Entschuldigung, darf ich mal ein Foto machen?

It snowed!

Though it was a little bit of a mood-damper when you are stuck in class, forced to listen about the Ukrainian school system.

Weihnachtszeit ist Schoen

Lets say the whole of my skin weighs 8.9 kgs.

My head 3.5 kgs,

my arms 5 kgs

my legs 7 kgs,

my bones 9 kgs

my blood 5 kgs,

my cells, nerves, muscles and blood artileries 7 kgs,

my heart, intestines, liver and lungs, as well as clothes as 7 kgs,

and the food I recently ate as 0.5 kgs; this means

I only weigh 5.6 kgs. :)

I don't know if they always have them at Christmas time; or it can be found only in Goethe but they served satay at the Weihnachtsfeier just now. Cool, huh? :)

Sambal is Not Supposed to be Sweet

We had this so-called 'group creative sessions' in class today. Each of us has to write a sequence of a story. When it was my turn I wrote about a beheaded dog and splattering blood, and a man laughing as loud as a devil.

Then we had some grammar exercises, and the example I gave consisted of a man whose wives were killed mysteriously.

What worries me is the perception of others.

Quoting a guy from this page:

I hope every muslim in the world takes notice: This is what everybody thinks of you: That you demand respect down the barrel of a gun, that you are animals, that it is easier to exclude you than to reason with you.

It's time that the fanatics who shout "Allahu Akbar" before evangelizing themselves to pieces in a market full of women and children, learn that there is a force out there that's stronger than they, that also has unalterable values, and that can also be offended.

The fact that so many responses here say-"I don't blame the director" is horrible. Continuously treating Islam as a special case means that it will NEVER be on an equal footing in the west. It used to be that we were all encouraged to respect people. Now we are being told to respect IDEAS; That some ideas should be immune from criticism. (As if a made-up disaster amounts to a scathing indictment of Islam.)

Were I Muslim I would take note. Is this really how you want to be treated?

Every little bit counts

Do Me a Favor and

GROW UP!

I am Amazed at My Ability to Ramble.

Let's say he asked me out.

Not exactly that he will, you know, seeing the circumstances: He and I, we are different, way too much different. Plus the fact that he already had someone of his own does not help, and if you really look closely at the matter, he and I are so-called 'colleagues', and colleagues don't date each other; they take 7-minute breaks in stationary cupboards. And I have never seen a stationary cupboard in anywhere in Goethe, plus it's a FAT CHANCE (no pun intended) if I am going to stay for seven minutes inside a cupboard.

Anyway, it will be too much of a hassle to keep the others from knowing, and the language barrier is unimaginably high, I've had too much embarassing moments telling jokes in German that nobody laughs at (because nobody could understand), and I am not looking forward to more embarassing moments especially when there are just the two of us. I wouldn't have the chance to hope that somebody else starts a new topic, for example.

Plus the notion is actually amazingly ridiculous, seeing that we barely speak to each other (OK, that's a little bit of an understatement, but still, we never spoke about things that really matters). He would not, in a trillion years,'fall in like' with someone like me. He is way too young, by the way. I've had enough of all these young people.

But still, if he IS to ask me out, I wouldn't have had anything to wear.

Funny how a girl's mind work, eh? :)

Finally!

Have you ever experienced the relief of being able to recall what've been nagging your mind since, like, a million years ago?

*Alittlebitofexaggerationneverhurts:)*

So it all started a few days before our Treffen in Frankfurt. A girlfriend wrote a blog entry, I read it, but nothing else came into my mind except these three words:

I feel you.

When we were together we discussed this blog entry, we quoted it, but I still could not figure it out, why is it that these three words have been nagging the back of mind continuously:

I feel you.

And as I was starting to tackle a really complicated piece of homework a single grey brain cell, upon waking up from sleep, decided to nudge the cell beside him, who is at the moment scratching his chin thinking about those three words. They electrocuted each other a little bit (that's how I've always pictured signals sent by cells in our body, blame the TV) and sent signals to my hands, who released a non-functional pen they have been holding on to since the past fifteen minutes, and went instead to type those three words into Google:

I feel you.

I found the answer on Youtube. So I finally get to solve the mysterious, sad cries of "I feel you" in my head.

One day,

I'll go to Paris, France, and help Anastasia find her lost grandmother. I'll also willingly tie Dimitri to her side so he won't ever think that the girl did not need him.

Kenapa Kita Rindu Benda Yang Tak Ada?

Dan komplen pasal benda yang dekat dengan kita?

Kita rimas. Kita meluat, bosan dan benci.

Tapi kita sendiri tau yang nanti, bila benda tu dah tak ada lagi dgn kita, kita rindu.

Kita akan ingat-ingat sampai termimpi-mimpi. Kita akan mengeluh, cerita dengan semua orang "Dulu kan, mase aku ..."

Memang lumrah, manusia tak pernah puas hati dengan apa yang mereka ada.

Ada kurang, nak lebih. Ada lebih, mula risau, kata "kan baik kalau aku ada kurang?"

Tapi ada juga yang ada lebih, tetap lagi mahu lebih. Mahu lagi dan lagi.

Pendek kata, aku bosan dengan keluhan. Sedih, sakit hati, letih, sejuk, banyak kerja. Hari-hari lalui benda yang sama, sampai bila nak mengeluh, bila nak sesuaikan diri? Ku sendiri bosan mengeluh. Bosan hati sakit. Rasanya, kalau dikorek keluar hati aku, penuh kotoran, macam teritip lekat di batu. Sebabnya. Sikit-sikit nak marah. Sikit-sikit meluat. Sikit-sikit menyampah.

Tak mahu begini.

Mahu jadi mcm satu ketika dulu, di mana ade orang pernah bertanya:

"Eh, kau ni tak pernah sedih ke?"

Pomegranate.

I am procrastinating.

I am stealing time.

I don't smoke grey cigars, by the way.

But I like the colour grey.

And brown. And dark green.

But not black.

Portmonnaies may be black. Cameras. Handphones. Neckties. Stuff like that.

The sweater I'm wearing is white with grey writings on it.

It said

Sports est. 1959

But it was covered all over with little red spots. Klitze-klitzeklein.

But no, my sweater is not polka-dotted.

And no, I don't have chicken pox.

It was this: I cut myself a pomegranate after dinner. As dessert.

It bled.

I was surprised.

I wiped the pomegranate blood off the table with a cloth.

In Hamburg, we call the wipecloth Feudel instead of the usual Lappen.

The cloth was white.

I did not rinse it afterwards.

I hung it at the sink.

Because I loved the colours. Real red. On white.

I stood a few seconds and looked at the piece of wipecloth.

Then I rinsed it. The red washed away, leaving only a piece of damp white cloth.

I then took my cut pomegranate into my room to eat.

As I dig into the fruit with a spoon, it spurted blood again.

All over my white sweater.

Did I spell pomegranate right?

In German we call them Granatapfel.

PomegranatePomegranatePromegranatePromegranatePomegranatePome granatePromegranatePromegranatePomegranatePomegranatePromegranatePromegranatePomegranatePomegranatePromegranatePromegranate

Po me gra na te