I’m a coffee addict. I’m also a cafe addict. I spend a big chunk of my time in cafes. After a while, I’ve realized that I tend to go to places that are a little pricier. The reason is not the coffee itself, although that’s usually an important factor.

If you go to regular cafes, particularly in Germany, it’s not a relaxing experience. I don’t gulp down my coffee and rejoin the ratrace, I chill. I savor the experience. Regular cafes means you have to savor the experience with just about everyone. Average grunts, bad service and wooden chairs mean “NO” in my book. Pardon my arrogance, but that just won’t work with me. On the other hand, frequenting chains (A.K.A. Starbucks) means you run into a never-ending stream of tourists… another hassle. Going to fancy places means sitting in uncomfortable chairs, dealing with, again, unfriendly service, and having to leave after a short while. The stuffy atmosphere doesn’t work with me.

My cafe must have sofas or couches, cool people, a very relaxed atmosphere, and a wide selection. However, it must also be a place that isn’t frequented by just about anyone. Paying twice as much for your coffee, over here, implies an assurance that you won’t run into people you don’t want to run into. So, that’s what I do.

On the other hand, I can NOT have my coffee to-go. That has never ended well. Case in point: this morning. Off to work, passed by my favorite cafe, and got my order to go.One step out of the door and a drop of coffee hit my coat. I managed to reach the office still dry. Took off my jacket, took a sip, and wet my t-shirt. Another sip turned my shoes brown. I clean up, sit down, eye the cup, and decide to take another sip. The cup is now sporting a veritable leak, and my pants are soaked.

End result: No caffeine in blood stream. Clothes in the laundry. Edgy, jittery Ramz. Can I plead caffeine-defficiency if I murder someone today?
Life may be short, but there’s always time to sit down and savor your coffee.

Bitch.

ok… gotta keep this short and sweet.

I did it. I shall be addressed as Ramz, M.Sc. Everything goes forward as planned. It worked out good in the end.

Now I can pour my heart out without feeling guilty. But not tonight.

I have to go drown myself in my own glory… or in some good single malt. Whichever.

Remember the roommate search? We went in a different direction, choosing one that I didn’t find attractive … after a bad experience involving me, a former roommate, her ex-husband and twelve dancing elves, that was the better way to go…

I met a girl, the old me would have been wary, would have played it safe, tested the water, bla bla… the new me gave her some cheesy line, took her phone number and invited her to a party…

Been on a self-exploration trip recently, realised, once and for all, that I must change… didn’t know that I’d made that decision, but apparently I have… or, it could have been that I was just pissed off because of something (something the world isn’t ready to know about) and reacted this way…

Or am I just horny?

The girl was ok, but then she started playing games. That pissed me off. So I hit on her friend. She became immediately interested again. I asked her friend out. So she asked me out. Then she stood me up the next day. Never been stood up before, but it wasn’t really painful. Just strange. Who does this crap?

Her friend was nicer. It was an enjoyable (albeit very innocent) date.

They both have boyfriends, I couldn’t care less. This is a day-time soap in the making… I can’t wait to see the next installment.

She’s playing games. I hate games. I hate beating around the bush, I hate these so-called rules that you have to play by, otherwise you’re too eager, too cool, etc.

I guess I should have warned her not to play games. I should have told her that I’m a straight-shooter when it comes to that stuff. I don’t wait the required two days before calling. I’m also not a fan of people who do.

The fact that she’s hot, and interested, and very playful, sort of counter-balances this, but, the clock is ticking. My interest is waning by the minute. 7.6.7.4.7.3.6.9.6.4…

I will wait a little longer, just in case I’m mistaken. Just a little longer.
Her loss.

***update: Not that you really care, but, since I don’t really care either, so I called. Apparently, she had no credit to call. Being a foreigner, and not stupid, I could believe that, on the other hand…

She just might get lucky still.

I feel like shit. I feel murderous. Don’t ask why, don’t feign sympathy. I don’t want that. The only reason I’m writing it here is because I’ve got absolutely no one to say it to that I can/want to. I need to say it, nevertheless, out where people can hear it. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Jack only postpones the eventual realization of self-loathing. I’m a sad little turd. Asphyxation is ok when there’s no oxygen, otherwise, it’s banal. If you know you can only have three nice evenings. Your choice of when, but only three. Would you ever? Are we moving on a pre-ordained track? What happens if we derail? Have we already derailed? Who the hell’s driving? Screw that. Is the hangover part of the previous night, or just a new day gone down the toilet? I’m trying to think of more smart-sounding stuff to say. I’m fucking pissed.

Ah well. Fuck.

Yesterday evening, while taking the subway home, me and M. were approached by a guy. He praised the lord Jesus Christ at the wonder of someone who’d never been to the US speaking English. He was a mormon missionary, serving for two years abroad (as do a lot of mormons, apparently). M. got sick of it after a short while, I played along. We got to talking, I feigned interest, and I saw his face light up, he had gotten through to a sinner! I smilingly agreed to meet him sometime in the coming two weeks.

The jungle that is Berlin is no place for a poor, innocent, white kid from Utah. He has NO idea what he’s gotten himself into.

I think I will take all these people up on their offers from now on. Hating religion is unhealthy, I must face it’s representatives one by one.

* The sacred number (along with 5) of Eris, goddess of discord
* the number of the Illuminati.
* sometimes considered lucky or otherwise significant (as in the occult writings of Aleister Crowley and William S. Burroughs)
* a cosmic number with strong connections to arcane magic and synchronicity.
* Numerous people have claimed to see 23’s everywhere (the 23 curse) prior to enormous success and fruitfulness.

(from Wikipedia)

Bullshit. (excuse my french). Sill, it’s a significant age. I’ll finish my education and be expected to start my career in the next twelve months. I’ll be making several crucial decisions, and whatnot.

Exactly two years ago, I celebrated my birthday with my friends and family, got on a plane and flew to Germany. One terrible year and 12 acceptable months later, I’m happy again. Things are going just fine with me.

I spent the day with my parents who are visiting me in B., we walked around, talked, and eventually had dinner together… I left, to get home and my awesome roommates were waiting for me, singing birthday songs, and holding a gift…. Gentleman Jack! I love my roommates. Then my best friend dropped by with his girlfriend and brownies, and my other best friend called from London… A nice day.

I’m going to take it easy this year. I will graduate in a couple of months, but I plan to stay here for a few months after that, experience the country, visit some European cities (London, Barcelona, Prague, Warsaw, Paris, Amsterdam and Rome)… All the time doing small projects/contracts that would sustain me financially. I will enjoy this year.

Happy birthday moi.

A friend just came back from a vacation in Spain, a few months earlier, he was in Krakow… I met up with him, and a friend of his, she had recently returned from Edinburgh where she worked for a couple of months. She’s going to university till June, then working in Dublin for 2-3 months… After that, it’s off to a vineyard in France to work with dozens of other young people during the harvesting season… She’s then taking a year off of university, trekking across asia, doing a couple of months’ internship in Australia, then spending 5 weeks in Venezuela, two weeks backpacking across south and central America, 2 weeks in the US and then back to Berlin. They’re both, naturally, supporting their lifestyles themselves. They work, and do things the cheapest way… they make ends meet. They’ll probably finish university in a couple of years, by the time they’re 28-29.

Three years younger, I worry about careers, financial stability, and my future, and am still looking to take the chance. I have seen fewer places, experienced fewer cultures, and had way less fun along the way.

Something is wrong. I’m beginning to believe that my way was not the right way. Is it the culture? The mentality? The difference in responsibilities that we have?

It’s seeming more and more nonsensical to graduate and start work at 23. To join the rat race, to breath in 5 weeks of free air a year till I retire, and to sweat like a pig for the man.

Speaking of pigs. I went out with some friends yesterday. On the way, one of them decided to grab a bite at a ‘Lebanese’ restaurant. We walk in, and naturally, some persian or khaliji music is playing in the background… Pictures and drawings adorn the place… I point out the pictures that are of Lebanon (cedars, baalbeck, sidon, beriut, etc…) saying “this is Lebanon”, and then the drawings of camels and palm trees and deserts and what not, saying “this is not”… Some guy, sitting in a corner, starts mumbling things to his friend, and he calls me a zionist, and a pig. I ignore it. Again. Again. I was really considering doing something stupid, but thankfully my friends were there. Not that they held me back, or anything, just having them their made me rethink things, I didn’t want to be another one of those trash foreigners that fight other foreigners… I was better than that. So, I ignore him and move on.

Later that night, tens of people adoringly looking up to a great DJ, girls salivating as they gyrated to the music…

The point? Too many points… it’s more like a line. The end effect is…

Things are working out very well for me these days… I’m on a lucky streak. Academically, work is progressing slowly, but surely, and the authorities are satisfied with my thesis so far, personally, I’ve settled down into a very cool, very enjoyable pace… setbacks are a thing of the (near) past… I was in H. the other day, met up with professors and cleared out a lot of issues, I now have a clear timeplan to follow for the coming few months, then I hooked up with some friends who happened to be in the city, and we caught a political rally for Angela Merkel, live. It’s sad. She doesn’t come through as human, no matter how hard she tries. That said, I’m not THAT much against a stronger regime in Germany, with clear anti-terrorist policies and so on. I fainted from laughter when they played Angie at the end. That is SO NOT A RIGHT SONG FOR HER!

On the homefront, we’re looking for another roommate to move in early october. I’m playing a very active role in the selection process. My criteria: female, 20-23, good looking, stylish, fun, interesting, preferably foreign (doesn’t know many people here). I am taking pictures of the applicants, they think it’s for us to remember them… and it is, sort of… the hotness factor plays a big role, I say.

The weird thing is that as the number of applicants piled up, I noticed that I was sweet-talking them, flirting with them, etc… I was looking, as my other roommates happily pointed out, for a wife, and not a roommate. Then I took another picture. I’ve already made my decision, actually… a hot little number from Barcelona. Not bad… not bad at all. she doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into
I’m a pig. Oink oink.

I grew up on the fringe of the Lebanese ‘civil’ war. I didn’t live in a high-risk area, and I missed the bulk of the war. I do have some memories of those days, though, most of the stories here, are from my own memory, the first, I don’t remember.

The early years of my life were spent in Sidon, right during the Israeli invasion. My dad, a surgeon, was away, doing what surgeons do. My parents tell me that around the time I started to speak, he was back at home, but apparently, it took me a while to stop calling him ‘mr.’ and start calling him ‘dad’.

Much later, in the late eighties early nineties, I’d already been living in Byblos for a few years. One day (or one month, the span is jumbled up in my head), the fighting started between the LF and the Lebanese Army (led by that orange megalomaniac), and we decided it would be safer to leave our fifth story flat and stay at my grandma’s place. I remember walking down the stairs (the elevator wasn’t working, surprise surprise), being told to stay away from the windows because of danger from stray bullets. Halfway down, I remember I’d left my He-man action figures at home. War? HE-MAN! Master of the Universe! I (or maybe, I had one of my parents go in my place?) went back up the stairs and got my red bag that contained Heman, his pet lion, skeletor, she-ra, reptile, and the gang. I couldn’t live without them.

The only other thing I remember from that period was that my dad had back trouble, and sleeping on a mattress on the floor wasn’t the best thing for it. I worried about him not being able to stay standing for hours to operate on people… or was I just worried about affording he-man’s latest nemesis?

Again, the timeline is jumbled up, but during the last Lebanese/Syrian battle, we were up in our village house, sandbags covering the entrance and windows. We were all sleeping in a bundle on the ground floor (1.5 meter thick walls)… my favorite aunt’s main worry was the chandelier hanging above the mattress. She would sleep below it and make me and my brothers sleep to the sides. My baby brother’s crib was strategically placed in the middle of the room. We always worried he’d be scarred by the war… he’s not exactly normal, but I wouldn’t blame that on the war
Ceasefire was a nice time. Our village was strategically place halfway between a Syrian base and a Lebanese Army one. The former being the excellent marksmen that they were, we had more than our fair share of shells falling around the house. My grandfather would take me out during ceasefire (what the hell kind of war is it when they announce that they’re taking a break??? Sorta like British tea-time in Asterix and Obelix) and we would gather shrapnel. Small pieces of death-metal. That’s where my passion for metal probably started. Sometimes the pieces would still be warm. Ahh, childhood.

The war was now over, but kids being kids, we had to reinact battles all the time. The village was split into three parts, the lower section, the main part (which we called ‘the village’, naturally), and the higher area. Children joined the ‘army’ of their part of town. It started out as gang roaming the streets, evolved to slings loaded with beans and what not, and ended when I burned an eyebrow when a firework rocket backfired instead of flying at the enemy.

VW Golfs were all the rage in the early nineties. Summers were spent in the village, and, with my older cousin visiting, mischief was rampant. Our neighbor had just bought a Golf (I still associate that family with VW Golfs, regardless)… so me and my cousin naturally filled his gas tank with water. That got us grounded for a few days. Toiletpaper grenades (toilet paper rolled in a bunch, soaked in water, shaped into a ball and left to dry and harden) were cause for more punishment… My girl cousin, having overheard our latest plans at world domination, was locked in the bathroom for a few hours. THEY found her an hour (or was it just a few minutes?) later, and punished us when we got back home. Good times.

I wanted to regale you with tales of my “war memories” but i’m drifting into more general childhood stuff… thing is, I woke up today, and started recollecting these stories, I always fear forgetting this stuff, that once, a couple of years ago, I created a diary software that ended up being more of a memory book than an actual diary. Anyway. Bye.

I’m not retiring.

It was considered for a while. It had been a possibility for a while longer. I don’t want to be judged by my blog (or at least by one or two posts in it). I took myself offline (actually, I just changed the address…) and mulled over it for almost two days… I’m staying.

I took away some posts… I’m going back to being anonymous. It was either that, or watching what I say… the latter is out of the question. My profile page, photo, info, etc are all gone. What remains is a white webpage with black text. You’re welcome to read and comment.

I started this blog almost two years ago, it was a way out. A release. Singing in the shower. Working out. Listening to music. Walking around. Masturbation.

It was also a way of letting a few people stay uptodate with my life.

It has grown with time. I’ve gathered a few readers. People that I like, and that seem to like (or at least, seem to be interested) in what I have to say. I’ve made some friends, real-life and otherwise, and strengethed some friendships.

My posts might have pissed some of you off. They might have had you ‘tsk tsk tsk’ yourself away. They might have made you nod in agreement. All welcome. I write to elicit emotions, outrage, laughter, or what not. I’m rarely as extreme as the way I sound, but where would the fun be otherwise?

The bottom-line is, selfish as it may sound, this is my space, and these are my words that soil this corner of the webosphere.

I decided that I won’t change what I write because of who’s reading, or what they might assume.

I will return to being anonymous over here. This blog won’t change in content, but that content will point to ‘Tempest’. He/she can take all you can dish. Give it your best shot. I, on the other hand, don’t feel like it anymore.

You might want to skip this… it’s not a particularly special read… see, I’ve been celebrating (sort of) for the past week or so… I’ve hit a streak of amazingly good luck. Something I am no longer used to, and have learned not to expect…

First, I move in to a new flat in a new city, great people, great flatmates, great flat, great friends….

Then, I get an A+ on a research that I’d worked from january to may…

Then, I pass that course that I’d failed twice before. The one that was threatening to end my MSc, the one that I didn’t, and still don’t, understand, the one with the professor that doesn’t particularly tolerate (let alone like) me… I got a B on that. Now, I only have my thesis to work on. weeeee…..

Then, comes the small stuff that just make a certain situation perfect, or positive, or great… those are in the dozens….

I had a poker night at my place. I was down 14 euros after a while, I won that back, and then some…

A photo of mine on flickr made it past the Delete me! group… that’s luck, not talent
So yeah… I don’t know what’s next… I’m looking forward to it though. More good luck would be welcome… I’m kinda enjoying this streak… Bad luck wouldn’t trouble me that much. If I’ve learned one thing in Germany, it’s to pick myself up again and again…

I was going on proudly about how there were no sausages served at my party… I’ve tried not to change too much since I moved here… I still prefer whiskey to beer, steaks to sausages, shawarma to doener, pepsi to orange juice. I thought the party was a victory.

Last night, I had no plans. My roommate J.(one who I had very briefly met for the first time on the night of the party) asked if I was interested in going to some party with them. Sure.

So, we got on the bikes, I grabbed a beer from T. and we rode off to the party. We chatted a bit on the way, I was happy, a good party the night before, a good first impression on my new roommates, meeting new people and fitting in more and more in Berlin… I was happy.

Hold it. Rewind. Got on a fucking bike. Grabbed a fucking beer. And RODE off to a party. It hit me ten minutes into the ride. I’m riding a bike to the party. I’m on my second beer. I’m drinking way too much beer. Riding a fucking bicycle! NO! They had somehow snuck up on me. I was too busy ignoring them that they got me! I was indoctrinated. Broken-in. Housebroken. Trained like the dog that I am.

My parents cried.

More beer at the party. Some ping pong. Some flirting. Nothing more. Yes. On the way back, I struggled with learning to ride a bike drunk. Not the most fun of things. Those bones below my ass cheeks. I swear they were creaking. The bike swayed left and right, or maybe I did, and it held its’ course. And in the midst of this learning experience, a guy riding a bike in the other direction screams at us that we’re riding on the wrong lane. T. and J. appologized. I laughed my ass off and thought… “I’m blogging this”… a glimmer of hope… a small spark made itself visible. I kept it hidden. I will nurture it, in secrecy. Then, one day, I will turn the tables on them. One day, all Germans will leave their home at night, beer in hand, to ride to the party, and they’ll notice that their tyres are flat, brakes are cut, and seat is ripped off. Resist. I can resist!

I barked myself to sleep.

I made pancakes this morning.

DSCF1373
Originally uploaded by LeTempest.

Housewarming party last night.

Final Tally:
16 people.
55 beers consumed (27.5 litres).
6 bottles of wine.
1 bottle of champagne.
1 HUUGGEE flask of beer (4-5 litres).
1/2 of a Gentleman Jack.
Numerous steaks.
0 sausages! (victory!).
1 guest thinks I hate her.
1 guest thinks I love her.
1 guest wants to get married (hi janjoon!).
2 (only!) hours of clean up today.

For Your Eyes Only
Originally uploaded by LeTempest.

Easier said than done. Easier tattooed than done, rather. Innit?

I took a quasi-break from my online life these past few days… I had a major exam yesterday, one that I’d failed twice before, and absolutely had to pass this time in order to be able to register my thesis. (Also, because I only get three shots, and the fourth is an oral exam, and much harder). Needless to say, I’d been under a lot of stress due to this fact. The course actually has nothing to do with my degree, and very little with my general area of expertise… It is an advanced course for which I don’t have the proper background. But I HAD to take it because those were the uni rules… Today I’m going to be positive. I won’t criticize the uni, the prof, the degree program, or anything else.

So. I decided to minimize my time online, and spent it cramming up for the test, memorizing formulae, praying to gods present and ancient (Odin, Ra, Jesus, Muhammad, Buddha, Zeus, and worm-with-giant-brain), burning incense, pledging all my earthly and spiritual belongings, sacrificing childr– I mean, wheat, etc.

Anyway, the test is over. I migh have just scraped through. Now, I’m back in Berlin (hurrah!), for good this time. And, I’m going to have to work hard to make up for lost time on my thesis. But that’s not an issue. I love that. I just hope it’s not all in vain, when the results come in two weeks from now.

Not blogging for a few days doesn’t mean you cease to have ideas. I jotted those down and will blog them soon enough.

/sympathy drive over.

[[edit: I posted this originally on Wednesday. Raf made me look twice, after he commented on me not posting anything recently. It turns out, the post had been saved as a draft.]
Must post sober. Orange means publish, blue means draft.
]]

Punk Rocker Chick called. I recall distinctly NOT having given my number away. The first moment was awkward, with my mind not registering the name being announced. After that, it was idle, light chit-chat for a few minutes. No particular objective from the phone call, but that didn’t make it any less ominous. PRC is a fun gal, even when sober.

What is to come?
Where did she get my number from?

I’m not blogging on terrorism, I’ll do that later.

Due to an unforseen turn of events (yet, I sort of saw it coming… Murphy! You and your fucking law… burn in hell!), i’m heading back to hamburg. Tomorrow. Fuck. HAMBURG! Goddamnit. For a short while, though… just a few days, hopefully, a couple of weeks at most. I’m not very surprised, but still. God! You menopausal whore.

Hopefully, things will be cleared up for good this time, and I could proceed with my plans. Too bad I sold my fucking chair already. I’m feeling like a nomad, a hi-tech nomad, but still. And my gonads are aching.

The issue now is figuring out how to get back with the girl I was seeing before moving here, ‘hey baby, how about we postpone this thing for a week or so?’…

On the side, I like brunettes. I thought Germany and the Aryans might break me, but no. I haven’t changed. Brunettes rock.

Star Wars my ass.

I found a place in Berlin. Great flat, seemingly fun people, the location is awesome, close to a whole bunch of my friends and in a very cool area.

I’m moving to Berlin in a couple of weeks, it feels so good to be getting out of Hamburg. I love the city, but it’s been a bad experience throughout. I’ve been in a good mood every since I decided to leave, and I’ve been on a high ever since I finalised everything. I have a lot of angst; my ‘future’ is not that far away anymore, work, career, etc… Nevertheless, I’m sure the move to Berlin will give me the energy to cruise through my thesis, and produce results, Ramzi style.

I’ve been through some tough shit this past year and a half. Some problems, I shared with friends, others, I couldn’t share with anyone. Bottom-line is, I couldn’t really deal with anything in Hamburg. The emptiness destroyed my drive, and slashed my productivity. I’m getting that back.

Carpe Diem, 16 months later.
Yay me.

I’ve never been in a serious relationship. I’ve never been in a semi-serious relationship. I have, for a while now, thought that I absolutely need a long-term relationship, none of the 2-4 week things that I’m always having…

You see, it’s not like I start dating someone with a plan on my mind, it’s just that I get bored with the person (not the fooling around, not the intimacy, not the sex, just the person), and as soon as I’m bored, I have to move on. I’m not one to work things through, I don’t believe that everything is worth fighting for… so I move on.

That has always left me feeling empty somehow. I’ve dated a lot of women over the past few years, but none have lasted more than a few weeks. And I’m usually the one that ends things. It’s better that way, I believe. Honesty is the least that I owe them. The reasons never make sense… the vague “it’s not working out” is the plat-du-jour… you can’t exactly come out and tell someone that they bore the hell out of you now, can you?

Anyway, this led me to believe that what I need is a serious relationship, with someone that I can share a lot with, and stay interested in after sleeping together, or sometimes even after the first kiss. Someone that stimulates me, as a whole, and not just some parts of me,

I’ve been reconsidering that lately. I think that deep down inside I really want the short-term thing. I just want to absorb one girl and move on to the next. That’s why I get bored easily. I want out. I realise this makes me seem asshole-ish, or maybe, a pig, but honesty should count for something, right? I won’t pretend to be interested, it’s just not worth it. As long as I’m intersted, i’m in, when I stop being interested, eject.

So, I think I will end my search for a serious relationship. Actually, I will end my search, fullstop. Come what may.

I think too much.