My Conscience Replies…

Upon request by some readers, the reply to My Letter to My Conscience:

Dear Me,

I’m going to answer this rationally and logically. I’m not your friend. Or I am, just not in the conventional way. I’m not going to help you bury a body, make pinky promises or cheer you on when you chug another flaming Lamborghini shot. I’m going to watch your back, encourage you to always tell the truth and believe in Santa Claus.

You’re all “live in the moment”, thinking you’re a reincarnated John Lennon with your “let it be” mantra. You are not John Lennon. Last time I checked, we were not born in the 40s, we are not the most famous member of the most famous band in music history and we do not take nude photos with Yoko Ono. I’m sorry for the imagery. 

Me, you are ungrateful. You seem to have forgotten the things that I have done for you. Remember when you wore whistle earrings and your colleague was all I-am-Flo-Rida and asked “Can I blow your whistle?” ? Remember how I stopped you from replying “No, it doesn’t work without balls.” ? Good choice in retrospect, if you ask me. Which you did. Or how about that time the McDonald’s delivery bag was left outside your building’s elevator because McDeliveryman didn’t want to carry the load up the stairs when the electricity cut. The smell of those fries enticed you and you thought “he’d never notice a missing happy meal.” He wouldn’t – but little Hassouna would and McDeliveryman would be out of a McJob because you couldn’t control your gastrointestinal urges. And your pepper spray will not save you if you decide to verbally destroy the Ed Hardy-clad inverted-collared casanova at the bar by telling him that he’s not Pinocchio: the wood isn’t going to grow, no matter how much he lies about the length. And let’s not forget the countless times I have to keep you from breaking out into a southern dabkeh whenever Chris Brown’s I Can Transform Ya comes on. Even you know that ain’t right.

I’m the one that needs to function the day after you make mistakes. While others are putting their life together, you’re still trying to find your matching yellow sock that goes with your banana T-shirt. I may have a lack of consistency but you have a lack of discipline. You can’t drink 4 Bonjus pineapple triangle juiceboxes and think you won’t need a bathroom in 20 minutes. You were spot-on when you said you are a child and I feel that JD’s theory about his relationship with Turk can be applied to ours if it were to go the way you wished: like a blooming onion, delicious but unhealthy. 

With all that said, it pains me to admit something: you are right. Perhaps I think too much. Maybe I need to loosen the reigns and just be your cheerleader. (Focus. If you start imagining kinky costumes, we are going to need so much therapy that even foster dad/husband Woody Allen would be telling you “that shit cray.”) I do want happiness. I want you to be thrilled with the life that you lead and, sometimes, I want you to take risks because playing it safe doesn’t always balance out. Sure, in the long run, it may be the more reasonable decision but reasonable security never outweighs unreasonable security. Some of the most beautiful things in life don’t make any sense: Salvador Dali paintings, love, and Matt Bomer’s sexual orientation. What a loss. 

It seems in some cases, sense is overrated and you just have to go with your gut. But please stay away from the chicken nuggets. 

Always here for you,

My Letter to My Conscience

Dear Conscience,

We can’t go on this way. Agreeing to disagree is not the best strategy to apply to our relationship; after all, we need to agree on the majority of situations that we come across. I can’t handle having another facet to my multifaceted personality, six is my threshold.

We need to agree and, when that cannot be done, we need to compromise but, ultimately, when we make a decision, we need to stand by it. This is what I am writing to you about: your lack of consistency. You always know what I want and I think part of you wants it too, but you’re not as straightforward. You are vague and confusing; always thinking about the unforeseen consequences that may never materialize. In all honesty, I think you think too much. It is better to regret the things you do than to regret the things you don’t do. 

You see, if we are in agreement, then what we say/think will match what we do. If we are not in agreement, then I will probably be beating myself up with a figurative frying pan at some point due to mere acts of poor judgment and stupidity. You are supposed to help me. If we agree on these acts as being justified then they are no longer stupid. If we always agree, everybody wins. It is only when we disagree, that I am caught in guilt quicksand: the more I attempt to defend my actions, the more you bury me in grains of reason and logic. We need to work as a team. We can enjoy every day if you and I work together. If we’re on the same page, if we speak the same language, we could be great. It’s like that time I learned that “montgolfiere” meant hot-air balloon in French instead of fiery Mongolian. Something that has so much potential is, in reality, quite disappointing because it was lost in translation. That analogy actually makes no sense but I’m on a roll, don’t hate.

I don’t care if you don’t care and you don’t care if I don’t care but I do care and you do care but we keep acting like we don’t care. Let’s stop the madness. Come to think of it, technically, everything I’ve ever done wrong is your fault because you were there when they happened. Don’t put on a blindfold, call it impulse and feed me to the dogs. Take my hand. Be the weight that keeps me from flying away, that keeps me on the ground. You could be happy, too.

I am a child. I will do what I want when I want unless you tell me otherwise. So don’t. Next time we are contemplating overnighting for my unpaid internship, you must agree that it’s worth it. Do not tell me that I am not being paid to do such a sacrifice, the lack of sleep will not help me sell my idea during the presentation that day, and that no one hires a zombie. Next time I want to go to happy hour with some friends in the middle of the week, you must agree that I need to have some time to wind down. Do not tell me that happy hour never really ends at 8pm, that I shouldn’t be consuming so much cheap alcohol, or that those bar nuts have been touched by other nuts by association.

I trust your intuition because I know that you know better – although I’m not sure why since you’ re already the voice inside my head *cue Blink 182*. You’re the rational one. That’s supposed to be a strength because so many feel that emotions are a source of weakness. I think we both know that Heart has betrayed us before. She is sincere and passionate and life is so intense when she overpowers Brain. And then we almost lose Brain because Heart is bungee jumping off of cliffs for kicks. Good times. Anyway, rational. It’s better, at least until you can figure out a balance once the scraps from the heart paper shredder are taped back together. You are there to look out for me but don’t rain on our parade. Let’s just agree to be happy…within reason.

With love,

Read the reply from my conscience…

8 Topics to Discuss When You’re Avoiding One Specific Topic*

*The title may confuse you – there’s usually one topic you don’t want to discuss with someone for whatever reason, yet they insist on bringing it up whenever you see them. Here are 8 topics to throw them off the trail.

1. Apple is probably building a super computer that will control our lives, dubbed the Big Mac, and it will run on the preserved tears of Granny Smith, a special fuel also known as AppleSauce. You really think the name “iRobot” was a coincidence? Exactly.

2. How playing NatGeoWild Narrator in real life can be incredibly entertaining. Proceed to play NatGeoWild Narrator. This is a game I invented out of pure boredom: pick out a person or two nearby and start narrating their behavior as if you were a NatGeoWild Narrator and they are wildlife. Name your show and episode. Use an accent. If you’re not into nature, Soap Opera Dialogue works too.


3. The existence of dry shampoo baffles you. How are you supposed to feel cleaner after sprinkling white powder (yes, I’m imagining Tony Montana and a mountain of coke) on to your scalp? Wait, it doesn’t look like dandruff? What do you mean it’s all in my head? Like, LITERALLY?

4. Whether or not Norman Bates, lead role in Psycho, had some twisted version of the Oedipus Complex. He went all RuPaul on his mother’s memory. Dress up in drag all you want but when you go drag as mommy? That’s some Freudian shit right there.

5. Justin Timberlake is the king of payback songs/videos. Cry me a river because what goes around comes back around and ain’t nobody love you like I love you…Biatch.


6. Gum is illegal in Singapore. Because bubbles be badass. Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride never looked so fierce.

7. The world before Facebook/Twitter made you an unintentional creeper/legal stalker of people you don’t even remember waving hello to the day before. Or some other person you don’t know because let’s face it: 15% of the Earth’s population is on Facebook and not all have discovered/understand privacy settings. Oh my god, he’s mutual friends with my cousin’s godfather’s brother. THERE IS HOPE.

8. Which combination of seven dwarves you would want to live with in the middle of the forest. A new version on the if-you-could-only-pack-3-things-island-question. You are allowed to make up your own dwarf names but be realistic, they can’t be all the variations found under “happy” in the thesaurus.

Disclaimer: If I have ever used these on you, I may not be avoiding a topic. I just noticed that they are good topics to use because I will genuinely talk about them- which simultaneously make them effective in the above endeavor. 

Our Letter to Globalization

Dear Globalization,

You have caused me so much unneeded pain that I decided the best way to address them was through a letter for I cannot bear to speak to you face to face. As I spent my days drowning my sorrows in a coma-inducing feast, dipping my French fries into an Oreo McFlurry (which wouldn’t be available if it weren’t for you by the way) while Sarah McLachlan made my soul eat itself, I realized that you are the reason my life has become what it is now. You have taken everything from me. 
You are the reason I have so many online identities that even the CIA think my generation is eternally high for serving up so much personal information voluntarily. Perhaps cellular phones actually did damage the adolescent neurodevelopment of fetuses born in the 80s but I, like the rest of the cyberfolk, comply with Timelines and full digital biographies just because it is the way of the future. Your way.
You are the reason I have grown an extra appendage that keeps me connected to everyone at all times. I cannot part from it as if it were caught in the Peter Parker webs that grow from my wrists but are made of indestructible Admantium spider-silk. The little device that shares a spot near my bedside soothes my addiction to social networks that keep me in touch with people who I might have met once that time with those friends in that place. And it’s all your fault.
I have been separated from those I actually care for because they had to seek greener pastures elsewhere and they managed to do that in separate cities on separate continents for fluctuating periods of time. I’m a slave of messenger services and videochatting just to feel like my posse is still in my jurisdiction, let alone hemisphere, when in reality there is always someone sacrificing precious hours of sleep just to hear the other complain about how many hours of sleep they recently sacrificed.
That’s another thing: sleep. With the constant competitive race that I am in, always trying to be one step ahead just so I can get the career I deserve, it feels as though I am committing an adulterous affair every time I try to stealthily squeeze in an hour of pleasure: an hour of slumber that is. Don’t even get me started on romance. You need me to survive but give me nothing but loneliness in return. You should know that showering me with supersize meals and toffee nut lattes will never satisfy my hunger for intimacy. I put so much effort into what we are building together but all you do is take, take, take. I’m too young for anything serious with you, and yet, I’m too old to just be casual. But that is my relationship with you because you’re all I have left; I am trapped in isolated purgatory. You always motivated me to push for the top tier so I could move away and make millions just like everyone else in my little circle has done. However, I don’t want to play anymore. I’ve been doing this under the illusion that you are helping me because you want me to succeed. I was wrong. All you want is your own success; you want to take over the world and I’m just a pawn in your devious plan. Well, no more. You’ve taken everyone away and I want them back. I’m going to expose you for what you are: a multibillion dollar scam artist that braindrains my poor little microcosm of all its fine young talents under the guise of “opportunity” and “24/7 electricity”. Soon, the world will know what you’ve really been doing, not only to me, but to them as well.

We are so over,
Lebanese Twenty-Somethings