The notion of the halved glass
Almost every asshole preaching about optimism and pessimism refers to the question of the glass viewed as half empty or half full. It strikes me as an issue of gratitude. Within the glass exists a substance; acknowledgement of it refers to the ability of one to recognize possessions and blessings; to see. Pessimism follows such acknowledgement in a manner where any action relating to the recognized object would lead to destruction in whichever way the imagination could sustain. In the glass example, a pessimist, after seeing the water, would then think it is poisonous; or that it might be the last bit of attainable water given the environmental downfalls hailing upon poor mother earth. The thing about gratitude is that when you recognize wealth, materialistic or spiritual, what remains is the probability of loss. An overwhelming phobia of loss freezing your limbs into sheer immobility and paralysis in fear of changing the status quo… you must preserve the fucking status quo; and much like an expensive china set being hid away to preserve it from shattering, a grateful pessimist unknowingly draws a very thin line between losing and wasting… which is a characteristic of being cunt.
Ideas taunting me
They appear as little children, similar to the ones I have known in kinder garden. Ideas; sticking their tongues out, presenting themselves, so luring, so desirable. And as they approach the forming of a clear and tangible thought, I can almost hear them chant “nan a nan a nan a you ain’t gonna get us you stupid fat hairy cunt”. they run. They run leaving me thoughtless; uncreative; jumping at their lingering slippery threads. My imagination is void; which is a characteristic of being cunt.
” Roquentin now claims that all he ever wanted was to be… aspires to wash his life from the unbearable sin of existing by being the creator of something that is beyond this time, abstract, necessary and indestructible.” – Jean Paul Sartre
Pop Cunt Quiz
Have you created anything recently?
I am a mixture of a few facial expressions, gestures, and proverbs that I have picked up over the years. A person of my heightened impressionability falls into the pit hole of rootless-ness. I can neither find culture in Koshary and belly dance, nor home in my disintegrated family. I rehearse my smiles and I seem to have the need to glance at any reflection of myself to remember what I look like.
Prospect Marriage; my unraveling.
A man has entered into my life. I love him. And although I never lied to him in words, I lied to him in being. Which is a characteristic of being cunt. Yet, as my eyeballs dry at my empty inbox and as I constantly await the green flicker at the top right end of my Xperia, I reckon he found out. For instance, when I refused a pre-marital full blown intimate encounter, I disguised my physical insecurities and my not so hygienic tendencies in prude reasons; they are the same decoy reasons which were absent whilst I sucked him zealously… as long as my clothes were on in the dark.
For instance, I gave an elderly beggar 10 Les to impress my future husband while I often am a stingy, greedy, vulgar whore who yells at beggars when in a bitchy mood.
For instance, everything I do, I do to impress him; cliché as acne on a geek, but it has reached a point where I don’t know if I am doing something kind or putting on a show. and although he is currently in an another continent, my eyes restlessly scan corners of my house waiting for him to pop out, my back and shoulders widen their senses in anticipation for a surprise touch, and my nose strengthens nostalgia as it picks up any scent remotely close to his. With all that said I must wonder, was the birthday truffle and cheese puffs I baked today for my mom…or for him?
We all lie; a false statement is something while building up the hopes and dreams of a truly kind man into believing that I will make him happy and purposely overlooking incompatibility, is another. Which is a characteristic of being cunt. I don’t mean to deceive him; it is my self-contradiction and the gap between what I want to be and what I can be that I am afraid of. Truth is inevitable; truth of which scope I do not know. And should he come across the pathetic attempt at self-confrontation that is this endless series, he would leave me.
April the 8th marks a significant date in my discovery; the climax of my inability to co-exist. Never has a day’s sorrow lingered for so long. I observed my peers jollying around in bitter-sweet moments of the student activity’s final day; laughing, crying, already nostalgic, talking, walking, doing things humans seem to do. I wept frantically. And I stood on stage with no words prepared despite my usual talent to bullshit. I stood naked and in ruin before the audience; the cat I almost killed was watching, so was my graduation project professor, my parents, my future husband, Dee, my partner, the second guy I kissed, the first guy I kissed, the people I didn’t attend their funerals, the poor, the revolutionary martyrs, God and all the promises I made. Penetrated as I was by their discerning looks I wanted nothing more than to apologize.
“I stand here small and insignificant; I disown the illusion that gave me the nerve to speak to any of you, the nerve to stand, open my mouth and share insight and experience that is so slippery and juvenile. I recant the pride that made me patronize you, deceit you, out-smart you oh so sleazily. The thought that I could do better than you. I renounce the courage that made me strive, ambitious to laugh like you all; and so I plead for the wasted talents in me to forgive my sloth, for my work to forgive my incompetence, for my loved ones to forgive my greed and wrath, for God to forgive me… for I am nothing but flesh caught in between the desire of not being and the obligation of being ”
Naturally, I wiped the nervous breakdown tears and said some other shit about thanking people instead.
And the after party: beer, vodka, tequila, dirty dancing on tables and suicidal tendencies.
A primitive take on things: the revolution and personal gain.
I spoke of an apocalypse striking Egypt soon given the rising manifestation of an already existent societal fragmentation and the inability of the population to identify and stay true to a certain principal. I claimed myself Marxist and a non-believer in democracy; for as a child I had created a utopia essentially centered around the equal distribution of needs, a self-driven righteous people and ,my little addition, the importance of love. I read books to find scholarly basis to whatever shit I want to say since surely, as a cunt, my own independent words have no weight; and I argue with my future husband so he doesn’t find me alienated. I mock people’s wrongly directed anger; how it’s all centered around a figure or an idea yet forgetting the self-complexes, contradictions, greed, fear driven conformity and ego that have fundamentally fucked everything up. Isn’t it what we do best after all?
Oh I conversed… I conversed indeed. But really, all I want from the events is a good dramatic disaster similar to the ones in the movies wherein I shall be saved by the man I love. The chaos will then give me and the man a legitimate pretext to fuck like there is no tomorrow. I removed my body hair, my laundry is done, my hands and feet done, ingredients for a quick homemade snack are available, and a romantic playlist is set; that’s how it is in movies, so well-coordinated. So in conclusion, I just want to have sex. Which is a characteristic of being cunt.
I am a vacuum, powerfully sucking all the attention I could get my hands on.
I just found out that one of my students was shot in the eye midst demonstrations. I instantly brainstorm of how I can turn this unfortunate event to my benefit. Which is a characteristic of being cunt. I thought of perhaps picking up the phone to call my future husband; maybe he could provide me some consolation and affection. Better yet, let me make a shit literature out of it. Reader, do you recognize me… do you feel sorry for me? Coax me, for the love of God coax me.