One reason I love October 10/2/2014

Oh October, how do I love thee?  

Let me count the ways....

One.

October is the month for Libras and Scorpios to prance and celebrate sun revolutions.  It is the month that includes such fantastical holidays as United Nations Day, Eid, Simchat Torah, Sukkot, Halloween and the ever popular National Nut Day.

October is the haunting month - where demons, ghosts, ghouls and goblins still don't exist.  It is the month where girls in their 20s and 30s dress in all the classic costumes, such as: slutty nurse, slutty super hero, slutty librarian, slutty cheerleader, slutty police officer, and Slutty Slut McSlutterson.  October is the month where guys in their 20s and 30s  show off for these costumed women by putting on face paint, drinking way past excess, and being too old to trick or treat and ruining shit for little kids.  

That's right.  It isn't creepy to dress up like a slutty little girl or a slutty girl scout. **coughcough**pedophile**coughcough**

But October has so much more to offer than your girlfriend's daddy issues!  It has one of the best days ever.  Especially for an American living and working in a country that does things a little different.  Well, to be accurately and to their credit, all countries do things differently than the USA.  I love America and that is my home...but really?  Really?  1 slug is a lb*s2/ft.  What the actual fuck is that?  Why are you determined to keep using units like the rod and the link?  Why is a board that is 1 ft X 1 ft X 1 in. called a board foot?  We can do better, America!

No, I said: "You take the road for 1.3 leagues, then you make a right.  Then you just go another 22 furlong, which is of course 220 chains or 880 rods, down that street.  You'll know you're at my place when you see a mailbox with a red strip that is 0.34 link wide across it."

But the unit thing I can live with.  As a science teacher I keep my knowledge of meters...sorry, "metres"...and kilograms secret so I blend in.  Nothing is more confusing than telling someone in the US that something is "about 10 kilometers down the road" or that you just bought a "kilogram worth of squid chips".  Though the squid chip thing may be weird in any units.  I am just glad they don't exist!

I shit you not.  This is a thing.

So what is it about October that I love so much?  If it isn't the sluts or the Nuts or the goblins and ghouls, what could it possibly be?  It isn't that I dislike those other things.  I can honestly say I have never met a goblin I didn't like.  Those ones in the movie Labyrinth seemed harmless enough.  But being forced to look up at Jareth's codpiece for the entirety of filming would probably make anyone seem worthless and incapable of committing harm.

My name is Penis.  No!  I mean Giant Bulge.  No!  I mean Hoggle.  My name is Hoggle...

Penis.

I have had to keep this new-found joy bottled up for the past 15 minutes or so since I finally realized this new reason to love October now that I am overseas has appeared.  I am so glad you asked what my favorite thing about October really is in the previous paragraph above the Jareth crotch.  

You can't stop looking, can you?  I think it has become sentient. Forget Skynet, Crotchnet is what I fear.

Anyway, I would tell you if you hadn't asked, that is just the alpha kind of male I am, but this makes it less forced upon you.  Since you asked, and since I am writing a blog about this right this very second, (And there are people that don't believe in coincidences.  HA!  I laugh at you) I will tell you.

Crom has a learning disability and laughs at the breeze.

The more you know.

The reason is: the dates.  

I have a thing for numbers.  I don't love them or hate them, but I do count them (high five) among the things I like the most.  Numbers represent dates all over the world, and people have a different way of writing them.  Some ways are good, some ways are bad.

Not that there are good dates or bad dates - even Friday the 13th isn't so bad.  As long as it isn't Freaky Friday the 13th.  That asshole will kill your monkey.

Oh Sallah, thank you for making this blog more about the movies I grew up with than any real point.

That's right, the dates.

As an American I am used to writing things the (apparently) weird way.  June 26 is 6/26.  August 11 is 8/11.  Now this isn't such a big deal overseas when you see a date like 14/2.  I am aware there are only 13 months, so this must be a day-first date.  I got it.  I can think on my feet and work through the solution.  Fucking science, and shit.  But there will eventually be an issue.  There will eventually be a miscommunication.

Oh, you have a wedding on 9/8?

WHEN THE FUCK DO I SHOW UP?  WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?  IS THERE AN OPEN BAR?

Wedding of Whats-his-bucket and Who's-her-Face.  A memorable evening til I blacked out. 

Mazel Tov!

But October, oh you sly little bastard, you have a secret weapon.  I will not look like an idiot for at least one day - well one less possible reason I won't look like an idiot.  

This October 10th, I will write the date on things with impunity!  IMPUNITY!  Oh, that's coming on 10/10.  What day is that?  10/10?  Oh, I know exactly when this is going down.  I will be there for your open bar...I mean wedding.  It doesn't matter what how you write your date, the date or 10/10, much like Schrodinger's Cat, will be both American and International until you decide which it is.  It is an uncollapsed wave function of ones and zeroes that is begging to be observed.

Now, I know what you're saying, "But a lot of months have repeating numbers!"

First of all, stop talking you your computer.  There is a comment box if you need to communicate with me, and although in this case I most definitely read your thoughts I can not guarantee this will be an all-the-time thing.

Secondly...of all...this was a blog on one reason I love October.  If you are so focused on dates like 1/1 or 2/2 or 3/3 or 4/4 or 5/5/ or 6/6/ or 7/7/ or 8/8/ or 9/9 or 11/11 or 12/12 then why are you reading this?  You hate October 10th and that's racist.  Why don't you go beat up a kitten or kill a clown, you racist?

On second thought, go ahead and kill the clown.  Fucking terrifying.

If you don't think people actually get excited about 10/10, just think how pumped these people must be:

Once a month they celebrate their dependenceIn Day

Well, that's it.  This girl Sarah says I don't get excited about stuff, and when I finally get excited about something like this she is all like: "Stop calling me" or "Why are you in my bushes?" or "Are you wearing my panties?"  So go out there and be American or be European, Asian, or whatever your heart desires.  Because October 10th, 10/10, the Great Equalizer, has got your back.

By the way Sarah, the answers are no, because I live here now, and hell yes I am.  Now let's talk about your perfume that we're wearing...

My trip to Awali Hospital 10/1/2014

First of all, if you are like me, (sorry about that) you have a particular idea of what a hospital is.  For me, it was a taller type of structure, lots of windows and things.  Usually a nice big front area where people pull up and guys with oxygen tanks smoke cigarettes while their doctor takes the "under" bet for their life expectancy.

Back home in the good-ol' US of A the hospital closest to me was quite nice.  Bricks and a big tube walkway - a whole wing was dedicated to one of America's most beloved talk show hosts.  I won't say which for the sake of his privacy, but if Vanna turns the letters RSTLNE and we pick PKA it would spell PAT SA_AK.  

Could be anyone.

This guy looks like he knows who I am talking about.

Well here in Bahrain things are different.  I won't mention the heat.  I would never complain about something like that.  If you ignore the things I say constantly and the previous blogs I wrote you may also believe that.  I didn't expect to see a towering white...um...tower...with fancy helicopters buzzing in and the familiar red and yellow flash of the ambulances as they quickly and safely usher their precious human cargo into the emergency room lobby.  I didn't expect to see helpful and friendly faces and a geniune concern for my health and what is bothering me.

Hell, I don't expect to see that at Pat Sajak's hospital.  Thanks for nothing, Pat.

I would like to buy a vowel and some lube, Pat.

I Googled the directions to the hospital, and it had some pictures.  Why yes, I would like to see where I will be going when I eventually am hit by a speeding car whilst in my living room.  The pictures took a little while to un-pixelate or focus or whatever the kids are saying nowadays.  But before me stood something I didn't expect.  Something I wasn't quite ready to see.  This is what I saw:

NO!  I DON'T WANT TO GO TO THE HOSPIT...Holy shit.  Do they rent rooms here?

I saw what looked like something I would expect to see at a all-included resort clubhouse.  I was actually a tad surprised it didn't have a jukebox and a pool bar.  Disappointed now, it is a golden marketing opportunity I think they are sleeping on.  Maybe one day.

One day.

But look at this place!  I know pictures can make a place look great just by messing with the angles and all that, (that is why all my selfies must be taken in 60 watt lighting with a head tilt of 11 degrees starboard and about 6-8 degrees up.  That's my Blue Steel).  So I checked through a few more images and it looked pretty good.  I was recommended a doctor from the UK and went off to my introductory appointment with high hopes, but prepared for this shot having been taken before it was hit by a meteor.

Contrary to the original picture - this is what actually awaited me....

WHERE ARE THE PALM TREES, DOC!?

Oh...there they are.  Sweet.  You can operate now.

This place was awesome!  I parked in the staff lot BECAUSE GOOGLE MAPS IS A DIRTY, DIRTY WHORE AND I SHOULDN'T HAVE LISTENED TO HER but it was all good.  My appointment was at 6:30 pm.  At night.  This doctors office is open til 7 pm for convenience,  ARE YOU LISTENING OTHER DOCTOR PLACES!?  CONVENIENCE.  I made my way to the front door and was greeted by a group of ladies leaving the office.  They seemed happy enough.  In I walk and go up to reception.  The lobby is clean and comfortable.  It is easy to navigate.  I may move in to this place.

I was in line behind an Indian fellow who was going on and on about a surgery he had 5 months ago and wanted to get work days covered.  It was a glorious argument, complete with pictures of the surgery on his phone and showing them the scar on his side.  Apart from the pure sex this guy was emitting, I expected to see the people behind the counter be short with him.  He was relentless in his wild shotgun style "spray and pray" approach to an argument...an argument, mind you, no one else was having.  The people behind the desk were calm and smiling, they listened to him when he talked and reassured him they did not want to see that damn photo of his surgery again...

Wait a second...how the hell did he get a photo of his surgery?  What hospital let his buddy in so they could get a great shot for Instagram? Sounds like the kind of place that isn't this place to me.

Laser eye surgery as performed a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.  You can also let your buddy take a pic of the procedure so you can show people that don't give a fuck.

The gentleman was appeased enough to wander off into the already set sun, (have I mentioned the heat here?), and I filled out my new patient form, (FORM.  NOT FORMS) and was told to walk over to accounts - a solid 15 feet away - and make sure the costs were covered.  Now, I didn't have my card - it got lost in the mail...twice so far.  I will explain about the mail system here in an upcoming blog entitled "Where the fuck is my shit?"

Until the rest of the world catches up with American mailbox technology, the mail will continue to be delivered slowly...wait, it is shit in the US also?  Oh. Well here is a mailbox with tits.

Carry on.

So I didn't have my card, the accounts lady was incredibly friendly for having been there for 10 hours and told me it would all be okay.  Perfect!  She also gave me the forms and said she would fill them out for me.  Bingo!  My favorite kind of form is the one I don't have to fill out.  I walked back to the lobby - I had been here 6 or 7 minutes by this point - and was called to go into the back waiting room.  Nice chairs, nicer couches.  Plenty to read and once again, very clean.  I don't know how comfortable the chairs were as I wasn't back there long enough to sit.  I was greeted by the doctor, who had just finished with the upset Indian guy with surgery selfies, and given a welcoming handshake and smile.

I won't get into the details of the visit, but I can say that he was friendly and polite, went past due diligence and gave me not only what I wanted, but a more comprehensive idea about how to proceed with things than I got from any doctor I can recall.  I left the hospital feeling very happy about where I was, how I was, and my plan for the future.

I feel like I haven't complained enough so let me tell you about my fantasy football team.  WHO FINISHES 100 POINTS BELOW THE PREDICTED SCORE.  WHO?  DAMN LOSERS, THAT'S WHO.  SERIOUSLY?  BALTIMORE THREW UP AMAZING NUMBERS?  WHAT HELLSCAPE HAVE I WANDERED INTO WITH THIS DEAD MULE OF A TEAM!?

Cam Newton

Whew.  That's better.

At the end of the day I couldn't be happier with how I was treated here in Bahrain - I am aware there are people that have awful experiences and that have gone to places that aren't so great.  Well, fuck them.  This blog is about me.  

**Update, while writing this the lady from accounts called and told me about my insurance issue and how best to handle it.  If I have any questions she gave me her office extension and said I can stop by and she will help me.  What a horrible place.

The trouble with being famous now...9/30/14

I used to be able to walk down the street and no one would notice me.

I was invisible. Lost in the crowd...just another face.

I could hide behind my anonymity.

Since this picture, no matter where I go everyone recognizes me instantly as "Section 1, Row GG, Seat 37, guy with cotton candy".

However, recently especially, I have found myself being noticed when I go out.  Day or night, it doesn't seem to make a difference.  I can wear big J-Lo shades, I can cover myself in a thick layer of treated leather like Snookie, (How's about there is no way that is her actual skin.  Wait, really?).  I could even have all my bones and personality removed via complicated surgery and make a pretty decent looking Paris Hilton...

But no.

Those days are gone.

Here in Bahrain I get noticed the second I leave my house.  The flash of light, the familiar crackle, and I know I have been spotted.  I always wondered what it would be like to have this sort of attention - what it would be like to live the life of a movie star or a recovering Disney channel child actor recovering from my most recent heroin binge.

Who's the leader of the gang that's great for you and me?

Holy shit...

What is that?

Is that Mi-ah-ley?

Maybe you're asking yourself: "Of course you get noticed!  You're a huge internet sensation now and with looks like that it is really no wonder you're so popular!"

Two things:  No one likes sunshine being blown up their ass, and don't you dare stop blowing sunshine up my ass.

A good band mate knows where to stand so sunshine doesn't get ass-blown all over him during a show.

Well even though your intentions were good and true, I have to rebuff them.  I am not famous for being an internet sensation.  I am not famous for having the looks of a Sean Connery that time he accidentally ate a bowl of prunes and chased it with olive oil, extra virgin, and had to spend the better part of January 1996 on the can.

I really only have one fan.

One big fan.

Huge, really.  You could fit over a million of our planet Earth in this stalker of mine.

It has a mass of about 1,989,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 Kg.

My stalker is Latin, I believe, and is sometimes called Sol.

That's right, my stalker, my biggest fan, the one that has the hots for me...is the fucking Sun.  The second I walk outside the Sun punches me in the face with its big fat fusiony flares and makes my skin spark.

I am like aluminum foil in the microwave.  When I step outside there is a bright flash and the taste of metal burning will wash over you.  Honestly I am amazed I am not a pile of ash.  A pale ash, the kind you wouldn't be afraid to run into in a dark alley at night.

Fucking terrifying.

Now before you scream out how crazy I am and slam your laptop, or really aggressively push the "close" button on your mobile device, let me explain.  

What is a stalker?  What does it mean to you?  Go ahead and definWRONG.  I will consult the most reliable source on the internet: Wikipedia.  Let's let wiki-speaks to clear up any confusion:

Don't think I didn't click on Harassment immediately after.  Then an article on Sexual Harrassment, then one on sensitivity training, and then went to PornHub to look up "hot sensitivity training nurses with low self esteem I can harass"

Bingo.

I will copy and paste some highlights here:

- Stalking is unwanted or obsessive attention by an individual or group toward another person. 

Well shit.  I don't even have to read on.  Now I am not going to try to define what an individual is, other than a single entity.  I can have an individual beer, (hahahahahahahahaha okay okay jkjk) or I can have individual servings of food, (hahahahahahahahahaha okay okay jkjk) or even go to my trophy closet and get my 300 meter sobbing: individual class medal.

The Sun is an individual.  We are not a binary system, and there is only one giant yellow ball of fusion I am aware of revolving at this moment.  And its attention is certainly unwanted to the degree it is being given here.

- Stalking behaviors are related to harassment and intimidation and may include following the victim in person or monitoring them. 

Are you reading this!? This is real!  I am not wrong!  The Sun is stalking me!  It is an individual that follows me around all day from the second I go outside to the second I go inside.  It even has the balls to look into my windows while I am inside!  How creepy is that!?

Fact: People that wear backpacks with one strap are asking for it.

The Sun is there when I wake up.  I can feel it watching over me.  The fact that the country of Bahrain where I now reside is somehow cosmically between a wormhole and our star that allows the actual surface of the Sun to smack you in the face when you go outside.  It is if Satan himself gives you a waaaaay inappropriately long hug when you step into the sunlight.

And you can't get away from it.  

Go inside.  It will find you.  

Get into your car.  Nice try.  Now you look almost as creepy as the Sun just sitting in your car.

If you don't believe the Sun is a stalker, then get this:  If the Sun is so "chill" then why does it always stay a mean distance of about 150,000,000 Km away?  What on Earth (high five!) could legally make a forced distance between two things?

Restraining Order

Say it with me: Re.  Strain.  Ing.  Or.  Der.

I mean, I guess this is what one would look like.  I WOULDN'T KNOW, WOULD I, JENNY?  WHY WON'T YOU LET ME SEE OUR TUTRLE?  WE CAN TALK THROUGH THIS I PROMISE, AND I AM REALLY SORRY ABOUT WHAT I DID TO YOUR STUFFED ANIMAL COLLECTION BUT COME ON, NO ONE COLLECTS BEANIE BABIES ANYMORE. 

Doesn't it all make sense now?  The Earth filed a restraining order against the Sun about 4.5 billion years ago!  How blind we have all been.  The Sun was probably all up on the Earth, and making it way too hot for it to have a life.  So bingo-bango, some paperwork and off the Sun goes.  I can't believe I am the first one to think of this!  I will wait for the eventual acclaim and pageantry associated with such a discovery.  I am sure there is an oversized check involved, at any rate.

So here I am, on an island in a gulf that is being rubbed by the pesky plasma that is our burning star.  It gives us life, sure...but it also gives me the creeps.  You think night time can save you?  Oh no.  No, my friend.  Mistaken.  You can feel the Sun, it is still there...waiting...waiting to come up behind you tomorrow and stare down your shirts.  The Sun's effects linger even after it ducks behind the horizon like someone faking their footsteps on the other side of the door.  They linger longer than that crap this Italian guy at the mall tries to spray me with every time I go.  

I AM NOT FALLING FOR IT, MUSSOLINI!

Sure, if you don't live here and you go outside you may feel refreshed by the warm caress of the Sun, on your face and genitals.  Maybe you've even been naughty and let the Sun see you naked?  Maybe you've even tried to make eye contact despite the warnings.  Girls always did like the bad boys.

Here it is more like a open handed hot-slap to the nether regions...letting the Sun see you naked would mean instant blisters on your ass...eye-contact is rewarded with a similar reaction to when someone chooses "poorly" when they try to pick the correct grail.

But I can't be all mad I guess and it could be worse, of course....at least the Sun is kinda hot.

Bank Notes, and a few more clever puns I came up with 9/29/2014

Banks.

Not the guy from Mary Poppins, though he turned out to be a pretty solid old chap.  Cheerio's and shit.  He then went on to almost beat Herbie and was a magician that thwarted a Nazi invasion just with some Bedknobs and Broomsticks and Murder She Wrote on a stick.

Suck it, Schwarzenegger.

While you were Pumping Iron and "havink da senzathun of cumming" Mr. Banks was pumping fucking lead into the German war machine.  Go back to da choppa, Arnie.

This actually happened.

(Seriously - I loved you in Junior)

Banks.

I am not a fan of the whole idea of a bank handling my money, which is why I keep the $36 dollars I have managed to save through hard work, (taking peoples change from their desks during fire drills) and I keep it safely hidden away in my wallet.  I do so because I lost my wallet about 8 months ago and I have no idea where it could be.  But my money is safe from the greatest threat to my money there is...me.

If I  have 5 bucks in my pocket...is Uncle Sam going to spend it?

No, he is not.

Maybe if I had 12 Dinars in my shirt pocket Uncle...um...Ahmed maybe...would try to spend it?

Negative.


What If I put 19 Euros in my bra is handsy Uncle AustriaBelgiumBulgariaCroatiaRepublic of CyprusCzechRepublicDenmarkEstoniaFinlandFranceGermanyGreeceHungaryIrelandItalyLatviaLithuaniaLuxembourgMaltaNetherlandsPolandPortugalRomaniaSlovakiaSloveniaSpainSweden and the UK going to spend it?

Not a chance.

And I don't want Uncle Financial Institution spending it either.

And don't tell me my money isn't generating interest, I keep it in the front of my pants all coiled into a cash tube that would make a roll of dimes jealous.  Not quarters, let's just be real about this.  My money generates interest every time I thrust my hips and grab the air above my head and make sweet love to the atmosphere.  It certainly generates interest when it is just me and one other person on the bus and I stand next to them, rubbing my money pit against them...just to let them know I am financially secure with my manhood.  It is my wonder wad.

This is why I love Google.

Just a personal preference, I only keep large denominations in my pants lest I scare the public with my mega-wad-o'-ones.  A 20, Two 5's and six singles.  Non-sequential.  I know how terrifying it would be to see a roll of 36 singles coming at you.  Public be all like: "Is he just a terrible day-shift stripper or a great waiter at Golden Coral Buffet after working a double on Endless-Cholesterol Sunday"?

I don't want to leave any doubt that this wad had a purpose.

This wad has a goal.

This wad is getting kind of sweaty.

My crotch has a mix-tape.  Download it for free using AOL from your bedroom in the 90's.

I know what you're thinking: But Mr. E, I want to know about how you plan for your future?

I brought enough lunch meat and lettuce to make sandwiches this whole week at work.  I am planned as fuck right now.  

Maybe I should invest my money, perhaps?  Play the market?  Maybe diversity my fuck you....if I had to give my money to a glasses-wearing white guy who crunches numbers all day and is completely out of touch with reality, I will just keep it, thank you very much.

Don't hate the player, hate the lame.

What will I do about retirement?

I drive way too recklessly to even worry about that.  If my death doesn't make America's Funniest Home Videos or go viral on YouTube then I have failed.  I want people to remember my life like they remember the first Rocky movie: 

*  The beginning was slow and it is crystal clear, so is the main character, 

* The middle was iffy and made you stick around, but only because you knew it was building up to a spectacular ending

* The ending was something that made you walk out of the place cheering and high-fiving people you don't even know.  Maybe punch someone?  I haven't really thought any of this through and I'm just not terribly picky about what sort of hand contact is initiated, I just want a lot of it. Palm or fist - maybe mix it up and keep everyone on edge.

Wasn't weird til Kirk started licking Spock's palm.

The whole idea of giving someone else my money to help me make more because they are "professionals" and they are more "qualified" and they aren't as "dangerously irresponsible" as me is kind of foreign. But maybe I should invest in stocks.  Maybe I should create a "nets-egg" and worry about my financial security, my future isn't guaranteed and I should really take a little better care of my moneOH MY GOD IS THAT A CABINET PAC MAN GAME ON EBAY?

Sorry Pinky, Blinky, Inky and Clyde.  No college fund for you.  Now get me a pretzel.

I suppose I did maybe imply this blog would have to do with my travels abroad and all of that wholesome excitement, so to keep this a travel blog I should mention my banking experience here:

It was awesome!  I got there on a Saturday, only waited for maybe ten minutes, the guy remembered me and sent me on my way all set up.  It was way different than that time in 1998 in the US when I went to the bank to open an account and it was closed and I never went back.  That kind of experience will scar a man for life.  If only the bank had been open as I stumbled drunkenly towards the door at 2:30 am trying to find a bathroom, this would have all turned out different.

I'm looking at you, CitiBank.  You did this to me.  

Jerk.

Learning to write in Arabic is easy, and other lies YouTube has told me...9/26/14

So, as I was progressing through my stages of acclimation predictably ahead of schedule, I decided I would learn to write and read Arabic.  Hell, according to this WordPress website written in 2002 and updated last in 223 BC it is easy and I can do it in just a few hours...how tough could it be?

I can do this!

.

No I can't.

I don't always give up so easy.  Sometimes I give up way easier than this.  Like, before I even start.  That is next level quitting.  But I decided maybe I should give it another go. Step two was to go to YouTube and see if maybe some more interactive education would do the trick.  And sure enough an attractive woman with a big happy smile says she can make me learn in six easy lessons.  Six!  I almost didn't notice that some of the first words out of her mouth mention the 7th lesson.

Almost.

So anyway, I am on this date with this girl on my YouTube or whatever - it is getting pretty hot and heavy - and she is teaching me how to read and write Arabic.  It actually is easy!  Easy.  Until you learn how to do it.  Sure, I can connect letters right-to-left like some sort of acrobat.  I can write my baa and my nuun and my thaa' like a boss. 

LIKE. A. BOSS.

Selfie.

So what could make it difficult?  What could possibly make a language that...on paper...(HIGH FIVE!) is pretty straight forward?  How could you muddy the letter writing water of everlasting squiggles?

The difference that makes all the difference.

The difference that separates the theoretical from the practical.

The difference is the fact that this is what they teach you:

Easy as fuck.  

And what you are expected to read:

Hard as fuck.

ARE TWO TOTALLY DIFFERENT THINGS.  WHAT DOES THAT SHIT SAY?  IS IT THE SAME?  IS THAT AN "L" OR IS THAT A MORE DIFFERENT "L"!?  WHY ARE THERE MARKS EVERYWHERE!?  

WHY DO YOU HATE EMPTY SPACE, WRITTEN ARABIC LANGUAGE!?

I SEE THAT THERE ARE LETTERS SHAPED DIFFERENTLY BUT HAVE THE SAME NAME. NICE TRY, BUT I AM TOO SMART FOR THAT.  THERE ARE A LOT OF OTHER LANGUAGES IN THE SEA, YOU KNOW.

Seriously, get over yourself.  You play easy, but you're hard to get.  I know nuns that give it up easier than you do, Written Arabic Language.  You think I will just hang out in the friend-zone while you let other people write you?  You think I am just going to sit here and sharpen my pencil all by myself?

Listen girl, you know I want you.  I will treat you like a princess.  I will make weird lines all over paper for you baby.

All.

Night.

Long.

This girl meant nothing to me, Written Arabic Language.  She was just some hussy who throws her goodies up on the internet so just any clown can click on her.  I didn't "like" her video. 

You're the only written Arabic language for me,  Written Arabic Language.

What's that?  Yeah, I wrote along with her.  But I was thinking of you the whole time.  I was thinking about connecting your letters in ways that make sense initially but then get complicated as fuck.  Just because it looks like someone dropped a box of chocolate sprinkles all over you doesn't mean I won't eat them offa you, Written Arabic Language.

You are delicious to read.  So why not let me understand you?  Come on, I won't tell anyone.  It will be our secret.  I just want to know when I walk into a place of business the sign doesn't say "Anyone named Ryan who walks in here will be immediately stabbed in the pee-hole with a rusty kabob skewer that had recently been used to scrape the bottom of a 55 gallon oil drum oh and we will get a badger high on angel dust and stuff it down is pants" ya know?  For my own safety.

You could keep me safe, Written Arabic Language.  I could rest easy in your confusing fucking squiggles.  I could make it my home.  You let me get to first base by showing me your numbers...you don't want me to get blue ball point pens, do you?  That stuff hurts.  It isn't a made up thing, baby...I promise.

Think about it.  I will call you up later.  Maybe after a few drinks you'll loosen up.  Maybe a quick squiggle before I go?

No?

I respect that, Written Arabic Language.

JUST TELL ME IF THIS IS FUNNY