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Sometimes being numb is more pain than Hassan Hassan can bare...

Not feeling things is really good in the sense that I’ve been pretty chill lately. I literally care about nothing (except The Biggest Loser, which always  manages to trigger some kind of reaction) and this has served me well in not having panic attacks and/or going off the rails. Settling into my routine is working for me. Despite the fact that my diet consists of reality television, fried chicken, Diet Pepsi, 90210, melted cheese, Beyoncé, alcohol and a dash of work and false hope, I have been the picture of cool, calm collection. OK there was that one day, and this blog, which I am sorry for, but all-in-all I have maintained a positive neutral outlook on life.

The only problem is, it’s all so fucking boring. Not Egypt; Egypt has been a bundle of excitement and fucking chaos. Countless dead, countless injured, limitless heartbreak, fires here, fires there, blocked bridges. Sex, lies and videotapes. More people yelling. More Lamees Elhadeedy with her orange hair and green/yellow/what colour is that?/lime? More of my mother calling and wondering if I had suddenly decided to go to Tahrir/Itahediya/kill myself. More of ‘I only leave Zamalek if I’m getting paid/I’m in my room mom, let’s watch work out videos.’  More people missing Mubarak on Facebook (is that even a thing?). More trains and other various modes of transportation losing it. More.

If I had feelings, I would say it’s sad how desensitized we’ve become to everything. It doesn’t even register anymore. It all boils down to how it will affect my getting home. Is it ten minutes away? Am I going to spend 600 years in traffic? Had God not spared me traffic, I would have been dead or in jail. 100%. Thank God for making most things in my life walking distance. Also, God, thanks for my height. And everything else. Thank you for wine and cheese. Should I feel guilty? Thank you SO much for Hajj Ibrahim and his stock of imported Bordeaux which my mother has recently become a fan of. Thank God for Teen Mom and the fact that I don’t live in a trailer park in America paying child support and getting a divorce because I wanted to buy a truck. Thank God I know no one who gets nail art. Thank God for my brilliant duvet. Thank God for Panadol Night.

Illustration by Hassan Hassan

But I’m really fucking bored. Like on a very basic and personal level, the past two years have basically been one day. One day with so much. You can get really involved in it, but, let’s be real, no one actually knows what the fuck is going on. Not one fucking person. Which is infuriating, because how does no one know anything? What is actually happening? Why? No one knows what is going on and old people are watching Bassem Youssef on their iPads. WHY?

So I choose not to feel it until someone has a few answers that are based on actual logic, and not going on about rape and murder and all this death as if it’s normal. What has actually happened? Where do I live? This can’t be true. What are these emotions? Horrified yet blasé, sad but whatever, shock at how little you feel about it, peppered with a little bit of stress. The stress eating away at you regardless of how safely cocooned you think you are. Regardless of how many sweaters you buy at H&M.

Unfortunately, the casualty of denial is usually the brain. You have to sacrifice other things in order to maintain a life devoid of feeling. Like culture and books and music. You cannot take a song lyric that is deeper than ‘put on my stunna shades and turning up my radio.’ Two years ago, I was always reading a book. I would even watch the occasional French movie with subtitles. I would at least try to be inspired. Walk aimlessly and wander into an art gallery and stores on a lazy Saturday afternoon. No, I never did that, but I wanted to. I thought about it. Now I’m like I don’t think I can deal with Les Miserables or Life of Pi because both stories sound more appealing than my actual life. At least they were fucking skinny in revolutionary France or wherever the fuck Anne Hathaway was annoying.

That was me not feeling things. Let’s all take a second and think about that and thank God because imagine what a mess feeling things would be. Also, let’s all thank god we aren’t Teen Mom‘s living in trailer parks in Kentucky or wherever the fuck trying to get into fucking beauty school for six years. SIX YEARS TO GET HER HIGH SCHOOL DIPLOMA. Jesus. I only wish I could be that fucking stupid.