How much you miss them..

Perusing through my Facebook friends, I can't help but wonder, how many of these people are actually my friends? What is the difference between friends and acquaintances? Classmates? Coworkers? Is there a difference? I think so.

The difference, to me, isn't how often they talk to you or tag you in stupid group pictures. It's the feeling you get when you accidentally come across their picture, smile, and think about how much you miss them. Facebook is wonderful for keeping in touch - but if you truly want to be a sincere friend, it isn't going to make or break your friendship.

I miss some of my friends so much I feel torn when I see their pictures. Torn because, on one side I'm happy that they're happy, but on the other side, I'm sad for not being with them. I wish I could fly back for just a day or two and tell them all about my life in person. I wish I could go back and hug them when they need it, or have a random picnic with pb&j sandwiches in my backyard. I wish I could just talk to them and see their faces.

I've got skype, I know, but it isn't the same. But I know I'll see them again, if later rather than sooner. I just hope that whenever they see my picture pop up, they smile, and think about fond memories. I would really love that :)

So proud to be Arab.

I'll be the first to admit that this wasn't always the case, especially growing up in Chicago. However I found that the older I grew, the more appreciative I was of my amazing heritage and culture, and the more at home I felt with all things arabic.

I'm writing this article not to extol the virtues of Arab culture and lifestyle, but of Arab nationalism. We are a people criticized in so many aspects by Western culture that I believe that many arabs have begun to negatively internalize this perspective. The youth rebel against their heritage and declare themselves "modern," renouncing all ties to their homeland. This saddens me so much that I find myself emboldened to change their viewpoints. As a proud Egyptian-American I cannot but be astounded at the rich history that I have been born with, and the legacy that I must now uphold.

All this comes at a time of political and social turmoil, surmounting greatly in my home country of Egypt. With the nation's president ardently refusing to leave - a disgusting choice that leaves you questioning his humanity, indeed if he still has any - chaos ensues in the streets of Cairo and Alexandria. Egyptian people are forced to protect their families from looters, standing outside their buildings at night wielding any weapons they might possess. Building are burning and stores are being robbed, yet Egyptians everywhere still refuse to give up their right to democracy.

I am so proud to be Egyptian. I am so proud to be Arab. If it were not for the Tunisian people standing up for their own rights Egypt might have been silent for decades more. Even Yemen and Jordan have begun to see that they deserve more than dictatorship. They deserve humanity.

Regardless of what western television and film makes out an Arab to be, a true Arab is not defined by religion and social class or beards and funny accents. A true Arab knows where he comes from, and strives to achieve more for his people. A true Arab realizes that differences do not undo centuries worth of history. A true Arab supports the rise of democracy and the proclamation of Freedom, and rejects the rule of tyrants and dictators. A true Arab would support the revolution in Egypt.

Ta7ya Masr.

How Mermaids Reproduce.

Yep, this article is pure science my friends. Pure science.

Many of you have probably been wondering for years how mermaids reproduce. In this short article I shall briefly enlighten you with a whole world of knowledge of what really occurs "Under the Sea."

Firstly, we must classify Mermaids and Mermen (the male counterpart - you didn't think both genders were maids did you?) into their corresponding genus. Although they are half-fish, one can easily notice the existence of mammary glands in the form of breasts, which, along with the presence of hair, by default places them into a mammal category.

By this assumption we can deduce that mermaids give birth to live young, as do all mammals, with exception of the platypus and echinda. Mammary glands allow for mermaids to nurse their young, who are dependent on their caretakers from infancy.

Fertilization occurs much the same way as humans, except that both male and female merfolk reproductive organs are smaller, and thus less noticeable. Male genitals in particular are hidden beneath a sheath of scales, emerging only during the act of mating. Copulation allows for the transmission of genes from the merman to the mermaid, in effect impregnating the latter. Although the gestational period is under some debate, most researchers place the range of pregnancy from 9-11 months, similar to, if not a little longer, than the duration of a typical human pregnancy. Delivery is also the same process as humans, and typically takes place in more shallow waters, allowing for the greatest amount of oxygen to be available to offspring.

And there you have it.

Oh lordy, potatoes.

Sitting in the library, I can't but help crave potatoes. Like real potatoes. Oh my goodness how I love them.

Sadly, I have no cooking ability whatsoever, nor any desire to acquire any. I am too easily tempted by the fast and instant, a quality of mine that I (somewhat) jokingly blame on our generations reliance on high-speediness. But if I could cook, I would make potatoes.

Ah, potatoes. Boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew, as told by Samwise Gamgee, a wise hobbit indeed. I shall begin with my love of mashed potatoes, of which there is not a quantifiable number of expression. Creamy and luscious and scrumptious and amazingly smooth and wonderful, my mouth waters just thinking about them. A warm golden color, as soft as butter-filled clouds and as light as one of the Olsen twins, if mashed potatoes were real, I think I would marry them. But I would probably have an extra-marital affair with baked potatoes, topping our love off with a heavenly blanket of sour cream and parsley. Oh God.

Undaunted by unsupportive friends who make snide remarks like "It doesn't take a genius to make potatoes" (ehm-ehm DANIA), I persevere in my imaginary creation, settling for my dream potatoes than actually taking the time to make potatoes.

So I sit here, unsatisfied in a cold and potato-less library, thinking about potatoes. Where my skills may fail at cooking, my mind astounds even me with its colorful palate of potato dishes, ranging from one potato dish, to possibly even three whole dishes. A genius for serious Dania, I know.

The Best Thing in the World

Sleep.

Away from you, I dream of you.
My heart pounds just to think of you.
Pillows and beds and nice comfy nests
All speak of you, and reek of you.

Sleep, why do you evade me so?
I just want you now, so please bestow
Time and comfort and lovely long rests
Such things that I have yet to know.

My clock it rings, so noisily,
Oh God, it hurts my eyes to see
You said that you would heal all wounds,
Sleep you lie, away from me...

The sun shines bright and so clear,
So far away, you were once near,
Sleep come back to bed!
Please, just hold me dear.

I hate you sleep, you make me cry,
You tease me so, you're just too sly,
For me to grasp you in my head
My tears fall softly, I'm so deprived..

Sleep, why are you so unkind??
Just two hours please, to refresh my mind!
My heart is breaking, burning fire,
My head is screaming, time unwind!

Come back now! Can't you see?
I just want to have you for me.
Night is coming, and I am tired
Sleep can't you move more slowly?

I feel you here, right in my arms,
And in my head, you work your charms,
I love you now, forever more
Sleep, you are so... so...so.....ZZzZzzzzzzzz

Disease of the Heart

Love is an infectious disease that insists on growing and festering in random areas of your body. Your heart for example, an essential organ for the transport of oxygen through your bloodstream, is poisoned with love. It's primary function becomes secondary. Your brain, which once relied on cognitive processes and evaluations, now believes in love - and consequently obsesses itself with romantic trivialities, instead of practical applications. Your hands even, your stupid, selfish hands, begin to crave the hands of another, rather than using themselves for grip and so forth.

Once you are poisoned - that is once you are helpless to the whims of this disease - your scientific observation skills deteriorate. Your main area of focus shifts to one being in particular, with all the rest either resembling or differing from said individual to some degree. You become inadequate, feeling the incessant urge to wear silly clothing and act in culturally-deemed-appropriate norms that fit within your category of mate selection and maintenance.


Addiction, perhaps the worst aspect of your condition, is inevitable. You will want to experiences the highs of love to such an extent that it will begin to consume your thoughts, and regulate your corresponding actions. A regular day will be planned around ridiculousl love activities, in which you and your object of desire attract each other with vibrant exteriors and excessive mating calls.

You will forget all external parties outside of your relationship. Yes, you may have loved friends in the way E.Coli had loved the small intestine, but it cannot compare to the love affair of leukemia and erythrocytes. Your love festers and invades every single component of your life, so that no organ remains uninfected.

The end of love is the beginning of realization of just how sick you were to begin with, meriting a diagnosis of terminal proportions. You will experience severe withdrawal symptoms, ending with significant intangible pressure on your most diseased organ, the heart. Of course, your above symptoms will continue to be prevalent, but now that the disease has been cut off from its main provider you will be on your way to a very slow recovery. Your cognitive functioning will slowly be restored, unless of course the very realization of your stupidity requires you to save whatever minute amount of dignity you have left, and commit suicide.

A disease, my friends. I bloodthirsty, unforgiving disease.

The Art of Listening

"Analyze me." Haha, right. 

No doubt most psychology majors, myself included, have been hearing this statement since the very moment we declared ourselves into the major. Having been a psych student for two years now, I have some sense of personalities and disorders, but I am certainly not qualified to "analyze" anyone. 

I am, however, good at listening, a trait which I believe is the very foundation of being a good psychologist, family member and friend. People who listen are required to naturally exercise a certain level of tolerance, for often times the things you hear may challenge or even directly counter your own viewpoints. 

So, I practice listening. I sit at home and listen to family issues, or at AUB, where I listen to friends' issues.  I bite my tongue and control my facial emotions, because I know only the slightest unwanted reaction might hurt someone's feelings. I listen and listen, sometimes for hours in a day, until said persons are done talking. 

And then? I give. Except giving requires listening, a fact that is too often forgotten. When you give your advice or your opinions to a person, regardless of whether you believe you are right or not, you must always listen, but not just to their voice. Pay attention to body language, facial expression, even the structure of the wording. For often what is unsaid is louder than that which is said. 

How many times have you come up with a snide or ignorant remark simply because you wanted to speak? Spoken out of turn only to leave the quiet ones in your path forever quiet? Too often it is the silent ones who should be speaking. You might be surprised at what they have to say.

I find this the case in daily interactions between friends and family. We are intolerant if we cannot bend, but too liberal with our flexibility. Is there a medium? Perhaps, perhaps not. Everything is subjective. Nevertheless, there is such a thing as giving too much, or taking too much. The passive listener versus the over-active speaker. You can’t be both, but you can be an in-betweener. 

It takes effort to speak up for what you believe in, but it takes even more to listen to something you don’t.  But to truly be a good friend you must sometimes brace yourself for the things you dislike, while trying your best to do what you think is right. This thought rings true in a passage by Winston Churchill, who once said “Courage is what it takes to stand up and speak; courage is also what it takes to sit down and listen.”