Why I don’t read.
Which is a characteristic of being cunt.
I, with all the cuntness in me, am very hard to impress. There is a universal death in thought and so I am hardly ever struck. It seems as though every sentence, or shred of idea I come across is trite. It seems as though every sentence or shred of idea I come up with has already been done. My ego no longer allows me to explore in fear of finding that my thoughts were already taken and much more fascinatingly utilized than I could ever have pulled off. But most importantly, it could be the denial that I am incapable of creating. Thus, in bitterness, I locked myself up in my empty book shelves, trivial TV, plain black attire and the blowing off of friends one by one. Well, after all, I am a cunt.
Breeding: a struggle for recognition
“Mother is God in the eyes of a child”
It is such an automatic thing giving birth, here in our culture; and the more the merrier. I am just setting the stage.
I have always wanted to have children. I wanted it so desperately that I had a haunting fear of infertility. At my early adolescent years I could already feel hollowness in my womb. Every time I walked into an outlet store, and passed by the baby section, I’d stay there, imagine the little girl I’d want to have, I already have a name for her. Actually its twins, definitely twins. A boy and a girl or two girls. Whatever combination of infants I could breed I have their titles. And I always feared for them; whenever I heard about a rape incident, or a robbery, or… anything tragic, I’d shrink in panic for the children I have yet to have. It is comic really, the closest I have come to mating was my middle finger and index and, of course, the occasional vibrating tooth brush. Yet, here I am, mentally shopping for their little outfits, strollers, pacifiers, toys; and they never grow old enough to not need those things.
Maybe it’s a hormonal thing. An instinct, my dear father says.
In one of the conversations I was having with myself I saw a loophole in my plan. What am I going to do with the children? Yes, my breasts will dangle for them, I’ll read them bedtime stories, bake them cookies and make dark a fear they will never recognize; but why the fuck would I choose to take those sperms in instead of flushing them down the toilet?
It was a shockingly quick answer. Thing is, I have no role, no chores, no purpose, no identity. I am free. And in this freedom I am, paradoxically, dependent; and I’d continue to be stationary if I didn’t have children to give me tasks, emotions, a title and occupation. I am already nothing without them. Which is a characteristic of being cunt. Furthermore, and more significantly, I have no life to breathe into those little fuckers; and when they become bewildered by the universe’s common mysteries, I have no security, no legacy, no individuality to pass on; I am just adding numbers to the demography. Little nothings. Little cunts to make me feel less cunt. Which is, even more of, a characteristic of being cunt.
The bliss of the misfortunate
When I walk in Egyptian streets, some of which are public urinals, the smell of urine makes the fresh breeze a significant treat. Having a good night sleep after a sleepless couple of days is a treat. In that same manner I don’t necessarily wish for those unfortunate to be relieved. That would fuck up my binary compound; for in their destitute I find pleasure in my air conditioner, pricey deodorant, mineral water supply and fluffy pink blanket. Which is a characteristic of being cunt.
Another night with toothbrush
Came cum time, I thought of making a sound. And then I screamed. Not in pleasure, I assure you. And I went on screaming, crying. A million thoughts rushed in my head. Of how ridiculous I must have seemed; laying there, legs wide open, hairy cunt, fat cunt, mildly dark inner thighs, tucked in belly button, bare buttocks, funny facial expression. Me never having sex (past/future). Me having sex and getting disappointed, me marrying a man with a small dick, me marrying a man who prematurely ejaculates, me disappointing my man, my cunt smelling funky, my weak muscles messing up my balance and posture, the work I am supposed to review, facing the people, the thoughts that go through my two friends’ heads who know about the toothbrush when they glance at my toothbrush, feeling lonely beyond understanding, beyond hope, dry mouthed, unemployed, worthless, the possibility of not bleeding on my wedding night, the possibility of farting midst coitus, all the shameful family secrets, the dishes… a million thoughts.
” I am not living, I am just killing time”
Pop Cunt Quiz
Respond by Yes, or No.
Are you so much of a cunt that you know you’re a cunt, and would rather be cunt than try not to be cunt?
I sometimes want my grandmother to die. Which is a characteristic of being cunt. She is a lovely lady, really; and one hell of a baker. I love her as long as I don’t witness her life. I escape her constantly. Once I went to her city (two hours away) to visit her with my brother, and I rushed into leaving, I lied, told her I had urgent research to do and she doesn’t have internet. She cried so much. She knew I didn’t want to spend time with her. And as she waved at us goodbye from her balcony, I saw my indictment in her sad face. I can’t face the truth she is incarnating. The truth of what will become of me. The truth of what I already am. A figure of no passion, no hope. This woman of seven decades frightens me in how she is so alone, so weak, so reflective. Her china set lying about collecting less dust than she is. She is becoming more religious by the minute because, I quote her, “I have no one else but God.” Why couldn’t she make something out of herself? Why couldn’t she love my mother, her only child, with authenticity rather than treating her as a goal gone wrong? Why couldn’t she pick herself up after the death of her husband? Why does my mother look so much like her, why do I look and act so much like her? Why must she be so dependent? Why didn’t she make a business out of baking? Why is everything in retrospect so empty? Why is she always wondering why death hasn’t come yet? I want her to die because I can’t rescue how damaged she is, I can’t rescue how damaged she is because I am a cunt.
The Arab Spring: a non-political perspective
I was envious of the attention it took. Which is a characteristic of being cunt. Midst the revolutions which I didn’t relate to, I was hoping for a nice accident, to take a bullet in the shoulder or something. Fuck, the only time I considered going to Tahrir Square was to get a nice doze of pepper spray to “complain” about with my politically active friends. To belong. Which is a characteristic of being cunt. In hangouts, I knew what my friends were talking about; actually my whole goddamn forth year curriculum and graduation project, as a Political Science major student, was based upon the Arab Spring. The reasons and goals were all sound (regardless of sporadic) and all but WHERE THE FUCK did they get the emotions from? The solidarity? I mean… I couldn’t even pretend to give a shit! I told everyone it’s because I grew up in Saudi Arabia and they have it much worse there so all my devotion and heart goes to the kingdom where my parents still reside… but really, I couldn’t even say that with a straight face. I couldn’t even give honest-not-tv-recited-diplomatic-like opinions on the matter. I couldn’t even find what I would be passionate for. I am just cunt man, just cunt.
I never like to leave my house. Sometimes my greatest fear is to be forced to talk. Like, when I am in a café, I absolutely dread yelling out “lawsamaht” to order or something, I hate explaining to the cab where my turn is and God help me if he is a talkative driver. How naked that makes me. And now here I am, listening, like I always do. Which is a characteristic of being cunt. Two of my colleagues are speaking and I am puzzled, why are they talking? What the fuck are they doing? I am a little too uninformed to tell if they are being intellectual or full of shit but either way, what do they think this is, an 18th century tea shop? Funny thing is, if I shut my ears for a few seconds they are already in another topic, reflecting, repeating inapt thoughts and opinions, talking. It saddens me; my persistence to be present only in a physical sense, detached and spiteful of what I arrogantly judge as a shallow exchange of words, facial expressions and heated gestures. Which is a characteristic of being cunt.
God in a silver ring
Yesterday I was watching Ice Age: the Meltdown on TV with a good friend of mine. There was a scene where Mani was vigorously swimming towards Elie to free her from the cave. “Hallelujah” (Jeff Buckley’s Cover) was playing on the stereo. And I tear up, silently. I didn’t want to explain myself to my friend.
You see, in the disciplines of philosophy and theory we find the attempt of prediction. The Philosophy of Being Cunt suggests that Karma has a specialized field for cunts. It is a much wittier form of consequence.
About a month ago I was on my way to a meeting. And the cab passed by a man laying on the ground after being hit by a car. People were gathering around him, attending to him, saving this anonymous man. I cried. I knew in my heart, that a cunt such as I, in the event of a tragedy, for whatever logistical reason, will not be rescued. And I knew in my heart, destiny is cooking up something extravagant for my demise. I was mistaken. The punishment of being cunt has begun a long time ago. I recently lost a silver ring that had a verse from the Holy Quran written on it. My Mom bought it for me, because it wrote of how God would always preserve one. And it just slipped out of my thumb. And was gone forever. The punishment is not the loss of a ring that I dearly admired, the punishment is a constant state of paranoia and guilt. Out of the four rings I wore, that perfectly fit my fingers, this is the one that got away. I kept thinking, God doesn’t want me, in all of His creatures, I am the least worthy. And in that thought I play God, making me even less worthy, and I find myself conjuring up thoughts of deep sin. And then I lose sense of myself, and then I see images of insects in my peripheral vision, and then I fear friendships, and then I can’t move my arms, and then the floor under my feet hurts, and then I think of the “secured” status quo is to have me idly and obsessively contemplating about all the possible calamities that will strike me. Which is a consequence of being cunt.