Why I couldn't Mac

I'm now back to Windows. This is such an ugly interface. I miss my Mac.
Now let me list my reasons for going back, retreating, downgrading to Windows:
1. Though iWork, NeoOffice and other Mac programs have a more advanced looking interface, they lack a simple feature: You can not choose to automatically save a portion of the sheet every time you save the file. How am I to keep updating my students' grades?
2. Though Frontpage is becoming obsolete (or so every one is telling me), I was not able to find an easier to use publishing program that allows you to save your webpage on your harddrive and, again, to automatically save as information there is updated.
3. The edit feature in other programs conflict with the word programs my students send me. As such, I see mistakes in format that are not there in the original, Windows files created by my students.
4. Video-conferencing, though more advanced with iChat and Skype, does not work on Mac with Messenger. Most people still use Messenger.
5. networking Mac with Windows does not seem easy. I could not access other computers and once that was managed, I had trouble accessing the printer on my PC.

So now I'm a Windows person again, regretfully, unfortunately.

I hate Windows.I'm liking Jack Savoretti. Thank you Sou. Here's one of my favorites: Blackrain

بيان (أو جابرية - كيفكم) ... ملييييييييقة

القبس - اليوم - صفحة ٦٧

الوالد العزيز - المصحح اللغوي بالفطرة - كان لازم يعلق
المشكلة إن البيان صادر من مؤسسات تعليمية
بس يللا - نبلعها .... والا ما نبلعها؟

Leaving to Ohio, with a quick stop in Texas, next week. Taboon shay?

p.s. when did we start using maleeqa o halagah? new in our vocabulary, aren't they?

و بعد ب. س. مو عاجبني البيان

The Insignificant Somebody*

I woke up on a gloomy Monday morning with one side of my face pressed on the cold interior of a dumpster I called home. It was strewn with various possessions and a good smattering of rubbish. Pigeon feathers, apple cores and sweet wrappers littered the edges decoratively while old toys lay higgledy-piggledy among the tangled rags of worn-out clothes, and a mess of newspapers, partially covering me, sat in a puddle of light coming from a lonely, stray ray of sunlight. The rats of the night scurried off for cover while I, the dominator of the garbage heap, heaved myself on two weak legs, each the size of a slightly overgrown chopstick, to start a new day.

By midday business was booming. I had stationed myself near a famous café where most middle-class people would have breakfast before hurrying off to their diverse jobs. Numerous individuals took pity on me and spared me a few round coins and on rare occasions crumpled bank notes were sometimes whipped out. However a certain individual's picture stuck out as clear as glass in my mind, though it was not very pleasant. I had, unfortunately, chose the wrong day to walk up to a man who seemed extremely agitated, grinding his teeth as he stood there steaming. He looked up at me as I approached, his face was beaded with sweat although it was quite a chilly afternoon. He wiped his eyebrow with a white-gloved hand, pushing along as he did so, some of long greasy hair out of his face. A pair of thin spectacles sat upon his crooked nose, his nostrils flared at the sight of me. I extended my arm, without really expecting anything, to produce a chipped mug that was stained with dirt and gently rattled it. Without realizing what had hit me, a split second later the man had jumped to his feet, and had spat a relatively large amount of saliva in my direction, which hit me directly in the face and started dribbling downwards like cold, raw egg-white. He had then stalked off at a quick pace muttering furiously under his breath.

Night swam across the sky, as I huddled up in a corner, covering myself with filthy rags that had a sick grey tinge with striking resemblance to the colour of my unshaven and exhausted face. I rested my head on the window of the shop where I had decided to sleep. Minutes later, my head lolled over as I gave a huge grunt and my face was pressed against the window. The misty fug my breath had left on the window sparkled and reflected the glare of the orange street lamp, casting me into a world where I was not known, but just a ghost, just a nobody, just a beggar.

*story by Disturbed Stranger

forgive and forget? really?

I've been neglecting this blog lately. I used to be more of an avid blog keeper before, back when I was blogging incognito. But Kuwait is small, and now everyone knows everyone in blogger. To top it all, many of my readers are students of mine. So social decorum had to be kept if only for that purpose :)

But enough of that. Kaify. It's my blog. I can write whatever I want here. Personal and disgruntled writing is part of the reason I started a blog anyway. So to my dear readers, I implore you, what you read here is personal. I am indeed 'airing my laundry' here. And though you are privy to my blog airing of that laundry, don't be complete asses and take it out of blogger. And to my dear friends and family (and students?), if I lash out on you here, you are only allowed to lash back here. Schizophrenics have always fascinated me. And in light of that, I am inventing for myself a schizo personality here on blogger, separate from my real identity. Don't mix up the two.

Now that the lengthy intro has been dealt with (shda3wa kil hatha. Just get to the point already), we move to the topic of this post: forgiveness (quite a Ramadaani topic, won't you agree?)

Now watch this for a break (and animated rendition of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Cask of Amontillado":



I'm always haunted by my inability to forget injury. And it haunts me most when I find it in others. I can't accept it then.
يعني حلال علي وحرام على غيري؟

What if someone told you they forgive and forget (your injury to them), do you believe them? If I hold a grudge, why would I not expect it from others? If I hold a grudge, how can I understand other people's ability to let go?
كل يرى الناس بعين طبعه
And 6ab3ee is that I can't forget, even if I act as though I've forgiven.

I won't go as far as Montresor and burry my Fortunato alive in my wine-seller (come to think of it, I don't have a wine-celler. Will have to settle for a basement that is no basement at all), but I am known - if only to myself, a few friends, and the blog community :) - to hold grudges. I'm not totally proud it it. But it's human nature; my human nature. As such, I am not ashamed of it either. Of course this is blurred by my 'other' human nature: keeping pretenses. So if you ever cross my path, I'd be as good as Montresor in acting civil with you (but only to lure you into my cellar and bury you alive maybe?).

How's Ramadan treating you? Giving rise to any of your demons? Amazing what repression can do.