Yo. I'm here. In this blank space called the posting box. Love the echo. It's kinda empty right now, but it seems to be filling up. There's a steady flow of ant-like letters coming in. There must be a leak. Somebody call a plumber, wouldja?

I think I gonna be overhauling things up in hyah. *FLEX* That means lots of metaphorical remodelling complete with angry hamster cedar-chip shoving. It's all part of the master (which suspiciously rhymes with disaster) plan to give this blog a facelift/transfusion/reincarnation to find topics I have not yet completely exhausted. Who me, talk to much about being an alienated mutt Muslim with a bad 'tude?

So yeah, 'Degrouchyowl tells it like it is' is going native. And when I say native, sadly I do not mean kandoorah-sporting-camel-riding-yogurt-drinking-Bedouin, but rather 'hey I'm a displaced East/Westerner and this Armpit of Arabia aint like home at-all and lemme shake my fist at the world for it.' It's a trend and I'm but a slave to fashion *tragic pose.* *whacks self with Karama Market knockoff Burberry bag*

On a weird note. I am a cyclops today. Yep. Ajman's native bird - the buffalo mosquito - delicately tasted my eyelid when I was asleep - taking liberties it was most definitely not permitted - and I awoke to find I had but one eye. The other was hiding beneath a swollen eyelid. Once again, right when I think I can't get any less appealing *cough/limp/cackle/grin*, God goes and shows me I can be worse.

Yalla habibtis, that's it. I must to go and do work-type-things. *whoosh*

Sometimes I find the time. Usually, it happens when I’ve slid off my chair and am hiding under my desk, trying to find five minutes to remember what sort of person I was before I became a journalist. And there it is. The time. Sitting there, looking the otherway, picking at its nails, trying to ignore me. So I seize it, and ….. write a blog.

When I don’t like where I am, I tend to go elsewhere mentally. Trapped in traffic, closeted in an office or anchored behind a desk I find myself dreaming about quite, green places. Chasing news, twisting arms, pleading, jockeying and battling leaves me wishing for the sort of still emptiness that is sleep, or the Wood Between the Worlds.

It’s weird, all your life you visualize what success is, what fame is, what importance is, and when you get to that little alcove where it all meets, you realize what a joke it is. I’m a reporter, but I’m no fool to think I’m changing the world. Journalism isn’t the happy medium between crime fighting and super heroing I thought it would be. It’s really just a bunch of half-brained idiots, getting two bits of information and splashing it as big and as wide as they can, regardless of how thin the facts get when you do that. The profession is dirty, ugly and cheap. And I’m in it – an anachronism of a forgotten time and morality.

At the same time though, I am beginning to understand why so many idiots like myself hack it out in this unfulfilling and high stress job. You know it’s a lie, your colleagues know it’s a lie, but the world thinks you’re a star, and it’s hard to step out of the limelight once you’ve been in it. You’ll spend the rest of your life explaining to people why you left it, and having to meet the looks of pity and disappointment in their eyes. It’s like being a rocker or an actor. If you can be that, why be anything else?

So I float along, like wilful cloud, heading against the wind. I fight my little skirmish battles for morality and higher consciousness. I tend to lose. I wonder how long I’ll do this before I get smart and quit wasting my time. The world is full of stupid people, doing stupid things, and they aren’t much interested in knowing the how and whys of the world, only the salacious whats.

I think I should like to be a baker. Or a gardener. Or a lumberjack! Ok, maybe not a lumberjack. I don’t like pancakes that much. But something simple, clean and needed. Perhaps I can be an antiseptic. Lord knows I’m abrasive enough.

It's been so long since I did my own update I actually forgot my Blogger login. 0_0

Remember the good old days? It's not just the Starter gear and baggy-to-the-point-of-falling off pants that are gone and never coming back (hopefully), but also that undending source of energy that you used to stay cool while running around in jacket that made you look like the Stay-Puffed Marshmallow Man while constantly pulling your pants up.

You see, I've started playing basketball with some girls who are part of a local team and lemme tell you, I aint what I used to be. I've never been so slow/tired/achy/winded/flushed/frazzled/confused/uncoordinated. And to think I used to ball with my brother and his friends every day after school for hours.
Time has marched on and left my skillz behind. I am utterly and completely a has-been.

Sigh.


But I'm not going down without a fight. Every three days, after 9 hours of work I drag my sorry butt down to the courts to get whipped into shape by 15 year olds. It's a humbling experience but I figure no pain no glory. Might as well try and get back to somewhere fit before it's completely impossible. Or die trying. That seems more likely. I've got muscles I never knew I had screaming out in agony. *grins stoically*

That's it for my sad and soggy update. Drop me a comment folks and give me a reason to think this blog is still being read.

Guesting, guesting, one two three, guesting.

MMIAOOWWRRR!