My mug does funny things, what does yours do?**

This entry is also known as: WATCH OUT, IT'S HEP C!

.1. While sitting in class and drinking from my coffee mug I started to hear whistling. It was a nice and calm sort of whistle, the kind that could potentially make a girl like me drop off to sleep.

I put my mug down and moved around to make certain it wasn’t me (because you just never know). No whistles or squeaks, thankfully.

Picked up my mug once again and proceeded to drink only to be greeted with the whistling sound.

Moved the mug away from my mouth: no sound.
Brought it back: whistle.

I WAS SO EXCITED. MY MUG HAD A TRICK.

I immediately turned to the two closest of my classmates in an effort to share the exciting news. They were in the throws of discussing the use of the Subjunctive but who cares about the Subjunctive when you’ve got a WHISTLING MUG. I could barely contain myself and was moving around erratically in my rolly chair because I wanted to get their attention.

Finally I rolled into P’s chair and said:

“Listen to this. My mug can whistle. Maybe I can do a whole song. Only I’m a little tone deaf so I don’t know. But listen.”

And with my eyes locked on both of my classmates, I smiled and put the mug up to my mouth and “sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss” because that’s what I think a whistle sounds like on paper and it’s really late at night, anyway, and so maybe not.

P started laughing and S stared at me like I was smoking the crack. Her expression made me laugh while My Whistling Mug was still up against my mouth. I accidentally spit up a little bit of latté on to both myself and P. Which made us laugh even more because I declared: “I spit. That’s my own personal trick and has nothing to do with my whistling mug.”

.2. S doesn’t like the new commercials about Hepatitis C. She thinks they’re overreacting because “if you’re not careful, then you could be walking down the street and Hepatitis C will just fall on your head.”

.3. Out of curiosity, I was staring down into the hole from which I drink my latté. It’s small and compact and so naturally, I was curious to examine it at close range.

I don’t know why I do things like this probably because I am a gifted spaztic, but I then decided to slide it closed in order to watch the action of the mechanism that opens and closes the ‘lip’ of my cup. But the mechanism was angry and spit up a lot of coffee. Defying gravity it all landed on my face.

I was in public. Walking down the street. Alone with my angry whistling mug and looking as though some invisible individual had pushed my head back at high velocity.

.4. And somehow, this morning, I arrived at school only to find a giant brown dot on my nose. Right smack-dab in the middle of where you would think the term “brown noser” would be perfectly illustrated.

My latté had somehow managed to sneak out of my whistling mug and sit quietly on the tip of my nose.

I’m certain people thought it was a charming and uniquely placed beauty mark. When they pointed, I waved back and smiled because I’m friendly that way.

**I totally stole that spin from hijabman.

Jake Gyllenhaal

The comments of the last blog entry got me to thinking that a fine lookin' man with a fine brain, exceptional political beliefs and priorities in order deserves an entry all to his lonesome. This is the sexiest ad which made me take notice of Jake Gyllenhaal...believe it or not, for the political message and his arms alone.

Random Celebrity Notes

.1. In 2002 Justin Timberlake released Cry Me A River which, if you lived in North America and not beneath a rock, you knew was about Britney Spears’ extra-curricular affairs. He felt it appropriate to humiliate her publicly with his a**hole video because I’m sure he never dropped his d*ck into another woman the entire time he was with Britney. WHO ARE YOU KIDDING, JUSTIN? (See footnotes 1 & 2, please.)

In his latest ugh release, Justin Timberlake sings
“…don’t want to think about it…
…don’t want to talk about it…
… I’m just so sick about it…
about – can ‘ya take a guess?
Right: a woman who was unfaithful.

FIVE YEARS, Justin. You’ve been milking it for FIVE GOD DAMN YEARS…and so my advice to you is that since you “don’t want to think about it” or “talk about it” because you’re “sick about it”, then you might want to consider shutting the f*ck up about it. I’m sure that if you really tried, you could plug other two-syllable lyrics into your musical score.

Justin. Being in the Mickey Mouse Club together does not = having children together. And because Britney's indiscretions weren't SO severe, then understand that sh*t happens and people cheat. Get over yourself, kid. (See footnote no 3, folks.)

Footnote no. 1: Didn't Justin used to wear a "WWJD" bracelet? Maybe that was The Backstreet Boys? Whatever. I'm pretty sure Jesus (pbuh) wouldn't have made that video, Justin.

Footnote no. 2: In Islam there's this belief that if you forgive another's indiscretions, then Allah will forgive you yours because ultimately we all muck it up somehow. But because you, Justin, could not do this, I look forward to the day someone makes a video about your muck ups.

Footnote no. 3: I don't mean to belittle the subject matter of unfaithfulness, but I make a huge distinction between being cheated on when you're someone's girlfriend/boyfriend or when you're someone's life partner and someone with whom you've procreated.

.2. No. I’m not a Britney Spears fan, I just think that celebrity is the worst possible mind-f*ck that could happen to young adults, most especially if their parents are willingly prostituting their children out for a quick and easy dollar (like so many we have seen in our generation).

With the kind of “parents” Britney Spears has, I’m surprised the kid wasn’t injecting heroin directly into her neck.

Think I’m passing judgment on her parents?
I am. And if you're not, then I pity your children.

You don’t raise your children to aspire to celebrity and money. Period & end of discussion, friends.

What an individual chooses to do later in life, AFTER BECOMING AN ADULT, is of their own making.

And Britney, GI JANE IS SO 90s.

.3. Give me a moment to catch my breath and slip off this soap box.

.4. You know who I think are excellent role models in terms of young Hollywood talent (& who have a what-would-appear-to-be a solid familial base)?

Maggie & Jake Gyllenhaal.

Check out where his priorities are:
"Look, the most important job for a man is to find the right woman. It's the best we can do. I thank my father for choosing my mother. She's wonderful in so many ways. And she chose well too. I've noticed in life that the mother, first, has a primary job and as a father our job is to pick a caring, smart, mindful woman." (GQ)

I think I want to take care of him. And love him. And pet him. And water him.

Recurring Dream

Since a little girl, I have always had the same dream. I’m uncertain as to what it means or why I have it when I have it.

Alone, I find myself standing at the top of a dull brown stoned building in the evening. I’m standing by the ledge and there’s usually not much else around except for the building itself; there’s never been a sprawling landscape or green of any kind. (I often dream in colour and I’m certain some psychiatrist somewhere proved that to dream in colour is to be a sociopath.) The height of the building has always varied, but more so than not, it averages perhaps ten stories. Several times, it’s been a skyscraper made of very clean and shiny glass.

Within a heartbeat, I find myself in my first freefall. There has never existed a precursor to how that actually happens; no one pushes me and I never actively throw myself from the building (this first time). As things often happen in dreams, the freefall just is.

I remember as a baby less than four years old, there was a stretch of road my family and I would take to get to the beaches of Jabal Al Akhdar.** I would always be strapped into the middle of the back seat and baba knew that the trick to making me laugh and squeal was to drive fast. Along that road were – and I would think remain - many large bumps that were more natural than man-made, and so not large enough to harm your car, but large enough to make your stomach fall if you were driving at a fast pace. I loved that feeling…

In these dreams, it’s that same feeling only heightened by ten thousand times. No doubt, that first freefall of my dream brings with it complete terror.

As I freefall, my body is perfectly parallel to and facing the ground. I am not in my body, but rather watching my body. (Can we ever be in our bodies while sleeping a dream?)

At a maybe one foot distance from where I could pound into the ground, I stop freefalling. This is not a ‘flying’ dream because I never fly…I just stop freefalling.

I instinctively understand I can’t be hurt and I’ll never hit the ground. With this knowledge, the rest of my dream consists of me running up the stairs (always stairs, my dreams are clearly not technologically advanced…or maybe I’m just a health freak…or maybe I just like prolonging the anticipation and working hard to enjoy what’s to come…), back to the top of the building from where I then start to actively throw myself off.

I stop freefalling before hitting the ground and run back to the top again…and on goes my dream.

I feed on the feeling brought about by the freefall and spend the rest of my dream reveling it. Strange because it would take a lot of convincing – or maybe a simple dare – to get me to freefall from anywhere. I have a fear of ledges because I believe my head's too heavy and it'll fall forward and over the ledge, taking me with it. Maybe this isn't a fear of ledges but rather a fear of heads? Or maybe just my own because it has...a mind of it's own. Oh my God that sentence proves how lame and cheesy I really am.

Right. So how about you?

**For those of you unaware, I was born in North Africa.

Why these are some of my favourite photos (1 of 2)

Because no one believes me when I mention that as a baby, I had blonde hair. Check out how I’m striking a pose by bending my knee just so in my matching leggings, outfit, poncho AND Crack. My mom mistook me for a dress-up-doll.


Because the woman who took this photo is someone I admire greatly.


Because I love my mama and this is a beautiful shot through and through.


Because when I saw this photo of K, I asked her mum if the costume came in adult (for me).


Because I love baba and I fear that if he keeps going at this rate, he’ll be much too big to fit into future photos. (Love you baba!)


Because I love the way both E & T are ogling that dessert.


Because you need proof that I actually have curly hair & because this is the best dress for dancing. Also, please check out the Super Crack.


Because I love to read and the reason I only have the following books is (1)I started reading only after I received my MA in 2001; and, (2) I give away at least two or three books a month. As much as I love these bookcases, I can’t wait until I have one room in my home that’s an actual library, where the shelves cover all walls and are actually built into them from ceiling to floor.




Because this was taken the second night at TIFF and Baby Jane and I have no idea who either of these women are (Baby’s in the silver top).


Because this was beautiful E’s response to: “Pose, please.”

Yo, be proud of your Muslim self...

Thanks to Anjum for the arrow to Muslim A Day. Anjum won't send in her picture but I WILL!

...and from there, I found HijabMan from whom I just purchased a t-shirt which reads
"This is what a radical Muslim feminist looks like" (How cool!)

I promise to take a photo of myself wearing the t-shirt and I'll post it here...and that may in fact be the one I send to Muslim A Day. Make certain to check out the other t-shirts they've got; My two favourites are the ones which read:
"My name causes national security alerts. What does yours do?" &
"Whoops... there goes my wudu!"
("Wudu" is what you must do before prayer - washing of the hands, face, neck, arms & feet and it is lost if you go to the washroom or...pass gas.)

For all of my Christian brothers and sisters; consider buying the Muslims Love Jeesus, Too!...but only if you're ready to take off your shoes at the airport.

p.s. Isn't the man with the beard modeling the t-shirts a fox? Mashallah!

The world's largest banana...

...is what I've just eaten. It took me an approximate 48 minutes to finish it and at minute 32 I quite nearly passed out.

My body and mind kept screaming: TAKE A NAP. TAKE A NAP. YOU WANT TO TAKE A NAP.

I knew it was big when I couldn't fit it into my duffle bag, but I never anticipated the length of time it would take me to eat the entire thing. I think it's safe to say that I won't be eating another banana for quite some time.

In other news, NYC may be buried beneath too much snow and so I have sent Sharshoora the world's second largest banana in case they are housebound. If all goes as planned, The Banana should last until Spring.

Sharshoora

This is one of my favourite photos of Sharshoora and I taken on the 28th of September 2002 at Solidarity for Palestinian Human Rights’ “Unite For Justice” event on Parliament Hill.


The photo always makes me laugh because I sort of look stoned and she looks like she’s carrying a light saber.

Sharshoora was in Ottawa for only a year and we got off to a rough start because the first time she came over was due to a conspiracy between my mama and hers. There was a boy mama wanted her to meet and so mama asked that I invite her over for a cross between a “game night” (snore) and a “Yay Maha Got Her Masters” thing. Or maybe it was my birthday. Anyway, the people at this thing are individuals to whom – less than a month later – I would develop a severe and extreme allergy. This post is about them. As an aside, let me confirm that this group of ‘friends’ eventually imploded because they all talked so much about one another.

Back to game night. I’m not a “game night” sort of girl. I have never been a game night sort of girl. But this group most definitely was, and so “game night” sort of became a staple for maybe two months. Did I already say: SNORE? Well just in case: F*cking Snore.

Sharshoora was rightfully put off by this display of snoredom and mistook me for one of Them, A Game Night Gal.

Luckily, that was the first and last evening of it’s kind at my place.

I immediately took to Sharshoora and started following her around Ottawa. Within two days, she caved and we started spending our weekends together. (Lucky I’m sort of cute and charming.)

For the rest of that entire year, Sharshoora slept at my place practically every weekend. It just started happening without discussion I think, because we found our mirror Dork in one another. Neither one of us takes ourselves seriously at all, or those around us for that matter, and most definitely, we continue to find the funny in everything. When I couldn’t find the funny, which was oftentimes the case when family discussion turned to marriage, Sharshoora would always make me chocolate cake and tell me that everything was going to be fine. The chocolate cake became the third in our ménage.

In the basement of her apartment building, she had a movie vending machine (how cool!) and we would rent several movies a weekend, hang out watching them or Felicity reruns, eat, laugh, and eat some more. Our diet consisted of: chocolate cake (we made one every Friday and it was gone by weekend’s end), chips and cola. She really liked pumpkin seeds and would eat so much that her lips would turn white over the course of the evening.

She also used to do this thing where she would pour out a little of the cola and then close the 2Ls. She’d sit up on my kitchen counter and repeatedly shake the cola and then open it slowly so as to let the gas out. Once the gas was all gone, she would drink the cola. I now do this because she was right: It just tastes “sooooooo” much better.

At the end of the year, Sharshoora left for Georgetown and we lost touch. We both sort of suck for letting that happen. We tried to get in touch a few times and didn’t manage anything relatively decent in terms of conversation time. Finally, she came back for a much-too-short visit in August of 2005. We spent an evening together getting caught up and trying to speak at the same time in order TO get caught up. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to bake chocolate cake.

She also tried to meet up with us in NY in October of 2005, but work pushed my dates back and she couldn’t make it out.

And then this summer, she got married:


I know. She’s stunning, this due to her Palestinian blood (her other half is Lebanese). We’re all pretty that way. She is absolutely one of the most beautiful women you’ll lay eyes on. And she’s a dork. And she’s brilliant. And she’s working on her Masters at Columbia in Quantitative Statistical Analysis. And she’s hilarious, in Arabic (I take the cake for hilarity in English ya Sharshoora). She will make you piss yourself laughing and her sense of humor has no bounds. Case in point: one time her mama told the girls not to come home when it was dark, and so they came home the next morning after the sun came up. I’ve always admired this capacity of hers to find the loopholes re our limits when it came to our mamas' rules…

Yesterday we finally managed to catch one another after much too long. We spoke for approximately an hour trying to catch up on all that we’ve missed…it’s incredible how a couple of years can be condensed into an Agenda less than an hour long.

I rang.
She answered.
I squeaked and squealed.
She screamed.
And the rest is history.

I knew I missed her, I’d just not realized how much until that moment.

Her husband and her have an apartment in the heart of NY at the corner of 6th and 16th and the plan is for me to head over for a weekend come Spring. She’s confirmed the presence of a flat screen and has asked that I merely bring the chocolate cake mix and the cola.

The German Sandwich Shop stresses me out

Around the corner from my French school is The German Sandwich Shop. I’ve always walked past and looked inside but never thought to actually traverse the threshold and enter, if only because I’ve not been properly seduced by their sign which reads: “MEAT SANDWICHES!” encased within a bubble radiating from the head of a Dutch girl in clogs. (“Aaah the good old days of the 1940s and Rotterdam!” thinks the proprietor of The German Sandwich Shop.)

Look, I like meat as much as the next carnivore, and have – on an all too regular basis - driven one and a half hours to Montreal to kill my craving for a Schwartz’s smoked meat sandwich.

Recently, my friend S stated that “The German Sandwich Shop is really good and totally cheap. Best sandwiches around, and fresh too!” Quite often, she sounds like a well written and executed radio commercial, but that is a subject for a different blog entry. For now, let us concentrate on my tendency to remain exceptionally susceptible to suggestion. After hearing S’s petite publicité, I recommended we go immediately. Which we did.

As we walked in, I noticed the line-up curved around the interior of the shop. I also noticed there was barely a whisper of space between any of the patrons. I pointed this out to S who smiled, nodded and said “It’s always this packed at The German Sandwich Shop! Where people come for cheap food and friendly service!” As she bellowed, the patrons stared at us with great disapproval. Naturally, this made me laugh and point at said patrons.

While in line, S and I conversed about the nature of a “meat” sandwich and whether or not that generally meant “pork” or “beef”. She had the final word and closed our conversation with “Wanna know if it’s BEEF or PORK? Ask your FRIENDLY client service representative. They’re HERE for YOU!”

I took her queue, leaned over the counter and asked (please pay close attention to the intonation):
“Hi. Is your smoked meat sandwich beef or pork?”
“Your smoked meat is beef?”
“No, I’m asking you. Is it beef or pork?”
“Your smoked meat is beef?”
“I’m sorry. But is it PORK or BEEF?”
“PORK? BEEF?”
“I’ll take a turkey breast sandwich on rye. Thank you.”

There was much humming, hawing, and braying from behind me; to none of which I paid attention. To my left was S who had paid and was waiting for me to collect my sandwich. Also to my left was The Gigantic German Guy Who Makes Small Sandwiches And Who Was Looking At Me Disapprovingly.

I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking how inefficient I was. How I was slowing down HIS line up of customers. How sad and pathetic the girl with the question about the nature of their meat really was. This immediately stressed me out.

He asked me if I wanted soup.
I said no. I want a drink, not soup.
He asked me where my drink was.
I told him he had it. “I’ll take a diet cola, please.”
“You MUST get your drink YOURSELF.”
“From behind your counter?”
“NO! From THERE!” and he pointed at a bunch of his patrons.
“I don’t understand.”
“THE REFRIGERATOR.” and then I noticed the sliver of red neon atop the heads of the patrons. There were so many standing bunched together that I missed the refrigerator.

I was now both stressed AND panicked.

“It’s ok. I don’t want a drink anymore. Thank you.”
“I have already charged you. Go get it.”
“Ok.”

I got it.
Came back and paid.
Asked for a paper bag.
And received the world’s smallest paper bag, approximately the size of my eye.
Which I ripped in half while trying to place my items within.
My bag, not my eye.

I ran out of The &*”/$%? German Sandwich Shop without salt, pepper, mustard or a straw. My sandwich fell out of my ripped bag into a puddle of melted and dirty snow. I stared at it in quiet disbelief as S offered: “SOMETIMES the good folks at The German Sandwich Shop have their bad days too! But don’t let that…” at which point I pushed her out into the middle of the street, threw my sandwich at her, shook my cola, pointed it at the shop’s sign and opened it.

The little Dutch girl never looked so good.

Whether at 7 months, 7, 17, 27, or 37 years old...

Oh. My. GOD. I'm laughing so hard I can barely see my keyboard. Seriously NSFW!

Lugeu-ing into قصي خولي (Kosai Khouly) and catching something (anything & everything…)

.1. I’ve quite nearly finished defining categories for this blog, creating two more this very evening: Feminism & قصي خولي / Kosai Khouly.

While sorting through all previous entries, I came across this little gem about none other than my very own Kosai Khouly. Did you catch that? I’ve defined Him as “my” = “my very own” = “my property”. I point this out to you just for clarification and not because I think you’re dense and potentially dangerous to my endeavor where He (“mine”) is concerned.

There are a slew of other entries that reminded me of situations and people I’d forgotten long ago. With that in mind, I present you with the following…

.2. I found The Time My Uncle Dragged Me Across The Street and then laughed at me and realized that I’d promised to take y’all down this following and particular trip down memory lane.

What follows is the story I promised you quite nearly a year ago…

It was in fourth year university and I was in Southam Hall with T & J. Southam Hall’s stairs are an unfriendly mix of concrete and marble. The staircase is an odd winding one that is – for the entire five or six floors of the building – of an open concept nature. While standing on any floor, you may watch everyone moving up and down all level of stairs.

I was wearing black crack with relatively small wide heels. In the crook of my left arm I was carrying my winter jacket and two of my gigantic leather-bound law books. In my right hand I was carrying the most precious liquid known to wo/mankind: Coffee.

We were going down the stairs in a single row, T in front before me and J behind me. Seeing as how we were in between periods, traffic was heavy.

As we were descending the final eight or ten steps, someone from two or three flights above called down to me. I looked up, saw my friend and waved a friendly hello as I continued down the stairs.

A grievous error this attempt to multi-task. As you are all undoubtedly aware, I am wholly uncoordinated yet determined to keep active engagement in this physical movement which many of you take for granted. It haunts me often, this thing others do so gracefully: Walking.

As soon as I looked up, both of my feet came out from under me as my coffee holding hand went up to engage in The Greeting That Could Have Ended My Life. At that very moment, Kosai / Kusai / Kusay / Qusai / Qusay / Kosay Khouli / Khouly was awakened from a deep slumber by his 6th sense, feeling that his future wife – I – was in grave danger. His sensitivity is lovely.

I hit the cement steps with my body fully laid out like that of any world-class lugeuse and then, at inhuman speed, made my way toward my best friend who was, by now, at the bottom of the steps. As in the Winter Olympics, I was hit with an image of me wearing a full-body nylon suit and matching goggles. Naturally, there is no crack when one is luge-ing…or, at the very least, the crack is ugly enough to not warrant serious mention.

When my feet were within inches of T’s bottom, the top half of my body sprung up and I found myself seated - with most excellent posture - like a debutante on the bottom step. Within my left arm rested my jacket and books, and in my right hand, my coffee neither shaken nor stirred.

There was total silence in Southam Hall at that moment. Everyone had ceased to descend or ascend and were, instead, watching The Dork spill down the stairs. If my friend above hadn’t called out my name, no one would have bothered to look at me and no one would have noticed me and no one would have know that I, Dork, am in fact: “Maha”.

T took one look at me, started laughing hard, turned around and blew through the doors. I love that my best friend was so supportive. I looked over my shoulder, somewhat shocked, and found J standing at the top of the stairs staring down at me, eyes wide and mouth hung open.

I smiled.
He asked: “Oh my God?” and then ran down the stairs to see if I was hurt. A quiet murmur began to cross the crowd and I could make out: “Duuuude. She totally didn’t spill ANY of her coffee. Duuuude! Waa-ooo-www.”

My nemesis friend above called out to make certain I was alright. For a second and third time, she called out my name. Because the first time wasn’t enough, and just in case folks were too busy talking and the opportunity had slipped unnoticed, they caught my name the second, if not the third time she yelled: “MAHA ARE YOU ALRIGHT? MAHA!”

J called up to her and said I was okay…

T had decided to come back, but she’d not finished laughing. Like a good Clarica commercial, she clarified: “That’s so embarrassing!” before realizing that her stint as “best friend” was in danger if she didn’t make amends.

She asked: “Are you okay?”
“My knee hurts, but I don’t know why.”
“That’s weird. You didn’t even spill coffee and your hair still looks good.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“My knee hurts.”
“Maybe it’s because it was too straight when you…when you…BAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA AHAHA HAHA AAAHAHAHAHA HA HA.”
“Nice.”
“Sorry. HA HA. I’m sorry. HA HA HA. But you tobogganed! HA HA HA HA.”
“I Luged?”
“Yes! HA. AHA. HEH. HA.”
“Maybe.”
“I don’t think we should go to class.”
“Me either. Hey! J! Let’s all have coffee instead!”
“Fine by me. Can we walk?”
“Yes.”
“How’s your crack? Are they broken?”
“No.”
“Thank God. I love that pair.”

We proceeded to campus’ non-first-year pub / coffee house / hang out, Oliver’s, where we spent the rest of the day enjoying free coffee and food. The bartenders / cooks / staff were determined to pamper the first lugeuse born of our University, and I’m never one to turn down a moment of pampering or spoiling.

While on my way across campus later that same day, a virtual and beautiful stranger called out: “Hey, Maya, I saw what you did in Southam man! That was AWE-SOME! You’re hilarious!”

Had I, at that moment, been at the top of any stairs, I would have willingly propelled myself down.

.3. Did you know that: Your blogMistress is a hypochondriac?

I am. Just as He = Mine (please see point above, no. 1), I am a hypochondriac.

To prove it, here are snippets of recent conversations I have had with various friends…most of which occurred after one of my classmates sneezed and I dove beneath my desk (en Francais):

Conversation no.1
“I have nerve damage.”
“What’s that?”
“Sometimes my upper shoulders lock because of it.”
“OH MY GOD! ME TOO! I HAVE NERVE DAMAGE, TOO. I’M TALKING TO YOU AND I CAN’T WIGGLE MY SHOULDERS.”
“Maha. We’re on our backs with our legs thrown over our heads. It’s yoga, not nerve damage.”

Conversation no.2
“He has a disease specific to the male body.”
“ME TOO!”
“Shut up.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“Just. Stop. Maha.”

Conversation no.3
“One of the symptoms is a rash.”
“OH MY GOD! I HAVE A RASH!”
“You do?”
“YES! LOOK AT IT! IT’S ALL OVER MY FACE.”
“Those are pillow lines from where you slept on your face.”

Conversation no.4
“She is schizophrenic.”
“OH MY GOD! ME TOO! AND ME TOO!”

Conversation no.5
“He has Alzheimer’s.”
“OH MY GOD! ME TOO! I THINK. BUT I CAN’T REMEMBER.”

Conversation no.6
“I have a folder.”
“OH MY GOD! ME TOO! I KEEP WANTING TO PLACE PAPER IN MY MOUTH AND THROW MYSELF ACROSS A TABLE AT FULL SPEED.”

…so in other words, if it has a name then OH MY GOD! I have it. I’m certain this has something to do with the fact that I have an unhealthy overactive imagination.