The Philosophy Of Being A C-Word, Part 2



“I am spiritual, not religious” I always say…

OK, in a sense I am spiritual (not the proper context to go on about it), but the phrase in the title is pure hardcore mental masturbation. It is a phrase specifically fabricated to disguise myself in the public eye which I sometimes fear more than God himself.

You see, I am lazy; a sack of sloth hanging about playing with my un-pedicured toes, plucking hair out of my nose, watching videos of bitches and hoes (am trying to sound poetic, is it working?) I am born Muslim. I have been taught to pray. And I taught myself to not listen to the Azan for the simple reason of being too lethargic to pray; which is a characteristic of being cunt. An atheist is not as much of a cunt as I am. At least, I’d imagine, they have thought it through. I can’t even bring myself to find all these “contradictions” people are talking about, how Islam “encourages terrorism,” how it’s “sexist,” how it’s “fascist,” …which you know, act as justifications for people’s diversion. But me, {meh} am just lazy. And I think the only times I prayed were because of selfish reasons. Like I was afraid of an exam, or that I felt lonely, or that I looked nice one day and was afraid I’d wake up looking puffy, or that I was afraid of burning. Stuff like that.

Furthermore, lazy applies not only to the act of religion, but the idea of religion itself. Which is even more cunt. I don’t want to bother myself with looking into Islam, with looking into Christianity, with looking into tree worshiping…. No, I just, mentally masturbate myself to not face the simple fact that I am lazy. Exhibit (A) à “well, as long as you’re not hurting anyone.”

I believe in God. I believe God watches my every move, the public ones, the private ones, the very-nude-no-one-should-or-will-ever-see-ones. I am so much of a believer that I try so hard to distract myself from being observed constantly. I do awful things, well aware that I am being watched and judged. But, I drown the shame, drown the embarrassment. Which is a characteristic of being cunt.

Here I am, confronting myself with the rude-and-naked-before-God-truth, yet again, this is a mental masturbation Exhibit (B) à “at least you are being honest.” But really, I was just too lazy to fast the months of Ramadan and I just couldn’t imagine a coffee free morning. Which is a characteristic of being cunt.


Once, when I was 17 years old, I went out for an errand; my belly was enormous and not in sync with the rest of me. I decided to put a hand on my back, a hand on my belly, adjusted my feet to move outwards.  Arched my back backwards. Even made a few “ouch, ah, akh yana ya dahree” when I went up some stairs. I don’t know which was more embarrassing really, the obviously fake pregnant walk or the fact that I resorted to it. Which is a characteristic of being cunt.



I wish I could sleep with a married man

I told everyone it was an interest in the topic, and that I wanted to become philosophically enlightened. And that I worked hard because I want to achieve something great.  I got a good mark, but I didn’t have him inside me. Yes I know, I am afraid of intercourse. But this professor was very…. luring. Not that he intended it. No, and he isn’t a sexy stud either. Mind you I have a strange taste in men and for the life of me I can’t figure out what it is… could it be the eyes? I think it’s the eyes. Whenever he looked at me I’d feel my, actual and physical, cunt. I felt this, tension, and tingle in my private. I become red.

I had a wet dream about him yesterday you see. I remember it vividly because I didn’t know I was dreaming. It was a really cool long dream actually that has a lot of other stuff; but for now: the professor, the married man, the father of children. I was in his office, dressed in an outfit I wore a few days ago, black top, black cardigan, black long skirt, a white silky cleavage and neck, musky. He wanted me undressed, however I looked like underneath, he wanted it, and he was undressed, fully.  And he had me, like, I was the greatest thing he had laid his eyes on, that he has ever touched; he was going at me like a starving street cat would go at left-over fish.

He wanted me. It was everything I sought from the graduation project.  All this reading, questions, panic, diagrams, is because I was yearning for his interest in me, not just on any level, a sexual level. I want him to sleep with me. Or at least touch me. Flirt with me. In one of the meetings he drank from my water bottle and I felt… pretty. It was this, momentary sense of beauty. I wondered was he able to taste me? Did that make him curious? And then, I felt sadness, I remembered someone kissed me before, and didn’t want to kiss me again. I was fooling myself. And I secretly wished this middle- aged- moderately- religious-family -man would leave his family; or just abandon loyalty and have me. I’d do everything he pleases, anywhere he wants it, anyhow he wants it, I’d be his servant. I even thought that his wife had passed away and that his children were too young to remember so the possibility of me entering the family as a new wife wouldn’t be an issue. I thought, of his wife being dead. This woman, with whom I have no knowledge, I wished she was dead. I wished her children had no mother. And to keep her alive in my head meant I wished for her husband to cheat on her, to fuck me; which is a characteristic of being cunt.


Pop Cunt Quiz

Respond by (True) or (False): Mid conversation, you remain silent while a much smarter person is speaking and taking over. Then as soon as that smart person mentions information that you happen to know, you interrupt that person, raise your voice loudly enough to overpower his/hers, and you talk about that information. (                 )


Not sure if I run out of cigarettes in the strangest of times or I have the strangest times because I run out of cigarettes.

“I am lost without you, now I am lost with you too”

So, a fag takes app. five minutes. I smoke about 20 – 30 a day, so … that’s 100 – 150 minutes. I don’t smoke to take a break out of a busy day, I smoke to take a break out of a hollow day (regardless of eventful). Which is a characteristic of being cunt.  100-150 minutes of function. At times, my most functional. It is a very intimate thing… smoking.

I quit. I relapsed. And here I am, I ran out of cigarettes and I am unhappy about that. Can’t go out to get any. The man at the kiosk was so happy I quit I wouldn’t want to burst his bubble.

I quit because the cigarette lost its charm. My overuse of it ruined it as an idea, and it became this burden.

I went back to smoking, because I had no idea who I was. Me? A non-smoker? Sitting alone at café’s? Sitting alone at home? Sitting alone with loud company? Sitting lonely with friends? Reluctantly working on something I didn’t sign up for? Reluctantly working on something I signed up for? Crying? Laughing? Pre-eating? Post-eating? I have no understanding of all of that and more without my “sixth finger”. My lover, my honest friend, my silent playful companion, my identity giver.



I used to think Angelina Jolie was unattractive, till I finally admitted to myself that I was blinded by jealousy. Which is a characteristic of being cunt.

I look at a girl’s silky legs, firm shoulders, striking collar bones, rational hair, and I am angry at her; I truly despise her. I secretly inspect her flaws, and I become victorious when I see an “imperfection.” I gloriously gloat; I smirk and snicker in utter joy on how she has become a subject of ugly. And every phrase of flattery toward her becomes an act of redemption; a diversion from the superficial green-eyed self-loathing little cunt that I am.


I am starting to see in cunt.

That is pretty self-explanatory.



No I didn’t try. And yes, I know everyone thinks of it. I was out today, for a meeting. Midst conversation, I uttered the following: no I don’t want coffee (or something) I want to die” the person I was with happened to have just lost his (ex) girlfriend a couple of months ago. {cunt badge}

Then I thought of me, going back home, standing in the balcony. To jump. To heal cuntness. To be cunt. I chose writing of it. Which is a characteristic of being cunt. Anyway, suicide is such a selfish concept. Regardless of beliefs, you die. When I was about six years old my grandfather passed away. I didn’t cry for him. I cried for my mother, for my grandmother, I cried for those who cried for my grandfather. It was very simple you see, he passed away, and he is going to heaven. “Why cry for him,” child me thought. But, the mourners… oh the mourners. The vacuum that struck them with the death of a loved one.

I might be cunt but my parents love me. So how can I hurt them so bad? If I kill myself, it will not be an escape from being cunt. No. If I kill myself, I will be at my most cunt. My magnum opus of being cunt. And it will linger in my family’s everlasting. And I imagined in death (when I digress from the Islamic version) I will roam, not freely. No. I will be there, watching the legacy of my cunt, devouring the ones who loved me. I will dwell in the aftermath, my mother, my father, brothers, grandmother, my sweet deerz… I will witness what will become of them. A consequence of pure evil and confusion. 


I’d rob a bank if I could

In Part 1 I wrote a line a good friend once said to me, but I used it as my own. She uttered it so perfectly I couldn’t help but becoming bitter; greedily yearning for her level of articulation and wit. “I am being prude for the wrong reasons” she said, and I just stole it. Which is a characteristic of being cunt.

See also: piracy.

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