You should know ...

I'm not Kuwaiti. I'm not even Arab.

I'm atheist but I love Christmas, Christmas trees and rice lights.

I have serious issues with gold, most jewelry, coloured contact lenses, and butterflies.

I find my mind fascinating. I think that makes me self-absorbed.

I think my mother is disappointed.

I enjoy unmaliciously (is that a word?) shocking people.

I do not believe in anything supernatural, including love at first sight.

I dislike most people but I adore the few that I consider my friends.

I'm pescatarian for ethical reasons. It's flawed, I know. But it's the best I can do. For now.

I'm anal to a fault about grammar, spelling and punctuation.

I can be extremely judgmental on a lot of things. It's hard to change that, but I try.

Money is not very high on my list of priorities. I've been told it should be higher, for my own sake.

I'm lookist and smellist. I'm working very hard on the first bit.

I like boys. No, stop being a pervert. I'm comfortable with boys. Most girls distrust me because of this, but I really don't want to hump your boyfriends. I just don't think that men suck...all the time. For some odd reason, I pamper my male friends a little. I think I get that from my mother. I wonder what that's about.

I'm very intolerant of closed-mindedness and cruelty.

I wish I was were braver.

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You Are My Sunshine

It was a beautiful November morning. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and the air was cool and crisp. The breeze was happy and gentle. It was the perfect day for a picnic.

The DJ had just finished setting up. The music wafted out to every corner of the large, grassy lawn.

She must have been around thirteen or fourteen. She stood taller than most of the kids that ran around her. I disliked her immediately.

By virtue of her height and age, she reserved the right to bully the kids around her. She talked loudly and poked fun at everything that moved. I watched as she and her best friend pointed and laughed at a little girl's fluffy dress. The little girl blushed and hid behind a tree. She was going to grow up to be one mean-spirited woman, I figured.

Not quite.

When she lifted her head and looked past me, the mean smirk on her face was so instantly transformed into an expression of such genuine warmth, that I just had to turn around to see what had caused the change.

It was her grandfather. He was hobbling down the grassy path with his walking stick, wanting to join his grandchildren where they played. The breeze lifted the hair off her face as she ran to meet him half way.

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed his wrinkled cheek. He kissed her back and they were lost in animated conversation when he suddenly lifted his walking stick and started to dance to Sean Paul's "Temperature". She held his hand and danced with him, swinging her foot back and kicking it out in time with his foot, in the traditional Arabic style.

And then they threw their heads back and laughed, these two children, dancing in the sunlight.

You know...

...when you're walking a dog that is so cute, that random strangers passing by smile at you?
That, is heartwarming.

...when out of the blue, he says something so childishly innocent, that it takes you completely off guard? And out of the blue, you find yourself wanting to reach out and touch his face? But you don't because it's the wrong, place, the wrong time and he's the wrong person?
That, is frightening.

...when you see a girl on the street being hassled by an idiot whose father should've pulled out in time? Imagine if she got tired of ignoring him, reached into her bag, pulled out a .22 caliber gun, turned around, pointed it steadily in his face and he shit his pants in public.
That, would be gratifying.

...when someone you care deeply about is hurt, angry and troubled? And you wish you could make it better by throwing your arms around them and holding them close until whatever it is that's bothering them, goes away? But you don't, because they would rather be left alone?
That, is helplessness.

...when you're at a party, enjoying the music and your drink, and then someone you've never met before in your life, corners you alone and starts whining to you about how her boyfriend is a total dick, about how he's passed out drunk upstairs in one of the bedrooms, about how things haven't been the same with them lately, about how maybe he's having an affair with his hot boss who's a man, about how maybe moving in with him was a big mistake, and on and on and on until you snap and rip her spine out through her throat and beat her over the head with it until she gets a clue?
That, is self-defense.

...when you dream about someone that used to be in your life, and you wake up expecting that dull, familiar ache, but it doesn't come? And all you feel is a smile warm your face as you start your day knowing you're going to be just fine?
That, is healing.

The Waxing Post

I knew I would be writing this post one day. And apparently, that day is today.

WARNING:

What you are about to read contains very graphic details about the female anatomy, and the things that are done to it in the name of vanity. If you are squeamish about things like vaginas and pubic hair removal, you're a wuss - but don't say I didn't warn you.

No, we can't just shave. Why? Because

1) You have to do it yourself. And, unless you're a champion contortionist, there are spots that ARE hard to reach. It's easier to have it done for you by someone you're comfortable with. Very, VERY comfortable with.

2) Regrowth is itchy and poky. It's like having a man's stubbly chin in your panties for a week. And although that might work for some girls (and boys), it's really not my thing.

And the chemicals in depilatory creams just burn like a motherfucker. Temporary pain I can handle. A burny, itchy rash that's 10 times worse than a yeast infection and lasts twice as long, I refuse to deal with.

So what do I do? I wax. Correction, I have it waxed off. I'm sure the thought of having your pubic hair ripped from its roots with a ball of cold, sticky goo by another person is completely mind-numbing to most of you, but it's really not that bad.

All you need is a beautician you can trust, balls of steel and no shame whatsoever. Then, you leave your dignity at the door, get naked waist-down and think happy thoughts.

While you're lying there, with your legs spread wide, birthing style, having the fuck waxed out of your nether region, hating life, womanhood, men, personal hygiene, oestrogen, testosterone, puberty, hair, people, ducks, your parents and every man that's ever touched you, thinking that maybe permanent celibacy isn't such a bad thing after all, memorizing every ceiling pattern above you, you will feel pain.

Even though this pain lasts a few seconds after every rip, it is pain beyond anything the human brain can ever comprehend. It is impossible to try and describe the magnitude of this pain and fall miserably short in accuracy. And if your beautician *REALLY* wants to fuck with your head, she'll make you hold yourself open so she can get to the delicate insides. And you don't argue with the person standing over you on a waxing table. No, never.

And just when you think it's over, just when you've managed to drag yourself back from the brink of unconsciousness, just when you lift your head up off the table, look down at yourself and to your boundless joy can see not a single hair left and your wa-wa looking red and hairless like a newborn puppy, she'll say with a gleam in her eye and a low, ominous voice "Turn."


I would like it to be known that even though I cannot sit right for at least 24 hours after I put myself through the above, I wouldn't have it any other way. There's nothing that feels quite as sensual as a silky smooth, hairless foofie and once you get used to the pain, it is actually quite enjoyable.