rbouyounes.com

This, I don't love.

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 05:25:00 +0000

Sometimes I get really really sad. For no reason at all. There's this strong bout of emotion that takes me over and makes me really crazy. Then I spend a few days trying to figure it out. Get to the bottom of things an understand why my emotions are running rampant.

Today I think it's my job. When I get to this point-- where I can't even bear the thought of having to continue there for another shift, I know it's time to go. When the anxiety I feel at work begins coming home with me, that when I know it's time to go. When I'm brought to tears for no apparent reason, that's when I know it's time to go.

I get so deep into things. I knew four years ago that this place was not right for me. But instead I let myself get so emotionally invested that now it would without a doubt break my heart to leave. But I must.

It won't be tomorrow, likely not immediately. But I know this. I know that I need to listen to my heart sometimes, and my mind that for forty hours a week is telling me, "you're better than this."

I get really really sad sometimes. And every time I need to try and figure out why-- a logical approach. Today, this moment and the fact that I would rather cut off my own arm than go into work tomorrow, is what is telling me that maybe my job has something to do with it. I have never invested so much time, effort and genuine care into anything. Ever. And the relationship remains one sided. I am unappreciated. I need to recognize this. I work too hard to leave at the end of the day and feel the weight of an enormous burden constantly holding me down. What you do-- it should not be a chore, it should be something you love band this? This, I don't love.

If These Walls could Talk

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 03:13:00 +0000

circa July 2007

If these Bedroom walls could talk,
They would agree with the intense conversations and hold their bellies as they ache from laughter. They would scream out at the many arguments and point in the direction of the lost remote. They would cover shivering bodies at 4am, fluff the flat pillows and reconfigure the furniture. They would dry tear drenched eyes and offer a roll of toilet paper from next door. They would mirror the actions of the women & men who pass in & out as their days continue.

If these Living Room walls could talk,
They too would listen attentively to the news feed from across the Globe, as a world gets torn apart and its descendants glued to the media in hopes of better news. They would join around the coffee table for dinner, for talks of politics which seem to end in arguments; of religion which seem to ~~end~~ begin with beliefs; of family which seem to end with tears; of men which seem to go on with laughter; of hair and spaghetti and pens and songs…of anything and everything worth mentioning. They would sit with company, and play with the children trying hard to remember the names of each being who pass in & out as their days continue.

If these Employed walls could talk,
They would say that it is truly a shame. Ten years later brings about its untimely demise in a few short months. Friendships made and broken, money made and spent, persons promoted and demoted. They would laugh at the thieves and commend the honest ones; spread apart to make room for stock. They would tell stories of silly customers and delegating managers. They will watch as ten years’ stories disappear and new habitants begin theirs. They will follow the steps of the impatient customers and the leaving employees, laughing and reminiscing at each of those who pass in & out as their days continue.

If these Educated walls could talk,
They would speak highly of their brothers Downtown and greet the locals as they reluctantly return for eight more months of dedicated hard work. They would stand there quietly as students’ bury their heads in their ridiculously expensive books and mutter to themselves in attempts to memorize those ridiculously expensive books’ words. They would urge their defeated souls to continue and remind them that a few years from now their hard work will surely pay off. They would stand strongly lifting the stress off of the shoulders of each and every growing mind passing in & out as their days continue.

If these Walls could talk,
They would say Thank Goodness That We’re All Just Walls.
No hearts to be broken.
No lungs to stop breathing.
No arms to reach out and find empty.
No eyes to open and find all alone.
No ears to hear the negativity.
No backs to turn and find wounded by knives.

If these walls could talk, they would not say a damn word. To speak means to breathe, to breathe means to live and to live means to hurt. And should the time come where their concrete fades into blood, and their hardwood into flesh, they would lay there with broken sprits and tragically defeated wishing to be a fucking wall.

"Experience is a brutal teacher. But you learn. My God, do you learn."

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 03:18:00 +0000

I don't cry a lot. Not for myself. But for others. I cry when I hear a sad story. I cry when I watch a sad show or movie. I cry when I read a sad book. I cry for others. So when you're invested in show that has (repeatedly) made you cry in the past, it comes as no surprise when your emotions become so reflective of the characters.

Criminal Minds. It's a complex, intriguing, captivating show. If you're not familiar, it has the brilliancy and mystery of CSI mixed with the tragedy and emotion of Grey's Anatomy. The perfect combination in my opinion.

Watched a re-run tonight. Got me thinking. JJ talks about her sister's suicide (from when she was eleven), and tells her superviser (who just lost his wife), "It does get better. It doesn't go away. But eventually, you think of them, and it hurts less. You think of them, and you're happy."

There's this strange level of guilt that people feel. This guilt that comes with moving on (or the attempt to move one). Like we're not supposed to. Like we supposed to think about those we lost and mourn eternally. I used to think that time healed all wounds. That it had this magical quality to take away the hurt. But that isn't the case. Time isn't healing the wounds. Time teaches our minds, our hearts, our souls-- to live amongst them, with them, embrace them. Time teaches us that it is okay to cry a year after their death a re-live the moment we found out. Time teaches us that it's okay to wake up suddenly in the middle of the night because we saw their face in our dreams and we couldn't go back to bed without finding that little something that once meant something to them. Time teaches us that it is okay to look at a couple holding hands and feel his fingers linked in between yours. Time tells us that it is okay. It is okay to think about them, and cry for them, and laugh about the stupid joke they once made. It's okay. And we live with these memories. They become a part of us and it is these very moments that change us, that allow our physical bodies to evolve around their presence.

It isn't just death here. It's your best friend who moved to Michigan when you were eleven and you didn't know what to do the first day you went to school and she wasn't there. It's your teacher who moved schools and you just couldn't stand the bitch who replaced her. It's your stuffed animal that your dad threw away because you're seventeen and "don't need it anymore."

Death is not the only means of separation, it is not the only means of loss. We've all experienced loss. We've all had to look back on something and say soyanara for whatever the reason. Here, in this moment, is where time becomes a very close friend. The next morning you think that healing is so far away, you think that healing is impossible. And all of a sudden, it is a year later and you can hardly believe how long it has been. And then, out of no where, you lay in bed at night and the tears don't come. You stare outside of your window and the street lamps are clear bulbs and not crystallized dots. All of a sudden the pain subsides. All of a sudden it doesn't hurt to breathe. It doesn't go away. It never goes away. But eventually it just becomes okay. Your life, in that very moment, though changed, is okay. You've adapted.

“Just thought you should know, your writing makes a difference.”

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 05:28:00 +0000

I did something today that I tell myself not to do each time I do it.

there’s this function on facebook—the “show more posts” button at the bottom of your page.

The thing is, this button has no limit. So you continue ‘showing more posts’ until it’s the next day and you realize you should probably shower and sleep or do something remotely productive with your life.

I ‘showed more posts’ until April 2008. That feels like forever ago. That’s the one thing that makes me grateful for social media. It’s a memory box, a time capsule and a communication device all in one. I read posts from four years ago and I can still remember the conversation, or who I was with and what we were doing. It’s this strange thing that happens in your mind to recall memories and make you laugh or hurt all over again.

One noticeable difference: wall activity.

2008- dozens and dozens of Happy Birthday postings.

2012- a handful of Happy Birthday postings.

Here’s the thing. My feelings aren’t hurt (honest), but the same FB friends from ‘08 are on my current list which means that those who once posted birthday greetings on my wall have made a subconscious effort to ignore the birthday notification and not post anything. Where does the time go? How did we get here? To a place where friendships are measured through publicly searchable filters and monitored by robots categorizing our conversations and using this information to recommend ads on each individuals’ homepage. How did we get here? I can’t quite figure it out. Where did the love go, the empathy, the comradery?

‘Showing older posts’ rebirths dead emotions. Brings old hurt to the surface and memory lane gets churning waiting for you to stop by. It’s an annoying place, but one that is visited every so often. I can’t help but looks at the conversations between old friends and think—fuck , I don’t even recognize myself. Even in writing I sound different. Even in the tone of using an […] instead of [—]. Different. Change. It’s constant and yet it is the one thing that we never (I never) adapt to.

I’m grateful for right now. This moment. For the gems in my life today. When I can list out a dozen things that annoy me about you, or twenty things that you’ve said or done to piss me off, but I like you anyway—this is a good sign.
When I can tell you about embarrassing things—like my hate for everything metal, or my ‘she-sa she-sa’ ICQ story, or my blue bandana & pigtail days, or my heartaches—this is a good sign.
When I’m in the shower and writing a mental speech for your wedding—good sign.
When I’m in the shower and simultaneously writing a mental speech on your behalf, at my funeral—good sign.

‘show older posts.’ It’s at the bottom for a reason. Buried. Behind. Past. Dead. Over. Comprende?

Post Secret Bash

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 23:49:00 +0000

Been a long time coming folks—here it is again, a good ol’ fashion style, post secret bash.

This is everyone’s dream, let’s face it. He looks great and has probably waited a hell of a long time to do this. Congratulations—bet it felt great.

wah wah wah. You’re probably sexy & skinny and he gets all hard when you take your clothes off. Give me a break. I’m sure you look great naked, clothed or in a clown costume. So shutup.

Bahaha. This is awesome. Grandparents are do damn selfless it’s ridiculous. So when one will admit a little selfishness it makes me all giddy inside. Grandkids are selfish and they take advantage of you. So enjoy it.

[front & back]
This hurts my heart. Parents worry so much about their kids and about their friends and the different things that would deter friendships. Kids are brutal these days, absolutely brutal. The misshapen head would ruin his life, no doubt. What would you do? I don’t know if the cowardly thing to do is wait. It’s a risk to go ahead with the surgery—definitely I’d wait. I’d wait because I fear change and risk. I’d wait.

Comforts you? How could that comfort you. These groups break my fucking heart. There is so much tragedy in every single wall post. The members are mourning (well at least those joining for the truth of it and not the attention of it). Don’t take comfort in other people’s grief, especially in the deaths of teens. Brutal.

Word. I do some of my best thinking on the shitter.

You’re an asshole. I want to punch you in the face. Stop fucking married men. Start recycling. Save your soul. Save the planet.

Rough. Sucks. Breathe. Leave him. Don’t think twice about it. Just go.

Agreed. Wipe that stupid smile off your face all the damn time. No one in their right mind can be that happy all the time.

Then you shouldn’t love him at all.

WAH WAH WAH. SHUT THE FUCK UP with the race card already. White chicks have it made. Okay. That’s not anyone’s secret, never mind your own.

[front&back]
This is disgusting. Why that would be used to hurt someone else is beyond me.

No No. Your precious fucking child isn’t that cute. My dog? Fucking adorable. Your face? Needs to be punched.

See? Fucking Adorable.

#19. It’s Yours. So who fucking cares?

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 23:09:00 +0000

We sometimes forget to think about ourselves. We exist. Few of us, I believe, but we’re out there. If you’re anything like me, then you’ll buy a Tim Horton’s breakfast sandwich for yourself & your sister, and then while dropping off one sister at work you give the other the 2nd sandwich and say it was hers all along because you know that she hasn’t had breakfast and you wouldn’t be able to eat it nevertheless enjoy it knowing this. If you’re anything like me you’ll tell you’re friends you’re too lazy to go out because you already made plans to see that movie with someone else and even though you’re desperate to go, you wont back out on those plans. If you’re anything like me you’ll pay for everything despite the fact that you really can’t. If you’re anything like me you’ll listen to people talk shit and say nothing, disrespect you and say nothing, belittle you and say nothing. If you’re like me you sometimes (read: always) forget to think about yourself.

Others take precedence. Each and every time.

There are so many times when it should be okay to be a little selfish, when it should be okay to not be concerned with what other people think. It’s virtually impossible I believe. But we need to recognize those times and use them to our advantage.

Your Wedding. For instance. Is yours. Not your parents’ and not you in-laws’ or your brides maids’. No. Yours. Who gives a shit if they don’t like the centerpiece or the colour of the dress of the way your hair will be done or the shade of ivory that your dress is or the width of the lace that trims your veil. Who cares? You do. I know. But this time it’s okay to not care, to not worry, to think about yourself and what it is that you want. It’s not every day that we can be selfish. It’s not every day that we can fit ourselves into a little box and ignore the sounds coming from the outside. It’s not every day that I think we should. But some times, some times it is okay. Some times I want to run around screaming I don’t give a fuck what you think even though the depths of my soul are bursting with care, so filled with care that I can hardly even think the words.
But then I need to remind myself that it’s okay today, it’s okay that you don’t like the way the bridal section looks because I spent eight hours working on it and you did nothing. I don’t care that you don’t like my sweater because I worked to buy it. I don’t care that you don’t like my car because I’m the one driving it. I don’t care that you don’t like me or my face or my voice or my anything. I don’t care. I can’t care. If I cared I would drive myself mental. You too.

So. Here’s what I learned today. Every so often, it is okay not to care. Give yourself that option.

Now, take care.

#18 Heaven is For Real

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Mon, 19 Mar 2012 04:39:00 +0000

I haven’t been here in so long I didn’t even think I’d remember my password. Like riding a bike though.
I lost content. It’s the blood the drives a writer, and I ran dry. But there’s an itching inside of me that wants to get out—something that I know can only be stopped by writing. It sounds strange but there are things you think and things you want and/or need to say and instead of actually saying/doing them you come up with some other random shit that in one way or another refers back to the original thought and translates itself into words that to others are semi coherent sentences and metaphors but to you are relieving screams of ahhhhh, glad I got that out. I keep learning things. I started “new a day” in university where I literally learned something new every day and when I could remember I ran over here to tell you guys about it. Every so often I catch myself thinking, “that’s the new thing today,” and then when I get to Ivan I forget what it was all about. BlackBerry doesn’t have mobile blogging like Eve did so it’s a huge inconvenience and encourages my forgetfulness. I’m going to try again because there is so much to tell you. I think. Here’s my new thing for today (really this was a few days ago but this is the first chance I’m getting to tell you about it). I learned that Heaven is for real. I know I’m supposed to know that already. And I did…do.

Alright, so there’s this book, “Heaven is for Real” by Todd Burpo. Let me give you a quick summary of why this is even being mentioned.
This kid has a burst appendix and after surviving his surgery he claims that he died for three minutes and went to heaven. He’s four years old and his father is a pastor. Now at first you want to dismiss the claims and just think it’s another dreamer. The things that this kid reveals to his parents over a span of about four years makes me all tingly. He tells his father that he met his grandfather as a young man, that he met his sister with whom his mother miscarried, that he met Jesus’ cousin John the Baptist and that he played with his dog. Of all the things he says, nothing gets me more than this part--
After telling his parents that he met Jesus they start to wonder what the man looked like. Every time that they would see a picture of Jesus (the conventional long haired, bearded, white gown photos) they would ask if this was the man he saw. The kid would always say no, explaining that ‘something just wasn’t right’ without being able to explain why that wasn’t him.
After a few years the pastor finally told his congregation his son’s story. Another family who listened to the the kid’s experience told the pastor about a woman named Akiane Kramarik. Long story short, Akiane had a similar experience and though she (and her family) were devout Atheists she claims having gone to heaven and met Jesus. After her experience she became a gifted artist able to paint, write poetry, etc. all by the age of seven. After going to heaven Akiane painted a portrait of the man she called Jesus, entitling it the Prince of Peace.
Here’s where this all gets interesting—years after Colton’s experience in heaven his parents continued playing the ‘picture game’ where they would try to get Colton to explain why the picture did not match the Jesus that he met. After his father heard Akiane’s story he pulled up an online copy of her painting.

I got up from the desk and hollered up the stairs for Colton to come down to the basement.

“Coming!” came the reply.

Colton bounded down the stairs and popped into the office. “Yeah, Dad?”

“Take a look at this,” I said, nodding toward the computer monitor. “What’s wrong with this one?”

He turned to the screen and for a long moment said nothing.

“Colton?”

But he just stood there, studying. I couldn’t read his expression.

“What’s wrong with this one, Colton?” I said again.

Utter silence.

I nudged him in the arm. “Colton?”

My seven-year-old turned to look at me and said, “Dad, that one’s right.”

Heaven is for Real, Chapter 27

I believe in heaven. That’s not what I learned here. I learned that people have been there. I learned that God has sent people back—likely in answer to our prayers. I learned that its okay to question it because things happen that make you believe in it and Him all over again. I learned that heaven is for real—and I hope, for your sake, that you do too.

"May your neighbours respect you, trouble neglect you, angels protect you, and heaven accept you."

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 18:05:00 +0000

It’s been ages, I know. I admittedly fell off the map for a while. It’s largely i part because Ivan needs some medication to get up and running smoothly again, and my lazy/broke ass doesn’t have the energy/funds to repair him. Someone do it for free? Please? Pretty please? That’s reason number one. Reason two is that I’m a busy person—(kinda), full time jobs take most of your energy so for the couple days you get to lounge around the house, the last thing I think about it blogging. Writing, sometimes. Not blogging. They’re too separate for me now. Which brings me to number three. I used this blog as a medium of communication between myself and everyone who happens to come across it. I do not write things to instigate anger or hatred in others, I write simply for the sake of writing, pouring emotion or putting legibility to random thoughts. This is it. So how can I say this kindly, in a way that you’ll understand? Get the fuck over yourselves. No, not every post is about you. If you are or have been any part of my life in that last four years then I’m sure you’ve been made reference to at least once on here. In that event, no I do not need to ask for permission to write about you or what you think make have reference to you. Nor have I spent the last four years conjuring thoughts and poems to make it on this blog hoping that you’ll see it and strike some emotion. Truth be told, if there were a way to restrict certain IP addresses from even viewing this blog, then I would (i.e., if you know how to do this, please help a homie out).

1. lazy & busy
2. Ivan needs help
3. Tired of the “is this about me” questions/claims

I’ve made a conscious decision though to ignore that last factor and instead tough it out through the laziness, Ivan’s lack lustre performance and the nagging. Here it is. Back. Back. Back. For how long? I’m not quite sure. But I do know that I’ve mentally made note of many things to add to the various segments here. Including, “New a Day,” and “Things I should have said.”

I missed Danny. Truly I did.

Cottage 2011

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 01:57:00 +0000

Brief Update, more to come.

I say it’s because I don’t have anything to write about

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Tue, 30 Aug 2011 03:40:00 +0000

And it’s true. I don’t have much to tell you so posts come very seldom. Saw friends tonight—I’ve told you about Johanna here before (which, mind you, every single word in that post still stands true), but the other, Sara, don’t think I’ve told you about her before, maybe indirectly. I’m too lazy to check in all honesty. But anyway, here’s the thing—we used to be really good friends, the three of us. Like everything was about us, always together, always hanging. And I cannot pinpoint where that stopped. Somewhere between first and second year university we all sort of did our own thing. Johanna went to Waterloo & Sara got married & had a baby—and I…well I did nothing remotely different with my life except seclude and pull away from everyone and everything that meant high school to me. They were shoved into the sidelines by default. I kept Johanna around, kept talking to her and going out with her. And so, I fully admit to abandoning Sara. I do. I wont deny it. I convinced myself that she didn’t want to be my friend. She had other friends, friends with babies (this sounds so ridiculous as I try to put it into words). And so a large part of me just thought she was happier with them. And when I didn’t know about the baby, didn’t know about the wedding, didn’t know about her life—I pulled away. I stopped trying. Gave up. I convinced myself that if she wanted me in her life she would have me in her life. Simple as that. The day that your best friend of five (or more) years gets married and doesn’t invite you [rather even let you know about it] is the day that you give up. Please bear with me as I rant for a moment—you see this wasn’t just any wedding. Not just any couple. See, these two (the groom I’ve known since I was 10 by the way)—this was Sara & Matt. Sara & Matt who I pushed together, who I watched break up and get back together fifty times, who I told they’d end up together no matter what they went through. Sara & Matt who I defended to no end after the seventh break up and everyone thought they should just stay broken up. Sara & Matt. I rooted for those guys. I was their biggest fan. From the very beginning. We talked about their wedding since we were thirteen. And I wasn’t there. I didn’t even know it was happening until I saw it on Facebook. NOW STOP what you’re thinking, the blame isn’t on her. No. Because it’s on me too. I didn’t try, not ever. But if I had to choose, if I really had to narrow it down, that would be when things changed for me. Until then I always hoped we could just pick up where we left off, but then we continued to grow further and further apart until the kids we used to be just disappeared.

So, four years later, after random conversations and meetings with one or the other we decided to get the trio together again. I don’t know why, but Johanna initiated it (she’s brave like that), I’ll be the first to admit that I would have continued on the same path, leaving the past in the exact same area of my subconscious that I had buried it into. Dinner was fine though. I walked into it expecting awkward pauses and forced conversation. Maybe it was just me who felt the “tension,” (but not tension really), just like there were things that weren’t being said out loud. Hence the previous paragraph.

My point is this: Old friends don’t have to stay that way, not if you don’t want them to. It’s okay to call someone you used to know and tell them you want to hang out. It’s okay to say I fucked up and I liked having you in my life. It’s the saddest thing when best friends become strangers, and it happens way more often then I’d ever like to see.

Twelfth grade. Sara & I.

The three of us. Prom.

We might not get there, not to what we were. I’m okay with that. But there’s something to be said about moving on, and getting to where we are.

You’re so vain, I bet you think this blog is about you

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Wed, 24 Aug 2011 02:53:00 +0000

Okay, Hi. I’m still alive. get ready for my excuses: [1] Ivan is dying. Seriously. He flashes red when his battery is in, so I keep him plugged & running. This leads to complete laziness (on my part) because I really don’t want to re-boot every damn time I switch my blogging spot. [2] I’m writing again, lots actually. Which is a relief. I thought for a while that I’d lost it. But it’s there, just waiting every once in a while to come on out. [3] I’m working. I know everyone works, but my inconsistent schedule and anemia lead to exhaustion virtually all the time.

There, those are my excuses. Don’t stone me now. Oh my God. Have you seen The Stoning of Soraya M? Okay. Seriously. Haunting. I cried so hard. So sad. It was insanely…I can’t even find the word. It was just crazy.

I have wax build up in my left ear. I know, it’s such a fantastic topic to cover, but really, I’ve been filling my ear with peroxide on a daily basis and it’s making me insane. Seriously, it’s annoying. I can’t hear properly and I forget what the serenity of a non-aching ear feels like.

I really just wanted to come over here and tell you that I still exist, I’ve been neglecting Danny, I know (sorry guy). I lied okay, what I’m really here for is to tell you how much I love Eminem. As per usual. I can’t get enough of his latest. On repeat.

And that’s all.

I’m back guys. Promise. Pinky swear.

Something Borrowed

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 05:08:00 +0000

So I just watched this movie again. I watched it once in theatres…I can’t remember who I was with (sorry). I hated it then. HATED IT. Now? Still hate it. It’s an interesting movie, there’s nothing wrong with the actors or the screenplay or anything cinematic like that. It’s the story, the sequence of events that makes we want to rip out their hearts.

The entire time I want to stand up and scream THAT’S YOUR BEST FUCKING FRIEND. And in my head, that’s exactly what I’m saying, over and over. I couldn’t imagine it. I really couldn’t. Sleeping with him was one thing. That is something I could understand, accept and even forgive. But the lying, the cheating, the sneaking around. Never. Ever. Ever. I don’t know if I’m an abundantly loyal person, but Rachel & Dex’s characters disgust me. And the entire time it’s like it is just okay, no problem, let’s spend the weekend together. WHAT THE FUCK? That’s your best friend. And I can’t even be mad at the guy. I really can’t, because i firmly believe that every guy cheats. Go ahead, tell me your stupid fucking stories about your loyal boys, I don’t give a shit. I think guys have this innate desire, this cheating destiny that eventually they all fulfill. Anyway, this is why I’m not mad at Dex. But Rachel.

I wish, for the rest of my life that I never have a best friend like her. I would honestly without a doubt rather be alone, forever.

Yes, I lie. I’ve probably lied to your face half a dozen times. Yeah I get mad at you, and I’ll probably say some crappy shit about you. But that loyalty? That tiny ounce of trust that bonds you and I together—without it there is absolutely no point in pursuing a friendship. An anger builds up in me when I watch this movie. And even though the best friend is a total Bitch—I could never.

That’s your best friend. I just say it, over and over.

Countdown

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Sun, 31 Jul 2011 01:22:00 +0000

In a month, I’ll be here:

Overlooking the world from here:

Relaxing over here:

The last time I went on a vacation was when I went to Boston with the family to visit my uncles. I was… You know if I had a blog back then I would be able to tell you these details because I could recall anything important with a quick blog search. Anyway, I think I was sixteen. Maybe seventeen. Anyway, it feels like it was a long time ago. It was…At least five years. More, I bet. Anyway. I’m stoked. Excited. Happy to get away. Even if just for a week, I think it’ll be nice to get away. We leave September 3rd, night time. Sleep, and then the following day we let the festivities begin. There will be a lot of nothing going on. I suspect I’ll get some reading done. Serenity is what I wish most for. Just Quiet. No cellphones. No television. No noise. White noise. Sand. Lovely.

One month. Come on now.

Fuck. Fuck. Annoyed.

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 15:28:00 +0000

Monday
Me: [call work, switch my 9:30 to 6 shift for a 1:00 to 9:30 shift; make plans] Hey dad, just an FYI, I’m using the car Wednesday morning. In case you wake up and think you’ve been robbed…no no,I have it.
Dad: Okay.
*five minutes later*
Dad: WAIIIT, no I have an appointment at 10.
Me: Don’t lie!
Dad: seriously, I have an appointment at 10.
Me: Fine.

Okay. Damage control. Call work, switch my 1:00-9:30 shift back to a 9:30 to 6 shift. Plan to do something in the evening. Learn that Boss is alone. Call work. Switch my already switched shift back to a 1:00 to 9:30.

Text Nad. Text Jo. Text Mary.
Guys, can’t do breakfast. Lunch? around 11:30…gotta be at work by 1, maybe 2 [pushing it].
All agreed. Perfect.

Wednesday
Me: Dad, you gonna be home be 11?
Dad: Yeah, it’s not far.
Me: Perfect [send confirmation text x 3] Dad, you’re gonna be late, go get dressed.
Dad: for what?
Me: Your appointment. At ten.
Dad: OH, no I changed it to 12:30.
Me: I just asked if you’re gonna be home by 11 and you said yes.
Dad: What?
Me: I’m gonna fucking hang myself. Right here. Fuck.
Dad: What?
Me: OHMIGOD.

Text x 3
Guys. Cancel lunch. fuck. so annoyed.

My father doesn’t understand why I’m upset right now. He thinks it’s not a big deal. I cancelled an opening shift. I think this is why I’m so annoyed. I fucking hate closing and my back pain feels worse when I close. Now I don’t have the night off to do what ever I want. I’m so annoyed right now. I wanna pull my hair out. No, I wanna shoot myself more. Know that gnawing feeling inside when you wanna scream and bitch but can’t, because he’s your dad. And you can’t be mean to him. Not even a little. So you sit there in silence with a stupid pouty face on forcing yourself to shut up because the next thing you say will be explosive. An he’ll yell. You’ll yell.

Get me a car. Anyone out there.
This would all be avoided with a vehicle.

I can’t say it enough. I’m annoyed. My heart is shrinking.

Movie Review: Friends With Benefits

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Sun, 24 Jul 2011 01:26:00 +0000

It’s not just because they are so fucking adorable. Like seriously, Justin Timberlake: sexy. Mila Kunis: so sexy. Together, there is this large combination of pure beauty. Okay, really though, the movie was hilarious. I mean it. I laughed out loud several times. Timberlake grew out of his annoying acting that we saw in Alpha Dog (refrain from throwing up at the thought) and Kunis, well quite frankly, I’ve loved her in everything I’ve seen her in—even from way back in That 70s Show.

The film follows Jamie, a head hunter, who recruits Dylan to the New York offices of GQ magazine as a…I actually have no fucking clue what his job is. Something in graphic design and marketing. Anyway, this is how they meet. And right off the bat, you already know they’re falling in love. So Jamie tries convincing him to come to NY and takes him on all of these romantic adventures in a night. Let me just stop us there—MOST ROMANTIC FUCKING THINGS EVER. Seriously, it was like my dream night in the first 20 minutes of the film. Best part: mountain view of NY from on top of some crazy high symbolic no cell signal building.

Anyway. I’m going to ruin it all for you right now. Dylan fucks it all up because he keeps thinking they’re both in just for the sex. Of course—those lines got blurred when they were all gay and lovingly looking in each other’s eyes the night before and the jokes disappeared and they *barf* made love. Sorry. I had to throw it in there because OBVIOUSLY Hollywood has to throw in the oh so obvious difference between the two.

They’re so cute and so funny. Honestly. Definitely watch it, not kidding. Worth it. Yes they fall in love at the end which a huge part of me was hoping that they wouldn’t (i.e., The Break-up) just for the sake of making it a little bit different. I loved it. There are great moments, great lines, great laughs.

www.rbouyounes.com rating 8/10 thumbs up : )

John & Stella’s Wedding 16/07/11

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 03:16:00 +0000

Every once in a while I find a gem

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 02:47:00 +0000

Last year on my birthday Nad wrote me a card that said,

“I know you don’t like celebrating your birthday. But I’ll celebrate it anyway,
because it’s the day that God brought you into the world and into my life.”

It is corny. And sweet. And romantic. But there’s a large chunk of me that believes it, and makes my black heart go awwww. I love this girl. She is one of the very few friends that I have—even after marriage & a baby she still somehow manages to make some time for me.

This is more than I can say for most of you.

But every once in a while I find a gem, Like Nadia buried amongst 6.5 billion people; or like this card buried amongst 6 hundred pounds of clothing and garbage and makeup. Every once in a while these little things make the crappy things seem okay, seem to disappear.

Thank you.

From Monkeys.

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Sun, 10 Jul 2011 04:12:00 +0000

Darwin’s theory of evolution goes like this:

humans, from the ape—have evolved, shedding and gaining traits and qualities that aid in our survival. We (including all animal species) over the course of thousands of years change our physical beings in order to live. Plain and simple. i.e., the tail. We all have tailbones. But no tails. The theory is that monkeys used their tails to hang and jump and transport themselves, eventually, we stopped needing them because our legs were longer, we could move faster on ground, could stand upright. The tail became unnecessary. Generations through and through, the tail was lost. The bone remains.

Opposable thumbs. Eye lashes. Body hair. All of these things came about through our species’ attempt at survival.

Darwin was on to something. It is not time that heals all wounds. In fact, wounds—they never heal. This illusion of healing is really just the transitioning phase of our physical selves. We adapt. It’s what we do. Our bodies, our brains, we learn how to live with change, we learn how to accept it.

Adapt. Live. Survive. Do it again.

Darwin said it first. In a physical context. But here I’m saying it—healing is a false reality and the sooner you accept that the wounds are still there and very concrete, the sooner you prepare yourself for the process of adaptation. Because, you see, this process is not short. It will takes years, lifetimes. Your children’s children may potentially feel the repercussions of your generation, your lifetime.

There is no healing involved. Just adapting, then accepting.

I thought maybe it was just me

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Sun, 26 Jun 2011 05:33:00 +0000

Is it strange that the fact that there are over two hundred and five million people wondering the same thing comforts me? I thought maybe it was just me. I had lunch with Nad yesterday, and I told her that the only thing I could see myself doing for the rest of my life is having my own business—whether the bakery route or restaurant route. This is the only thing that I could whole heartedly see as making me completely happy. I drove yesterday. Alone. No dad, no instructor, no one else in the car. And this strange serenity came over me. I had complete control over my own life, for the first time ever it seemed. I felt like I could go anywhere, do anything I wanted, and I was happy. I don’t even remember the last time I was so unequivocally happy. My facebook feed is filling up with great stories—job offers, proposals, marriages, moving, etc etc etc. And me? nothing. I need to do something, but for the life of me I cannot figure out what it is that I need—rather want to do. I slept until 2pm today. I don’t know when the last time it was that I slept that late. And then it hit me. I don’t sleep in because I’m lazy. I sleep in because I have nothing to wake up for. I could lay in bed all day long, and nothing would change. No one would miss me, no jobs would go unfinished, the world would function perfectly normally. I cannot say it enough because it is a constant thought looming at the back of my mind. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MY LIFE. Now I have dreams, still, those unattainable, too-out-there, type of dreams. Like writing & publishing for a living, particularly writing songs for famous artists and sitting way at the back of the concert hall listening with my eyes closed as a crowd of ten thousand sing my lyrics back to the band. Those kinds of dreams. But the realism escape me. I don’t want to be accountant or a firefighter or a teacher or all those other regular things that people want to be. I don’t know.I didn’t know ten years ago when I was graduating elementary school and was told that I had four years to figure it out. I didn’t know five years ago when I graduated high school and was told I had a few months to figure it out. I didn’t know four years ago when I picked a specialist & a major. I didn’t know two months ago when they handed me my degree. I don’t know. But all these other people do. Except for the two hundred million of us.

For the guys who didn't pull out in time.

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Sun, 19 Jun 2011 18:24:00 +0000

It's a terrible way to look at it. I laughed so hard when @DarynJones tweeted that, makes you wonder how many dads are dads simply because of failed contraception. there are probably a lot, probably most. few children are ever planned, I think. usually just big surprises-- could be good or bad. Think Revolutionary Road. watched that film for the first time yesterday. that last pregnancy realllllly messed them up, they were genuinely happy before it. it happens, you see, all these unwanted children. anyway. this isn't about that. 23 years and i've yet to meet a man as hillarious, kind, loving & giving as my pops. no, he probably didn't want all five of us, likely didn't plan for any of us, but he puts up with us, day in & day out. and if you can put up with us all at once, then you definitely deserve a day for yourself.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY,
too a great one.

posted from Bloggeroid

I need to make up with Ivan

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Tue, 07 Jun 2011 04:36:00 +0000

If you’re back, then you’re about to (or have read) the last post about why Ivan and I have been so distant lately. It wasn’t until a couple of nights ago when I realized how far away I had pushed him. Andy has kept me sufficiently connected to the world. But he just can’t be enough anymore. A few nights ago I was checking postsecret and realized that I hadn’t read postsecret on an actual computer in over a month. There’s a special experience reading postsecret online, different features and notes you don’t quite get from the convenience of a mobile. For instance, when you hover over each secret you get to see some little gems. Things like taking note of what Frank has saved it on his computer as. This is crucial because often times the secrets have things written on both sides of the card, and it will be saved as “onback.blahblahblahblah.jpg,” so you get to see that. Or the file name will be something sweet that he noticed, or the image will invert to actually show the back. Or he’ll reveal another secret, like a translation of something on the card, or some insight into where it could have come from. Anyway, it’s important to read postsecret on the computer. Andy just doesn’t give me all the perks that Ivan can provide.

file name: “onback.withamanlikeyouhowcantheynotbe.iloveyou.jpg”

file name: “wheredopeoplemakeIslikethat”

file name: “onback.grandpakilledhimself.jpg”

When you hover over the above photo, the below photo appears:

I feel like I’ve let you in on a little secret. Read them differently now. They will change you, if not more than they might already have.

Those old guys were on to something

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Tue, 07 Jun 2011 04:15:00 +0000

Durkheim and Marx talk about anomie—all in all, the process by which our actions (everyday, mundane actions) eventually become habitual. Eventually we complete daily tasks without even the slightest thoughts, we simply go through the same routines over and over leaving little room for surprise or change. Anomie. anoME. I could not describe it more clearly. Habits. Layman. Mundane. The everyday. It’s a cycle of the same old repetition. This is why Danny’s struggling for material. More so why my brain is suffering from a lack of inspiration. I wake up. Go to work. Come home. Sleep. I wake up. Watch television. Play with Boss. Sleep. In a sequence of these events (change order every so often), these are my days. I’m dying inside. I’m DYING inside. There has to be more after this. Tell me that I didn’t graduate to just sit around and hate what I’m doing, and hate my routine, hate (dare I say it) my life. I do. I hate it. I can’t hate it because people are worse off. But at this very moment, the boredom of the everyday is mentally exhausting and I hate it. I stay away from Ivan because I know that Danny is calling me, waiting for a new story, a funny riddle or clever thought. I stay away from Ivan because even he has nothing new and interesting to offer me. I’m tired of being bored. Someone once told me that they had never had a boring day in their life. I would love to understand how they accomplished this. I am bored. With life. With routine. I need a change now. As much as I hate change and as much as I fear it, I need it so badly, just to prove that I can actually do something different. I don’t know what it will take. But this anomic assembly line life style is killing me. There has got to be more out there. There just has to be.

… I want to see the world.

… I want.

Post Apocalypse

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Sun, 22 May 2011 04:37:00 +0000

Sunday, May 22, 2011.

12:24am.

The sky is dark (well it would be, it’s just past midnight). I hear the distant sounds of explosions, screams of innocence echo outside of my window (actually, little black kids are lighting fireworks and shooting them at each other). I think about the other side of the world (googled some twitter feeds in Australia, s’all good there). Life exists [no one died. Well, someone died. People die every day—but nothing end of the world related (I don’t think)]. I spent the potential last day of my life fulfilling dreams (I worked till 6:30) and doing everything I’ve ever wanted to do (I spent an hour cleaning Ivan’s virus). The day was majestic and beautiful and the sky lit up (it’s boiling hot and I thought we were all going to burn to death). If you are reading this (you are probably alive) then it means I’m dead (no it doesn’t) and it means that something has gone terribly wrong (unlikely). Tell my family I love them (it’s okay, I’ll tell them myself).

In light of today, go watch a good post apocalyptic film and imagine what it could be like:

i.e., The Road, I Am Legend, District 9, 2012, etc etc etc.

We’ll have this conversation again in in the new year, supposing we’re still alive.

#17 It ain’t over till the big guy says it’s over

“But about that day or hour no one knows,
not even the angels in heaven,
nor the Son,
but only the Father.”
Matthew 24:36

It will happen. Eventually. One day. As a Catholic I believe this and expect it and wait for it. But when? Who knows? Next year. The year after. Maybe. A millennium from now? I don’t know. No body does. That’s the point. It’s not up to us and our calculations and our science and our prophecies. It’s not up to us. Just get on with it. Stop with the fear and agony over when and where and how. Just know that it will. We’re ALL dying eventually. Let this not be any different. When it’s here, it’s here. Better it be a surprise, rather than rack your brains and souls about it. Let Him do as he sees fit, whatever He has planned. Let go. Let live. The end will come when it’s time for it to come. Until then, stop fucking thinking so damn hard about it.

So easy to ignore.

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Fri, 20 May 2011 04:21:00 +0000

I don’t remember how I found this poem. It’s…haunting. A thought so expansive that my brain wants to explode. I find things like this every so often and my mind & heart kinda go waaah? Not sure what is going on. It could be better. I have to say, it could be a lot better because the concept is so fucking brilliant I want to die. So brilliant I think, wow, how could I have never seen this before. Read this poem, it’s The Dash by Linda Ellis. Thoughts are running through my head, I want to make it better. It could be epic.

When I’m silent for too long my mind gets wandering. If I’m silent for too long get me speaking—because otherwise I’m thinking of my father’s eulogy, or a maid of honour speech, or an epic movie break up scene. My mind is morbid and twisted and in my silence it thinks of all these weird things that I do not say out loud because even to me they are strange.

This poem. It does that for me. It brings that strange-ness to paper. Thoughts are brewing.

The dash. It’s such a brilliant concept. So simple. SO easy to ignore. But God, brilliant.

Don’t do anything to be I’m sorry for

noreply@blogger.com (rbouyounes) — Thu, 12 May 2011 02:56:00 +0000

I haven’t blogged in a while. In almost a month. I’ve never done that before. A week? Maybe. A month? Never. I can’t tell you why. (not that there is anything) but that I don’t have a reason. I have no reason. I come home, tired. Ivan and I haven’t spent much time together and I’m desperately dreaming of the day I can replace Andy because he just isn’t cutting it anymore. Freezing and shutting down regularly really makes him a pain in the ass. Typical guy—loud & annoying, never there when you need him. I have things to tell you. I do. I have photos to share, that Sammy is dying to share but I am overwhelmed with laziness. It’s like—I’ve finished school & no longer have the will to do anything with my life. I am perfectly content lazing on the sofa & sleeping. ALL DAY LONG. Ivan. Ivan. Sorry, bud. I’ll hug and caress and cuddle you a little bit later. Most of my cuddling goes to Boss, let’s face it, he hugs back. In lieu of all these missed blogs, here’s a brief up date:

[1] I’m taking driving lessons (and am quite good)

[2] I got a promotion & a raise

[3] I’m buying a car. Eventually. (one day) (not a real update as nothing has happened here)

[4] That is all.

Oh God, every time I turn to Danny (the dot com) I wish I have more to tell you, but I don’t. Geeze, Danny’s been so neglected that I even let his domain expire before renewing it. SORRY DANNY, forgive me. He’s kind, he’ll still love me (even tomorrow).

If you had to sing an inspirational song, which would you pick? Which, if you’re not on American Idol, is really just a question of which song do you think is inspirational? I picked Dear Mr. President by Pink and I Hope You Dance by LeeAnne Womack. God, so good. Both.

[5] I changed my mind, on my tattoo. It wont be “though died and gone to heaven, forever we are
seven,” it’s gonna be, “On Earth as it is in heaven, forever we are seven.”

It was mother’s day recently. Made mom cry (score) always a sign of success. NADIA’s first mother’s day[!] my big baby. Bought her a mother’s day gift but my neglecting means I still haven’t even seen her to give it to her. We’re TRYING to make plans and why am I using CAPS LOCK like a gajillion times in this post. I hate capitals unless they’re at the beginning of a sentence.

I miss Danny. I miss Danny. He should be up and running within 48 hours. Keep me posted, would ya? If you click here and it takes you to Danny (and not an error message) please contactme@rbouyounes.com or www.facebook.com/rbouyounes me. Something. Thanks.

Severe back pain. Argh. Dying. Love you all. Missed you much. I’m back. Really. Try my best. Ivan cries at night because of me. He cries AT me. Sorry. argh. So much apologizing. How about not doing things to be I’m sorry for? That’s a Carrie quote. Know from where? I’ll give ya five bucks.