutes tops. “It quick, it’s efficient. You get in and out with the maximum of pleasure, and the minimum of bullshit” Just like a nice, hot quickie.
Pink Floyd is good. But they could be better if they had a little more distortion, a little more beat, a little more lyrics, a little more screaming, a little less of a British accent, and a lot less time in each track. It’s like they compensate for their shitty songs by making them longer and more varied hoping that a certain part in the song would strike a chord with another audience, so that way they can please everyone. Well, so far, they haven’t pleased me.
Anyways, that’s enough Pink Floyd bashing for one entry.
September 21, 2006
Last night I sat in my living room watching TV. It was about midnight when I caught something moving in the corner of my eye.
Yeah, you guessed it. It was a cockroach. It wasn’t exactly inside my house. It was between the glass and the shutters in my window. I usually leave the shutters a little open so that I have a bit of light at night after I go to sleep, because otherwise it’s completely dark, even in broad daylight.
Anyway, even if my shutters are open, I rarely open the glass, because I don’t have screens and I know that during the day, I’ll get bees and flies in my house, and at night, I’ll get mosquitoes and cockroaches.
So last night, that cockroach was FLYING back and forth between the shutters and the glass trying to find a way in. Sometimes he would disappear behind the white outline of the window and when he would reappear I thought he found a way in and now he’s inside my house.
Previously, I thought I had a phobia of cockroaches. Last night, I proved myself right. In last night’s case where the cockroach had no way in, but he was still in my private space (i.e. my property), there are three stages to my phobia. The first is screaming like a maniac. I screamed like I was being raped or murdered. It’s a shriek that I can’t pull off even on a rollercoaster. Only when I see a cockroach do I ever scream like that. I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t knock on my door to see if I was alright.
The second stage is hysterical crying. I cried like a baby, and I was shaking, sweating, and shivering from head to toe for a good ten minutes.
The third stage is praying coupled with paranoia (“He can’t come in, can he? No, no he can’t. Oh my God, is he in? Please God, make him go away, please go away, please, God”). Everything I felt, whether it was a hair that fell from my head and landed on my shoulder or my hand, I felt like it was another insect or something, and I would frantically brush it off.
After some 25 or 30 minutes, I finally realized that the cockroach wasn’t leaving anytime soon, so I decided to go spend the night at my uncles because my sleep was ruined in any case. I might as well roll around in bed in a place where I wouldn’t need to look at that thing wondering if it found a way in and whether it’s crawling up my bed sheets as we speak.
I don’t know how long it’ll be before I see a roach inside my house. What I know is that it can’t go on this way. This phobia is taking over my life. When I see a roach, the world disappears. It’s just me and the roach, all alone.
My uncle made fun of me as I knew he would. He told me I’m a million times bigger than the roach and these insects are harmless.
“You don’t think I tell myself that all the time?” I retorted. I know I’m bigger and stronger and the roach should be more afraid of me than I am of him. But that’s just the problem. I’m not afraid of roaches. I have a phobia, which is way above and beyond fear. It’s irrational and whatever you or I or anyone tells me is not gonna change the fact that when I see such a turd, I see a tank with wings. Besides, I’m not too fond of things that fly. They’re unpredictable and it takes an eternity until you manage to corner it and kill it.
I know I should seek professional help. It’s probably the only way I’ll ever learn to deal with these things. I was never scared of death, but if it’s roach involved (which is very possible), there’s nothing I fear more. I came to Israel at the height of the war in Lebanon. I wasn’t scared of a Katyusha rocket falling on my head worth shit, but roaches is a different story.
The next time I see one is the time where I’ll be taking my last breath, and I don’t want a roach to be the last thing I see before I kick the bucket.
September 26, 2006
Now I’m at work. I had a bit too much dairy food and I can feel my stomach heating up some uranium which I will soon expel in a loud explosion. Man, I read too much Arab propaganda, and it shows. These Palestinian extremists I read about have this obsession with blood. And I thought vampire Goths like it violent and dark. If Goths think they’re so tough, let’s see them face some Hamas members, they would shit their pants.
I don’t like Goths too much. I don’t like Hippies either, especially the vegan ones. Punks are better. More honest and trashy. Goths are too proper and boring. Hippies are just plain stupid and hypocritical. Punks are out there, way out there, with Windex, crumpled newspapers and squeegees, and yet they still manage to buy themselves wicked flannel pants and hair dye. I doubt they buy hair gel for their Mohawks because no gel can get your hair to stand that way. I bet they use semen, it doesn’t get any better.
Anyway, I ran out of things to do so I read a bit about the punk subculture on Wikpedia. I found that there are a shitload of different punks out there. I identify with the Riot Grrrl punk subculture… as if that wasn’t obvious already. Feminist Punk lives! Yey!